anticoagulant (2025)

Light Mode

A choked out gasp escapes Eilhart’s lips the moment he feels fangs sinking into his neck a second time in his life, body seizing up while an all-too familiar spark floods his long-dead nerves. Once clenched fists loosen their grip around the other kindred’s arms, his own legs struggling to keep their owner standing. He makes one last attempt to swing his fists at the kindred suckling on his neck, but he topples over almost immediately instead, wholly paralyzed by the kiss.

Lithe arms catch the priest’s weakening form, whose golden eyes flutter shut as his body limps into his aggressor’s hold. His groans weaken into a faint moan, breath growing ragged as his own vitae is siphoned right out of him, the mouth on his neck gingerly suckling on the wound as a hand gropes at his clothed torso, blood-crusted nails digging into the thin fabric of his shirt, feeling out the muscle and fat that hid behind it.

He barely registers the feeling of the cold tile pressing against his shoulderblades as the other kindred lay his body down onto the floor, cushioned only by the thick fabric of his jacket and the thin shirt that he wore underneath. The other kindred soon withdraws his fangs from his neck, languidly licking his own lips as he looks onto the priest underneath him, dazed and vulnerable. In his hazy state, the priest soon found himself manhandled into a particularly compromising position, left bare and exposed down below as the other kindred kneels between his legs, body too heavy to do anything but stare at the scene before him.

The other kindred smiles at him, cold hands coming up to rest at his sides, fingers toying at the exposed flesh of his midsection.

Parched lips open to mouth a “No,” but no sound comes out of Eilhart’s throat as his head lolls back on its own as the world spins around him. He had not felt this vulnerable in decades since he had been thrust into his hectic unlife, with the sensation of being left exposed wholly unfamiliar to him as he lay there motionless, predator turned prey.

The far-too loud sound of a zipper opening rings in his ears, prompting him to avert his clouded eyes as the other kindred exposes himself, resting his hardened length against the immobilized priest’s thigh.

As painless as the act would be, an animalistic urge at the back of his fuzzy head told — no, screamed at him to crawl away, still clinging onto whatever remains of dignity he thought he still had despite his own monstrous disposition, detached from the reality of his extremities’ semi-paralyzed state.

He strains to lift his still-heavy limbs when he feels the other kindred’s cockhead against his hole, shallowly pushing against the tight ring of muscle until it gives way with enough force. A grunt escapes from the priest’s mouth, forcefully spread open as the cock makes its way inch by inch into his long-dead insides, still pulsing with false life by the remaining vitae that he had left in his own system. 

The other Toreador laughs, fingers tracing the side of his face as dead eyes stare into his’, pupils blown out in lust as he fully claims the priest with one particularly hard thrust. It wasn’t painful by any means, but an intrusion is an intrusion nonetheless. He chokes back a groan, shaking his head as he tries to squirm out of the other kindred’s grasp, but to no avail.

“Still warm,” the other kindred muses, dipping his head down to rest his forehead against the priest’s bare neck, fangs nibbling at the sickly skin underneath. His hair, soaked with blood, leaves a sticky residue on his cheek. “You taste good on the inside, too.”

“S-stop —” is all Eilhart could get out before his neck is pierced in a kiss once more, whatever thought he had in his mind dying out as haze filled every crevice of his mind. 

It felt good, too good, almost as good as sucking an artery dry until nothing was left but not quite — but just enough to drive him mad nonetheless. A particularly loud moan escapes his lips as the other Toreador continues thrusting into him, undead muscles left pliant as the rest of his body succumbs into the pleasure of the kiss.

His mind goes dark, overpowered both by lust and something else entirely — he isn’t sure how long he’d been on the floor at this point, but he was sure that the other Toreador had almost drained him, leaving him with a far-too-familiar hunger as his primal instincts threaten to take over with each passing second.

Moans turn into snarls as his throat runs dry, hips fighting the kiss-induced heaviness to buck alongside the other kindred’s own thrusts as he ruts into his flesh relentlessly, his own body unsure if it wants to fuck itself to completion or to pry the other kindred off him and to suck back every drop of his stolen vitae, or, perhaps, both. Either way, the kiss still left him partially immobile — his own cock still frustratingly soft yet aching while his limbs had yet to shed the lingering heaviness in them to push the man off him before he had finished drinking his own fill.

A single hand grinding him into the tile is the only notice he gets when the other Toreador finishes with a particularly loud grunt, his undead length twitching in orgasm as he buries himself deep in the priest’s hole, coating his twitching muscles with an unnatural warmth.

The hand stays still on his face, still pinning him to the ground as its owner becomes more aware of the building frenzy that had been courting the priest’s senses the more vitae that had been sapped from him. Fangs detach from his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses alongside his neck in a mockery of affection, all while grinding the back of his head into the tile, cock pulled out of his abused hole a lewd pop, followed by the unmistakable yet wholly foreign sensation of liquid trickling out of him. A strangled whine escapes the priest’s lips, still trapped between the other kindred’s blood-soaked hand, while his hips still seek the barest hint of friction, having been left somewhat unsatisfied with their little tryst.

Wet lips eventually find the shell of his ear, mumbling something that Eilhart could barely make out — the  nonexistent blood that was rushing through his ears was all he could focus on until the pressure on his face was lifted, with the other Toreador standing up to face something — or someone. He’s sure he heard another voice, but instead he lets his head fall back down onto the floor, grey hair caked with drying blood sprawled across the tile as static overwhelms his senses, his mind struggling to use whatever remaining willpower he had left in him to avoid indulging his ungodly instincts.

The following moments end up becoming a blur to the almost-frenzied priest, with a mop of brown hair and the sound of a dull hacking filling his senses as he drifts off into a few seconds of unconsciousness, only to be followed up by the distinct taste of vitae fresh on his lips. He’s not too sure where it’s from, but his senses slowly clear up with each passing second, allowing him to realize after a few minutes that he’d been moved and was slumped over a familiar scrawny frame, free from the leech’s grasp.

He blinks in apparent confusion as his eyes clear up, finally recognizing the familiar figure holding him upright.

“...Eil?” Theo asks, his smaller hand pushing at his chest as if to pry him off. “You’re, uh, really heavy.” 

He feels the familiar pang of hunger as he lifts himself off the boy, mumbling a dazed “S'rry,” before processing the scene before him. The vitae on his lips, the bloodied blade on the ground and the rapidly decaying corpse right next to it, its head messily separated from its body. Not to mention, the all-too familiar feeling of cold tile right on his bare behind, prompting the priest to scramble for the nearest covering that he could use to hide whatever shred of dignity he had left.

“What – what happened?” His head hurts, still too foggy to recall anything before being woken up by the boy.

“The leech got you,” Theo says, looking at the now-bloodied skeleton laying on the ground. “We got separated while trying to track him down. Good thing I found you before anything…worse happened.” The Tremere idly tugs the sleeve of his sweater, pale fingers fiddling with a loose thread. “Didn’t think he’d end up feeding on you, though.”

“Wuh —” the priest slurs out, one hand moving to grasp his aching temple as a surge of dizziness hits him. He can’t muster the energy to ask what the boy had in mind when he said worse nor could he even wonder why it was bothering him exactly. 

“...N-nevermind. Thank you.” He stutters, unsteady golden eyes scanning the room. “I - I’m sorry you had to see me like this.” He swallows, throat aching. The boy shakes his head, but offers no comforting words either. 

An awkward silence fills the room for a few seconds before the boy pipes up, his own silver eyes averted. “You should, uh, feed. I think you lost a lot of blood.”

“In a m-minute,” He manages to spot his pants on the other side of the room, but a barely audible squelch causes him to go rigid, hesitation hitting him like a brick. An uncomfortably wet feeling coats the floor right underneath him, and he’s not sure if the boy has noticed it. “Could you, er…” He trails off, words dying in his mouth as a particularly fat glob of liquid seeps out of him as he turns around to look at the fledgling.

The boy looks away, a mixture of worry and the faintest hint of disgust building on his face. Eilhart tries really hard to ignore it, fighting the urge to claw and crawl his way into a ditch until the next sunrise. “...Sure.”

It doesn’t take too long for the Tremere to locate and grab his pants, settling it down unceremoniously on the dazed Toreador’s lap. Dark hands rest on the fabric, clutching at it as he tries to fight off the ache in his head and in his throat.

The boy hands him a beaten-up flask, its surface dulled from countless scratches and sticker residue, procured by the Tremere from god-knows-where. “Here,” Theo nudges it towards his calloused hands, before popping open the lid. “Drink up. I can’t hold the frenzy off for too long.” 

The scent of vitae floods his senses, unsteady hands grasping at the flask, bringing it up to his lips. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks, emptying the flask’s contents before he could even ask the fledgling how much he could actually drink from the offered vessel. Either way, the damage is done, and he pulls his lips away from the spigot once he had drained the flask fully, taking a heavy breath as the world stabilizes around him.

“Jeez…” The boy mumbles, plucking the stainless steel off the older kindred’s hands without much resistance. He makes a show of tipping the flask over, shaking it upside-down to check if even a single drop of vitae was left in it. “Dude really drained you, huh?”

Eilhart grunts in response, head hanging low as he takes a moment to collect himself. “... I – I should have been more careful,” he mutters to himself, voice low as he processes the last few minutes or so, avoiding all eye contact with the younger kindred. “I could have dealt with him much, much earlier.”

“T-those types are dangerous,” Theo states, before packing his things into a satchel. “So I can’t blame you for getting caught off guard. They might not last for too long, but…” He trails off, scratching at a nonexistent itch on his face. “Well, uh, they tend to go nuts. Just like that dude, I guess.”

The older kindred turns his head to look at the fledgling quizzically, brows furrowed and mouth cracked open to ask a question before the Tremere immediately cuts him off before a single syllable could leave his throat.

“Some of my former pack mates were like that. They didn’t last as long as this one did, though...” The boy scowls, as if he were recalling a particularly distressing memory, and a pang of guilt hits the priest through his undead heart. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to ask.

“I…see.” He wonders if it’s why the fledgling left the cult in the first place. He coughs awkwardly, in a bad attempt to steer the conversation away from the boy’s history. “Do you mind if you, er, leave the room for a bit? I’d like to get dressed, if you don’t mind.”

The boy scrambles upright with an “Oh,” the discarded blade back in his hands. “Right. Sure.” He takes a glance at where the other kindred’s corpse was, now reduced to a pile of dust. 

“I guess we’ll just deal with the, uh, evidence later?”

The older kindred nods, once again shifting in place as he readies his once-paralyzed knees to stand up. The wet feeling on his behind is gone, having dissipated into nothingness much like its now-powdered owner.  He lets out a brief but much-needed sigh of relief.

“Yes. No need to worry about it.” 

He’s not looking forward to having one of the sherrif’s lackeys rummage through his memories just for some semblance of proof of their — or, rather, the boy’s — kill, but a job was a job. He suppresses a scowl until the boy exits the room, before standing up to fix himself into a decent state.

One last glance towards the pile of dust on the floor that was once their target reveal that any evidence of his struggle had already disintegrated, leaving nothing but a few imperceptible scuff marks on the dingy tile. After a quick scan of the room, he soon follows after the boy, all while burying his memory of earlier events as deep as he could, hoping that none of it would come to light later.