IT'S NECROPHILIA ALL FINISHED!!!!!!!
Feb. 1st, 2006 08:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luchia WARNINGS: [Smut liek whoa.] EXCRUCIATING kiss detail for Ari, because, hell, if I’m skipping homework to write smut, it’d better be one hell of a sex scene. Which is why it is featuring kitchen!smut, wall!smut, bed!smut, near-a-bonfire!smut, and, of course, NECROPHILIA!!! YAY FOR HEMOPHILIA VAMPIRES!!
Worst pun in the whole thing? “Divested”. Ah, sometimes I kill me. Look out for the random, painful puns that I find HILLARIOUS, because they are EVERYWHERE.
Characters: Quinn Johnson, Vigil Leroux and Damian Helldirge
Setting: Era of Ruin in the small Utah town of Spring City. Population... 965.
Word Count: 7608. 19 pages. BOW TO ME.
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Necrophilia
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Quinn Johnson frowned at the dusty horizon.
“Hey, Dad?” he asked, turning around to face the older man, digging his shovel into the pile of clay ground and using it as a chin rest. “Doesn’t the post coach come in next week?”
His father snorted. “If we’re lucky. Damn thing never shows up even when we need it-”
“Joshamee Johnson, you will WATCH YOUR TONGUE,” Quinn’s mother snapped from where she stood airing out the sheets. He’d never understand the point- dust usually got kicked up on them eventually no matter what she tried.
But, then again, if there were an occasion to trust in the gods to get your fancy white sheets through it, now would be the time.
At the thought, Quinn’s hands clutched the handle of his shovel, a nervous smile coming onto his lips. He was finally twenty (just turned a couple weeks ago, in fact), so he wouldn’t get locked into the Temple with the rest of the underage children tonight. It’d be his first Eve of Bacchus.
He didn’t know whether he should be excited or terrified at the thought.
For one night, all marriages were declared void, all taboos were lifted, and it was a free-for all drunken night of carousing. His friends were absolutely giddy at the thought, but Quinn…Quinn had no clue what to think.
“Yes, Ezra,” Joshamee Johnson sighed out, and Quinn stifled a snicker. He never got tired of seeing his father absolutely under his mother’s thumb. Not exactly what Quinn would imagine was a healthy sort of relationship, but it certainly was entertaining.
His mother’s sky blue eyes met her son’s identical gaze. “Now Quinn, you do remember you CAN pass up the Eve of Bacchus, right?”
Joshamee groaned. “He’s twenty, Ezra. Give it a rest.”
“Just because YOU decided to get your paws into something serious right off the bat does not mean our son wants to,” she snapped back. As usual, Quinn’s father grumbled and went back to digging out the new pit for the fire that evening. Yet another thing that escaped Quinn was why every year they had to make a new one…and why his family had drawn the short straw this year. Honestly, sometimes it didn’t pay to be an only child. He was stuck doing all the work that other families could disperse through five different offspring.
“Do I need to point out who came to WHO on our twentieth, Ezra?” Joshamee pointed out, that wry little quirk in his voice telling Quinn he did NOT want to turn around and see his parents flirting. It had always been disturbing, and it wasn’t about to stop, either.
Oh well. At least he knew they loved each other.
And again, the glint of sunlight off metal burst from the horizon. Quinn frowned at it, only to have the light wink at him again.
“Hey, dad, you sure the mail’s not coming today?”
His father frowned at him, breaking off his suggestive leer at Quinn’s mother. “Yeah, why?”
“Because someone’s coming.”
Ezra and Joshamee immediately turned their attention to the horizon, both squinting into the bland brown and green landscape.
“…Well, I’ll be damned.”
Quinn waited for his mother’s reprimand and the usual banter that would follow, but she simply stared out at the encroaching glint of sunlit metal. “Quinn, be a dear and get your sheets off your bed.”
“What?” Quinn started, gaping at his mother. “But-”
“Please, Quinn.” She said it in that tone where you KNEW it wasn’t a request, where the ‘please’ was more of a ‘this is your last warning, Quinn Julius Johnson, before you get the chore list of a lifetime’.
“Yes ma’am,” Quinn replied sullenly, and marched into their simple four-room home, rounding the corner in the kitchen and sighing at the sight of his bed. Wrought-iron and functional, but a vixen when it came to getting the sheets on and off since it was against the wall.
Deciding his mother hated him, he got down to work ripping the quilt and the blanket off, then pulling the sheets off, stretching to get down to the edges and having to work the corners off in painfully tiny increments. When he finally tore off the white sheets, it took even more work to get them and himself out the doorway and back outside, since he could barely see as it was. The sky was already darkening, from what he could see (which was, in fact, the only thing he could see), and he was again struck with being torn between excitement and being terrified.
With a sigh, Quinn started towards where he remembered his mother had been hanging up the sheets.
“Mom!” Quinn shouted out, shifting uneasily and hoping his mother would come and relieve him of his burden. “MOM!”
When the only response he got was the usual traffic of the nearby main drag of Spring City, he sighed and started walking towards the usual area.
But, what was unusual was the big old pile of dirt he and his father had been working on earlier.
With a quick “Oh, shit-” Quinn was tumbling down to the ground, instinctively turning onto his back to salvage as much of the sheets as he could, eyes shutting tightly as he waited for the jolt of ground to hit-
-but it didn’t.
Surprised sky blue eyes opened up to see…well, lots and lots of white. But he could feel someone’s arm beneath his back, and there was the outline of someone above him.
“Hey,” a smooth male voice said, wry and clearly amused. “You okay?”
“Other than being blind behind a sheet?” Quinn asked, wondering who caught him. “I’m okay.”
“Well then, if you’ll let me do something about that problem…” There was something strange about the voice. It was almost too smooth, like a river that was too deep to ford and you didn’t know it until you were drowning. Quinn couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not, honestly.
Smooth-yet-calloused hands drew the sheet back, brushing his skin lightly, and the white slid away to reveal quite possibly the most handsome man Quinn Johnson had ever seen, and most likely ever would.
A man with chocolate eyes smiled down at him, shoulder-length black hair in a ponytail. His skin was a strangely pale tan that was as pure and unblemished as newly fallen snow, and the most incredible thing was that he was SMILING at Quinn, and not just one of those amused smiles, or one of those humoring smiles. It was true, and playful, and there was just a little bit of something else in it, something almost…fiery.
“Ah, Damian,” a youthful woman’s voice sighed out. “You always do move so quickly.”
The man- Damian, was it? – didn’t move away, practically hypnotizing Quinn with that strange heat in his eyes.
“DAMIAN.”
There was something utterly commanding in that voice, and Quinn found himself quickly backing away from the scene, staring at the two people in front of him.
Damian wasn’t just incredibly handsome, either. He was a hell of a snappy dancer, too. A full-length black duster hung over his shoulders, black pants with a well-cut black vest over it, the collar of a bizarre black shirt showing just above the vest’s different sheen. Even his boots were black, and the only thing not colored like the night sky was his belt buckle, a strange affair of silver and red that was skewed onto the left side of his hip.
“Vigil,” he half-growled, half-purred at the woman standing perfectly, as if some divine marble statue, nearby. “I’d almost forgotten you were here.”
His companion, however…she was completely different. This ‘Vigil’ was the picture of modern society, a gorgeous affair of lilac satin draping along her body like some sacrosanct drapery job. Stunning bright green eyes gazed coolly at Damian, lips thin yet almost violently red against pale white skin. Her hair was a shining updo of long white-silver locks that first rose up on her head, then trailed down her shoulders almost tantalizingly.
“Again, hardly surprising,” the white-haired woman smiled thinly. With an aggrieved sigh, she pulled out a lacy parasol and opened it with vicious efficiency. “I’m glad at least one of us has found something worthwhile here.”
Quinn, quite frankly, had no clue what was going on. So, the manners his parents had engrained in him chose the moment to shine through the confusion. With a moment to find the laundry basket he dumped his sheets in, and then moved forward.
He smiled at the two, and held his hand out. “Nice to meet you,” he said, both sincere and warm. The two blinked at him for a moment, but the Vigil lady smiled back thinly and took his hand, shaking it precisely. “My name’s Quinn. Quinn Johnson.”
“Vigil Leroux,” she said politely. “I’m glad to meet you, too.” Her eyes turned to Damian as her hand slid out. “I approve, for once.” With another thin smile at Quinn, she turned around and headed towards the main drag of Spring City. “Don’t get too rowdy, now.” Her head turned around, bright green eyes boring straight into chocolate. “We’re only going to be here one night, after all.”
And with that, she was simply gone. Quinn blinked at where the woman- Miss Leroux, he amended- had stood.
“She likes to do that sometimes,” Damian shrugged, and Quinn turned back to the black-clad man.
“It’s nice to meet you, Quinn Johnson.” Their hands clasped again, and that delicious smile was back on Damian’s lips. “I’m Damian Helldirge. But please, just call me Damian.”
And…hey, was Quinn actually taller than this guy? Well, that was certainly surprising. Not by much, though, but the thought made him direct some empathy towards Damian. He himself was considered far below the decent height for a man, at 5’10” instead of the expected 6’1” or above.
Quinn smiled again- he seemed to be doing that a lot, recently. “Then please, just Quinn.”
“Quinn,” Damian said, as if he was rolling the sound around in his mouth. That intoxicating heat came back to his dark eyes. “I like how that sounds.”
…Quinn was blushing, but he couldn’t move his eyes away from the other’s face. There was something downright bizarre, almost addictive about being around this visitor, and he knew this could only end badly.
“So, are you participating in the festival tonight?” Damian asked, tone innocently curious while his eyes just made Quinn’s blush get brighter and brighter.
“…yes?” Quinn asked, voice almost squeaky.
Damian laughed pleasantly. “You either are or you aren’t, Quinn.” His head tilted to the side. “I’m guessing it’ll be your first Eve of Bacchus.” At Quinn’s nod, he smiled and continued on. “Well, here’s my advice. Find someone you like and stick to them, for your own good.” He paused. “And avoid getting too close to the fire. The closer you get, the crazier you’ll act.”
“Uh, thank you,” Quinn got out, and Damian was still smiling at him.
“It’s my pleasure.” Why did he feel like there was something else to those words? “Any particular target for the festivities, if you don’t mind my asking?”
And the blush was back full-force, his face as red as the setting sun against the dusty background. Wasn’t the Eve of Bacchus supposed to be a religious sort of thing? Holy? And all this visitor seemed interested in was the…uh, the more carefree side of the merriment.
…and it was only then that Quinn realized they were still holding hands. He was sure even his feet had to be scarlet by now…but he couldn’t bring himself to move his hand away.
The bizarre black-clad man’s grin was merciless now, his hand doing something absolutely bizarre to Quinn’s, and the bones in his hand seemed to positively grind against each other and it was actually quite pleasant, he decided after a while, and hoped the strangely intriguing man continued without Quinn actually asking him to.
“Not really,” Quinn finally answered, and one of the man’s eyebrows quirked up.
“I must say I’m surprised by that. An upstanding young man like yourself, unattached?” His smile was almost…feral, Quinn decided, like the foxes that played by the Spring River. “We may have to do something about that.”
“Damian.”
Quinn jerked away as if he were burned, a startled little laugh bubbling out of him. For a moment, Damian stared straight into Quinn’s blue eyes, as if he were some new, complex puzzle, and then turned towards the white-haired young lady nearby.
She held herself aristocratically perfect, lips pursed together. “I know we came all this way for one night, but please, don’t get too hasty,” she chided him, head twisting back to the main drag once again. “We also need to feed. You are well aware this weather does nothing for our complexions, are you not?” There was something almost cynical in that statement.
“Ah, Vigil,” Damian sighed out, eyes closing as a smirk crept onto his lips. “This is why you wear actual clothing, instead of a wire hump and a shiny bed sheet.”
Quinn choked back a laugh, which earned him another grin from Damian and a rather startled set of blinks from Miss Leroux. Sharp green eyes immediately snapped to her black-haired companion.
“I was under the impression you were going about this quickly, Helldirge,” she practically hissed out, and when his grin switched to her it turned lethal.
“I had been, but apparently…charm isn’t enough on some people.” He paused. “I must say, I like it this way, don’t you?” Vigil blinked at him, and Damian’s smile turned sincere. “A choice neither of us got.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, until there was a curt nod from Vigil- or, Miss Leroux. “Be careful, Damian.” Her voice was soft, wary.
To Quinn’s amazement, Damian executed a precise, absolutely elegant bow the likes of which he’d never seen. “I ever am, lady,” he said just as softly, a caring lilt to his words. Quinn barely heard it.
And then it was over, with the bizarre stranger named Damian Helldirge’s head tilting back towards him as Vigil Leroux turned back towards the main drag of Spring City, dress shining like amethyst fire in the setting sun.
“I should probably go feed like she said,” Damian sighed dramatically, eyes never leaving Quinn’s. “I’ll see you tonight?”
There was a hopeful lilt to the question that tugged at Damian’s heart. He nodded, smiling back. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Damian beamed at him, as if his face had turned into the sun itself, and performed a small head bob that was almost like a bow in itself before quickly turning on his heels and following the white-haired woman down the side street the Johnson house resided on.
“-Quinn!” his mother called out all of a sudden, and, blinking, the blond saw his mother frowning at him from the nearby rope strung between the house and a tree. She was frowning at him concernedly. “What’s wrong with you? It’s almost night! Bring those sheets over here!”
He was SURE she hadn’t been there. Quinn had been looking for her before Damian and Vigil- or, Miss Leroux- showed up. He’d called for her, and Mrs. Ezra Johnson had never in her life ignored a shouted summons from her son, especially since it was a rare moment indeed that Quinn actually yelled. Not to mention Quinn couldn’t remember when he’d gotten the sheets back from where he’d put them down.
It was perplexing. And Quinn, to his own irritation, loved a good mystery.
“Here, Mom,” Quinn said, smiling as he ambled over and put the sheets in her waiting arms.
“It’s about time, young man,” she grumbled half-heartedly, the twinkle in her eyes revealing her barely-hidden amusement. “Excitement for tonight should be second to your chores.”
Quinn frowned. That was just low.
“Quinn!” another voice shouted out, and he found himself staring at a flushed Melly Coleson, the mayor’s daughter, hurrying towards him and his mother. She was pretty, sure, and had lovely brown hair, but he’d grown up with her. The girl was practically a…a sister. “Quinn!”
He smiled and waved obligingly as she skirted the edges of the fire pit his father was still digging up. She grinned back, a hand cutting through the now-purple sky in a huge arc. “What are you doing here, Melly?” Quinn asked, honestly perplexed at the turn of events. She’d started avoiding him since her twentieth birthday almost seven months ago.
Melly pulled up in front of him, breathless and smiling. She had a lot of teeth. “Are you really going through the Eve of Bacchus?”
“Well, I said I was going to…” Quinn frowned at her. She really must have been running hard, because she was practically panting. “Do you need some water?”
His mother cleared her throat, and Melly’s eyes snapped straight to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Good evening, Melly,” she replied, that same amusement in her voice. “Are you all ready for tonight?”
“Ah, no, actually,” Melly said, barely holding back a blush. “That’s actually why I came.” Brown eyes snapped to Quinn. “I was wondering, do you have any ribbon?”
Quinn frowned at her. Why would he have a ribbon, anyway? The closest thing he had was a leather belt, or maybe rope.
“For my hair,” she hastily amended.
He didn’t even have to turn around to see his mother’s glare. “I think you should find your own, Miss Coleson,” she said coolly, which to Quinn meant there was something else about the situation he didn’t know and most likely never would, since girls had all kinds of secret codes he didn’t even WANT to break. “Good evening, Melly.”
Melly looked rightly admonished, even though Quinn frankly had little to no clue what had just happened. “Yes, Mrs. Johnson,” she said almost meekly. All meekness, however, vanished in a poof of expensive perfume and mascara when she looked up (thank the gods) at Quinn. “I…I’ll see you tonight?”
Quinn, again, blinked. “Uh, sure…?”
She just beamed and practically frolicked back towards the main drag.
Quinn’s mother snorted behind him, so of course he turned around, eyes asking for an explanation. Well used to his non-vocal communication, Ezra smiled.
“Girls with ribbons in their hair are…how to put this? Girls with hair ribbons are reserved on the Eve of Bacchus,” she said, and Quinn watched her bask in his growing dread. “It’s customary for the couple…or more…to have matching colored ribbons.”
“Why doesn’t anyone mention these things before tonight?” Quinn sighed, and his mother laughed, the sound punctuated by a firm SMACK of a rod against Quinn’s surprisingly pristine sheets.
“Go get dressed,” she smiled at him. “You’ve got about an hour.”
Quinn frowned. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
Ezra gave his dusty work shirt, dirty jeans, and muddy boots a single glance. Honestly, the only clean things on him were probably his suspenders.
“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, and made his way back into the house, as ever ignoring the closed door next to his room as he entered his own section of the dwelling. It looked starkly empty with just a mattress on the bed. But at least his clothes were still here, since his mother didn’t see the need to beat them to death in the dwindling, dusty sunshine outside too.
Out came his Worship Day best- a crisp, collared button-down white shirt, the black pants faded to a dark gray, his black dress boots, and the dark red vest that had cost over a month’s worth of wages. Then came the matching thigh-length jacket, which was just as faded of a black. He paused at the necktie. His parents would want him to wear it, but he’d always hated the things. It was like tying a noose around your own neck. Deciding against it, he set the strip of black cloth back into the trunk.
His mother was shuffling around in his parents’ room, either putting the sheets back on or getting dressed. Maybe even both, since his mother was resourceful like that. So, Quinn shuffled on outside, anxiety clawing at him.
Joshamee Johnson was already fully dressed and grinning, looking probably ten years younger with the addition of a hat and actual neatness to his clothing. “Looking good, kid,” he grinned at his son. Quinn smiled back. “Is your mom still in there?”
Quinn nodded in affirmation, and his dad grinned.
“Well then! Get a move on to the festivities, eh? We’ll probably see each other later,” his father said.
Again, Quinn nodded, and barely suppressed the urge to run inside and strap on his gun. He’d always hated these whole-city gatherings, from the Artemis and Apollo Solstices to the Week of Zeus.
The Johnson house lay on the very outskirts of Spring City, almost the precise northeast corner. The walk only took a minute or two to reach the fire pit he and his father had been digging since yesterday, but Quinn still had no clue where the townsfolk got so much extra wood, since he hadn’t seen any of the nearby trees chopped down recently. It filled in the epicenter of the great divot, and even as Quinn approached he could see friends and neighbors grinning at each other, chatting as they threw yet another piece of wood onto the pile as tribute.
But, it wasn’t time for the bonfire yet. From what Quinn Johnson had been led to begin, the point where all the townsfolk got rip-roaring drunk came before the sloshed idiots tried to catch a pile of wood on fire without killing someone in the process.
As the youngest, Quinn was stationed at the very end of the makeshift table of buckets and wooden planks, his seat an old barrel. To his displeasure, Melly was to his right, giving him what his father had called “cow eyes”, and John Mercer, who everyone knew was madly in love with Melly, sat in front of him, glaring death his way.
Well. This would be fun.
“Well, Johnson,” John Mercer snarled out. “I half expected you to chicken out and head for the Temple with the rest of the children.”
“Really?” Quinn asked, putting his little-known but expert acting skills to use. He hated John almost as much as John hated him. “I was sure you were literate enough to read a calendar’s date.” He frowned, as if his jibe was pure innocence. “Sorry about that.”
John sneered, but was too stupid to think of a comeback right off the bat. The crowd mulled about, seating themselves and generally being a nuisance as an enormous keg was wheeled in. The thing was probably as big as a carriage, if not more.
“At least my BROTHER’S not DEAD,” Mercer shouted out, an embarrassing gap of almost two minutes separating the insult and the rebuttal.
Hence, why Quinn hated him.
“And here I thought that was because he’s actually a she,” Quinn said coolly, trying to unclench both his fists and his heart. Why the hell did the idiot always bring it back to that? Probably his massively uncreative brain. “You have a sister, not a brother.”
“Ah! Quinn!” a smooth voice said cheerfully, and it seemed like the rest of the world melted away for a moment as two figures seemed to waft away from the shadows of the Spring City Hotel. The black-clad visitor turned towards the blatantly apathetic woman in purple. “I found him, Vigil.”
“How observant of you,” she stated, eyes tilted towards the stragglers heading for the table.
Damian, however, was still grinning at Quinn, striding forward and taking a seat on the bench at the very end of the makeshift table. The one to the left of Quinn. The one Quinn seemed absolutely fascinated with.
With a put-upon sigh, Miss Leroux glided over and sat elegantly down right next to the equally staring John Mercer, although he seemed more riveted to Miss Leroux’s low-cut dress than her face.
“Good Eve of Bacchus, madam…?” Mercer asked, Melly immediately ignored to the extreme.
With a microscopic eye roll, Vigil finally glanced at Mercer. “Leroux.” She looked away again, eyes twisting towards Damian and Quinn, utter boredom evident. “Charmed.” Her voice was so deadpan Quinn barely repressed a snicker. Damian was still smiling, but trying futilely to repress it with his hand.
“Miss Leroux,” Mercer cooed out. “I’m John Mercer, and I am utterly at your beck and call.” He leered at the utterly disinterested woman. “ANY call.”
And that was when both Quinn and Damian burst out laughing.
Luckily, before Mercer could try and insult either of them, the mayor, Mark Coleson, stood up at the very end of the table.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” he bellowed out (since it was, after all, a rather long table). “TONIGHT, WE GIVE THANKS TO THE GOD BACCHUS, AND THE BOUNTY HE BRINGS US!” (“Bounty of what?” Damian whispered, but was quickly cut off with someone’s elbow jabbing into his ribs. Quinn had more than a niggling suspicion it was Vigil.) “SO, TONIGHT, WE CELEBRATE OUR FREEDOM, OUR CHOICE, OUR LIFE, AND OUR LOVE! WE CELEBRATE OUR HUMANITY!” (“Whoops,” a woman’s voice muttered, and Quinn couldn’t decide if it was more confusing because of the statement or the fact he thought it was Vigil making a joke) “SO, FRIENDS, EAT! DRINK! LOVE! AND ABOVE ALL, CELEBRATE THE GOD BACCHUS, AND ALL THE JOY HE GIVES HIS CHILDREN!”
As was customary, Mayor Coleson turned into the west, arms outstretched. “HAIL, BACCHUS!”
“HAIL!” was the responding cry from all at the table, heads lifting up to the sky appropriately, and then immediately a cheer rose from the more experienced parties. A bit confused, Quinn looked around.
His eyes caught the final downswing of the axe into the cork of the enormous keg of purple-red wine. Another burst of gleeful roaring erupted as the liquid burst from the spigot, and the four attending men started filling up mugs as quickly as they could. Mayor Coleson and Priest Helos, as the official leaders of Spring City, picked them up and carried them to the oldest side of the table. Some of the citizens passed it down, others kept it for themselves, and still more took a sip and passed it down. It took almost twenty minutes for Quinn and company to get full mugs.
“Don’t go too fast now,” Damian said, voice still utterly amused at the world as Quinn sipped a bit of the liquid. Not bad, honestly.
Melly was already on her second, and Mercer was downing his third in record time. Vigil – Miss Leroux, he meant, to his utter amazement, already had nine mugs sitting in front of her, and was watching Quinn sip his mug down with an amused curiosity and an almost imperceptible thin smile on her face.
“I do apologize for not trusting you implicitly concerning tonight,” the white-haired woman said calmly. It had to be the most emotionless apology Quinn had ever heard.
“Why Vigil, am I mad, or did I actually hear you admit I was right for once?” Damian asked, twirling another empty mug around his right index finger in a way that was strangely…hypnotizing. “I must say I approve wholeheartedly of this little bit of humility from you. I know it’s never been your strong point.” His other hand set another empty mug down bottom up- five, at Quinn’s count.
“Humility I have in spades, it’s reason to concede defeat that is sparse,” she said. Mercer handed her another mug, and without even looking at it she downed it in one swig. A small, pleased sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned back from the makeshift table. “And I think I’ve found something more to my…tastes for the night, as well.” Her eyes flickered to Mercer, and the boy looked like he was about to have an aneurysm from sheer ecstasy.
“Caution, Vigil,” Damian chuckled, even though his eyes had latched onto Quinn again.
Vigil Leroux rose from her seat with a small smirk on her lips. “Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The words sounded like an old tradition between the two, and neither so much as glanced at each other as the white-haired woman sent one final glance at Mercer before heading straight for the Spring City Hotel.
Like an obedient puppy, John Mercer leapt from his seat and followed, drool practically slobbering down his neck as he disappeared through the doorway.
“Now, Quinn, would you care to introduce me to your charmingly possessive lady friend?” Damian asked, his grin turning onto Melly. It evolved into something dangerous in the transition, and Quinn decided it’d be a good time to finish off his first drink and move on to the next.
“Melly Coleson,” she cooed out, a bite to the words. “You know, like the mayor. See, I’m his daughter.” She smiled at him. “His favorite daughter.”
“His only daughter,” Quinn amended, and ignored the thwack that…never came…
Damian’s face was, for once, eerily still, Melly’s wrist in a death grip. “I’d suggest you not hit him, Miss Coleson.” His face darkened. “Otherwise I might do something regretful.”
Melly was frozen, brown eyes wide in…fear? Quinn was rather surprised at that, since Damian was about as far from scary as he himself was in one of his fouler moods…or when Mercer was around. But, random bursts of stupidity aside, Melly was still like a sister to him, so with nary a second thought, Quinn grabbed Damian’s hand and easily pulled it off the brunette’s wrist.
Damian was doing that pleased, heated smile-stare thing at him again. Quinn didn’t mind it one bit. “Melly’s like a sister to me,” he explained, ignoring the drunken squabble of idiots trying to light the bonfire in the background. “Apparently sisters get to thwack younger brothers.”
Damian sighed dramatically as Melly squirreled away towards the bonfire’s growing hubbub. “Well, if that’s what you prefer, who am I to argue?” He paused. “Aside from a should-be-drunken stranger who isn’t letting go of your hand any time soon, that is.”
Quinn was blushing again, but didn’t mind it that much this time. “It’s not just your hand doing the holding,” Quinn stated. After a moment of staring into his half-full mug of wine, he managed to meet Damian’s eyes.
It was the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, on a man so beautiful he couldn’t be real. And the scariest part was that Quinn knew it was for him. Scary, and strangely thrilling. It was like right before he pulled the trigger of a gun with lethal intent, a strange, gut twisting sense of future and choice and other big, oppressively serious words that he didn’t want but had happened anyway.
But when Damian leaned over, when Damian’s other hand reached out to glide up along the sloping line of his jaw, when Damian’s breath tingled across his lips in a hot, soft fuzz of intoxicating feeling, it really didn’t seem all that bad.
A single moment. Quinn shivered, Damian let out a small, painfully delicious noise that rolled from the back of his throat, and the crowd of fools around them swarmed towards the literal bonfire, ignoring the blaze between the two at the end of their world. The space between them was infinity in a breath.
And when their mouths finally met, it was a warm, gentle softness that sent his eyes fluttering shut, a careful dance of lips against lips with an elegant, timeless beauty to it and a feeling of natural perfection. Delicately, Damian’s tongue slid against Quinn’s lips, his hand slipping into blonde hair to deepen the overpowering sensation. As if of one mind, one soul, Quinn’s lips parted, and the dark-haired man’s tongue explored his mouth, sending Quinn into a quiver that was entirely pleasant, jolts of pleasure ripping down his spine when Damian’s tongue caressed the roof of his mouth.
When Quinn’s own tongue ventured towards Damian’s, gently licking up, Damian moaned into his mouth, and Quinn could barely breathe because he wanted more of that sound, and the more Damian moaned the more Quinn whimpered and it was getting so much hotter, tongues more frantic, barely remembering to come up for air, hands gripped together almost hard enough to crush bone and certainly tight enough to leave white marks on flushed skin. And still, the bliss continued, harder, faster, fiercer as they grew frantic.
A cheer erupted from the bonfire as they threw the Bacchus Grass onto the great pyre, and Damian’s other hand slid across Quinn’s back to his shoulder, urging him upwards. Quinn complied, eyes still shut, and whimpered again when Damian’s mouth crawled its way down to his throat.
“Your house or my hotel?” Damian murmured huskily against the pale skin of Quinn’s throat.
Full thought had left him long ago, but somehow the question managed to soak through, and Quinn managed to pant out “h-house,” before one of Damian’s hands managed to slip underneath his jacket and shirt, an intoxicating cool against the heated skin.
Never had the two-minute walk from the main drag of Spring City to his bedroom in the Johnson household seemed so long. Of course, the fact they usually ended up pressed against the nearest wall panting and kissing and getting as close to each other as they could without undressing (yet please let it just be yet dear gods) made the trip stretch on, but the moment Quinn managed to get the front door open, frantic hands were tossing his jacket into the open air while Quinn shucked Damian’s long black coat off and let it fall onto the floor and oh, those arms felt lovely.
Thanking whatever gods really listened for big buttons on Damian’s vest that was thrown off as well. Damian, however, ended up growling and just ripping Quinn’s red vest off, the buttons flinging about the kitchen like some demented pewter rainstorm. With them both divested, Quinn found himself being kissed mercilessly and forced up against the counter. Not that he minded, but there were more comfortable places in the house. Like his bed, for example.
All complaining stopped when Damian’s hands (including the one still clutched in Quinn’s) touched down on his knees, slowly sliding up his thighs as Damian leaned in closer and closer and closer, and all Quinn could do was moan when they went from his hips to right below his ass, lifting him off the counter. Suddenly he was lifted up against Damian (who was freakishly strong, apparently, even though Quinn was pretty skinny), but suddenly sliding down and dear gods that was pleasant. Quinn gasped, and Damian was positively purring into his mouth, a deep humming sound that was so hot it had to burn.
“Which door,” Damian whispered, and it took a minute for him to be coherent enough to point out the middle one.
Of course, on the way Quinn made the mistake of wrapping his legs around Damian, which elicited a double-voiced moan that sent Quinn straight into a wall again, Damian devouring his mouth with a fervor Quinn reciprocated. Quinn’s suspenders and boots were flung off, his already open shirt almost had its sleeves ripped off, and Damian’s shirt fell down onto the floor, now devoid of most of its buttons and certainly almost all of its virtue.
Like usual, it just took a little bit for Damian to remember walls were not good friends with Quinn’s back (especially wooden ones), so with a groan and a mutter that the blond didn’t entirely understand (“-so worth the wait dear lord Quinn-” this time), but that didn’t make it any less enthralling or Quinn not want to kiss Damian until neither of them could breathe anymore. So he did just that, attacking and trying to wrest that sinfully perfect little humm-growl of Damian’s.
Somehow they managed to make it into Quinn’s bedroom, but sadly not straight to the bed. As soon as the door closed Damian had him up against the door, harder than a rock and absolutely as stubborn to make it to the bed. But, Damian managed to get them both out of their pants, which was no mean feat when it came to the deliciously tight black pants Damian had been wearing.
Groping over to the bed their hands clasped again, the familiarity bringing back that same something even though all the heat and urgency. For a second, he just looked at Damian and how his flawless pale-but-tan skin contrasted with his own cream-colored complexion, both bodies with a sheen of sweat that glinted like tiny diamonds in the flickering light and shadows of the bonfire that peeked through the seams of his thin curtains.
And soon enough, the world was lost in a sweet, burning passion that consumed his senses, acute awareness clinging to the feverish exchange of touch and taste and smell, all of it utterly Damian, absolutely beautifully breathtaking, and so perfect he knew nothing could ever, ever rival this.
---
Quinn was not particularly happy when he woke up. His head felt like a tree had fallen on it, and then a horse had decided to dance on his skull for good measure. He was sore in places he hadn’t even really noticed before. And he was so exhausted he was tempted to try and shoot the sun down just so it would leave them alone.
…and that was about the moment when he realized he was snuggled up against Damian Helldirge’s bare chest, and said Damian Helldirge looked absolutely breathtaking with his hair down and chocolate eyes smiling just for him in an absolutely adoring way. “Good morning, Quinn,” he sighed out happily, nuzzling the top of Quinn’s head.
“Uh…good morning, I guess,” Quinn got out, and as he shifted, Damian’s arms curled around him tighter.
“So, how much do you remember?” he asked, completely nonchalant, as if his fingers weren’t tracing little patterns against Quinn’s equally bare skin and his breath wasn’t sending Quinn into a shudder.
Since apparently Quinn’s full-body blush didn’t answer, Quinn cleared his throat. “Most everything, I think…just about up to, uh, the…uh, the second time,” he said, and prayed his voice wasn’t too squeaky.
“Hmmm,” Damian hummed against his scalp. Quinn was struck with the image of a big panther cuddling with its favorite chew toy. Dear Zeus, Quinn probably had bite marks all over his body, too…but he wasn’t too inclined to check. “Do you remember when I told you you’re amazing and I want to spend the rest of my life with you?”
Quinn choked. “Uh, no?”
Damian paused. “Would you object?”
Now, Quinn Johnson had never been what one could call impulsive. He tended to follow his own experiences and judgment, to learn as he went and immediately use whatever evidence he received to his decisions. Quinn didn’t tend to say things without thinking them through first, didn’t commit to anything without contemplating possible problems with the situation, and most certainly didn’t react in a spur-of-the-moment sort of way.
It surprised him, though, that he didn’t even really have to think about the answer.
Quinn smiled up at Damian. “Not really, unless you’re going to die tomorrow. That I might object to.”
And Damian’s smile made Quinn fall for him all over again. “You really are incredible, Quinn.” With a happy sigh, Damian buried his face in Quinn’s neck. On impulse, Quinn threaded his fingers through that long dark hair, a blissful smile on his face. “My Quinn,” Damian purred. “Always my Quinn.”
“Your Quinn,” he sighed happily. “Forever and ever.” It was like fingering pure silk, or maybe a spider’s thread, so delicate and smooth and beautiful ---
Damian bit down.
Hard.
This wasn’t like the other bites last night, little nips and bites that just sent another jolt of pain into his system. No, this bite was a BITE, the skin breaking at strangely longer and pointier teeth than Quinn could remember, and all he could get out was a pained whimper as Damian took in a mouthful of the red liquid, a deep moan coming from the dark-haired man’s throat.
Quinn’s eyes were fluttering shut again, but not from the pleasure, because it was like every vein in his body was screaming, aching, every muscle crying out and slowly dying on him.
“Damian?” Quinn got out, a tiny, betrayed whisper, unshed tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“It’ll be okay, Quinn,” Damian said, but his voice was hazy and Quinn couldn’t bring himself to hope that his blind trust in the man really hadn’t been all that bad and that he wasn’t lying when he said “I promise, Quinn, it’ll be alright” and that really he wasn’t about to bleed to death, and that please gods don’t let Damian try to kiss him with blood in his mouth because really, regardless of loving the man, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from screaming…
…and then his eyes opened again.
He was dressed in better clothes than he’d ever imagined- his black dress boots, black pants, a new, crisp white shirt, a shiny maroon vest, and a matching knee-length black jacket. His guns sat on the ornate end table, mother-of-pearl hilts glinting in the lamplight, and for some reason he was eerily comforted by the fact he was wearing suspenders still.
“Good evening, Quinn,” that familiar smooth voice cooed, and Quinn’s sore neck turned so he could see Damian, dressed all in black again and beaming down at him. “How are you feeling?”
He didn’t try to stop his fist from smashing into the dark-haired man’s face. In fact, he was quite pleased with his body’s reaction. Served the man right for almost killing him.
“You almost killed me!” Quinn shouted out, glaring daggers. “You almost BIT me to death!”
“Actually, he did,” a cool, refined voice called out, and Quinn simply KNEW it was Miss Vigil Leroux, seated by the door and reading a bit of Aristotle. All of that, and he didn’t even have to look.
“What the hell did you do to me?” Quinn choked out, the feeling of his body tighter somehow, as if he had a super sense of control over his muscles. And even though he was no wimp, he KNEW he couldn’t usually break someone’s nose with just one punch, vicious intent or no.
…and he also knew that most broken noses didn’t mend themselves like Damian’s.
Quinn stared.
“What the hell did you do to me?” he repeated, quiet and hoping it didn’t sound as terrified as he felt.
Damian just looked at him with guilty puppy eyes. Quinn was torn between punching him again and sobbing, because that look was usually the ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your life’ look people got when they knew Quinn was mad.
Quinn was SCARY when he was mad.
“You’re a vampire,” Miss Leroux stated, turning the page of her book. The sound of paper flipping though the air seemed to crash around him. “Damian’s a vampire, I’m a vampire, and you happen to be one too.” She looked up at him. “Congratulations. And call me Vigil, please.”
“Congratulations?” Quinn hissed. “What’s there to congratulate?”
Vigil sighed, her book snapping shut as piercing green eyes latched on to his. “Damian and I happen to be of a vampire line called Jiardo. That means nothing to you right now, but, to put it plainly, it means Damian here is madly in love with you and wants to share eternity with you.” A dim smile curved her lips. “Although other vampire lines see it differently, the Jiardo line sees turning humans almost like a…wedding, of sorts.” She paused, her head tilting to the side. “Or maybe more of an expression of undying love.”
“Cute,” Damian smirked at her.
She smiled thinly back. “I try.”
“But…my family,” Quinn interjected, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Everyone I know. What happens to them?”
“They think you’re dead,” Damian said softly, shifting uncomfortably. “They think I…I murdered you.”
“You DID murder him,” Vigil stated, returning to her book.
“Yes, and thank you for reminding him of that fact repeatedly,” Damian snapped back. “Your help is incalculable.”
“Ah, Damian, don’t worry. You’ll learn to count some day.”
“Hold it!” Quinn yelled again, and both vampires’ (VAMPIRES) eyes snapped over to him. “I’m a VAMPIRE?”
Damian beamed at him. “Yes, Quinn, you’re a vampire.”
Quinn frowned. “And you two are vampires?”
“Yes,” Vigil stated, eyes not leaving the page.
“And…and I married you?” Quinn whispered to Damian.
Damian smiled softly, and leaned forward, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss on Quinn’s lips.
“Well, I’d certainly prefer to think so,” Damian said softly. “But you don’t have to reciprocate.” He paused, an uncomfortably sullen crease coming onto his face. “I know I’m very selfish, Quinn, but I couldn’t bare the thought of an eternity without you.”
Even though Quinn didn’t want to forgive Damian, he ended up doing it right then and there, because regardless of how little he wanted to love him he did, and Damian was too sincere for his own good.
Smiling softly, Quinn laced their hands together once again, and squeezed.
With that dazzling smile on his lips, Damian squeezed back.
Quinn Johnson smiled, and turned to include Vigil in his new gaze.
“So, what happens now?”
---
...Ari, you know what to do now: SHOUT OUT THE TITLE, REVIEW, AND WRITE ME SAGE. (and call me 'cuz you're awesome)
(And enjoy the Hemophilia Icon! YAY for Amusing And True Text!!)
Worst pun in the whole thing? “Divested”. Ah, sometimes I kill me. Look out for the random, painful puns that I find HILLARIOUS, because they are EVERYWHERE.
Characters: Quinn Johnson, Vigil Leroux and Damian Helldirge
Setting: Era of Ruin in the small Utah town of Spring City. Population... 965.
Word Count: 7608. 19 pages. BOW TO ME.
--
Necrophilia
--
Quinn Johnson frowned at the dusty horizon.
“Hey, Dad?” he asked, turning around to face the older man, digging his shovel into the pile of clay ground and using it as a chin rest. “Doesn’t the post coach come in next week?”
His father snorted. “If we’re lucky. Damn thing never shows up even when we need it-”
“Joshamee Johnson, you will WATCH YOUR TONGUE,” Quinn’s mother snapped from where she stood airing out the sheets. He’d never understand the point- dust usually got kicked up on them eventually no matter what she tried.
But, then again, if there were an occasion to trust in the gods to get your fancy white sheets through it, now would be the time.
At the thought, Quinn’s hands clutched the handle of his shovel, a nervous smile coming onto his lips. He was finally twenty (just turned a couple weeks ago, in fact), so he wouldn’t get locked into the Temple with the rest of the underage children tonight. It’d be his first Eve of Bacchus.
He didn’t know whether he should be excited or terrified at the thought.
For one night, all marriages were declared void, all taboos were lifted, and it was a free-for all drunken night of carousing. His friends were absolutely giddy at the thought, but Quinn…Quinn had no clue what to think.
“Yes, Ezra,” Joshamee Johnson sighed out, and Quinn stifled a snicker. He never got tired of seeing his father absolutely under his mother’s thumb. Not exactly what Quinn would imagine was a healthy sort of relationship, but it certainly was entertaining.
His mother’s sky blue eyes met her son’s identical gaze. “Now Quinn, you do remember you CAN pass up the Eve of Bacchus, right?”
Joshamee groaned. “He’s twenty, Ezra. Give it a rest.”
“Just because YOU decided to get your paws into something serious right off the bat does not mean our son wants to,” she snapped back. As usual, Quinn’s father grumbled and went back to digging out the new pit for the fire that evening. Yet another thing that escaped Quinn was why every year they had to make a new one…and why his family had drawn the short straw this year. Honestly, sometimes it didn’t pay to be an only child. He was stuck doing all the work that other families could disperse through five different offspring.
“Do I need to point out who came to WHO on our twentieth, Ezra?” Joshamee pointed out, that wry little quirk in his voice telling Quinn he did NOT want to turn around and see his parents flirting. It had always been disturbing, and it wasn’t about to stop, either.
Oh well. At least he knew they loved each other.
And again, the glint of sunlight off metal burst from the horizon. Quinn frowned at it, only to have the light wink at him again.
“Hey, dad, you sure the mail’s not coming today?”
His father frowned at him, breaking off his suggestive leer at Quinn’s mother. “Yeah, why?”
“Because someone’s coming.”
Ezra and Joshamee immediately turned their attention to the horizon, both squinting into the bland brown and green landscape.
“…Well, I’ll be damned.”
Quinn waited for his mother’s reprimand and the usual banter that would follow, but she simply stared out at the encroaching glint of sunlit metal. “Quinn, be a dear and get your sheets off your bed.”
“What?” Quinn started, gaping at his mother. “But-”
“Please, Quinn.” She said it in that tone where you KNEW it wasn’t a request, where the ‘please’ was more of a ‘this is your last warning, Quinn Julius Johnson, before you get the chore list of a lifetime’.
“Yes ma’am,” Quinn replied sullenly, and marched into their simple four-room home, rounding the corner in the kitchen and sighing at the sight of his bed. Wrought-iron and functional, but a vixen when it came to getting the sheets on and off since it was against the wall.
Deciding his mother hated him, he got down to work ripping the quilt and the blanket off, then pulling the sheets off, stretching to get down to the edges and having to work the corners off in painfully tiny increments. When he finally tore off the white sheets, it took even more work to get them and himself out the doorway and back outside, since he could barely see as it was. The sky was already darkening, from what he could see (which was, in fact, the only thing he could see), and he was again struck with being torn between excitement and being terrified.
With a sigh, Quinn started towards where he remembered his mother had been hanging up the sheets.
“Mom!” Quinn shouted out, shifting uneasily and hoping his mother would come and relieve him of his burden. “MOM!”
When the only response he got was the usual traffic of the nearby main drag of Spring City, he sighed and started walking towards the usual area.
But, what was unusual was the big old pile of dirt he and his father had been working on earlier.
With a quick “Oh, shit-” Quinn was tumbling down to the ground, instinctively turning onto his back to salvage as much of the sheets as he could, eyes shutting tightly as he waited for the jolt of ground to hit-
-but it didn’t.
Surprised sky blue eyes opened up to see…well, lots and lots of white. But he could feel someone’s arm beneath his back, and there was the outline of someone above him.
“Hey,” a smooth male voice said, wry and clearly amused. “You okay?”
“Other than being blind behind a sheet?” Quinn asked, wondering who caught him. “I’m okay.”
“Well then, if you’ll let me do something about that problem…” There was something strange about the voice. It was almost too smooth, like a river that was too deep to ford and you didn’t know it until you were drowning. Quinn couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not, honestly.
Smooth-yet-calloused hands drew the sheet back, brushing his skin lightly, and the white slid away to reveal quite possibly the most handsome man Quinn Johnson had ever seen, and most likely ever would.
A man with chocolate eyes smiled down at him, shoulder-length black hair in a ponytail. His skin was a strangely pale tan that was as pure and unblemished as newly fallen snow, and the most incredible thing was that he was SMILING at Quinn, and not just one of those amused smiles, or one of those humoring smiles. It was true, and playful, and there was just a little bit of something else in it, something almost…fiery.
“Ah, Damian,” a youthful woman’s voice sighed out. “You always do move so quickly.”
The man- Damian, was it? – didn’t move away, practically hypnotizing Quinn with that strange heat in his eyes.
“DAMIAN.”
There was something utterly commanding in that voice, and Quinn found himself quickly backing away from the scene, staring at the two people in front of him.
Damian wasn’t just incredibly handsome, either. He was a hell of a snappy dancer, too. A full-length black duster hung over his shoulders, black pants with a well-cut black vest over it, the collar of a bizarre black shirt showing just above the vest’s different sheen. Even his boots were black, and the only thing not colored like the night sky was his belt buckle, a strange affair of silver and red that was skewed onto the left side of his hip.
“Vigil,” he half-growled, half-purred at the woman standing perfectly, as if some divine marble statue, nearby. “I’d almost forgotten you were here.”
His companion, however…she was completely different. This ‘Vigil’ was the picture of modern society, a gorgeous affair of lilac satin draping along her body like some sacrosanct drapery job. Stunning bright green eyes gazed coolly at Damian, lips thin yet almost violently red against pale white skin. Her hair was a shining updo of long white-silver locks that first rose up on her head, then trailed down her shoulders almost tantalizingly.
“Again, hardly surprising,” the white-haired woman smiled thinly. With an aggrieved sigh, she pulled out a lacy parasol and opened it with vicious efficiency. “I’m glad at least one of us has found something worthwhile here.”
Quinn, quite frankly, had no clue what was going on. So, the manners his parents had engrained in him chose the moment to shine through the confusion. With a moment to find the laundry basket he dumped his sheets in, and then moved forward.
He smiled at the two, and held his hand out. “Nice to meet you,” he said, both sincere and warm. The two blinked at him for a moment, but the Vigil lady smiled back thinly and took his hand, shaking it precisely. “My name’s Quinn. Quinn Johnson.”
“Vigil Leroux,” she said politely. “I’m glad to meet you, too.” Her eyes turned to Damian as her hand slid out. “I approve, for once.” With another thin smile at Quinn, she turned around and headed towards the main drag of Spring City. “Don’t get too rowdy, now.” Her head turned around, bright green eyes boring straight into chocolate. “We’re only going to be here one night, after all.”
And with that, she was simply gone. Quinn blinked at where the woman- Miss Leroux, he amended- had stood.
“She likes to do that sometimes,” Damian shrugged, and Quinn turned back to the black-clad man.
“It’s nice to meet you, Quinn Johnson.” Their hands clasped again, and that delicious smile was back on Damian’s lips. “I’m Damian Helldirge. But please, just call me Damian.”
And…hey, was Quinn actually taller than this guy? Well, that was certainly surprising. Not by much, though, but the thought made him direct some empathy towards Damian. He himself was considered far below the decent height for a man, at 5’10” instead of the expected 6’1” or above.
Quinn smiled again- he seemed to be doing that a lot, recently. “Then please, just Quinn.”
“Quinn,” Damian said, as if he was rolling the sound around in his mouth. That intoxicating heat came back to his dark eyes. “I like how that sounds.”
…Quinn was blushing, but he couldn’t move his eyes away from the other’s face. There was something downright bizarre, almost addictive about being around this visitor, and he knew this could only end badly.
“So, are you participating in the festival tonight?” Damian asked, tone innocently curious while his eyes just made Quinn’s blush get brighter and brighter.
“…yes?” Quinn asked, voice almost squeaky.
Damian laughed pleasantly. “You either are or you aren’t, Quinn.” His head tilted to the side. “I’m guessing it’ll be your first Eve of Bacchus.” At Quinn’s nod, he smiled and continued on. “Well, here’s my advice. Find someone you like and stick to them, for your own good.” He paused. “And avoid getting too close to the fire. The closer you get, the crazier you’ll act.”
“Uh, thank you,” Quinn got out, and Damian was still smiling at him.
“It’s my pleasure.” Why did he feel like there was something else to those words? “Any particular target for the festivities, if you don’t mind my asking?”
And the blush was back full-force, his face as red as the setting sun against the dusty background. Wasn’t the Eve of Bacchus supposed to be a religious sort of thing? Holy? And all this visitor seemed interested in was the…uh, the more carefree side of the merriment.
…and it was only then that Quinn realized they were still holding hands. He was sure even his feet had to be scarlet by now…but he couldn’t bring himself to move his hand away.
The bizarre black-clad man’s grin was merciless now, his hand doing something absolutely bizarre to Quinn’s, and the bones in his hand seemed to positively grind against each other and it was actually quite pleasant, he decided after a while, and hoped the strangely intriguing man continued without Quinn actually asking him to.
“Not really,” Quinn finally answered, and one of the man’s eyebrows quirked up.
“I must say I’m surprised by that. An upstanding young man like yourself, unattached?” His smile was almost…feral, Quinn decided, like the foxes that played by the Spring River. “We may have to do something about that.”
“Damian.”
Quinn jerked away as if he were burned, a startled little laugh bubbling out of him. For a moment, Damian stared straight into Quinn’s blue eyes, as if he were some new, complex puzzle, and then turned towards the white-haired young lady nearby.
She held herself aristocratically perfect, lips pursed together. “I know we came all this way for one night, but please, don’t get too hasty,” she chided him, head twisting back to the main drag once again. “We also need to feed. You are well aware this weather does nothing for our complexions, are you not?” There was something almost cynical in that statement.
“Ah, Vigil,” Damian sighed out, eyes closing as a smirk crept onto his lips. “This is why you wear actual clothing, instead of a wire hump and a shiny bed sheet.”
Quinn choked back a laugh, which earned him another grin from Damian and a rather startled set of blinks from Miss Leroux. Sharp green eyes immediately snapped to her black-haired companion.
“I was under the impression you were going about this quickly, Helldirge,” she practically hissed out, and when his grin switched to her it turned lethal.
“I had been, but apparently…charm isn’t enough on some people.” He paused. “I must say, I like it this way, don’t you?” Vigil blinked at him, and Damian’s smile turned sincere. “A choice neither of us got.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, until there was a curt nod from Vigil- or, Miss Leroux. “Be careful, Damian.” Her voice was soft, wary.
To Quinn’s amazement, Damian executed a precise, absolutely elegant bow the likes of which he’d never seen. “I ever am, lady,” he said just as softly, a caring lilt to his words. Quinn barely heard it.
And then it was over, with the bizarre stranger named Damian Helldirge’s head tilting back towards him as Vigil Leroux turned back towards the main drag of Spring City, dress shining like amethyst fire in the setting sun.
“I should probably go feed like she said,” Damian sighed dramatically, eyes never leaving Quinn’s. “I’ll see you tonight?”
There was a hopeful lilt to the question that tugged at Damian’s heart. He nodded, smiling back. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Damian beamed at him, as if his face had turned into the sun itself, and performed a small head bob that was almost like a bow in itself before quickly turning on his heels and following the white-haired woman down the side street the Johnson house resided on.
“-Quinn!” his mother called out all of a sudden, and, blinking, the blond saw his mother frowning at him from the nearby rope strung between the house and a tree. She was frowning at him concernedly. “What’s wrong with you? It’s almost night! Bring those sheets over here!”
He was SURE she hadn’t been there. Quinn had been looking for her before Damian and Vigil- or, Miss Leroux- showed up. He’d called for her, and Mrs. Ezra Johnson had never in her life ignored a shouted summons from her son, especially since it was a rare moment indeed that Quinn actually yelled. Not to mention Quinn couldn’t remember when he’d gotten the sheets back from where he’d put them down.
It was perplexing. And Quinn, to his own irritation, loved a good mystery.
“Here, Mom,” Quinn said, smiling as he ambled over and put the sheets in her waiting arms.
“It’s about time, young man,” she grumbled half-heartedly, the twinkle in her eyes revealing her barely-hidden amusement. “Excitement for tonight should be second to your chores.”
Quinn frowned. That was just low.
“Quinn!” another voice shouted out, and he found himself staring at a flushed Melly Coleson, the mayor’s daughter, hurrying towards him and his mother. She was pretty, sure, and had lovely brown hair, but he’d grown up with her. The girl was practically a…a sister. “Quinn!”
He smiled and waved obligingly as she skirted the edges of the fire pit his father was still digging up. She grinned back, a hand cutting through the now-purple sky in a huge arc. “What are you doing here, Melly?” Quinn asked, honestly perplexed at the turn of events. She’d started avoiding him since her twentieth birthday almost seven months ago.
Melly pulled up in front of him, breathless and smiling. She had a lot of teeth. “Are you really going through the Eve of Bacchus?”
“Well, I said I was going to…” Quinn frowned at her. She really must have been running hard, because she was practically panting. “Do you need some water?”
His mother cleared her throat, and Melly’s eyes snapped straight to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Good evening, Melly,” she replied, that same amusement in her voice. “Are you all ready for tonight?”
“Ah, no, actually,” Melly said, barely holding back a blush. “That’s actually why I came.” Brown eyes snapped to Quinn. “I was wondering, do you have any ribbon?”
Quinn frowned at her. Why would he have a ribbon, anyway? The closest thing he had was a leather belt, or maybe rope.
“For my hair,” she hastily amended.
He didn’t even have to turn around to see his mother’s glare. “I think you should find your own, Miss Coleson,” she said coolly, which to Quinn meant there was something else about the situation he didn’t know and most likely never would, since girls had all kinds of secret codes he didn’t even WANT to break. “Good evening, Melly.”
Melly looked rightly admonished, even though Quinn frankly had little to no clue what had just happened. “Yes, Mrs. Johnson,” she said almost meekly. All meekness, however, vanished in a poof of expensive perfume and mascara when she looked up (thank the gods) at Quinn. “I…I’ll see you tonight?”
Quinn, again, blinked. “Uh, sure…?”
She just beamed and practically frolicked back towards the main drag.
Quinn’s mother snorted behind him, so of course he turned around, eyes asking for an explanation. Well used to his non-vocal communication, Ezra smiled.
“Girls with ribbons in their hair are…how to put this? Girls with hair ribbons are reserved on the Eve of Bacchus,” she said, and Quinn watched her bask in his growing dread. “It’s customary for the couple…or more…to have matching colored ribbons.”
“Why doesn’t anyone mention these things before tonight?” Quinn sighed, and his mother laughed, the sound punctuated by a firm SMACK of a rod against Quinn’s surprisingly pristine sheets.
“Go get dressed,” she smiled at him. “You’ve got about an hour.”
Quinn frowned. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
Ezra gave his dusty work shirt, dirty jeans, and muddy boots a single glance. Honestly, the only clean things on him were probably his suspenders.
“Alright, alright,” he grumbled, and made his way back into the house, as ever ignoring the closed door next to his room as he entered his own section of the dwelling. It looked starkly empty with just a mattress on the bed. But at least his clothes were still here, since his mother didn’t see the need to beat them to death in the dwindling, dusty sunshine outside too.
Out came his Worship Day best- a crisp, collared button-down white shirt, the black pants faded to a dark gray, his black dress boots, and the dark red vest that had cost over a month’s worth of wages. Then came the matching thigh-length jacket, which was just as faded of a black. He paused at the necktie. His parents would want him to wear it, but he’d always hated the things. It was like tying a noose around your own neck. Deciding against it, he set the strip of black cloth back into the trunk.
His mother was shuffling around in his parents’ room, either putting the sheets back on or getting dressed. Maybe even both, since his mother was resourceful like that. So, Quinn shuffled on outside, anxiety clawing at him.
Joshamee Johnson was already fully dressed and grinning, looking probably ten years younger with the addition of a hat and actual neatness to his clothing. “Looking good, kid,” he grinned at his son. Quinn smiled back. “Is your mom still in there?”
Quinn nodded in affirmation, and his dad grinned.
“Well then! Get a move on to the festivities, eh? We’ll probably see each other later,” his father said.
Again, Quinn nodded, and barely suppressed the urge to run inside and strap on his gun. He’d always hated these whole-city gatherings, from the Artemis and Apollo Solstices to the Week of Zeus.
The Johnson house lay on the very outskirts of Spring City, almost the precise northeast corner. The walk only took a minute or two to reach the fire pit he and his father had been digging since yesterday, but Quinn still had no clue where the townsfolk got so much extra wood, since he hadn’t seen any of the nearby trees chopped down recently. It filled in the epicenter of the great divot, and even as Quinn approached he could see friends and neighbors grinning at each other, chatting as they threw yet another piece of wood onto the pile as tribute.
But, it wasn’t time for the bonfire yet. From what Quinn Johnson had been led to begin, the point where all the townsfolk got rip-roaring drunk came before the sloshed idiots tried to catch a pile of wood on fire without killing someone in the process.
As the youngest, Quinn was stationed at the very end of the makeshift table of buckets and wooden planks, his seat an old barrel. To his displeasure, Melly was to his right, giving him what his father had called “cow eyes”, and John Mercer, who everyone knew was madly in love with Melly, sat in front of him, glaring death his way.
Well. This would be fun.
“Well, Johnson,” John Mercer snarled out. “I half expected you to chicken out and head for the Temple with the rest of the children.”
“Really?” Quinn asked, putting his little-known but expert acting skills to use. He hated John almost as much as John hated him. “I was sure you were literate enough to read a calendar’s date.” He frowned, as if his jibe was pure innocence. “Sorry about that.”
John sneered, but was too stupid to think of a comeback right off the bat. The crowd mulled about, seating themselves and generally being a nuisance as an enormous keg was wheeled in. The thing was probably as big as a carriage, if not more.
“At least my BROTHER’S not DEAD,” Mercer shouted out, an embarrassing gap of almost two minutes separating the insult and the rebuttal.
Hence, why Quinn hated him.
“And here I thought that was because he’s actually a she,” Quinn said coolly, trying to unclench both his fists and his heart. Why the hell did the idiot always bring it back to that? Probably his massively uncreative brain. “You have a sister, not a brother.”
“Ah! Quinn!” a smooth voice said cheerfully, and it seemed like the rest of the world melted away for a moment as two figures seemed to waft away from the shadows of the Spring City Hotel. The black-clad visitor turned towards the blatantly apathetic woman in purple. “I found him, Vigil.”
“How observant of you,” she stated, eyes tilted towards the stragglers heading for the table.
Damian, however, was still grinning at Quinn, striding forward and taking a seat on the bench at the very end of the makeshift table. The one to the left of Quinn. The one Quinn seemed absolutely fascinated with.
With a put-upon sigh, Miss Leroux glided over and sat elegantly down right next to the equally staring John Mercer, although he seemed more riveted to Miss Leroux’s low-cut dress than her face.
“Good Eve of Bacchus, madam…?” Mercer asked, Melly immediately ignored to the extreme.
With a microscopic eye roll, Vigil finally glanced at Mercer. “Leroux.” She looked away again, eyes twisting towards Damian and Quinn, utter boredom evident. “Charmed.” Her voice was so deadpan Quinn barely repressed a snicker. Damian was still smiling, but trying futilely to repress it with his hand.
“Miss Leroux,” Mercer cooed out. “I’m John Mercer, and I am utterly at your beck and call.” He leered at the utterly disinterested woman. “ANY call.”
And that was when both Quinn and Damian burst out laughing.
Luckily, before Mercer could try and insult either of them, the mayor, Mark Coleson, stood up at the very end of the table.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” he bellowed out (since it was, after all, a rather long table). “TONIGHT, WE GIVE THANKS TO THE GOD BACCHUS, AND THE BOUNTY HE BRINGS US!” (“Bounty of what?” Damian whispered, but was quickly cut off with someone’s elbow jabbing into his ribs. Quinn had more than a niggling suspicion it was Vigil.) “SO, TONIGHT, WE CELEBRATE OUR FREEDOM, OUR CHOICE, OUR LIFE, AND OUR LOVE! WE CELEBRATE OUR HUMANITY!” (“Whoops,” a woman’s voice muttered, and Quinn couldn’t decide if it was more confusing because of the statement or the fact he thought it was Vigil making a joke) “SO, FRIENDS, EAT! DRINK! LOVE! AND ABOVE ALL, CELEBRATE THE GOD BACCHUS, AND ALL THE JOY HE GIVES HIS CHILDREN!”
As was customary, Mayor Coleson turned into the west, arms outstretched. “HAIL, BACCHUS!”
“HAIL!” was the responding cry from all at the table, heads lifting up to the sky appropriately, and then immediately a cheer rose from the more experienced parties. A bit confused, Quinn looked around.
His eyes caught the final downswing of the axe into the cork of the enormous keg of purple-red wine. Another burst of gleeful roaring erupted as the liquid burst from the spigot, and the four attending men started filling up mugs as quickly as they could. Mayor Coleson and Priest Helos, as the official leaders of Spring City, picked them up and carried them to the oldest side of the table. Some of the citizens passed it down, others kept it for themselves, and still more took a sip and passed it down. It took almost twenty minutes for Quinn and company to get full mugs.
“Don’t go too fast now,” Damian said, voice still utterly amused at the world as Quinn sipped a bit of the liquid. Not bad, honestly.
Melly was already on her second, and Mercer was downing his third in record time. Vigil – Miss Leroux, he meant, to his utter amazement, already had nine mugs sitting in front of her, and was watching Quinn sip his mug down with an amused curiosity and an almost imperceptible thin smile on her face.
“I do apologize for not trusting you implicitly concerning tonight,” the white-haired woman said calmly. It had to be the most emotionless apology Quinn had ever heard.
“Why Vigil, am I mad, or did I actually hear you admit I was right for once?” Damian asked, twirling another empty mug around his right index finger in a way that was strangely…hypnotizing. “I must say I approve wholeheartedly of this little bit of humility from you. I know it’s never been your strong point.” His other hand set another empty mug down bottom up- five, at Quinn’s count.
“Humility I have in spades, it’s reason to concede defeat that is sparse,” she said. Mercer handed her another mug, and without even looking at it she downed it in one swig. A small, pleased sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned back from the makeshift table. “And I think I’ve found something more to my…tastes for the night, as well.” Her eyes flickered to Mercer, and the boy looked like he was about to have an aneurysm from sheer ecstasy.
“Caution, Vigil,” Damian chuckled, even though his eyes had latched onto Quinn again.
Vigil Leroux rose from her seat with a small smirk on her lips. “Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
The words sounded like an old tradition between the two, and neither so much as glanced at each other as the white-haired woman sent one final glance at Mercer before heading straight for the Spring City Hotel.
Like an obedient puppy, John Mercer leapt from his seat and followed, drool practically slobbering down his neck as he disappeared through the doorway.
“Now, Quinn, would you care to introduce me to your charmingly possessive lady friend?” Damian asked, his grin turning onto Melly. It evolved into something dangerous in the transition, and Quinn decided it’d be a good time to finish off his first drink and move on to the next.
“Melly Coleson,” she cooed out, a bite to the words. “You know, like the mayor. See, I’m his daughter.” She smiled at him. “His favorite daughter.”
“His only daughter,” Quinn amended, and ignored the thwack that…never came…
Damian’s face was, for once, eerily still, Melly’s wrist in a death grip. “I’d suggest you not hit him, Miss Coleson.” His face darkened. “Otherwise I might do something regretful.”
Melly was frozen, brown eyes wide in…fear? Quinn was rather surprised at that, since Damian was about as far from scary as he himself was in one of his fouler moods…or when Mercer was around. But, random bursts of stupidity aside, Melly was still like a sister to him, so with nary a second thought, Quinn grabbed Damian’s hand and easily pulled it off the brunette’s wrist.
Damian was doing that pleased, heated smile-stare thing at him again. Quinn didn’t mind it one bit. “Melly’s like a sister to me,” he explained, ignoring the drunken squabble of idiots trying to light the bonfire in the background. “Apparently sisters get to thwack younger brothers.”
Damian sighed dramatically as Melly squirreled away towards the bonfire’s growing hubbub. “Well, if that’s what you prefer, who am I to argue?” He paused. “Aside from a should-be-drunken stranger who isn’t letting go of your hand any time soon, that is.”
Quinn was blushing again, but didn’t mind it that much this time. “It’s not just your hand doing the holding,” Quinn stated. After a moment of staring into his half-full mug of wine, he managed to meet Damian’s eyes.
It was the sweetest smile he’d ever seen, on a man so beautiful he couldn’t be real. And the scariest part was that Quinn knew it was for him. Scary, and strangely thrilling. It was like right before he pulled the trigger of a gun with lethal intent, a strange, gut twisting sense of future and choice and other big, oppressively serious words that he didn’t want but had happened anyway.
But when Damian leaned over, when Damian’s other hand reached out to glide up along the sloping line of his jaw, when Damian’s breath tingled across his lips in a hot, soft fuzz of intoxicating feeling, it really didn’t seem all that bad.
A single moment. Quinn shivered, Damian let out a small, painfully delicious noise that rolled from the back of his throat, and the crowd of fools around them swarmed towards the literal bonfire, ignoring the blaze between the two at the end of their world. The space between them was infinity in a breath.
And when their mouths finally met, it was a warm, gentle softness that sent his eyes fluttering shut, a careful dance of lips against lips with an elegant, timeless beauty to it and a feeling of natural perfection. Delicately, Damian’s tongue slid against Quinn’s lips, his hand slipping into blonde hair to deepen the overpowering sensation. As if of one mind, one soul, Quinn’s lips parted, and the dark-haired man’s tongue explored his mouth, sending Quinn into a quiver that was entirely pleasant, jolts of pleasure ripping down his spine when Damian’s tongue caressed the roof of his mouth.
When Quinn’s own tongue ventured towards Damian’s, gently licking up, Damian moaned into his mouth, and Quinn could barely breathe because he wanted more of that sound, and the more Damian moaned the more Quinn whimpered and it was getting so much hotter, tongues more frantic, barely remembering to come up for air, hands gripped together almost hard enough to crush bone and certainly tight enough to leave white marks on flushed skin. And still, the bliss continued, harder, faster, fiercer as they grew frantic.
A cheer erupted from the bonfire as they threw the Bacchus Grass onto the great pyre, and Damian’s other hand slid across Quinn’s back to his shoulder, urging him upwards. Quinn complied, eyes still shut, and whimpered again when Damian’s mouth crawled its way down to his throat.
“Your house or my hotel?” Damian murmured huskily against the pale skin of Quinn’s throat.
Full thought had left him long ago, but somehow the question managed to soak through, and Quinn managed to pant out “h-house,” before one of Damian’s hands managed to slip underneath his jacket and shirt, an intoxicating cool against the heated skin.
Never had the two-minute walk from the main drag of Spring City to his bedroom in the Johnson household seemed so long. Of course, the fact they usually ended up pressed against the nearest wall panting and kissing and getting as close to each other as they could without undressing (yet please let it just be yet dear gods) made the trip stretch on, but the moment Quinn managed to get the front door open, frantic hands were tossing his jacket into the open air while Quinn shucked Damian’s long black coat off and let it fall onto the floor and oh, those arms felt lovely.
Thanking whatever gods really listened for big buttons on Damian’s vest that was thrown off as well. Damian, however, ended up growling and just ripping Quinn’s red vest off, the buttons flinging about the kitchen like some demented pewter rainstorm. With them both divested, Quinn found himself being kissed mercilessly and forced up against the counter. Not that he minded, but there were more comfortable places in the house. Like his bed, for example.
All complaining stopped when Damian’s hands (including the one still clutched in Quinn’s) touched down on his knees, slowly sliding up his thighs as Damian leaned in closer and closer and closer, and all Quinn could do was moan when they went from his hips to right below his ass, lifting him off the counter. Suddenly he was lifted up against Damian (who was freakishly strong, apparently, even though Quinn was pretty skinny), but suddenly sliding down and dear gods that was pleasant. Quinn gasped, and Damian was positively purring into his mouth, a deep humming sound that was so hot it had to burn.
“Which door,” Damian whispered, and it took a minute for him to be coherent enough to point out the middle one.
Of course, on the way Quinn made the mistake of wrapping his legs around Damian, which elicited a double-voiced moan that sent Quinn straight into a wall again, Damian devouring his mouth with a fervor Quinn reciprocated. Quinn’s suspenders and boots were flung off, his already open shirt almost had its sleeves ripped off, and Damian’s shirt fell down onto the floor, now devoid of most of its buttons and certainly almost all of its virtue.
Like usual, it just took a little bit for Damian to remember walls were not good friends with Quinn’s back (especially wooden ones), so with a groan and a mutter that the blond didn’t entirely understand (“-so worth the wait dear lord Quinn-” this time), but that didn’t make it any less enthralling or Quinn not want to kiss Damian until neither of them could breathe anymore. So he did just that, attacking and trying to wrest that sinfully perfect little humm-growl of Damian’s.
Somehow they managed to make it into Quinn’s bedroom, but sadly not straight to the bed. As soon as the door closed Damian had him up against the door, harder than a rock and absolutely as stubborn to make it to the bed. But, Damian managed to get them both out of their pants, which was no mean feat when it came to the deliciously tight black pants Damian had been wearing.
Groping over to the bed their hands clasped again, the familiarity bringing back that same something even though all the heat and urgency. For a second, he just looked at Damian and how his flawless pale-but-tan skin contrasted with his own cream-colored complexion, both bodies with a sheen of sweat that glinted like tiny diamonds in the flickering light and shadows of the bonfire that peeked through the seams of his thin curtains.
And soon enough, the world was lost in a sweet, burning passion that consumed his senses, acute awareness clinging to the feverish exchange of touch and taste and smell, all of it utterly Damian, absolutely beautifully breathtaking, and so perfect he knew nothing could ever, ever rival this.
---
Quinn was not particularly happy when he woke up. His head felt like a tree had fallen on it, and then a horse had decided to dance on his skull for good measure. He was sore in places he hadn’t even really noticed before. And he was so exhausted he was tempted to try and shoot the sun down just so it would leave them alone.
…and that was about the moment when he realized he was snuggled up against Damian Helldirge’s bare chest, and said Damian Helldirge looked absolutely breathtaking with his hair down and chocolate eyes smiling just for him in an absolutely adoring way. “Good morning, Quinn,” he sighed out happily, nuzzling the top of Quinn’s head.
“Uh…good morning, I guess,” Quinn got out, and as he shifted, Damian’s arms curled around him tighter.
“So, how much do you remember?” he asked, completely nonchalant, as if his fingers weren’t tracing little patterns against Quinn’s equally bare skin and his breath wasn’t sending Quinn into a shudder.
Since apparently Quinn’s full-body blush didn’t answer, Quinn cleared his throat. “Most everything, I think…just about up to, uh, the…uh, the second time,” he said, and prayed his voice wasn’t too squeaky.
“Hmmm,” Damian hummed against his scalp. Quinn was struck with the image of a big panther cuddling with its favorite chew toy. Dear Zeus, Quinn probably had bite marks all over his body, too…but he wasn’t too inclined to check. “Do you remember when I told you you’re amazing and I want to spend the rest of my life with you?”
Quinn choked. “Uh, no?”
Damian paused. “Would you object?”
Now, Quinn Johnson had never been what one could call impulsive. He tended to follow his own experiences and judgment, to learn as he went and immediately use whatever evidence he received to his decisions. Quinn didn’t tend to say things without thinking them through first, didn’t commit to anything without contemplating possible problems with the situation, and most certainly didn’t react in a spur-of-the-moment sort of way.
It surprised him, though, that he didn’t even really have to think about the answer.
Quinn smiled up at Damian. “Not really, unless you’re going to die tomorrow. That I might object to.”
And Damian’s smile made Quinn fall for him all over again. “You really are incredible, Quinn.” With a happy sigh, Damian buried his face in Quinn’s neck. On impulse, Quinn threaded his fingers through that long dark hair, a blissful smile on his face. “My Quinn,” Damian purred. “Always my Quinn.”
“Your Quinn,” he sighed happily. “Forever and ever.” It was like fingering pure silk, or maybe a spider’s thread, so delicate and smooth and beautiful ---
Damian bit down.
Hard.
This wasn’t like the other bites last night, little nips and bites that just sent another jolt of pain into his system. No, this bite was a BITE, the skin breaking at strangely longer and pointier teeth than Quinn could remember, and all he could get out was a pained whimper as Damian took in a mouthful of the red liquid, a deep moan coming from the dark-haired man’s throat.
Quinn’s eyes were fluttering shut again, but not from the pleasure, because it was like every vein in his body was screaming, aching, every muscle crying out and slowly dying on him.
“Damian?” Quinn got out, a tiny, betrayed whisper, unshed tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“It’ll be okay, Quinn,” Damian said, but his voice was hazy and Quinn couldn’t bring himself to hope that his blind trust in the man really hadn’t been all that bad and that he wasn’t lying when he said “I promise, Quinn, it’ll be alright” and that really he wasn’t about to bleed to death, and that please gods don’t let Damian try to kiss him with blood in his mouth because really, regardless of loving the man, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from screaming…
…and then his eyes opened again.
He was dressed in better clothes than he’d ever imagined- his black dress boots, black pants, a new, crisp white shirt, a shiny maroon vest, and a matching knee-length black jacket. His guns sat on the ornate end table, mother-of-pearl hilts glinting in the lamplight, and for some reason he was eerily comforted by the fact he was wearing suspenders still.
“Good evening, Quinn,” that familiar smooth voice cooed, and Quinn’s sore neck turned so he could see Damian, dressed all in black again and beaming down at him. “How are you feeling?”
He didn’t try to stop his fist from smashing into the dark-haired man’s face. In fact, he was quite pleased with his body’s reaction. Served the man right for almost killing him.
“You almost killed me!” Quinn shouted out, glaring daggers. “You almost BIT me to death!”
“Actually, he did,” a cool, refined voice called out, and Quinn simply KNEW it was Miss Vigil Leroux, seated by the door and reading a bit of Aristotle. All of that, and he didn’t even have to look.
“What the hell did you do to me?” Quinn choked out, the feeling of his body tighter somehow, as if he had a super sense of control over his muscles. And even though he was no wimp, he KNEW he couldn’t usually break someone’s nose with just one punch, vicious intent or no.
…and he also knew that most broken noses didn’t mend themselves like Damian’s.
Quinn stared.
“What the hell did you do to me?” he repeated, quiet and hoping it didn’t sound as terrified as he felt.
Damian just looked at him with guilty puppy eyes. Quinn was torn between punching him again and sobbing, because that look was usually the ‘sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin your life’ look people got when they knew Quinn was mad.
Quinn was SCARY when he was mad.
“You’re a vampire,” Miss Leroux stated, turning the page of her book. The sound of paper flipping though the air seemed to crash around him. “Damian’s a vampire, I’m a vampire, and you happen to be one too.” She looked up at him. “Congratulations. And call me Vigil, please.”
“Congratulations?” Quinn hissed. “What’s there to congratulate?”
Vigil sighed, her book snapping shut as piercing green eyes latched on to his. “Damian and I happen to be of a vampire line called Jiardo. That means nothing to you right now, but, to put it plainly, it means Damian here is madly in love with you and wants to share eternity with you.” A dim smile curved her lips. “Although other vampire lines see it differently, the Jiardo line sees turning humans almost like a…wedding, of sorts.” She paused, her head tilting to the side. “Or maybe more of an expression of undying love.”
“Cute,” Damian smirked at her.
She smiled thinly back. “I try.”
“But…my family,” Quinn interjected, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Everyone I know. What happens to them?”
“They think you’re dead,” Damian said softly, shifting uncomfortably. “They think I…I murdered you.”
“You DID murder him,” Vigil stated, returning to her book.
“Yes, and thank you for reminding him of that fact repeatedly,” Damian snapped back. “Your help is incalculable.”
“Ah, Damian, don’t worry. You’ll learn to count some day.”
“Hold it!” Quinn yelled again, and both vampires’ (VAMPIRES) eyes snapped over to him. “I’m a VAMPIRE?”
Damian beamed at him. “Yes, Quinn, you’re a vampire.”
Quinn frowned. “And you two are vampires?”
“Yes,” Vigil stated, eyes not leaving the page.
“And…and I married you?” Quinn whispered to Damian.
Damian smiled softly, and leaned forward, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss on Quinn’s lips.
“Well, I’d certainly prefer to think so,” Damian said softly. “But you don’t have to reciprocate.” He paused, an uncomfortably sullen crease coming onto his face. “I know I’m very selfish, Quinn, but I couldn’t bare the thought of an eternity without you.”
Even though Quinn didn’t want to forgive Damian, he ended up doing it right then and there, because regardless of how little he wanted to love him he did, and Damian was too sincere for his own good.
Smiling softly, Quinn laced their hands together once again, and squeezed.
With that dazzling smile on his lips, Damian squeezed back.
Quinn Johnson smiled, and turned to include Vigil in his new gaze.
“So, what happens now?”
---
...Ari, you know what to do now: SHOUT OUT THE TITLE, REVIEW, AND WRITE ME SAGE. (and call me 'cuz you're awesome)
(And enjoy the Hemophilia Icon! YAY for Amusing And True Text!!)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-02 05:06 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-03 04:15 am (UTC)(Now, a question- do you think I should just do them ALL from Quinn's POV? Because I'm working on Hybristophilia and it'd be SO much easier through Quinn instead of Vigil, as you can probably see in the little snippet.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-02-02 05:06 am (UTC)