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The Doorman doesn’t make deals lightly, not anymore.
Before humans grew the nerve to demand and question every bountiful gift he bestowed upon them, he would happily oblige those mindless mortals for an exchange. Humans back then - before they grew a spine - seemed so fickle…so stupid.
‘I’ll worship you for a lifetime just to call a hearth my own.” Easy and simple. Now deals were wrapped up, twisted and gnarled things once you got to the meat of it. It was no longer as simple as granting the gift of a warm fire, an extra spring ewe or a blessing of a son. No. There was a demand for more, and when more wasn’t good enough, they’d smear your name and curse you to hell.
So, when Drifter called for a deal to be struck, The Doorman could not have been less pleased.
A valued guest of The Baroness by the name of Mr Dunthorpe had made himself abhorrently drunk upon the news of the loss of his wife. She wasn’t dead, but had decided the werewolf across the hall in room 204 seemed to suit the needs Mr Dunthorpe just couldn’t satisfy.
Drunk was Mr Dunthorpe and stupidly lost at that. Stumbling into dark alleys like a weak fawn. In this day and age, creatures of all kinds hope to come into contact with unlucky people. Unfortunately for him, a creature far worse than liver damage or divorce had the desire to fill his belly with the intoxicated warmth that was his blood.
The Doorman, of course, felt a disturbance. Everyone and everything that had stepped into The Baroness had willingly latched onto his cosmic web. They left trails. Etches. Wherever they went caused the slightest disturbance in the tight pull of that silk weave. Doorman would know. He could not let a guest under the Baroness go in distress. He simply could not have that.
He followed that bright blue echo across time and space toward the confines of a tight dark alleyway. He should have expected to see Drifter, and felt rather bitter that he hadn’t. These days, New York is crawling with supernatural scaries. Vampires, sentient blobs of green, creatures with teeth in unholy places. The Brothers Grimm spilling from the cracks and crevices. Despite it - nestled in the horror and gore, if you looked close enough, there was beauty.
Drifter was not a new acquaintance. In fact, they had met just as the new world began to breathe. When settlers made their mark in blood. Drifter was there, running to each corner of the continent that seemingly felt all too overcrowded for him. As the world got smaller, the inevitable meeting between the two happened. Back then, neither of them had names or at least that Drifter had been alive for so long that he had already forgotten his, and The Doorman had not found his calling yet. Aimlessly nothing until The Baroness was built from scratch. Every nail. Every plank. Every lick of spotless paint. So he too was nameless.
Nameless monsters with glowing eyes that haunted villages and settlements. Boogeymen, he supposed.
After years had passed, the two had always crossed with fleeting interactions. Often in silence, often with snapping teeth and sharp claws. Fate had seemingly intertwined them.
Like all men, Drifter was at first unsettled in The Doorman's presence. It was the small tick of the uncanny that alerted him to a greater predator. A tingle of the spine that told him that the meat suit Doorman wore was not natural. Hidden in the subtle glow and shift of his skin. His pip-less eyes that only peered back. Eyes that could see the future, past and present. Everyone eventually squirmed and sought to retreat.
However, over the last few years Doorman noticed a change in Drifter. No longer was he unsettled by the uncanny he wore pristinely but was intrigued by it. The same way a cat finds a doormouse intriguing. He looks longer. His head tilts from side to side more as if he were trying to find the zipper or seam that would unravel this fledgling god's skin and give way to something he had never perceived or tasted before. His always-present smile gets a little wider.
When the bright blue lights up the alleyway from the door that opens to a creak, the two men look up toward The Doorman like he is both a saviour and a bother.
Mr Dunthorpe can’t catch his breath. Retching heavy sobs. Every part of him is muddied and dishevelled. Drifter has his arm held straight up to the dark clouded sky. Drifter's hand is too big and makes a grown man's arm look like a toothpick, and although Mr Dunthorpe is of average stature, he tries to make himself look as small as possible. As if pretending to play dead through sobs and slurred cries for help will save him from the maws of an ancient hunger. He's, of course, very bad at pretending to be dead and Drifter finds that incredibly amusing.
Drifter, much like Doorman, was not immune to embracing the uncanny. Perhaps through time he had forgotten how to wear his human skin. After all, he hadn’t been traditionally human for a long - long time. Or that in simply forgetting that he was once human, that old useless skin shed and gave way to a smile that never reached his eyes but always exposed the slick white sheen of his sharp teeth that only grew larger once he realised The Doorman had caught him red-handed.
There's a slight white in the red that consumes his iris. A retroreflector just to better find his prey.
“I wasn’t expecting an audience tonight.” He says in a way that makes the fledgling gods' heads tilt. On the contrary, Doorman knows this old human - now - pest of children’s nightmares has an insatiable appetite that demands a witness. He enjoys it more than the act of killing. To take a life and watch the paling horror of a secondary victim fill with inconceivable dread and fear. That fear floods the blood, tenses the flesh. Seconds to Drifter always tastes the best.
“Don’t be indecorous. You know I did not come here to watch.” The Doorman offers plainly. He is not scared of Drifter, mainly because he might very well be incapable of feeling such a thing. A very messy emotion he has observed over his time here. A very unruly response in which men have shamelessly slaughtered thousands for.
“Mr Dunthorpe is a highly regarded guest at The Baroness and currently under my care.” He pauses to gauge the sudden shift in Drifter's face. He’s seen it before. A hunger. An arousal. “So, I’ll ask nicely and only once, let Mr Dunthorpe go.”
“And why would I listen to you?”
Ah. Doorman in all the time he has known Drifter has become astutely aware that Drifter never listens to anyone. No matter what.
“Well, wouldn’t it be good to start now? After all, it would be a shame to bloody my uniform. I only just pressed it.” Doorman sighs, his gloved hand comes to sweep the speckles of formless dirt off his pristine uniform. There are no wrinkles or creases. Everything is perfect. In order. Except for the overgrown bloodied dog treating his guest like a ragdoll.
“Don’t care.” Drifter dares to sound bored. He looks down at Mr Dunthorpe and shakes him a little. The man responds the only way he can. Blubbering. Begging for help as snot and tears pour from him like a fountain.
How disgusting.
“Oh, don’t be a bad dog,” Doorman scolds and steps down onto the street. His shoes meet the stone, and the loud click of his heel echoes off the walls. Drifter shoots Doorman a look. One he has seen many times over many generations. Drifter is starved, and he is bored. He has a glint in his eye that tells The Doorman that his well-pressed uniform indeed will suffer a few holes tonight.
“There’s no need to put Mr Dunthorpe in further distress. Besides, with how intoxicated he is right now you’ll find yourself face down drowning in the sewers five minutes after you bleed him dry.”
Mr Dunthorpe cries harder, his body wretching at the thought of being bled dry. Doorman has perfected the art of hospitality, not hostage negotiation. “Oh, do be quiet.” He scolds down to the half-crumpled mess on the floor.
Once, some odd hundred years ago, The Doorman found Drifter in a state. The creature had helped himself to a family of five. Unaware that the father had earlier sprung mushrooms from the forest for their supper that weren’t safe for eating. The house buried deep in those New England woods entombed a very confused, very sick, crying animal, clutching his stomach with his eyes screwed shut afraid that the floorboards would open up and swallow him down into cold earth. Doorman couldn’t wipe the pathetic mewling from his mind and would never let Drifter forget it either.
Drifter almost laughs. He can pretend to find his previous failings amusing, although hardly buried under the surface he knows his greed will always defend his need for blood regardless of its quality. He has, however, learned that alcohol is always preferred over suspicious fungus. A hum comes deep from his chest.“Yes, do be quiet”, he mimics before he squeezes the man's wrist. “Why should I abandon my meal? Just because you ask nicely?” This time, he does laugh and without his lungs pumping air through his body, it sounds almost like a wheeze. “Don’t take me for an idiot bellboy. You should know by now how things go down between us.”
He does. Limbs torn from limbs. Flesh rebounding to flesh. An endless abhorrent massacre until one gets the fix they need, and it is always The Doorman who ends it first. His flesh - if you could call it that - binds faster. His blood leaks only in small spurts of cyan and then vanishes like it couldn’t possibly exist in a dimension constrained to four. He does not get tired. He could not grow bored. But when hours had passed, work had unknowingly fallen behind, and the Baroness could not go long without his hands.
Today was one of those days. He simply could not dedicate the time to appeasing Drifter's hunger or boredom. The hotel had been chaotic. Staff were critically reduced due to a bug going around, which was a bizarre concept for Doorman to understand at first. He had never been sick and therefore requested an exterminator of the human and supernatural kind to ‘dispose of it’, of course, the bug was only ever a common cold.
“Unfortunately for both of us, my attention is required in higher places.” It's sharp and it almost…almost…hurts the now sulking mass of claws and teeth.
“You can’t find time for little old me?” Drifter has the audacity to pout.
“I'm afraid not.”
“Then your sorry sobbing guest is mine.”
The Doorman feels his skin tighten. It probably writhes too. He’s certain he’s developing a migraine. His gloved hand goes to wipe it away from his forehead. His guest hiccups through spouts of emerging vomit that threaten to draw itself out. No one will besmirch his standards. Not now - not ever.
“Hand him over, and I will grant you a favour.” It’s been a millennium since he’s offered those words and to Drifter no less.
“A favour?” His voice has lightened. An unsavoury excitement overcame the vampire in the same way a child would light up in a sweetshop. “In exchange for this pathetic lowlife, you’ll give me anything I want?” Drifter says as if the world has expanded again. How much could he do - how far could he go for a favour?
“Yes. That’s what I said.” It's unbecoming of him, how snappy he feels in this pressure pot. He’s been gone too long, guests left unattended, the desk is empty, and the be back in five sign has overstayed its welcome by ten extra minutes. “Now, Mr Dunthorpe, if you will.”
Drifter discards the man. He crawls pathetically on all fours until he reaches the lip of the door. A drunken fool. A pathetic soul. Doorman wants to throw him to the wolves (wolf), but every guest regardless of qualities has its purpose.
“And when will I be able to claim this favour?” His tongue lingers on claim, a prolonged noise that holds more weight than Doorman is aware of.
“Whenever you wish. You know how to find me.” Doorman wastes no time in manhandling his esteemed guest. A singular arm wraps around his waist and hoists him up like you would hold a chihuahua or a briefcase. “Goodbye, Drifter.”
The door closes, and with it the image of Drifter's eyes widening, salivating at the thought of endless reaches he could climb to at the call of a favour.
+
The Doorman has not seen or heard of Drifter in several weeks. An unusually long time for the stray to not wander into his domain and pick apart at the carefully stitched fabric of Doorman's perfect webs. He was almost impressed - almost - by Drifter's resolve. He half expected the vampire to jump straight into whatever unruly desire he wanted, but he didn’t. Not the first week nor the second. So by the time the sixth week came around, Doorman naively assumed the creature had forgotten. That he had found some other intoxicated soul to bleed dry and feel the effects of full liquor-induced haze right into the following day.
That perhaps it was all an unusual dream.
Oh, how naive a fledgling god can be.
Drifter certainly did turn up. On the seventh week, on an evening where the hotel had been quiet, smooth, perfect even, and as if Drifter knew he appeared to ruin it all.
“Well,” Doorman goes to straighten up, but his posture already has him upright, “I should think you’ve thought long and hard about your favour.” They stood outside one of the exit doors. One reserved for throwing out the trash. Doorman has disposed of Drifter here far too many times.
“Oh. I have. Long and hard. I thought about all the unlimited meals you could acquire for me. Maybe even your most esteemed guest, but that would just take the fun out of the hunt. Then I thought, what about a room? Your best room that I could bloody the walls, ruin the sheets and dismantle the furniture.” Drifter pauses, and Doorman feels the brightness of blue under his flesh tense. These were all crimes fit for destroying Doorman’s composure, but nothing that couldn’t be rectified. Drifter continues, “But I don't wanna stay in an uptight box with guests that have more money than sense. No fun to toy with.”
“Uptight?” Doorman says sharply, but Drifter goes on uninterrupted.
“You ain’t got anything I want, bellhop. Or so I thought. I thought, What could you give me that I ain’t already had?”
He has a point, Doorman thinks, and he knows that feeling all too well. When you’ve been around for as long as they have. When you’ve lived many lives over and over, new names, new clothes, new countries. What could there possibly be left in this small fishbowl they call home?
“I know what I want.”
He looks at The Doorman, and Doorman can see the white glaze behind the red in Drifter's eyes.
“Well, I'm listening?”
He ends up on his front. Pushed against the wall until his uniform undoubtedly becomes dirtied, it makes him wince. “Easy on the uniform.” He can’t help himself. Drifter hears but chooses not to listen. It takes one fell swoop of claws to shred the button and zipper that keep Doorman's slacks up. They crumple at his ankles.
“Ah, I don’t wanna hear nothin’. No cryin’ no beggin’ about your clothes. Not even a peep about workin’” He attempts to whisper. Which is almost impossible given how giddy Drifter is. He’s almost vibrating. How annoying. Doorman closes his mouth and attempts to resist grinding his teeth together.
His large hand encompasses Doorman’s ass, fingers long as they are thick slide up under his shirt and turn back toward himself. The sharpness of his claws cut cleanly through fabric and split the garments straight through the middle.
Doorman wants to scoff. What a waste of fabric. He could’ve simply undressed himself. But where is the thrill in that? Drifter has shredded him before. Many times. He’s lost coats, gloves, slacks and shirts. He’s been almost completely unclothed and torn apart. But he had always done the same to Drifter. One part revenge, another to rid him of those disgusting pants and shirt that almost certainly were stolen from sacks of seed.
The Doorman was a step down. Unable to return the kindness. A restriction. An invisible restraint set by the terms of agreement. Damned exchange. Damned boons.
Ten minutes before the Drifter slammed Doorman into the external wall of The Baroness, he had declared that he wanted Doorman completely and obediently at his whim. He wanted to fuck him without ifs, buts, or maybes.
And who was The Doorman to deny him of it? Mr Dunthorpe, although traumatised and now undoubtedly married to drink for the rest of his days, was still alive. And just as Drifter had said, what could they have that they hadn’t had already?
So he surrenders to it. Gloves wetted by the wall as he attempts to keep himself steady. Drifter slices a singular sharp index down his spine leaving teardrops of cyan to swell as he cuts away the briefs around Doorman’s waist.
“Don't be so shy.” His voice sings, “Invite me in, Doorman.”
The Doorman is not embarrassed. That is another human emotion that comes at a messy, humiliating cost. One of which he does not have the time to divulge, however, the sound Drifter makes when he boots Doorman's legs open to expose him is one he has never heard, and the silence that follows is equally haunting. The giddiness is sucked out of the air and replaced by something else.
“Is…something the matter?” he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, but as he peeks over his shoulder, Drifter's gaze does not meet him. He's seen desperation. A starvation. Literal and figuratively. He's watched Drifter starve himself for weeks after devouring rotted corpses for less than a second's consideration. He’s seen the vampire so blood drunk that he’s entirely forgotten the world around him still breathes, and while he slumbered like a bear in winter, Doorman watched over him.
The Doorman stares at Drifter's face. His skin, although pale and unnaturally grey, held a tint of red across the fat of his cheeks. This look. This feeling. The fledgling god resists the need to squirm.
“I just didn’t expect…”
Oh. Yes. About four hundred years ago, Doorman decided that the male sexual organs were utterly useless. A mound of matter that simply got in the way and distracted him and others from the work that needed to get done.
Before he chose to compose himself as human, he traditionally, like most gods, angels, fledgling concepts - had nothing, and then he followed the physical suits of men. When that grew too tiresome, too heavy and unnatural, as if it wasn’t supposed to meld with his skin, he went back to nothing at all. He supposed, after all that, he’d feel just fine with female sexual organs. Times changed as did humanity's incredible exploration of self. With this change, he felt the closest that could be called - at home - in.
“I can change it if you require,” he says plainly, although a hint of sourness laces his voice. He likes his human flesh the way it is. Without all the bits in the way and a perfectly shaped, well-trimmed cunt with a quickly swelling hard clit that protruded from the ginger tuft.
“No.” It’s the quickest response he’s heard from Drifter. He almost can’t distinguish the letters, just the hard puff of air and noise.
“Then please do get a move on.” He can’t feel the cold. But what he can feel is how hard he’s getting. Which doesn’t come as a surprise. Whenever Drifter felt the need to tear limb from limb and in exchange, Doorman almost bleeds what was left of him dry, he would come away having to attend to a swollen, hardened cock and a leaking hole.
Fickle, needy things human bodies were.
“I have far too much to attend to, not that the likes of you would ever know the privilege of being relied upon-“ Doorman chokes. The air in his lungs gets stuck, and before his body can figure out how to push that oxygen out his elbows give way. A hot wet warmth slides between his thighs and finds a home over the head of his cock. Drifter - undoubtedly needing a way to shut the fledgling god up - wanted a taste of something he hadn't had the luxury of considering a possibility.
Drifter has sunk to his knees to lap hungrily between Doorman’s thighs. His tongue sliding back and forth between the throbbing cunt invites him forward with a hunger so desperate that his cock aches under his pants.
But he can survive, for a moment.
He tastes The Doorman. It's a sweet otherworldly thing. He can only consider the possibility of how sweet his blood could be, too.
“Oh” Doorman begins to exhale. He’s gotten his lungs to work again, and the strength in his elbows returns. He’s composed. He has to remain composed. For now, he rests his forehead against the cold brick and lets his body surrender to the protruding tongue that flicks, sucks and bites every space it can occupy.
He had to admit, the only reason why he had ever bothered to keep Drifter around, to keep their fates intertwined, was because Drifter never ceased to surprise him. The vampire, despite age and time and boredom had always found some way to keep the god on his toes.
This was one of those solidifying moments.
The noises are vile. Drifter doesn’t let up. Like a hungry mutt he’s taking every debt owed. His sharp claws threaten to peel the flesh from Doorman’s pale thighs as he keeps his legs parted, but he knows today is about devourment of a different kind.
Composure. He will give the Drifter his due, but The Doorman simply couldn't surrender his composure. Wasn’t it enough that he’d granted him this right? Drifter wouldn’t steal his pride from him to. Doorman goes to open his mouth, to usher Drifter on, get it over and done with and as if he knew, Drifter plunges his tongue into the inviting wet hole with such greed that it makes Doorman’s knees shake.
It feels like a millennium that Drifter tongue fucks him for, and just when he thinks the vampire can’t get any deeper, he feels the scratch of his beard against the backs of his thighs,and a tongue slides impossibly deeper.
Doorman has to slide a gloved knuckle between his teeth. He tries to focus on anything but the feeling. The swell of warmth in his gut, the throbbing of his cock. How Drifters tongue laps and sucks against muscle that wants more. He has to resist complaints when Drifter pulls away; he can feel the restraint from the vampire. For a moment, sharp teeth graze against the back of his thigh. There’s a pinch, and Doorman inhales, but ultimately Drifter pulls back, hesitant to pierce the skin.
“See, I can get you to relax,” he hums, and without looking, The Doorman knows the vampire is savouring the taste on his lips. “Couldn’t find the stick you hide up your ass though.”
Doorman looks down at Drifter. Unaware that his cheeks have flushed with blood. “You vile wretched-“
“Uhuhuh” Drifter tuts. He stands slowly with an air of caution. Enraging the god is not what he wants tonight. “If I play nice, you’ll play nice, too bellhop.” The wetness around his mouth and jaw briefly catches the light from the exit sign.
“You’re a mess.” Dooman retains the slither of his composure. Half-naked and dripping. The throbbing between his legs only worsened by Drifter's absence.
“If you didn’t taste so damn sweet, I wouldn’t be” It’s almost endearing, it makes the Doorman forget just for a moment who is talking to him.
“One taste and you’ve fallen to heel.”
Drifter's smile goes lopsided. His lips twitch, and the red in his eyes consumes his pupils. “Is that what you think this is bellboy?” He hums, and before the Doorman can turn, he’s pressed against him. His large, red-stained hand pinning two gloved ones above Doorman’s head.
“I want you to crack.” Drifter hums against the fledgling's ear. “This ain’t about anything other than seein’ you beg for once”
Doorman laughs. The kind that bubbles out of him when they’re several hours deep in each other's blood and composure seems like a distant concept. To slip back…into his old ways where annihilation feels holy. “Then I’m afraid all of this has been for nought. A lost cause. Better for you to just give up now.”
Drifter's smile returns. He can smell it, in the mess of tangled bitter iron and freshly pressed linen, a nervousness that starts to shimmer in the cyan. “It ain’t lost. It’s right here, in front of me.” His free hand cups Doorman’s slender waist. It drives Drifter mad. This unnatural predator he’s found himself intrinsically bound to - can click his fingers and send his mind adrift into a vast void of nothingness - and yet, the vessel he chooses to wear is cut like marble from the Greeks, or those front page ranchily dressed ‘sailors’ he sees in the back row that always occupy the top shelf of pornographic selection in the local newsstands.
“What was it you once said to me?” his voice lulls against the softness of Doorman's cheek. “Something that once eluded me for centuries?” There's a brief silence. Perhaps it's The Doorman's unwillingness to bend to such slander. The insinuation that he could be scared? That he was capable of surrendering to the feeling of fear. Or perhaps the way he stifles his bite is from the way Drifter pushes the head of his cock between soft thighs.
It’s thick and heavy as he pushes to squeeze what feels like his entire length between pale flesh. Pre-cum almost certainly smears between them, lathering up the space so Drifter can better pull out and push back with ease. Drifter laughs. It’s two decibels short of a purr as he fucks into Doorman's thighs. The bellhop dares to squeeze them closed.
Drifter pushes harder. His hand squeezes around The Doorman's gloved wrist as he presses him against the wall. It’s almost a fight. Not that there needs to be one, and Drifter knows there won’t be. Doorman is many things, a trickster and a tease, but a liar he is not. So he falls forward with an oof and attempts to steady himself.
Drifter gives him no time. He pushes against the soft squeeze of his inner thighs and sighs. The feeling is good, the feeling satisfies him. He knows when to rush and devour, and he knows when a meal is worth savouring.
The Doorman, of course, maintains his composure despite the way that with every knock of the leaking cock head that thrusts against his already swollen clit, sends a pang of sharp electricity up to the warmth in his gut. His reddening dick drew a slick line of wetness across the top of Drifter's cock. It's messy. It's crude. He hates it. It feels so good. He despises this mutt of a vampire is rutting against him like a dog in heat, and how it could make him feel that tingling hotness worm its way into his gut and up his chest.
Doorman refuses to allow Drifter to scratch that itch. He can feel the scratch of his beard against his neck. There is, for a moment, a warmth, as if the hot blood in Drifter's stomach could be mistaken for oxygen. His lips press just under The Doorman's jaw, and sharp pointed teeth threaten to pierce.
“Just give in, mon cher.” He sighs. Relief washes over the Drifter's shoulders, sagging forward until he feels Doorman pressed flush against his chest.
Doorman exhales hard, forcing himself to sound bored, “get on with it”. Underlined in the placidity, there’s an urgency hidden in the hard punctuated syllables. It's not quite desperation. Not yet. He thinks about the be back sign he neglected to put up on the counter. The lobby that he knows isn’t filled with needy waiting guests, but it could be. Time spent discovering the pleasures of the flesh was hard work wasted. He tried briefly to convince himself.
Drifter sees it. The way The Doorman tenses. The resistance is all but delicious to him. “Just say two little words. You know them.” His voice is a song, lulling him into a false sense of security. “Look.” His hand drags from Doorman's hip down to the small space between the wall and his stomach. His long nails drag against his skin, sliding down toward his neglected cock.
Using his index and middle fingers, he slides them on either side of Doorman’s cunt, trapping the swollen dick between knuckles. He makes a point to push back the skin, exposing the thick, swollen clit that Drifter can feel throbbing against his fingers.
“Let me help you.”
It earns him a noise so sweet he’s certain the fledgling god might snap and send him down to the bowels of The Baroness. But he doesn’t. He moans. Just once. A long soft noise. The vibrato of Doorman’s throat is not filled with the hum of a thousand buzzing insects, but for once, a very raw imitation of a human noise.
Drifter bucks his hips back into rhythm.
“Say it, Bellhop.” The vampire's breath is ragged. He’s certain he’s not multitasked like this in centuries. The Drifter works for it, which is unlike how he hunts. Victims are so easy. So malleable these days. Perhaps that's why he feels so drawn to this entity that's slowly melting into his claws. Despite the work - restraining how quickly he fucks into Doorman's thighs and the way he slowly strokes his fingers back and forth against that swollen cock, he knows he won’t last forever.
It's when he drags his fingers back, and Doorman's body tenses like an electrical current has shocked through him, Drifter catches a metallic sweetness in the air. It's potent and hits his senses like a freight train. The Doorman has bitten the inside of his cheek. His mouth undoubtedly flooded with thick, warm cyan. Drifters hand snaps away from the wall and grabs the god's face, he squeezes until there's nothing that Doorman can do but force out a stifled, pained groan.
His mouth is parted, lips stained that unnatural colour that seems to ebb and glow in a way that always mesmerises Drifter. It’s the kind of drug he does want to feast on, even if it ends him up face down in a river. Doorman's lips curl back into a displeased half snarl. Dishevelled - coming apart like this - willingly and well behaved. Drifter thinks he could live for a hundred more centuries if he got to savour the way Doorman looks at him.
“Say it.” His voice rolls like lightning strikes from god. It echoes between the external walls of The Baroness, and deep down, Drifter hopes the building absorbs it. Holding his hunger in those meticulous webs.
“Fuck. Me.”
It’s crude. Disgusting. Doorman wants to annihilate himself and reform into unwitnessable horror. But he doesn’t. With those words pushed out of his bloodied lips, he finally surrenders.
What can I give myself that I haven't had already?
Damned it.
Drifter lines himself up and pushes in - in one thrust. He’s large, and the stretch has Doorman hiss. He feels the vampire's cock sit heavy inside him, and the god, for a moment believes Drifter will deliver him the kindness of getting used to that feeling. He does not. He pulls back and, albeit with a slower rhythm, sinks back into the inviting warmth.
The vampire groans a whoreish noise that lands his lips at the crook of Doorman's neck. “If I had known you’d feel this good, we coulda’ been doin’ a whole lotta it instead of all that dismembering” He laughs, and it makes The Doorman's gut swirl.
“This will never happen again.” Doorman for the first time since he donned this face with freckles and hair as bright as embers, lies.
Drifter makes an effort to slowly pull out. The head of his cock barely sucked in by the tight cunt that makes him feel drugged. It makes Doorman's thighs shake. “Lying to yourself?” he whistles slowly before dragging his tongue along a vein that strains against pale skin. He desperately resists the urge to chew down, "I didn't think a man of your standin' was capable of stooping so low.”
The fledgling god goes to bite. He sucks in enough air to undoubtedly lay an onslaught of verbal abuse - although warranted - toward Drifter. Drifter feels him inhale and with a quick snap of his hips begins to fuck into the man under him like his life depends on it. His thrusts are relentless. A succession of hard and quick punches that barely give Doorman time to correct the way the air has entered his lungs.
He whines.
And for a brief moment, Drifter feels like god.
He removes his hand from Doorman's face and slides it down to the front of his chest. The keyhole insignia that's embossed into the fabric feels too important, of course, it's his whole identity…but, as Drifter continues to rut into him, dragging out whines and gasps with every thrust, he can't help but wonder if there is some real significance to that keyhole.
His hand ventures down to where the fabric hangs loosely forward and snakes under and up.
It is unbecoming how much of a mess Doorman looks. His clothes are a wreck, his skin flushed and building a sweat, and his cock trapped between Drifters' red digits only continues to leak with a need as the vampire thrusts aimlessly into him. It's sloppy. Imprecise and exactly how Doorman wouldn’t do it. Which is why it drives him mad when he feels the warmth in his gut swell and peak.
He has to swallow down the noises, stifle and compose. Breathe. Compose.
He knows his face is screwed tight. He’s thankful for a moment that Drifter decided to shove him face-first into a wall. The brat. This hungry maw of greed. He’s taking and taking, and yet even as he fucks deeply into him, Drifters greed has no restraints.
He feels a long slender claw climb up his stomach toward the centre of his chest.
The Doorman feels everything snap.
“DON’T” his words fumble despite how loud he attempts to project them. In the air that buzzing briefly passes like a wind short of a storm. Drifter does listen. His nail graces a hard, metallic surface embedded in his flesh.
Drifter hums and reduces his thrusts to an agonisingly slow rhythm. He knows he can't hold on much longer, but to grasp at the opportunity of the unknown. To gain leverage with this thing - this ‘god’. He’ll try anything. “Don’t be scared,” he teases. His finger gently follows the circular slope, careful not to overstep.
He’s not scared, and Drifter knows that. Fear has a particular smell. One of which he one day wishes to devour on The Doorman.
“Please.”
Oh. His mind freezes for a moment. The vampire stills, buried deep until the hair on his naval is flush with Doorman’s ass. Drifter must’ve misheard that. Please? “What was that?”
The air is sweltering. “I said please.” His voice is placid, a low, frustrated whimper, and Drifter has all but forgotten about the mystery under the shirt.
The Drifter's mind swims in that beautiful noise. The Doorman begged him. He begged. His hips pick up, and with each thrust, Doorman lets go. He groans every time Drifter’s cock drags against that spot just a few centimetres in.
The Drifter knows he must look like an animal. His arm now fully wrapped around The Doorman’s dainty waist, holding him closely, not giving him an inch of wiggle room. He’s breathing heavily, perhaps even feels himself sweat or a memory of it, as if fucking into exhaustion triggers a response in his body that remembers what it's like. Every breath feels weighted.
With Drifter breathing against his throat, he almost misses the way the old vampire whispers a string of words concealed in the only language that feels best on his tongue. He doesn’t attempt to decipher it, mostly because his head is buzzing.
“Oh….oh…” Doorman whines. His hands leave the wall; they no longer support his weight as Drifter holds him up with a singular arm alone. Infuriating. Belittling. He feels small. But god it feels good. He can admit that in the back of his mind. It feels good to do this.
“That’s it.” Drifter attempts to soothe, but there's not an ounce of softness. He’s almost certainly gloating. He feels himself close to finishing, and as skin slaps against skin he hopes that whoever's residing in the first three floors above them can hear everything.
Drifter's hips stutter, his boots scrape against the floor for purchase.
By the time he finishes, snapping his hips all the way in to bury himself deep inside, his jaws have clamped down around the soft flesh of Doorman's neck. He knows a more cognitive Doorman would be beating him to a pulp for that, but for now, he gets this win. He’ll suffer the consequences later. The Doorman makes a stifled groan, its sharp and prolonged into a hiss as Drifter begins to feel the warmth of whatever compound makes up the immortal under him.
It's sickly sweet and sour. It feels thick and warm, and as soon as it hits his senses, he feels the world expand. He’s certain his pupils are as wide as dinner plates. The feeling encompasses him, making him shiver.
“Idiot.” Doorman scolds in a short hiss. The vampire has gone completely still except for the way his chest rises and falls heavily against his back. The fledgling presses his hands to his forehead, pushing his uncurled hair back into place. “And you were doing so well,” he says, almost sounding disappointed.
Whatever component does make up that bright blue cyan of Doorman's blood has captured Drifter into a euphoric paralysis. He hesitates to feel smug. He should, since he has warned the vampire over many years that his blood is not one for tasting, but now, with Drifter’s cock still buried in him, he feels bitter.
He knows he’ll need to teach Drifter a lesson on his biblical levels of greed. Perhaps this was a good start.
The fledgling god tries to dismiss the way his cock throbs between his legs, now left neglected.
In the time that Drifter’s mind has gone wandering in the euphoric stillness he finds himself stuck in, Doorman removed the jaws that clamped down into his flesh (with great difficulty), cleaned himself and replaced his clothes. To a stranger observing the two, there is simply a well-presented doorman standing over a blood drunk creature that attempts with half slurred groans to come back round to the dimension that his body resides in, cock out, dishevelled.
“Are you back with us?” Doorman asks, as if nothing had happened at all.
Drifter blinks away his expanded pupils. His mouth opens to speak, but all he can do is gag. His body attempted to dispel whatever foulness it ingested.
“Yes, well, I have warned you,” The Doorman says smugly. “I hope that taught you your lesson. I wouldn’t mind if it didn’t. I’ve never had the luxury of seeing the effects on the likes of your kind.”
Drifter turns from retching. His hands clutch his stomach as if attempting to claw out the substance. He looks up at the fledgling god - fully dressed and smiling. There is nothing - he thinks - that could get him to drink whatever makes up The Doorman again. His scowl is hard across his face. “I still got what I wanted,” he coughed back pathetically.
“That you did.”
It's quiet for a moment. Drifter's head tilts only slightly to the side as he stares up at the looming figure that stares back. He grins. Bright, illuminous blood smeared teeth glinting against the EXIT sign glow.
Quietly, he tucks himself back in and fixes his clothes.
The Doorman is almost taken off guard by it, a serenity that ends in neither of them cursing or swiping and gnashing with claws and teeth. “Well then,” he clears his throat. Drifter attempts to stand. As he pushes against the pavement, his arm gives way. "Ah. You may want to rest here for a moment longer." Doorman offers with a hint of kindness.
Drifter, surprisingly, listens to him and settles back on his ass. “I should kidnap your guests more often.” Drifter adjusts his flat cap. His thick mop of hair falling back into place.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’ll have to say-”
“I’m not saying please again.” Doorman interrupts. And Drifter laughs, quiet and low. Doorman has to ignore the feeling that flutters in his stomach. His hands go to rest at the dip of his own spine. He takes several steps toward the exit door and looks up. The sky is dark and holds an ominous, heavy thickness within the clouds, as if it could part and let loose a great flood. If you looked at it just at the right angle, the grey blanketed a purple magnetic hue.
“Something is stirring”, The Doorman says with little else to offer. The shift in the air has his skin tighten. He looks back toward the vampire, who attempts to follow his gaze. “If you have your sense about you, you’ll know not to go against me.”
“Is that advice or a threat?” Drifter hums. His lips split upwards and crinkle the corners of his eyes.
“No. Just a fair warning. Go against me, and it’ll be a shame to have wasted what you've started.”
For the first time, Doorman sees Drifters' brows raise, knowing that it is an offer he simply can't refuse.