I wrote fanfic of a music video. I do not apologize.
Title: No Salvation, No Religion
Fandom: This video of Lady GaGa's "Teeth"
Summary: You go vampire hunting alone, you get what you deserve. If you're lucky.
Rating: Suggestive. About 1,800 words.
ETA: Thanks to fabularasa for the beta
He had known Italy was going to be fantastic.
It was a shame he'd been torn away from that pretty thing in the club, what was his name, Nico? No, Nico had been two nights ago. Maybe he'd never asked the name of tonight's entertainment. Too occupied watching his mouth and the bulge of denim at his crotch. But when a gorgeous piece of meat in D&G sunglasses and Bulgari cologne, every bit as pretty and twice as delicious-smelling as the treat you'd decided on for the night moved behind you, jerked your hands behind your back and bound them with a stupidly flimsy leather thong, whispering, "Got you, you fucking bloodsucker," in accented Italian--well, yeah, of course you went with him. You went, and you didn't even mind being shoved around a little as he dragged you along, pushing open doors and kicking slow asses out of the way. This was too good to miss.
And hadn't he just been right. The body underneath that virgin white jacket was all that fangs could want, ripe for the sinking into. Oh, sure, the boy had made a show of pretending he was taking the jacket off so it wouldn't get filthy, so its owner could get down to business more easily. But pretending didn't do you any good when your prey could smell you.
And he decided he would think of himself as prey, why not. For a little while. It had been so long since he'd had the pleasure. This one fancied himself such an earnest little fang-hunter; he'd enjoy letting him pretend he had control just long enough to see if it got interesting.
Who had put the boy up to this, he wondered? Half of Italy's appeal was its danger. With the heart of the church sitting right here in Rome, the number of fang-hunters prowling like feral cats was absurd. Not that the trappings of the church were any kind of threat. But it was still a city most of his kind avoided, not wanting to risk a stab of wood through the heart from some would-be avenging cherub. The oldest ones, who expected respect just because they'd survived this long, called thrillseekers like him stupid fuckers.
A warehouse. This one must have had some connections, then. The fang-hunters acting completely on their own usually had squalid little basements. Given that it was Italy, he'd have anticipated the dark back of some caffè. But this place was huge, and didn't even smell like mildew. Someone had set this boy up with a lair to do his dirty work--oh, pardon, holy chore. The church had all the money, so, everything fit. Solo fang-hunters couldn't usually afford Dolce and Gabbana, besides.
There had already been light inside the warehouse when the boy dragged him in and dumped him into the chair. Light and more heat than usually made him comfortable. Fuck, the boy must have lit enough candles to burn down half the Vatican. The smell of beeswax was thick. It was flattering, really, to know he rated such a costly intervention. There were probably cameras all over the place, too, recording every grisly contortion the fang-hunter was going to put him through. Or showing how they couldn't record him, soulless bloodsucker that he was, if you believed such trash myths. This one would be hoping it wasn't, wanting to replay every minute of the interrogation and drool over it again and again.
But the boy was still green and simple, a babe just off his mother's tit. Those hands had never driven in a stake, never done more than flash around a bit of leather and pretend to be fierce. Not that that disappointed him. The young ones liked to posture, and they loved to threaten even as they made every mistake possible. He could have a good time with the young ones and never have to worry.
Besides, they smelled so good.
The smell; this one knew what he wanted after all, didn't he, and it was nothing so wasteful as a dead bloodsucker withering to ash on the warehouse floor. This one had got into the fang-hunter business out of fascination, not religious fervor, no matter what he told himself as he knelt upon his prie-dieu and panted out his ecstasies.
But the boy was pretending. If he were the experienced kind, he'd have known better than to drag a bloodsucker all the way here, alone, rather than leaving him staked and dying back in that club. Instead he was pretending he had to be sure, had to know he was really dealing with one of the dark monsters, the filthy, dangerous, tempting beasts...Fuck, what a smell. He inhaled every time the boy came close, every time he brought his face near to hiss some threat, some taunt. He loved when the young ones were cocksure and pushy like this. So much the better to eat them up before he put them down.
He stayed still, wanting to goad the boy closer by not reacting. The hisses, the threats were getting less creative but more intense. Show me what you are, what you've got, you can't hide it from me forever. He loved it. This one was desperate to get what he needed and still didn't realize just what that was. He felt the boy's breath, the little flecks of spit on his cheek. What the boy wanted was a lick, a taste, to see if bloodsucker skin and sweat was as hot and delicious as he thought it would be. Come and get it, he wanted to say. You'll feel so much better once you do.
His little fang-hunter had better control than some twice his age; he managed to pull away, managed to get his attention off his prey and back to the candle-covered table. Every fucking cliché, that's what was spread out upon that table. Every excuse for a test, for a chance to touch him over and over, provoke him, get him to...what? Not crumble into dust, that was certain. Bare his fangs? Snap the tether with superhuman strength? (It wouldn't even take that.) Turn into the snarling savage that he was underneath this deceptive skin and try to fling himself upon his torturer, with every intention of making him dinner? Yeah, that sounded like what he was expecting.
So: test after test. Bright lights. They ruined the atmosphere that the candles had made, but that was the worst of it. The rosary, draped around his neck. He saw the boy's disappointed mouth when the beads didn't burn his skin; he grinned as if to say, "Kind of gay, this necklace, isn't it?" Garlic shoved under his nose; idiot, if he needed to avoid garlic he'd hardly have come to fucking Italy, would he? He found himself looking at the candles wistfully. They could have such a good time with beeswax, which melted at higher temperatures than cheap paraffin. Give me something better, boy, he wanted to say, but only grinned. The boy would come around.
The grin enraged his sweet little fang-hunter, who grabbed the vial of holy water and dashed it in his face. Okay, so now he was wet. Annoying, but probably not what the boy was going for. He probably looked even more inviting with water dripping from his hair and face, so he forgave the boy. Grinned at him again.
The boy's hand curled around the only weapon upon the table that even remotely concerned him. Stake in hand, his fang-hunter, pumped on his own righteous fury, stalked towards him like a fucking bishop high on his own oration. Careful, he didn't want to lose him now. He thought it would be wise to take the boy off-guard, give him a little taste to shake him closer to the truth of what he really wanted. He let himself flinch from the point of the stake as it kissed his chest, letting his eyes flicker up to meet those of his suddenly uncertain little fang-hunter. Not what he wanted after all, was it.
It wasn't. The stake was flung away. The boy chose the other weapon on the table, the shining sharp little blade, and inflicted his own bloody stigmata upon his skin, just below the nipple, and he could hear the blood break free, see it smell it feel the molecules of it teasing his fucking tongue, oh, shit, he wanted that blood, his blood, alive with the smell and the taste of this one, his gorgeous baby fang-hunter, oh, fuck, yes. The boy stepped closer, bringing the blood and the smell almost to his lips, okay, boy, you win, yes, I'll give you everything you want, everything you really want. I deserve it, we both do.
And his fang-hunter moved away a step, denied him the blood, which was the most fucking stupid thing he could do, except he gave him something almost as good to make up for it--bending, he gave him his mouth and his skin and his sweat for the tasting, and that sweet rush of circulation just beneath it, just waiting to be opened. Yes. Let him taste first, let him realize his dream of what a bloodsucker tasted like. Now his fang-hunter knew what he really wanted, what he'd needed all this time.
So he'd get it. He turned his mouth into the warm curve of the neck, and his fangs took what they'd been offered; his baby fang-hunter surrendered against him in the sweet shock of the bite, and he moved his hands--now free of that stupid thong--to catch him, hold him. There was struggle, of course, and he relished it, feeling the blood course over his tongue, set him on fire, the warm weight in his arms and against his chest pulsing against him in sweet delicious waves of heartbeat. Fuck, yes.
He rode the waves, knowing to stop well before they weakened. He wanted a moment for this decision. The boy was his to do with as he liked; he could drain him, soothe him into a slumber that could be final. If he chose.
Or he could wake him. Wake him with the pure spill of blood on his own tongue, the thing this boy wanted and feared more than anything in the world. Even more than the loss of his own life to a vampire's fangs. Was he worth it? Was this one only good enough for one night's dinner, or did he deserve something a little more long-term? He ran his tongue over his bloody fangs, taking his time to think. At least he didn't have to make the decision on an empty stomach.
He was right. You could always rely on Italy for the best cuisine.