Post Disaster Dessert Order

Magic Hollow 
"So mean," she huffed.

His negation had both set her back some and also brought back a bit of her vision, but Rika was quick to try to increase it all again, knowing he was hungry by now. He had to be. How do you spend an hour around dinner and not be hungry.

In his lap, probably, she tilted her head some, a wordless invitation. They hadn't done the blood thing, she noted in the kind of absent thought that came with it being too late for that now.

Had he remembered, it would have been worth stopping for. But as it was, he was quite focused.

Oblivious to the fact that she was rushing to catch up to anything, he brought a hand to sweep her hair away from her neck. Perhaps now was the time for some charming comment, but he found himself very short on such things.

Instead, a hand to support the opposite side of her neck, and he bit into her skin with practiced delicateness. Some tension he wasn't aware he'd been feeling began to settle away, and he let his eyes closed with the contentment of a willing meal.

Cold hand, cold lips, both to her warm neck. Rika uttered a whimper that was mostly air as she held gently to the back of his head, encouraging.

Encouraging, as always.

Sighs and softly pressured exhales escaped her, problematically aroused, as always. Unable to resist the urge to writhe just a little, as always. Maybe she'd have to soothe some need later on, when she was left in residual yearning, even though she hardly ever did that for herself.

Eventually, she could not keep up magically, nor could she physically, and her heart ticked up and drummed away as it all rarely had the opportunity to do anymore.

"No..." she protested the warning in a whisper, not quite done, and the hand at the back of his head pressed with a little insistence.

Comfortable, he drank without hurry, expecting this to last some time. And truly he might have grown, ah, comfortable beneath her to some extent as well. But he heard the race of her heart sooner than usual, and it was actually her protest that drew his attention to where it needed to be.

This was so soon. Had he been drinking gluttonously? Perhaps-


The high was only just arriving, though it was enough that stupidly he wondered if he could hack his hand open and feed her the blood before it arrived to leave him less inclined to do such things. Then he could continue, otherwise uninterrupted, how lovely!

He swallowed warm blood, trying to find his tongue amid all the sensation. Another drink first, while he searched for his words. She always wanted him to drink her near to death.

"I could- b'fore it wears off- or- on," he managed eventually, his face leaning into her neck.

It did not wholly occur to him that this was not an especially coherent expression. It was a very good idea in his head.

She swallowed audibly to both their ears and offered a hum. Breathing and thinking somewhat labored, Rika had no idea what he was saying.

"Need to drink," was her answer, perhaps matching with his context, or perhaps not. But why should he stop when she wanted him to keep going. He was a vampire. She was the bloodbag.

Her fingers, slightly twitchy, stroked through the back of his head.

She was impatient!

"If I hurry I can get it for you before it all-"

Oh, it was it all, already. Goodness. He huffed, feeling the threat of giggling already.

"Is it too crude to drink to- drrrink it off a knife?"

Beauregard wasn't sure he could look at his hand bleeding right now. It risked frightening him! But she was insistent, demanding for this, and he felt warmly pliant. How lucky!

Beau, what were you saying. Drink it off a knife?

"No?" she asked, mostly out of confusion, drunkenness waning but still present enough for her to lose what context meant and keep her from being able to really understand his thoughts.

Was he going to stab her? That would hurt, but maybe he'd be sorry if it was bad.

Oh, woe, he'd tried. Beauregard could sense her confusion, and now he was confused, and so he sunk back into the couch, letting his head flop backwards. He sought to squish her somewhat into following the gesture, just briefly. Settle in, Rika. Soothe your confusion.

"Then all is well," he assured her, a gentler drunk than the wild, slurring, too far highs that had become customary.

The world was pleasant and tingling, and he shifted his hips beneath her just once, an effort for comfort more than sheer arousal. (Such things had to, at times, be re-situated after their initial appearance.)

Oh.. No stabbing? What did that question mean? It was not too crude to drink it off a knife, she thought she had said with her no, but now it was over, and he was squeezing her to him, and she was—

"Drink more," she complained through a roughened beat of her heart, but it brought her nearly to tears to have to ask again.

He was content to be comfortable. The high was lovely, Rika was warm against him. He was not spiraling within an inch of control. He even felt fairly capable of getting her some of his blood in a few minutes.

But then came the protest, like that of a child. It threatened to sour his mood, and there was a moment of stillness that followed, a few seconds of deciding better than to go with his initial response.

Beauregard was not a fucking servant. He certainly wasn't here to he force fed her blood in some bizarre, backwards ritual. She was threatening to emasculate him, as if somehow even his fucking drinking didn't satisfy. So much for being a goddamn gentleman.

Sobered some, he spoke with enunciation that revealed he was actively fighting against greater sloppiness.

"Then go get. A glass of water. I am not drinking you into fff-"

He would resist, only barely, harsher wording.

"Into unconsciousness."

Oh. Wow. Huh.

Rika had messed up, this time. Scolded harshly, she found she wanted to hide, but also found she wasn't sure she'd be steady if she got up.

She withdrew from their embrace slowly, feeling hurt and stupid and needy and rejected? Mostly rejected.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, mostly feeling the harsher beating of her heart somewhere on her tongue. Was it even worth it to get water so he could slice his skin open for her benefit? No. No it wasn't, remotely. "Wasn't- wasn't thinking."

How could she fix this? She probably couldn't.

Now she wanted to fucking crawl away from him like he'd slapped her across the face, leaving him flush with whatever miserable emotions she was pissing out of her little brain.

He was so goddamn angry, immediately, and his high was ruined but not absent and it was all very, very difficult to manage.

"I don't want apologies I just-"

It was not any easier to talk! How could a man be angry and eloquent about it when his fucking tongue was tingling.

"I am not a play thing. I am a damn vampire!"

The last word spoken perhaps louder than he'd intended, and it threatened his ears. Everything was dreadful.

"Of course I want to drink more. I am exorc- exercising re-straint-uh. You can get some water or you can lap the blood off my-"

His voice warbled, and he was a man both high and shrill.

"Off my fffucking palm. You pick."

The last two words fell into a tone of great and ugly petulance, a grown man throwing something of a fit on her couch.

It was terrifying when a man yelled. They were stronger, physically. They were often taller. Imposing, even seated on a couch. It was an instinctive, terrible reaction, but it incited a feeling of shrinking.

So imagine that man was the strongest vampire, someone who she'd never seen so angry with her. But someone who had on several occasions stepped close to becoming a monster, and on one occasion had done just that, and had sliced into her when she hadn't even triggered him.

Tears welled and lined at her eyes, and she wished she could teleport away somewhere else. Anywhere else.

She'd misstepped so horribly, doing something she'd done before. Asking for something she'd asked for before, that he'd been happy to do. Now, suddenly, it was rage from him. Her head hurt from the sound of his voice, and she was afraid to breathe, lest it be too loud.

"I'm s— I don't want to," she shook her head, looking down at her feet. She didn't want him stabbing himself for her benefit, following this. Ever.

Nothing could be easy.

A very dangerous thing lurked at the edges of his patience. Beauregard could be as much a monster as she had ever witnessed and feared.

He sighed, letting his head tilt back, one hand moving to rest on his face and possibly strike a tad too hard on the way there. Ouch.

"Rika," he said, tired, as if shouting had tuckered him out.

"I want this whole... dreadful thing to go away. I think my head hurts now."

It did not, but he felt like it did, and so it did.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. I do need-"

There was no easy way to word this. She did seem to think it was optional, but a very monstrous part of him insisted it was not.

"I'm going to go now, to the sink, and mix you a drink. You can even come with me, if you would like, and I- I will hold you near the entire way, or stroke your hair, or- I would carry you but I feel my arms are tired. But I-"

Oh, no. Where had he gone. He lifted his head.

"Am I making any sense?"

Like a flip switch, he went from yelling to soothing. It made her feel... shameful. She'd earned such ire and now he was coddling her again.

Rika wished he would stop offering. Because she already didn't want to do it anymore. Didn't want to watch him bleed and mix it into water and drink it all so he could oblige her stupid arousal that she was pretty sure had just been murdered forever. (So she imagined.)

But denying him further seemed like it would make things worse. "Yes," she answered, hesitant. Yes, he was making sense. As for the rest... she guessed that was better left to him. She would go with him if he so much as held out a hand. It seemed wrong to the point of potentially dangerous to turn away his kindness after all that.



He felt more in control in the sense that the high was fading, but now faced very sharply with a situation he'd quite nearly fucked up. It left his nerves frayed, everything frayed, and he cleared his throat once as he moved to stand.

It was not terribly difficult. Beauregard was capable. He only needed to suggest her to fix this, though then she would be short on an important lesson.

Next time be could perhaps teach it more delicately.

Beauregard would offer out a hand to bring her with him, the monstrous part of his brain insistent on keeping her close. To the kitchen, to the sink, a knife from his pocket, a glass, water. All a familiar cycle.

Whether she stood beside or behind him didn't matter so much as that she was near. He half wanted to have her in front of him, but that seemed a tad too suggestive.

It would all be quick, a slice into his palm, rinsing the knife into the glass, and then he would hold it for her, however she would take it.

Beauregard hoped she had the sense not to snivel or refuse him now as his palm stitched itself up, and he watched her with an intense closeness.

She took it and followed, left in something of a daze for it all. Rika stood by him in silence, casting glances to and from the work he did to create his restorative and the floor.

She felt very... unworthy.

But she would take the glass, having successfully failed to convince him not to go through with it in the first place. And then it was a matter of sipping, slowly, feeling like she was being observed under a microscope.

It didn't matter how slowly she drank it, though. It flooded her with life anew.

"Thank you," she murmured, every iota dripping with apology.

Oh, yes, she was very sorry. She always was. They always were. It was an ugly, dampening look, and never did they seem to notice that.

Beauregard was hardly done with her. She sipped as if the water might poison her, and after a few moments of that, he moved a hand toward her neck, to sweep hair to the opposite side this time. Might as well stick his fangs somewhere new.

He didn't have many plans here. He knew he would feed again. But everything else felt very nebulous and perhaps still lingering with a certain danger.

One hand lingering on the hair bunched at her neck, Beauregard would circle behind her and, without conversation, find the start of a second course.

Whatever plying warmth there had been when he'd promised to hold her or stroke her seemed very much gone. He swept away her hair and moved behind her, so it was not that she could really do... anything in this interaction but stand there and be fed on. This was Beauregard doing what she'd asked; drinking more, but was it for her or for himself?

There was interest, a physical reaction, though it was edged in guilt much as it was well in the beginning. Rika had never really ever been comfortable with her sexuality. This seemed to be a returned reflection of that.

Still, she leaned back against him if he would let her. It was something she could do. Oh, but then she also remembered she could move her hand to the back of his head, too.

She sought to do that carefully, mindful that the mood had been ruined and that he might reject such attempts at affection from her. This might all just be a transaction, in the end.

She felt all sorts of complex feelings and he would ignore as much of it as possible. Beauregard had half expected her to simply stand there and sip her drink, but as she seemed to come slightly more alive (if likely to please him), he opened his eyes to assess the situation.

Rika was reaching for his hair, but he brought his free hand out toward the arm holding the glass, his hand sliding up the length to her wrist and offering enough downward pressure to hopefully make his request clear.

Put the glass down, girl.

If she did, he would try to turn her to face him, forced to pull his fangs away for a moment but willing to do so given that he'd already fed once.

She'd honestly kind of forgotten she was holding it. The move along her arm triggered goosebumps and an exhale.

Everything felt very fragile right now. It put to mind the idea of him joking about fracturing her wrist.

She obeyed, setting it carefully down on the counter, and would subsequently find herself being turned around. Feeling like a ballerina in a music box again.

Rika wanted to tuck into his chest again almost immediately as she was rounded to face him, but that likely wouldn't serve anything.

No verbalized complaint. No request, again, that he stop. She said she didn't want this, but she'd been the one to demand it in the first place. Drink mooooore, Beauregard. Let a lonely girl feel as used as possible while you scramble to bring her back from near death.

He would not waste time getting near her, likely enough that she would be somewhat pressed to the counter.

Beauregard could regret doing this all while standing once he was too drunk to remember where his feet were. For now, this was good enough. Perhaps it would all be less severe now that she'd sobered up.

Another bite, necessary to find her blood, and he would drink, drink, drink, one arm supporting her neck and the other sweeping around behind her.

Okay. That was it; turning her so he could bite her again. Her arms moved around him and it would be as similar of an affair as it ever was. Rika would keep herself on her typical, quieter end of things, audible to him because he was close and blessed with better hearing and all.

Being pressed to the counter was not quite the same as being pinned between him and a bed, so it didn't quite trigger apprehension other than what she felt from having caused such an unnecessary unpleasantness.

She stroked through his hair, slowly finding her place in it all again.

Time would pass. She was not as dizzying sober, though they did not drink like this (save for brief parting moments) very often. Masculinity as threatened as it had been, he found himself with greater physical interest than usual, and the little feminine sounds she made did not help.

This would, over the moments that followed, eventually become enough of a distraction that he felt (perhaps as part of some initial loss of sobriety) that he needed to account for it.

"Think I'm being a'tad rude," he said, both guilty and amused. Height differences meant he would be jabbing her likely in the stomach, which was likely not especially sensual. "Shoul' probably sit down before I... fall down."

He felt his fangs receding, some bartender telling him he'd had enough, and that felt unnecessarily early and unkind.

No, there was nothing arousing about being poked with an erection in the stomach. Rika possibly carried some blame there, having all but abandoned actually pursuing that after their birthday celebrations. Especially following the mauling.

"A tad rude" was enough to elicit some smiling shy huff though, and she looked up at him with a tilting of her head as if looking anywhere below his face would just result in obscenely staring into the eye of a boner.

"Okay," she answered, moving to take one of his hands and lead him back to the couch if he'd allow it. "Let's go sit down." Mostly, it was important that he didn't fall and startle himself.

The walk to the couch, however it happened, would be primarily a blur. He would clip just about every piece of furniture if not directly widely around it, but that would not upset him in any particular way.

"I should not have yelled at you," he said with a deep, drunken sort of sincerity wherever and however they found the couch. (She would likely need to guide him to sit, or else he would be inclined stupidly to stand and sway.)

"I regret it, deeply."

A mournful man with a fading erection was Beauregard.

After the first clip, she'd be a little more careful to make sure it didn't happen again. Settled back on the couch, she sat next to him, closer again now that all the messiness seemed to have been settled.

"It's okay," Rika forgave his yelling, like she forgave everything he ever did. "You were just looking out for me. I should know better by now."

She hugged at his arm, head tilted to rest on his shoulder.

He stretched his legs out to rest his feet somewhere beneath the coffee table, feeling as though both his feet and the table were a few yards further away than they actually were.

"You can ask for more, but it has to be..."

Beauregard took in a slow, deep breath, feeling his lungs inflate, his chest rise. Some seconds would pass before he continued.

"After you have mine. It's is very... stressful, when you begin to fade and I am too sloppy to help you."

Rika nodded understandingly. She didn't want to cause any trouble, honest. She just felt bad having to ask him to cut himself open if he was already getting high.

"We should do it first," she decided, quietly ascribing the responsibility to herself going forward. If she followed all the rules: have his blood first, ask for what she wanted, stay away from him in the days leading up to the full moon... then that was it, right? She was golden.

This could continue without problems until maybe one day he just lost interest in her. Maybe when she was older than him, appearance-wise.

Good girl. He nodded, meaning to say that out loud but finding himself tired by it all.

Instead, he leaned to plant a kiss at the top of her head, then flopped his own back to rest against the couch.

The things he did for these girls. The apologies he strangled from himself. They were not dishonest, but they were unnatural.

Beauregard listened to her breathing and her heart and wondered what she was thinking.

The kiss was sweet. He did that rarely, but she treasured it each time. Rika hummed and pulled her legs up to the couch to bend in a tilt towards him (and also so the hem of her dress wouldn't fall), thumbing at his arm gently.

There. This was all nice now. She felt better, less fearful in the wake of his having both apologized and explained his anger.

"Hopefully nothing will be crazy with magic for a long long time."

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