Chapter Text
The clove cigarette sucks.
It smells nothing like a menthol and it gives you nothing but a coughing fit. A hoodie-clad arm raises up to muffle your choking breaths - it is three am after all, and you’re not so much of an asshole as to wake up any neighbors in proximity to the park. You can feel your lungs protesting over anything not menthol super-strawberry-bubblez-fresh with a dash of vape chemicals.
(You take an extra long drag.)
The night shift at Super Sunshine Supermart ended an hour ago, and forty-five minutes ago you discovered your front door un-openable, due to something being jammed under the doorknob. It was only a concern for a moment, before you saw the sticky note with a smiley face stuck over the peep-hole. It was your roommate's tongue in cheek way of saying ‘I have a partner of the night over, the place is mine’. You hated it. You hate her. And now she’s getting dick, and you’re sitting in the humid summer night, smoking a cigarette that doesn’t even have any nicotine in it.
(Anyone who says the universe does not have favorites is a liar.)
The swings are your default go to, and you kick the gravel with your non-slip shoes. Part of you wants to flick the cigarette away so you can swing properly instead of just shuffle about, but the adult in you knows your legs are far too long to get the lift you did ages ago, and littering makes you a shit person.
(And you are not ready to join your roommate in the League of Shitty Persons.)
You take another drag. Clove assaults your senses, and the slight rush is enough for you to tip your head back, push the swing more, and enjoy yourself for a moment.
“Those things are awful for you, you know.”
The words don’t make you jump, but your eyes do snap upwards in record time.
A looming figure stands on the sidewalk, far enough to not kick in immediate fight or flight, but close enough to hear clearly. A black turtleneck covers his broad shoulders, and the light of the street lamps flicker in his sunglasses.
“It’s a clove cigarette,” you reply. Talking to strangers in dark parks wasn’t a hobby, but you have pepper spray and a loose enough grasp on your self preservation to see where this is going. “I’m trying to quit nicotine.”
The man chuckles, rifling in a pants pocket before drawing out a cigar, and an impressive lighter to match. The cigar finds its way between pursed lips, and the crunch of the lighter sparking echoes a second later.
(It’s a silver thing, engraved with something you cannot see from here, but it’s far more impressive than any neon pink plastic Bic’s you have kicking around.)
(If it winds up in your hands? You’re stealing that thing for sure.)
“Clove cigarettes have nicotine in them, I’m afraid,” he states, after a moment, smoke spilling from his lips with each word.
You immediately shift a glare down at the cigarette in your hand, firmly directed at the guy at the smoke shop who insisted these were nic-free, totally, absolutely. You mentally plan to bomb the shop on Yelp, and take another drag.
(You’d quit tomorrow, you decided.)
“Thanks for the heads-up,” you state, before shifting your gaze back up to the stranger. You watch the way his gloved fingers pinch the edge of his cigar, and you raise an eyebrow. “Do you give hypocritical advice to strangers often?”
You can’t see his eyes past the sunglasses, but you distinctly feel his gaze on you. The look on his face isn’t quite amusement, but it isn’t ‘I’m about to pull out a gun’, so you feel like you’re getting somewhat of a good grade on this conversation.
“When I can,” he replies, “I’m something of a night owl, and it’s so seldom I meet company on these walks.”
He steps closer, almost tentatively, reading your face intently. You get the feeling if you made an indication of ‘hey, leave me alone’, he would, but you don’t, so he doesn’t. He crosses the distance between the two of you, and takes a seat down in the swing next to yours. The rusty chains creak, the metal overhead not meant for two adults.
“Wish I was a night owl,” you mutter.
“Not a fan?”
“Night’s are fine, when I’m in my apartment, pajamas on, some shitty musical on the TV. Not so much when my roommate kicks me out at the end of a thirteen hour shift.” The vitriol is heavy in your voice, and you don’t bother to contain it.
“They kicked you out?” the man asks, his voice laden with worry.
“For an hour or two while she fakes orgasms for whatever one-pump chump she managed to drag home from the club,” you reply. “Never sign a lease with someone you met through an online ad.”
The man lets out a small little ‘hm’.
“Duly noted,” he states.
(Not like the silver lighter and cashmere turtleneck and designer shades are firm indications that this man had never had to even consider keeping a roommate before, in his life.)
(And ultimately, that is the first indication that something is very wrong.)
You look the man over as subtly as you can. His broad shoulders push aside the two chains, and his dark hair curls over the collar of his turtleneck. His nose is sharp and prominent, and his skin is pale in the moonlight.
None of his clothes sport designer labels, but it’s easy to tell his clothing costs a month of rent. You'd guess there wasn't a single ounce of polyester in the whole get up.
(And it’s far, far too nice for anyone in your suburban neck of the woods to be wearing.)
“What did you say your name was, again?”
“I didn’t,” the man replies, smiling softly. The red light from his cigar catches in his dimples, making the shade of his smile the slightest bit more sinister. “You can call me Otto, though, for what time you have left.”
(Bastard.)
(Didn’t even give you more time to psychoanalyze his clothing before he whips out the Bonkers.)
(Typical.)
You whip your head to face him, while one hand fumbles for your pepper spray, only for your body to entirely freeze up.
The swing next to you is empty.
You don’t even have time to process this before the rattling of chains sound, a massive hand entering your field of vision so fast it nearly makes you jump out of your skin. It grips the chain of your swing, the crinkling leather flaking off bits of rust.
It takes all of your resolve to look back upwards.
Otto grips both the chains of your seat, leaning forward so he can loom over you. He smiles, with teeth far too long and pointed to be human.
When he tips his head down so he can look at you from over his sunglasses, a few brown curls fall over his eyes. It’s almost hypnotizing, the way the deep color matches with the bright red of his eyes, the pointed pupils narrowed down into slits.
(The clove cigarette falls from your fingers.)
“Have you gotten it yet, or do I need to explain it to you?” he says, his voice low like he’s sharing a secret.
You don’t reply immediately. The sudden realization that vampires are real robs your tongue of any witty retort you’d usually conjure, but Otto smiles the slightest bit wider.
His fangs glint in the moonlight, and he makes a sudden flinch towards you, chuckling when it sends you tumbling off of the swing. You fall back onto the gravel with an undignified thud, and immediately scoot backwards, the tiny stones digging into your palms.
“It’ll be over quick,” Otto reassures. He pushes the swing aside, stepping closer towards you. Any inch of ground you put between the two of you, he covers again easily. He makes no move when you scramble to your feet, but he never once takes those sharp eyes off of you.
(The stunning lack of urgency he holds while walking after you is more terrifying than if he chased you.)
(If he ran after you? You’d know there was a chance of escape.)
(But there isn't.)
“C’mon, after everything we’ve been through together?” you say. Your voice shakes almost as badly as your hands, but you keep your mouth running as you scan the area for any possible escape.
The park is fenced off on the three sides to your left, right, and back, with the only exit being out to the sidewalk.
(Oh so conveniently blocked off by Dracula, here.)
“A smoke shared is a bond like no other,” he muses casually, and he is an asshole , and you still want to pepper spray him, “Unfortunately, I’m not one for sentimentality.”
Before you can blink, his hands are on you. He grips you tightly, one large hand pressing into your lower back, and the other curved around your throat. He doesn’t stop his motion, and the pain of slamming into a tree hits you faster than you can process it.
(You have the brief, flittering thought that if at least you were to die, it would be while finally getting pinned by your throat.)
(Always a good trope, in your opinion.)
Otto holds you firmly against the tree, in a more secluded corner of the park. His biacromial breadth is broad enough to conceal you fully from any off-chance observers, and he has to lower himself to look into your eyes.
Unbidden and entirely instinctual, you reach up to clutch his arm. Gripping your palms around the wrist at your throat like it’s a lifeline, you can feel your nails snagging the cashmere.
“W-wait,” you stutter out, “Look, Otto.”
His gloved fingers squeeze your throat, choking the breath out of you for just a moment. His index finger rests heavy on your carotid artery, tapping softly to the beat of your pulse.
“You need me,” you spit out, straining to get the words audible from the pressure on your throat.
“The only thing I need from you is your blood, dear,” Otto states.
His fingers ease up slightly, though.
Ever clever, you take that as your cue.
“Look, if you kill me, that’s one meal, and what’s next? Some other guy tomorrow night? All that work to find one other snack?”
(Your fingernails dig into the skin of his arm, having torn through the cashmere long ago.)
(And you do not dare shut up.)
“I can get you blood,” you say. You force yourself to look up into his red eyes, and then force yourself to not get lost into them. The words fly out of your mouth as you think them, and it’s only about here when you realize you’re signing your soul away. “I can get you blood routinely. I mean, what vampire has to look for his own meals, right? You’re above this shit.”
The vampire stares down at you.
His skin is icy pale, making the soft curves of his face and the sharp angles of his nose stand out brighter in the moonlight. There is no rise and fall to his chest, his reddened eyes do not blink, and a tongue darts out to run over the polished white of his fangs.
Otto considers you for a long moment.
(You really hope your roommate gets none of your stuff when you die.)
(And you hope the manager at Super Sunshine Supermart has to take on all of your doubles for two months before they can refill your position.)
(And the man who stole your seat on the bus this morning sees your picture in the obituaries tomorrow and feels like, super bad.)
Otto lets you go.
Without his hand at your throat you nearly collapse, bringing your palms up to brace on the tree and give you the support your knocking knees do not provide. You never take your eyes off of him.
He pushes up his sunglasses, and stands straight, looming his full height over you once more.
“You can bring your generous offer here tomorrow night,” he states, the command in his voice unavoidable, “If that works out, you may have yourself a deal.”
Otto steps forward, closing the minimal space he gave you only a second prior. He leans down, placing his lips to your ear.
“If you don’t, I will still kill you, but you’ve lost the luxury of it being quick, dear.”
There’s a sharp pain in your ear, and Otto leans back just enough to give you a smug little smile, and then he’s gone.
When you tentatively reach up to feel your ear, you feel two small circular wounds, and your fingertips come away sticky with blood.
You stand there for a moment, then a minute. then five minutes, trying to figure out what the fuck you had just gotten yourself into.
And when you do not think of an answer, you steel yourself, and you walk the two blocks home, hand on your pepper spray the entire way. You climb the stairs to your apartment with a constant glance thrown over your shoulder, and your heart still is pounding by the time you make it back.
A test of the doorknob shows it’s still locked, and as the time nears to four am, you give up on not being noise pollution and pound on the door in a way that makes the walls shake. By the time you’re ready to start yelling, the door finally gets pried open by your roommate, who ushers out a half dressed man as you push your way in.
“Geez, noisy much? We were almost done anyway, didn’t you see the sticky note? It’s like, roommate code, bestie, you don’t mess with-”
Spinning on your heels, you turn to your roommate, lips pressed into the world's least convincing smile.
“Wanna hang out tomorrow night?”