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When Simon bites down, Raphael feels his own teeth sink down onto his lip (ignores the fangs; monster). He imagines what it’d feel like if he were human: heart flustered, face filled with heat, less of a sensation where Simon’s teeth dig into him.
He feels his eyes start to falter, vision of Simon going blurry as his eyelids try to close. He snaps them open, ignores the too-human action. The first time he fed Simon—through a cup, through bar cells, the Fairchild watching—he could not take his eyes off the man. Watches as he swallowed, licked his lips, eyes pleading for me. Surprising the new vampire didn’t get on his knees and beg. Raphael, a good leader, obliged with another cup filled. Vampires take care of our family.
Raphael can feel how Simon feels—it’s an overwhelming sensation. It’s—It’s heat. Hunger, craving more. Starvation, desperate. Desire. The feeling of his stomach going raw with the passion. Raphael wants to drown in this feeling, wants Simon to go down with him too. It’s almost too much.
He knows Simon feels it too, of course, they’re connected. Blood of Raphael swirls in Simon’s mouth. It is a connection no mundane could ever hope to understand. And Simon, he knows, Simon wants this to never end. Fledglings can barely control their hunger; the need to feed; the desire that comes along with such a personal meal only adds to the youthful frenzy.
Simon, as if he could hear Raphael’s thoughts, takes his mouth away, loss of a fire, Raphael feels cold immediately. His thoughts stumble at recognizing it. Pushes the thought away. The fledgling, he is saying, “Please, Raphael, I,” A pause. Spare drops of blood fall free from his lips and drip back down to Raphael’s wrist. And Raphael cannot take his eyes away. Simon’s breathes are weighty and hearty. “I can’t do this. It’s too much.” He sounds like he did when he was starving before. Broken. Pleading.
Raphael wants to feel the curl of distaste inside of him. He remembers meeting the man, how he would not stop talking, just another nuisance of Camille. He was pathetic and annoying. Now, all Raphael feels is wanting to protect him. He is a leader. He wants Simon to be just as safe as the other vampires that follow. He convinces himself it’s not special. It’s his duty. Simon isn’t—special.
Raphael has not let another fledgling do this to him in years. Tear at his flesh, reach in and eat at him. Intimacy.
(Camille would do it sometimes. Open Raphael’s veins like a prize, a trophy. Lick and bruise, her eyes never leaving his. It was not something he agreed to. He was weak to say no to her. It is not the same as it is now.)
Other fledglings Raphael has known were more controlled than Simon is. More obedient, willing to train, willing to follow, willing to listen. Simon is a curse, and rebels, and becomes hungry faster than Raphael has seen before. Raphael could appease the other vampires with the hotel’s supply of blood bags, but Simon craves for even more. As if he is empty, and he needs it filled. Empty. Raphael understands the feeling. The more he gets to know the boy, the more he reminds him of himself when he first was turned—needy, thirsty, loss of control, scared, self-hating (though he tries to forget it. Simon is the curse of unwanted thoughts and emotions. And the self-hatred never quite disappears.)
Raphael is nothing short of a good leader. He all but offers himself up to Simon—a genuflection at the altar for him. Hadn’t even explained to Simon how it felt, when a vampire is being fed on, just showed him his wrist, his palm (the gospel tale of Jesus showing Thomas his bloody wounds from the crucifixion ring in his mind low.) Just knew it was what Simon needed, gulping down a blood bag, and yet the hunger still vivid in his eyes. Raphael knew, seen the look in other’s eyes, in Camille’s, in his own monstrous reflection.
Simon is still panting when Raphael feels more focused on what is happening. Simon’s eyes trail upwards, settle on Raphael’s. He’s pathetic again, desperation shrouding him. He shakes, minutely, and Raphael wants to save him. It’s what a leader does.
Instead, he says, “Keep going. You’re still hungry. Control your senses and continue.” His voice does not waver though he worries it may. Raphael is invulnerable. He may be offering his flesh and blood for communion, on his knees for Simon all to take, but he is a serene painting of confidence. Walls surround him, and Simon may be a hammer chipping away, but he will never break them down all the way.
On the inside, he feels like a storm. He keeps feeling. He can feel the fire between the two, feel it rush through him. Wants nothing more than Simon to lower his head, just bite down more. Almost wants to beg for it, dios. But he cannot. Represses the feelings, repress, repress, if he does not linger on the thoughts, they must not exist. There is no need to feel. Simon is just a fledgling. He just wants to eat. Raphael is just the one available and the one who offered.
(And oh, how Raphael is used to being used.)
He wants to do the sign of the cross. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Hail Mary, please stop these thoughts. He is undead, and God is dead. Heaven must be burning, and Raphael feels heat low in his stomach. He is burning too.
Simon has yet to continue feeding. He keeps his eyes locked on Raphael, as if Raphael is supposed to read his mind. He’s licking his bloody lips. “I want to...” And he stills again. His hands fall from Raphael’s wrist. He’s moving, unsteady, unsure, and Raphael feels the same he looks. Yet, he’s coming closer, lays a hand against Raphael’s shoulder, shaky.
The fledgling—he’s just hungry—bends his head, close to his neck. Raphael wants him to say something, maybe mutter his own prayer. Wants anything. And it happens, Simon saying, “I want to do it here,” and his other hand ghosts against Raphael’s neck.
Raphael considers what he may do. He could push him away, say, That’s enough. You need more control. More training. That’s enough. Knows that is the responsible answer. What a true leader would do. He swallows his guilt, feels his tongue brush against his fangs. He could let Simon do whatever, let him take everything from Raphael. Drain him of blood, if that’s what it would take, so he could feel this way forever. Leaders do that, too. Anything for those you’re meant to protect.
Hail Mary, forgive me. Blessed art thou amongst sinners.
Raphael silences his own prayers. Nods his head. He’s whispering, lowly, “You can do it.” It’s just what leaders do. Simon is just hungry. There’s nothing more to it. Raphael feels the walls surrounding him shake.
Simon bites down. It feels good. And it shouldn’t. Simon’s own words echoing to him, a monster. That’s what they are. Repulsive. Beings cursed in the eyes of any God. Raphael does not want it to end.
It gets out of hand quickly. Raphael is a good leader, but too much, and it will topple quickly. Simon is just tasting, but then he is making a noise. And God, Raphael wants to pray. Hail Mary. Hail Mary. Hai—and Simon does it again. It’s low, vulgar, a type of noise Raphael has not heard in awhile.
(When Camille had men over, through the walls, he could hear. He tried not to. She would wink at him the next morning. He tries not to listen.)
But when Simon does it, it sounds natural. Human. Again, something curls deep in Raphael. It’s becoming too much; he knows he shouldn’t have indulged either of them like this. He feels too much; overwhelming; if he needed to breathe, he knows it’d be caught in his lungs. He inhales anyways, stops, counts: Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro… It’s interrupted, Simon’s lips moving away, oversensitive ears hearing how much the younger vampire is breathing. It feels warm against Raphael's’ neck; he feels warm everywhere.
All too suddenly, Simon’s tongue is pressed against his skin, licking at the leftover blood. And it is the edge of the cliff they fall off together.
Simon is as loud as he ever is. He just will not stop: moans, and heavy breathing, and pleads to Raphael. Whispering, “Please, please, I need this, I need more,” and Raphael knows no other way to keep him quiet then to press his lips against his.
Heat swallows Raphael whole as soon as their lips touch. It’s not romantic, it’s not love, it—it’s not what leaders do to their followers either. It’s desire. Repulsive, monstrous desire. Vampiric in flavour, human in practice. Bodies needing stimulation is the humanity. The taste of bloody metal that engulfs Simon’s mouth is the twist of vampirism.
The feeling of Simon’s fangs dragging on Raphael’s lips is truly the cracking in Raphael’s foundation. He knows he wants to protect him, wants to lead him, teach him, but now he wants to feel him. Feel with him. Perhaps at any other time, he’d sink down to his knees in repression, in absolution. tell God that he’s sorry, take the thoughts away. But Simon’s hands are on him, feeling, moving, and it is human in a way he has not felt in years.
The kiss is interrupted by Simon trailing spit-slicked kisses down across his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, fangs perched back in the same spot, pulling out more blood. It is Raphael’s turn to make a sound, and it sounds more devilish coming from him. Fitting. Raphael still being the repulsive demon, and Simon being the angel. Raphael makes a louder sound, deep in the back of his throat, and it is the sound of a vampire, he knows it.
But Simon is pulling away, again, and his eyes are dark, but a smile (bloodied) agraces his lips.
“Dude, that was—”
“Don’t say ‘dude’ while we are doing this.”
“—really hot.”
Dios.
Raphael rolls his eyes because that is who they are. Whether or not Simon has just affected him in ways he has not felt in years, there is no denying the boy can be annoying, too.
But Simon is back on his lips, and Raphael forgives him. He feels a sinking anchor in his chest.
It is frenzied, Raphael knows, the way Simon is kissing into him (and moving underneath him, Simon laid underneath the couch for him. He keeps rocking upwards, keep pressing, and Raphael knows, he knows what that means.) and he knows the way the urges clench at his heart that there is no hope for either of them. If there ever was any to begin with.
He pulls back because he has to. He has to. His throat feels clogged, if he talks, just smoke may come up. Simon is just a fledgling. Raphael should be teaching him to control his senses, mute the sensations, be blind to the desires. But he cannot. He cannot stop this himself. Everything feels like he’s on fire, like he delved into the sun, and he’s melting into ashes. He needs this, and he feels vulnerable.
Raphael asks, “Is this all okay with you? This is your first feeding, I know this is a lot at once.”
Simon is quick in his answer, propping himself up on his elbows, nodding dumbly. “Y-yeah, I mean, like, this is… awesome.” And his dumb smile is back, fangs protruding. “And, um, are you okay with this?”
Raphael considers saying no. Again, being a good leader, that’s who he is, he does not fall to the temptation of human sins. But Simon, underneath him, traces of Raphael’s own blood littering his lips, neck, shirt. Raphael knows he has a facade to uphold and that Simon seeing him this vulnerable is messy for Raphael’s own identity. But Simon is—
Special.
“Yes,” is all he can say. He wants to say more, something that would make the younger’s heart flutter (if it worked), Raphael knows how romance is supposed to go, but he stays quiet. Raphael knows himself, and knows he has ways of ruining everything he says either way.
(If Camille were here, he imagines she’d call this scene pathetic. Raphael would have to agree.)
His thoughts are interrupted when Simon, gently this time around, less crazed off of feeding, trails his hands to Raphael’s hair and pulls his head down. The kiss is softer, lips slow, winding down, but the fire does not die.
Simon is still needing up into him, the outline press of his hardness through his pants swells against Raphael’s thigh. Raphael does not want this to stop, the way Simon keeps pushing his body off the couch and into him, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, but set at looking into Raphael’s own.
And then Simon is moving, hands reaching out to unbuckle Raphael’s suitbottoms, but Raphael’s hands catch them quickly. “Don’t,” he hisses out, more bitter than he intended. He needs this; needs Simon, but his suits… They are his final layer of protection against anyone seeing who he is. It is a vulnerability he is not ready to expose to the man.
Simon looks taken aback, eyes wide, still as stone for a second, then relaxes again. “Oh, okay. What, is it like a kink you have? Grinding? You gonna make me like cum in my pants?” Another dumb smile.
And it shouldn’t be sexual to hear. Raphael should feel the distaste again, bubbling within him. It’s vulgar, not even sexy, yet it makes him feel something.
So Raphael just lets a bitter laugh sound out, and he tilts his head slightly, and says, “Well, if that’s what you want.”
Simon’s eyes go wide again, but quickly thereafter, Raphael’s lips are meeting his again, fierce. And this time, he aligns their bodies, feels Simon against him, and moves.
The feeling of their clothed cocks was—sinful. Imagines God, Mother Mary, Jesus drenched in blood watching from a faraway Heaven as two undead monsters give in to such a lowly filth of a instinct. And Raphael mourns for more. Jerks his hips against Simon’s smoothly, dipping his tongue into the way Simon seems to almost purr. He is a catholic, and good catholic boys listen to hymns. And Simon, hands grasping, firm, pulling at Raphael’s shoulder, begging, “Please, keep going, d-don’t stop, G—” his voice cracking, not able to form the swear, is the most beautiful hymnal Raphael has heard.
“Dios. You talk so much, how can not even this shut you up?” And Raphael slows down, hips a slowdance pace. Simon crunches his eyes closed.
“It feels good. It feels… like everything. It’s so much. I-I,” he seems to be faltering, perhaps it’s been a while, “I want you to bite me, too.”
Raphael feels an inner battle of choices start to boil inside, but he leaves them aside. Lust is instincts, and his instincts say—
He does not give a warning to the fledgling as he bites down at his neck. Simon tastes sweet, not like Camille who was salty, sour, and every tastebud of Raphael’s revolted against her. No, Simon tastes like untainted blood. Like redemption. Hope.
Simon shudders underneath him as Raphael sucks. Raphael knows he’s lost him then, the way he crazes against him, cock barely bumping against Raphael’s own. Being feeded on the first time is a feeling one can hardly surpass again, but the way Simon is saying his name, like a prayer, it almost feels the same.
Simon continues grinding against him, Raphael’s lips persistent, and he feels claws dig into his hands—hands against his back, hadn’t even noticed, too busy feeding. And Raphael pulls away, spit mixed red trailing behind his path. He looks at Simon, face flushed with pleasure, and Raphael hears himself whisper, pitifully mixed with want, “Simon.”
And Simon goes flush against him, shaking, and Raphael understands. The finish. Of course Simon finishes first, he is a fledgling. He has eaten his first meal and been drunk from in the span of an hour. It would be overwhelming to even an older vampire, let alone someone so newly turned. To feel the intimacy of mutual feeding—the sharing of every pleasure, desire, emotion. And that, alone, this trust they have shown in each other and the way Simon’s face pales with content, is what drives Raphael down to grind against Simon’s hips swiftly before he reaches his climax.
For a few minutes, there is just the sound of breathing. Sound of trust. Raphael feels—too much. Needs a break, his body wrought with emotions, walls crumbled all for Simon Lewis. He is not sure he can build them up so quickly either.
Of course, the fledgling has to ruin the moment. “Wow, that was crazy. Like, seriously. I thought all the movies and books were joking when they said vampires had wild sex, but I guess not.”
Annoyance edges at Raphael, but instead, a quirk of a smile grows upon his lips. Simon Lewis has changed him in more ways than one.