I'm not sure what this is. It kind of came of my dislike of cliche vampire fics where the victim falls madly in love with the vampire who attacks them for no apparent reason and lets them do whatever the hell they please to them. However, I also kind of realize that there is no real way around this because there is no logical reason for someone to fall in love with a person that attacks them and drinks their blood. Vampire/Human stories are just illogical.
But we all love them anyways.
That said, this is quite dark. In addition, it has the appearance of a romance story, but it is most certainly not.
This takes place in Italy, in the 1920s-30s
Smile
"I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing out there," says the boy flatly, his lips downturned into a scowl, "But you better get the fuck out of that tree and away from my window before I call the police."
From his crouching position on a tree branch with one hand braced against the trunk, Antonio blinks, his mouth making a little 'o' shape. He wasn't expecting that reaction. When he appears in front of people there is usually screaming or shock or at least a little confusion. Not an angry command to 'get the fuck out of that tree'.
In fact, the boy doesn't even seem to be surprised that he is in the tree. Just really, really, annoyed by it.
"Ah~, but I like it in the tree!" replies Antonio cheerfully, wiping away his surprise and smiling at the scowling boy, "You see, it gives me a nice view into your room!"
As the statement leave his mouth he admits that it sounds more than a little creepy. No, not just sounds. It is more than a littlecreepy. But Antonio is an honest man and doesn't like lying about things. Moreover, he doesn't see the point in it. Whether this Italian boy is creeped out by him or not doesn't matter in the long run. After all, they will be done with each other after this one night.
The boy's eyes widen and his mouth hangs open for a second before his scowl returns full force and he places his hands on the window sill, leaning his face close to the glass that separates him and the man outside.
"Listen here you pervert," he snarls, eyes narrowed and face full of hate, "I don't know where you got it into your head that I'm some blushing maiden you can peep on, but I don't have time for this shit. Nor do I have the patience. So you can just mo-,"
"Why don't you have the time?" interrupts Antonio, eyes wide as he tilts his head to the side curiously. "Is it not nighttime? Would you not just be going to bed? How can you be busy? Humans sleep at night, don't they?"
The questioning tone that his voice takes amuses him. As if he does not know whether or not humans sleep at night. However long ago it was, he has been human once and so, of course, knows what their sleep patterns are.
But he has been a creature of the dark, an inhuman being, for much longer and is barely in touch with that long dormant side of himself. As such, he often finds himself wondering if things have changed since the year he died. Things like if humans still sleep at night. After all, when he was alive, humans lived on land and birds flew in the sky. But a few years ago, had there not been all sorts of machines flying in the sky with humans in them?
Ah, how the world changes…
"Wh-what the hell?" stammers the Italian, his eyes growing wide with anger and something else that Antonio might call panic, face looking drawn and pale.
"Why are you asking those sorts of stupid questions? As if it's any of your damn business!" The boy is spitting with rage now, so much so that Antonio can see little droplets on the windowpane, and a glimmer of wetness on the boy's lips.
The Spaniard's keen vision centers on those lips and he finds himself watching as the tip of a pink tongue washes over the cracked mouth. Staring, enraptured by the sight until the tongue disappears and Antonio slowly retracts his gaze, allowing it to move up and down the Italian's body.
The boy is very good looking, he decides. And cute, with the way he's pouting and looking so angry and ready to attack even though he is short and slim and not handsome but pretty like a girl. The boy's figure is enticing, even hidden beneath ratty work clothes as it is. But the top button of the boy's shirt is undone and the glimpse of tanned skin is enough for Antonio to decide he wants to see the rest of the Italian's chest, one way or another. The boy's slimness is making the Spaniard want to see his legs as well, to see if they are as thin and toned as the rest of him.
Antonio licks his lips and then runs his tongue over the fangs at the front of his mouth. He fed earlier that night and doesn't really need to eat again, but the mere thought of seeing this boy bare, touching that skin, feeling the pulse thrum beneath his fingers- it is making all of his hungers rumble together at once.
"What are you looking at?"
The Spaniard is abruptly pulled from his lusty thoughts at the hissed question and he blinks slowly, his eyes still lidded with the heaviness of his gaze, before smiling broadly at the fuming Italian.
"At you of course!" he responds, still lighthearted and cheerful, whatever direction his thoughts have been taking, "What else would I be looking at? Aha~ You ask silly questions." And really, Antonio can't help but laugh. The pretty little boy has such an indignant, insulted expression on his face. Like he's been done the ultimate injustice when all Antonio is doing is admiring his beauty and body and blood.
And yet, the Italian continues to quiver with rage, hands falling from the windowsill to clench into fists at his side as his bottom lip protrudes and trembles.
He really is too adorable, Antonio thinks with a sigh. He really just wants to eat him right up.
"I ask silly questions?" shrieks the boy, looking more and more enraged by the second, "Who's the one who fucking asked if humans slept at night? Am I to assume you don't, and instead spend your night creeping outside of windows?"
The boy looks pleased with himself, as if catching the man in hypocrisy is his greatest triumph. Antonio doesn't have time to admire and coo over how attractive the Italian is when he's displaying such pride as, distracted as he is, the question has caught him somewhat off guard.
He frowns, just a little.
By answering the question truthfully he will reveal too much about his own nature and probably alert the boy to what he is. And then he'll have to end their entertaining banter and take the boy quickly.
Antonio sighs sadly, because he really is enjoying talking with the angry little Italian. There is usually so much screaming in terror when he approaches someone that he hasn't had a decent conversation with a new person in decades.
The Spaniard's eyes drop down to the boy's olive-toned neck and the small movement of the pulse against the skin. Another hungry rumble pulses through his body and his stomach and cock both twinge.
Hurrying things up isn't so bad either.
"Well no, I don't spend my nights sleeping," admits Antonio somewhat sheepishly, "But I don't usually sit in trees outside of windows either! This is just for you!"
Antonio doesn't know why the boy hasn't pulled the curtains shut and run away screaming. He isn't being as subtle as he usually is and he has given his prey plenty of chances to get away. After all, he hasn't convinced or compelled the boy to invite him in yet, and he can't enter the house without permission. Why is he being so obviously creepy and suspicious?
The boy's eyes widen again and he pales, before his cheeks flush tomato red and he snarls angrily.
Ah, yes, that's why. Those adorable reactions!
"I'm so glad I'm fucking special," he spits, his hands clenched into fists, "And what, pray tell, do you do in your sleepless nights?"
Despite the rumbling in his belly and the way the blood rushing to the Italian's cheeks made his mouth water, Antonio is in a playful mood. So he smiles cheekily and answers: "Now why should I tell you about my nights if you don't tell me about yours? Señor, 'I don't have the time'."
Antonio is teasing, he is teasing because he likes that half-flustered, half-enraged look that makes the boy's eyes widen and his cheeks to go bright red. But the words apparently aren't teasing to the boy, because his entire demeanor becomes subdued and he drops his gaze to the ground, belligerence fading away to a more downcast aura.
"None of your damn business," mutters the Italian, moving away from the window with his hands clenched at his sides, "Now get the fuck out of that tree and scram. Fucking creeper."
However toxic the words are the boy's voice lacks conviction or anger or any emotion at all. It is like that angry little light has suddenly gone out, and Antonio finds himself frowning and moving farther along the tree branch to get closer to the window.
Somehow, Antonio's last comment has made the boy sad. He does not want the boy to be sad. He wants to see that fiery temper and that adorable pout and to see the blood rushing to his cheeks and lighting them up again.
"Hey!" calls Antonio, leaning forward and knocking on the window, "Hey! Let me in, señor. Por favor."
The boy stiffens and Antonio sighs inwardly. He really isn't being anywhere near as subtle as he usually is. As he usually has to be. But he usually doesn't climb up trees to ogle Italian boys either. Why climb a tree when he could have any girl he liked just by walking down the street, no matter the hour? Any man? Any child? But this boy is special. There is something he has, something that all the other delicious little Italians in the city seem to be missing.
Would the word be…fire? Spirit? Something like that. Something that promises his blood to be delicious.
But whatever Antonio said dimmed that fire, which is upsetting. More upsetting to Antonio then to the boy, he thinks.
The conversation has gone on for a bit too long, is Antonio's next thought. He's losing his prey. So time to speed things up! Convince the boy (compel the boy) to let him in and then…
As the boy's head jerks up, his eyes wide with disbelief and anger, Antonio finds his gaze once again roaming over the Italian's body. Every visible patch of skin causes his insides to churn and roll and his body to throb with longing. Antonio has not become so picky with gender since turning. Girls are his first choice, as was the way he was brought up, but his comrade Francis has instilled in him the belief that all beautiful things should be loved, whether or not the one loving them was of the same gender.
And this Italian really is a beautiful thing.
"L-let you in?" squeaks the boy, seemingly unable to process the…gall of the request. "Y-you…you squat outside my window like a damn pervert and just ask like it's no fucking big deal to-,"
"Por favor," repeats Antonio, morphing his normally smiling face into a sad one, "It's chilly, and I've been up here for awhile. Wouldn't you rather continue our conversation inside?"
An eyebrow twitches, mouth turning down into that already familiar scowl.
"What conversation?" growls the Italian, "I cuss you out and tell you to get your fucking ass away from here and you ignore me and ask stupid questions. Fucking Spaniard."
His mouth twitches downwards, the insult stinging just a little because Antonio is and always will be proud of Spain, but he retains his smile all the same, pressing both hands against the window and staring in with what he hopes isn't too creepy of a look on his face.
"Por favor, señor?" he asks again, his voice taking on a silkier, huskier tone to it. He is still smiling in a slightly dopey manner but if one looked closely they would notice that his eyes are darker and sharper and more predatory than they had been before. The Italian blinks, anger fading to confusion, and he looks at the latch on the window, as if contemplating opening it.
Antonio's smile widens. It really never is a problem. As what he is now, he has a type of…allure that simply draws others to him. Sometimes he has to turn it up a bit, especially when convincing a grumpy but adorable Italian boy to let him into his room, but undeniably, no one can resist-
"Did you not," growls the boy lowly, "Hear me call you a fucking creeper? I'm done with this shit. Adios, Signor Spaniard. And get the fuck out of that tree."
Antonio blinks, and his mouth makes a little 'o' shape. Again. Irritation prickles through his usually happy persona and he stiffens, but annoyance is quickly replaced with amusement and the thrill that comes with the prospect of a challenge.
Such a fun boy this Italian is turning out to be. And so, so cute!
The sun has only set a few hours before and the night is dark but young. Antonio has already fed and aside from the heat cumulating in the lower part so his body, he has no need to hurry. If this boy wants to play hard to get than Antonio can play all night.
"Ah, you speak Spanish?" asks Antonio, once again ignoring the boy's command to get out and get lost, "That's wonderful! Qu-,"
"I don't fucking speak Spanish!" explodes the boy, banging against the window with such ferocity that Antonio actually startles a bit.
"What is your issue?" continues the Italian, face flushed with anger and hands balled into tight fists, the knuckles white in contrast to the red of his cheeks. "What kind of fucker climbs up a fucking tree to look at a man through his window? I'm not even a goddamn girl! I don't have time to put up with this bullcrap nor do I want to you fucking perverted little-,"
"Why are you so angry?" asks Antonio, interrupting the rant and tilting his head to the side curiously. "I mean, I know I'm sitting outside your window and that's probably a little creepy, but why are you so angry?"
Because he seems really angry now. Before he just seemed angry. Now he seems actually angry.
The boy looks caught off guard for a moment, before his cheeks flush with anger and he opens his mouth to sharply retort.
But Antonio cuts him off again.
"Because you don't seem angry at me," continues the Spaniard. "I mean, you are annoyed that I'm in your tree-is it your tree? I think it's the building owner's tree, since it is on his property, but it is beside your window and you seem possessive of it so maybe you consider it your tree, and I guess it could be since it's only really outside your window- Oh, and the people below you. But the leafy pretty part is-,"
What was he saying again?
The boy is looking both confused and irritated, his mouth pressed into a thin line as his eye twitches sporadically and his fingers drum impatiently along his arm.
"Aha, sorry," apologizes Antonio, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, "What I was saying is that you seem angry at the world. And I was wondering why since you are such a cute and pretty boy and you say such funny things so I was just curious as to what could make you so mad at life!"
It is a perfectly reasonable question, he thinks. Or hopes. His charisma and natural charm usually do the talking for him and his people skills are a bit lacking. Is it, perhaps, not the best idea for a man peeping from a tree outside the window to be asking a stranger such a personal question? Is it a personal question? What is a personal question these days?
It really is much easier when he seduces whores in back alleys. So much less contemplation.
Antonio manages to tear himself from his somewhat sporadic thoughts and once again focus his attention on the oh-so-entertaining and delectable little Italian in front of him.
The boy has frozen, face pale and eyes wide. He looks scared, confused, startled and like he's just been asked the most terrifying question in all his life.
Antonio's expression once again strays from his usual happy one to mold into one of slight panic. Has he upset the boy again? What has he said this time?
"Wh-," begins the boy, his normally harsh and belligerent voice sounding small and young, "Wh-why would you ask something like that? Why the fuck do you care if I'm mad or not?"
Despite the expletives in his language the boy's voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and the suddenly vulnerable look on his olive-toned face sends a predatory pulse through Antonio, his eyes flashing and his fangs pricking against his lip as he has a sudden surge of longing and hunger.
He wants this boy so badly.
So badly.
But he is playing a game. And games sometimes take patience and tact and he still needs to be invited in.
"It is better to be happy, don't you think?" replies Antonio with a grin, choosing to ignore the fact that his pointed canines are clearly on full display. "I think everyone should be happy and like I said…"
The smile that Antonio gives now completely blows all the other ones out of the water. It is pure sunshine and light and radiance and warmth, while all encompassing and consuming and seeming both like a brilliant star and a hypnotizing black hole.
"You are interesting, little Italian," he purrs silkily, "And you say funny things. I like you, so I want you to smile~!"
The words are sweet and pleasant and sound like a line one would give a girl you hoped to get into your bed for the night. And while the end goal might be similar Antonio's words are nothing but honest. He does not like trickery. He likes to mean what he says. And however much he might want to taste the boy's blood on his tongue and lap at his neck, he also wants to see that flustered look on his face and the cute adorable pout as the Italian attempts to say something tough. And though he loves those angry, frustrated looks, he also can't help but wonder what the boy's smile would look like as well.
Antonio only tells the truth.
It is usually more effective.
But now the Italian has gone even paler and even more wide-eyed. He does not look flattered or bashful, but just shocked and terrified.
Antonio's smile fades into a worried frown. He wonders now if it was unwise to smile so wide, to obviously display his oh-so-obvious canines. Because now the boy looks like those girls do when they get cornered in an alley. Now he looks like the man who realizes that he has misjudged and misinterpreted the situation. He looks like the child who has realized that there is no candy and their parents cannot hear their screams. He looks pale. Shaken. The boy looks scared.
However, he is not screaming like the victims usually do. He is merely staring. Staring and staring and staring…
"I'm…," Antonio perks up, body and eyes and ears immediately at attention again as the boy begins to respond. "I'm not…interesting. Or funny. Or c-cute. A-and I'm definitely not p-pretty! I-I already told you I'm not a fucking girl!"
The adorable flush is back and he still looks panicked or scared or whatever that unplaceable emotion is but he also looks angry and irritated and all those fiery things that make Antonio want to pin the boy down and feel that fire squirm and writhe against him, that hot blood running swiftly and thickly into his mouth…
Antonio swallows thickly, his whole body sweltering and aching and his insides twisting with want and need and pure lust.
"But I think you are all those things~!" he chirps, his voice only a little strained. "And boys can be-,"
"Why do you care?" interrupts the boy sharply, scowling, but with that wide-eyed look still on his face, "Why….why the fuck do you care?" The Italian looks so bewildered. So unsure and confused. So lost.
Antonio tilts his head to the side, his smile this time soft and subtle and maybe amused and even a little kind if it was humanly- or inhumanly –possible.
"It's nice to have people who care," he says softly, "Don't you think?"
"And what if they don't care?" is the boy's snappish response, his arms folded belligerently and the look on his face more desperate than angry. "What the hell do you do then?"
Antonio finds the distressed expression both adorable and sad. The man is starting to realize that there might be more to his cute Italian than a pretty face, and that maybe there is a reason that that fire is so easily dimmed by Antonio's casual words.
"Well," replies the Spaniard carefully, "Then you just need to find someone who does care, right?"
Yes, that was a good response, was it not? And true as well.
The Italian stares, that implacable expression on his face. Slowly, he makes his way closer to the window and Antonio finds his chest thrumming with anticipation as the boy places one hand on the glass.
"Why are you here?" whispers the brunette lowly, "What do you want? Who the fuck are you?"
The questions are hoarse and also serious, but all the same that teasing glint once again appears in Antonio's eyes and he moves even closer, until his face is almost pressed up against the glass.
"Who do you think I am?" he breathes quietly, his eyes lidded and his voice sultry as he lets all of his otherworldly seduction and dark aura roll off him in waves, emerald green staring through glass and straight into the soul.
The boy's breath hitches and a shudder runs through his body, his gaze drops and one hand clenches, unclenches, clenches again.
He looks up.
"Angelo Della Morte," he whispers softly, placing one hand flat against the glass.
Now Antonio's breath catches and a thrill runs through him. He fights to stop his tongue from flicking along his lips, realizing that that truly would be too creepy, and settles for smiling.
Things are interesting now.
"And what are you going to do now, little Italian?" he asks, this smile a little darker, a little more sinister, a little hungrier than his previous ones.
There is silence between the two, the only sound the rustling of that tree which Antonio is still crouched in. The sounds of a creaking cart on the street below. Of the clatter of city life that never seems to fade even in the night. Of the boy's breathing, which he can hear even through the window separating them.
Antonio watches. This has been the oddest exchange he has ever participated in. The boy knows clearly what he is, or has an idea. He hasn't backed away. He isn't screaming. He doesn't look scared anymore, just kind of…resigned.
"To be honest, Signor Spaniard," the Italian heaves a sigh, breaking the silence as he leans against the window with that same scowl but with his eyes and brow heavy with fatigue, "I don't give a fuck either way."
/
He is even sweeter than he imagined.
One hand rests on the small of the Italian's back, the other holding his head in place, and the boy's body is pressed against his own, his rapid heartbeat thudding against Antonio's chest and his warmth seeping into him like the heat from a warm stove.
Antonio's face is pressed into the skin of the boy's neck and the scent of olives and tomatoes and sunshine is stunning. Beneath the haze of industrialization and pollution that blankets every Italian in the city there is the scent of the countryside. A welcome scent- a welcome taste in the cluttered urban environment.
Nuzzling the boy's throat and taking a deep breath, Antonio allows his tongue to snake out and slide across the Italian's skin.
The boy stiffens and shivers, going tense in the Spaniard's arms. Antonio makes a discontented noise at how rigid the boy has become and pushes him closer, latching his lips onto the soft skin and sucking.
A spasm shakes the boy and he moans, suddenly trying to pull away, pressing against the older man's chest and struggling backwards. But Antonio's hands hold him firmly and his lips continue to suck and pull at the olive-toned skin, his tongue snaking out to flick against his throat, fangs grazing his jugular as he sweeps his mouth back and forth along the boy's neck.
The Italian is trembling, hands against Antonio's chest from when he had tried to push away, and needy, barely suppressed sounds bubbling up from the back of his throat.
A virgin, deduces Antonio, smiling against that succulent skin, how lovely~!
The scent of untouched skin mixing in with the smell of the country and tomatoes (his favourite food) is causing a heat to build in Antonio's lower regions and coils of want to swirl upwards through his body.
He has played long enough.
Giving the boy's throat one last loving lick, Antonio bites down, his fangs sinking into the flesh easily. Immediately, warm, coppery liquid flows into his mouth and Antonio moans appreciatively at the taste, pulling the boy closer and biting down harder. The Italian cries out in pain at that first puncture, but then stills and quiets to soft whimpers, body trembling but no longer making any moves to try and escape.
Despite his lack of actual hunger, Antonio suckles like a starving man, taking deep draughts from the boy's neck and massaging the wounds with his lips to coax more blood into his mouth. The hot liquid flowing down his throat causes his body to heat with pleasure and he presses himself closer to the Italian, the hand resting on the boy's back dipping downwards. His finger traces along the small hollow there and along the waist of his pants, pressing against the shirt as if hoping to feel the soft skin through the material. His hand begins to dip lower, and the movement of his lips against the boy's neck becomes wetter and more lewd, the haze of absolute lust falling thick and fast.
It is then that the boy groans and slumps forward, his knees and legs giving out as he thuds heavily against Antonio. The Spaniard jerks back in surprise, his fangs and lips pulling free from the boy's throat and sending a spray of blood across the young man's collar.
Ah, too much…. Realizes Antonio with a sad frown, holding the boy's dead weight in his arms and flicking his tongue out to remove the blood from the corner of his mouth.
The blood was so, so good. As good, better, than he imagined. However, his enjoyment and gluttony seems to have gotten the better of him because now the boy is spent, unconscious and pale with blood still dripping down his throat and staining his shirt. There will be no chance to bed the Italian, unless he wishes to do it with an unresponsive anemic body.
And now, Antonio has a problem. His original plan was to feed from the boy, bed the boy, and then drain the boy. But his own hunger got the better of him and now there will be no chance to take the Italian this night. That really only leaves him with the task of finishing his meal and killing the Italian. He has no choice really. The young man has seen his face, knows what he is, knows…
With a sigh, Antonio pulls the boy over to the far side of the room, where a small, old and uncomfortable looking bed is pressed against the wall. He sets him down gently, staring at his limp form mournfully with eyes raking over the body he so badly wants to be touching and feeling and ravishing right now.
But instead he should be ripping it to shreds.
He should be.
But…
He doesn't want to.
Because Antonio thinks the boy is funny, cute, and pretty. He thinks he is interesting, and sad, and angry, and so many human things that are taken for granted until they are lost beneath the haze of immortality and damnation. He wants to know why the boy is angry and sad, and he wants to see him smile. He wants to talk to him more, and watch that adorable face morph into an adorable pout and see those cheeks flush with oh-so-delicious blood. He wants to run his fingers down that tan skin. He wants his mouth to follow, tasting and marking every inch of the boy as his own. He wants to explore the boy's body, thoroughly, completely, until his very essence has been impressed into the Italian.
So no, Antonio really does not want to kill him.
But what to do?
The Spaniard watches the boy, emerald eyes once again trailing every aspect of the boy's prone form, running his hand along the thigh that he so badly wants to taste and bite and feel pressed against his side as their naked bodies clash together-
Antonio frowns, shifting uncomfortably at the arousal that he's had pretty much since he saw the boy and that no longer has any sure way of release.
It is all so irritating.
But really, it all comes down to Antonio still wanting the boy. Wanting everything about this Italian boy. However dangerous it is and whatever unspoken rules it might break, he will not kill him tonight. Not when he hasn't tasted him fully. Not yet.
Reluctantly, the man removes his hand from the boy's leg, moving away from the bed and back towards the window.
This nighttime visit is over. It has been fun. The most fun he's had in awhile. But now, it is time for the game to end.
Or rather, time for the game to pause.
Because he will be back. He wants this boy and he is going to have this boy. All of him. Everything. It will be his.
As Antonio hops onto the tree branch he looks back over his shoulder, looking at the unconscious boy with a fond, amused, and hungry look.
Yes, another night.
Another night, and the boy will be his.
/
And yet, another night turns into five.
When Antonio returns the next night the boy is still too weak. Too pale and wobbly. As he staggers towards the window where Antonio is waiting he looks not scared or horrified or apprehensive but extremely angry. For once sensing the mood the Spaniard decides to not push his luck and starts a casual conversation with the boy he loves to hear talk.
And the boy, as infuriated as he looks, does not seem to be mad about being fed upon or that Antonio has clearly decided that he is his prey or that the man is once again crouching in his tree. His first comment is "You are the worst Angel of Death ever," and he proceeds to sulk in silence while Antonio yammers on at him with an unyielding smile on his face. He is slumped against the window, face pale and bags under his eyes, but he appears to be listening to what Antonio is saying, and occasionally makes snorting sounds or cusses under his breath or gives the Spaniard looks that clearly say "You are an imbecile."
And when an hour or so has passed and Antonio is getting antsy just sitting in a tree and he can't feed from or take the boy tonight anyways the Spaniard smiles broadly at his quarry and promises to come back another night.
(Maybe not the next night because humans took an awful long time to recover from anemia and plus Francis and Gilbert were wondering where he kept disappearing to).
And then, just as Antonio is preparing to leap down from the tree, the boy turns his head and looks at him.
Really, looks at him.
And Antonio is transfixed by those honey coloured eyes with flecks of green at their depths. Those large eyes, angry and sad and confused and all of those beautiful emotions in one swirling pool and framed by long, pretty eyelashes.
Dios, he's so beautiful-
"Why-," begins the boy, those eyes -though looking apprehensive and still so angry and still so sad- staring right into Antonio's.
"Why didn't you kill me?" he says softly, gaze just a little bit watery. His lips clamp shut as soon as the words have left his mouth and he looks down, one hand clenching into a fist. "You bastard," he adds as an afterthought, his teeth gritted and his clenched hand trembling.
Antonio blinks. Shouldn't the boy be more…happy that he's still alive? Did humans not run their ridiculous rat race day after day to ensure their own survival? Why was he questioning it? Why did he seem so upset?
This Little Italian of his, such a strange one.
"Eh? Why am I bastard?" asks Antonio, tilting his head to the side, "And I did not kill you because I really like you~!" He laughs a little as he shoots the boy a wide, sunshiney smile, illustrating how much he really does like this tasty little Italian with a beaming grin and glittering eyes.
And the boy stares back at him like he just announced he and the Pope got together to have drunken parties with the altar boys.
"You-," begins the boy, voice sounding choked and strangled and not quite coming out right, "You-,"
"Antonio!" supplies the Spaniard cheerfully, pointing a finger at himself as he does. "That is my name~!"
He really likes his name. Though sometimes he wishes it had an 'r' in it so that he could roll his tongue while he says it. He really likes doing that. That 'rrrrrrr' sound that just sounds so seductive-
Wait.
Ah, he got distracted again.
The boy is staring again, wide-eyed and shocked and confused and unsure. A silence falls between the two of them and Antonio's smile begins to fade. What has he said this time? How could his name possibly offend the boy? Maybe he doesn't have a name and Antonio has offended him by bringing his own up? Maybe he hates names that start with 'A'? Maybe-
"Lovino Vargas," says the Italian silently, his gaze once again directed towards the ground. He pushes himself away from the wall and plants himself in front of the window, stretching his arms out to either side.
"Now get the fuck out of my tree."
And then the curtains are pulled shut, leaving a confused, yet happy Spaniard in the darkness of the night.
/
Lovino Vargas.
Lovino Vargas is twenty-two years old. He lives with his Grandfather and his younger brother. The three of them used to live in the South of the country, on a farm, but the economic situation for them had been getting progressively worse and they, like many others, moved to the North to get jobs in the factories in the cities. Lovino works in a shoe-making factory from morning to night. His Grandfather works only the mornings before heading home. His brother is an artist and does not work at all, staying home and painting all day.
This is what Francis and his network of whores discover for Antonio within three nights. Italians are a gossipy people and Julius Vargas is apparently a very friendly and talkative man.
But what Antonio discovers the next night, when he returns to Lovino's tree after staying away for the past week, is much more valuable.
"You missed me!" squeals Antonio happily, pressing his face against the glass and grinning widely. "You missed me, Lovino!"
"I did fucking not!" screeches the Italian, recoiling away from the window he had seconds ago rushed towards. "I-I- Why the hell are you here?" He stands back from the glass, arms folded belligerently across his chest and eyes cast to the side. Antonio continues to grin, tapping against the window playfully and laughing slightly.
"You did miss me! You were so excited when you saw me outside of the window so you did-,"
"Sh-shut up you stupid Spaniard!" spits Lovino, his cheeks flushed that delicious red colour and his gaze still averted. Antonio's gaze lingers on the red blush and his tongue flicks against the pointed canines at the front of his mouth. His eyes drift down the Italian's body slowly, taking in the way the clothes, unflattering and ratty though they are, hug his body. When his eyes finally make their way back up to Lovino's face, the boy is staring at him. Discomfort and nervousness clear in his eyes.
Antonio immediately wipes the hungry, lustful expression off of his face and smiles, raising one finger to tap on the window lightly.
"Ah, Lovino, won't you let me in?" purrs the Spaniard, eyes glittering like emeralds in the moonlight, "Por favor?"
Lovino stiffens, and all emotion is wiped off of his face, leaving an entirely blank expression, broken only by the slight trembling of his arms, which are still folded tightly across his chest.
"And are you going to kill me this time?" asks the Italian, his voice barely wavering as he holds Antonio's gaze levelly, only the slight trembling of his body and lips and the tumultuous whirlpool of emotions in his eyes revealing his unease and fear.
Antonio merely smiles and makes a noncommittal humming sound in the back of his throat, tapping his finger against the glass again and widening his smile into a grin.
Lovino stares for a moment, before dropping his gaze and his posture, entire body slumping slightly as he reaches over and unlatches the window. Pushing it open and muttering a quiet 'Come in'.
The Spaniard needs no further prompting and practically flies off the branch, landing on the window sill and then on the creaky floor of the Italian's room, teeth still gleaming in a grin and eyes sparkling with that predatory glint. Lovino backs up slightly, fear flickering in those beautiful honey-coloured eyes, before he swallows thickly and stops, hands clenched into fists at his side as he drops his gaze and shuts his eyes, waiting for the inevitable with teeth gnawing at his bottom lip.
Antonio frowns, looking at the Italian with head tilted to the side.
Too tense. The boy is far too tense. Shoulders all hunched and fists clenched. All-together too tense.
Antonio glides forwards, not making a sound as he moves across the room and startling the boy as he brings a hand up to cup his cheek, rubbing his thumb along the flush of red that always seemed to adorn the area. Lovino looks up at the motion, his eyes meeting Antonio's. The Spaniard smiles down at him, before gently using his body to push the younger man backwards, Lovino almost tripping over his feet. Antonio's chest presses against his, pushing against him until his back thuds against the opposing wall. One of the man's hands rests beside Lovino's now pale face, while the other continues rubbing soft circles on the boy's cheek. Antonio then drops the hand lower, letting his finger trail down the boy's throat, to his collarbone, and down his chest, stopping just short of his nipple.
Lovino jerks when Antonio's hand slips beneath his shirt, but he succeeds only in thudding painfully against the wall, gasping slightly and biting his lip harder.
The gasp sends a pleasure-filled thrill through Antonio and he growls slightly and removes his hand, letting it drop by his side as he nuzzles his face into the side of the Italian's neck, letting his lips brush against the skin and the scent fill his senses, his tongue snaking out to dab daintily, not licking this time, but tasting.
Lovino shudders and turns his face away, unwittingly providing the Spaniard with better access to his throat, which he uses to his full advantage. As Antonio begins once again attacking his neck with lips and tongue and teeth scraping against the skin, Lovino writhes and gasps against him. Eyes screwed shut and teeth biting hard on his lips, he tries to contain the sounds bubbling up from his throat with no avail. Antonio presses himself as close as he can, the sounds and the movement of the squirming body against his causing a pleasant heat to surge through him, goaded on by the taste of the sweet little Italian under his tongue.
Finally, Antonio pulls back, looking with satisfaction at the bruises he has left along the boy's neck. He shifts his gaze to Lovino's face, which is bright red and completely flushed, eyes screwed shut. His lips are parted slightly, breath coming out short and as the effects of Antonio's ministrations on his neck begin to fade, he cracks his eyes open.
The Spaniard is rendered speechless for a moment. The boy is so adorable, he can barely put it into the words the way those flushed cheeks and parted lips and half-open need-hazed eyes send chills through his body.
As Lovino's eyes meet his, Antonio breaks through his admiration and smiles, once again running a thumb along the boy's cheek.
"You're so beautiful, Lovino," he murmurs, dropping his lips down to accompany his thumb in running along the flushed cheek. "So beautiful, did you know?"
"I'm not beautiful!" is the snapped, haggard response, out of breath and airy. "S-stop saying stuff like that…"
"I only speak the truth," says Antonio softly, trailing his lips down past the Italian's jaw, down his neck, and finally to align with his jugular, fangs grazing the vein and tongue licking alongside it lovingly.
Lovino shudders and stiffens again, before his entire body kind of slumps, evidently resigning itself to whatever is coming next.
That's better, thinks Antonio, cradling the boy's body against his own, relax, little Italian. It will all be over soon.
And with the smallest of smirks he sinks his teeth into the soft skin, gentler this time and not with the hurried hunger and lust that had consumed him in the last feeding. The movement of his lips against the wounds is slow and soothing, not needy and wanting. The taste of the blood and the feeling of the hot liquid flowing down his throat cause his body to jerk slightly with pleasure and he unintentionally bites down harder. The moan and shudder that runs through the Italian only feeds the fire burning in Antonio's lower regions and he lets out his own moan against Lovino's throat.
He just tastes so good.
But if Antonio is not careful, then he will repeat the same mistake as last time and will then be left with a painful bulge in his pants and no warm Italian body beneath his.
So Antonio keeps the pace at which he takes the blood steady and slow, only allowing a slight trickle to enter his mouth. Gradually, he lets one hand fall down, fingers playing with the hem of Lovino's shirt and making their way subtly underneath the fabric. The boy remains flaccid in his arms, propped against the wall with his eyes closed, until Antonio's cold fingers touch the warm skin of his stomach, causing his eyes to fly open with a gasp.
As Lovino jerks in his arms Antonio murmurs soothingly against his neck, flicking out his tongue and pulling it across the flushed skin. His hand travels upwards, ignoring the way Lovino has stiffened completely and pressed himself as close to the wall as he can. Moving so that his chest is pushed up against the boy's, Antonio latches his mouth against the Lovino's throat and sucks hard, running his fingers across the boy's nipple as he does.
Lovino lets out a garbled noise and arches his back, a curse falling from his mouth as he tries to pull away. But Antonio holds him fast, fingers kneading circles in the sensitive area as his other hand trails down the Italian's side, pressing against the fabric of his shirt until they can snake underneath it and delve under the waistband of his pants.
"Stop it!" shouts Lovino, trying to jerk away from the increasing pressure on his chest and neck and the hand moving down to caress his inner thigh.
"Let go!"
The panic in the boy's voice, the increase in his squirming and frantic movements. That ever-growing flush in his cheeks and the shudders that run through him as his body reacts to Antonio's touch. It's all too much. It's too stimulating. Too vulnerable and easy for the predatory nature in the Spanish man to resist.
I want to take him…to make him mine…
In a swift movement Antonio has the boy pinned to the floor. One of his legs is wedge between Lovino's and one of his hands holds the boy's wrists above his head. Before the Italian has a chance to react Antonio has unbuttoned his shirt with his free hand, laying the boy's chest bare.
A groan escapes him as he stares at the tanned skin. Smooth and umblemished with the faint lines of natural muscle that come from hard labour. He stares from the downy line of hair at the navel, upwards to the dark brown nubs and past to the now-blemished neck and flushed cheeks.
Chills, shivers, and the heat of pleasure surging through him, Antonio moves his gaze further upwards to look at the face of his conquest.
Lovino is breathing heavily, his voice punctuated with little whinges and wimpers. He is trembling like a leaf in a gale, body completely trapped and prone beneath the Spanish man. Lovino's green-flecked eyes are wide and fearful, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he bites back a scream.
But he's not looking away. He's not howling and screaming and punching and crying. There are tears in his eyes, but those eyes are meeting Antonio's squarely. His gaze full of fear meeting Antonio's gaze of lust shakily but unflinchingly. There are no cries for help. No more desperate please for release. A fear of what was to come, yes. But also….an acceptance of it.
That redhot fire fades for a moment and Antonio stares down, a puzzled look on his face.
This…is unusual.
No screaming.
Minimal crying.
Maintaining eye contact.
…This strange little Italian.
Slowly, barely registering his own movements, Antonio gets to his feet. He removes his knee from between the Italian's legs and releases his wrists. Lovino continues to stare, blinking every now and again but staring upwards with a type of open-mouthed blatant confusion.
The adorable sight of the boy with his mouth hanging open, cheeks still flushed and chest still exposed is enough to send blood and heat and lust rushing anew through Antonio's body, and he turns away quickly.
"Adios, Lovino," he says quietly, turning his back on the Italian and moving quickly towards the window, "Another night."
Inwardly, Antonio sighs. Another night? What is with him and putting off ravishing the little Italian that he wants so badly to consume completely and utterly? Why does he keep walking away like this? Why-
"Why are you doing this?"
Antonio blinks, thoughts interrupted once more by that adorable, pouty, accented, and even a little arousing voice.
He half turns, inclining his head back over his shoulder to peer at the boy he left sprawled on the floor.
Lovino is sitting upright, holding together his unbuttoned shirt with one hand and clutching the bleeding puncture wounds on his neck with the other. His face has that same injured, upset, irritated, aggravated, super-annoyed expression that he had the second night Antonio saw him.
"Why are you leaving me alive again?" he hisses, eyes narrowed and looking injured and…frustrated and….desperate? But…why?
Lovino Vargas is confusing.
"Aha~," Antonio laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. Because it is a good question. He really isn't a very patient individual and does not like teasing and foreplay anywhere near as much as Francis does. So….why does he keep stopping himself?
"Well, I guess it's because I like you!" he says cheerfully, smiling at Lovino with canines glinting in the darkness.
Ah, yes. That is true. He does like Lovino Vargas. This funny boy who says funny things and makes funny facial expressions and whose scent alone drives Antonio crazy and whose eyes are so glittery and pretty and whose skin is smooth and soft and whose blood is perfect…
Yes. He likes Lovino Vargas. For both his sparky personality and all the superficial reasons. Antonio's sweet little Italian.
"Like me?" repeats said little Italian, looking both confused and irritated as he sits with blood leaking from between his fingers and bits of his chest still exposed to the night air. "You said that bullshit before. I didn't believe you then, and I don't believe-,"
"But it's true!" interrupts Antonio fervently, "You're so interesting and fun to talk to and I really like coming over here and seeing your adorable face! So I don't want to kill you just yet. Because I like your company, Lovino! And I like you~!"
With that last statement, Antonio turns his face away. The potent scent of blood in the air and the tantalizing bits of skin that Lovino is showing are a bit much for the still quite aroused Spaniard to handle. In addition, he is sure that the boy's reaction to his last comment will be just too cute and he'll end up jumping him.
Though I'm really not sure when that became a bad thing.
/
And so that night passes into another.
And another.
And another.
Evening after evening, Antonio returns to that tree, that window, that room. Night after night, he talks and laughs and sometimes drinks from an angry and adorable little Italian that he likes to call his own.
It is a strange and novel experience for him, talking to a human being calmly and friendlily. Stranger still that every few nights said human lets him sink his fangs into their neck, allowing Antonio to satisfy his hunger.
It is a situation unlike any other, but Antonio is enjoying it thoroughly. As he has expressed several times to the boy himself, he really likes Lovino. He thinks the Italian is the cutest, most interesting, most beautiful creature on the planet, and when he's talking to him Antonio just likes to stare at those beautiful eyes and gorgeous lips and soft skin. He loves the red of his cheeks and the pout on his lips and his single goal in life has become somehow getting the boy to smile.
And yet, there lies one downside to his infatuation with the boy. There is something internal that is keeping Antonio from taking Lovino. Stopping him from plundering the boy's body and taking it as his own. Something that is stopping him every time he tries.
He has made advances several times now; peppering the Lovino's neck with wet kisses, running his hands along the soft skin of his torso, making several attempts to remove the boy's pants…And each time he's stopped before he can take what he so desperately wants.
It is becoming really irritating.
But he can't deny that he likes just speaking with Lovino as well. He likes the way the boy's eyes light up when he sees Antonio at the window. The way he rushes forward to open it, scowling and cursing, but blushing that adorable red on his cheeks. He likes the caustic way in which the boy speaks, so different than the simpering and demure behaviour he usually finds so disgusting in humans. Lovino is frank and blunt though not very honest because he tells so much with his eyes that he doesn't with his mouth. Antonio thinks that this is one of the things he finds so alluring about him. He wants to know more. He wants to know why Lovino is as closed off as he is. He wants to know why phrases that should be casual hurt the Italain, why his eyes are always sad and angry and desperate. He wants to know why Lovino is fine with being the companion of an Angel of Death. He wants to know why he won't smile.
He wants to discover all of that and more.
But it doesn't look like he will get the chance.
Because the three of them- Francis, Gilbert, and himself –have been in this Italian city for months now. A quarter of year. Some of their kind can stay in the same place for years, lifetimes even, but they are usually alone and usually don't have as much as a reputation with the local whores as Francis does or as voracious an appetite as Gilbert.
So it is time to leave.
It is time to leave this place, this city, this tree, and this little Italian.
The recollection of this fact hits Antonio when he is in the middle of a particularly engaging conversation with Lovino. He is sitting on the floor of the boy's room when he suddenly remembers the very important thing he was supposed to say, and the very important thing he was going to do as a result.
"-and you never leave them for a few days without checking up on them. Like, fuck, they're practically your children. When we lived in Naples I was in my tomato garden practically every hour-,"
"Lovi!" interrupts Antonio urgently, and somewhat sadly. Because he is really enjoying the way Lovino's eyes light up and he smirks proudly when he is talking about his life in Naples and the precious tomato garden he left behind. It's a rare moment where Lovino drops most of is impenetrable walls and Antonio likes watching his excited facial expressions and dramatic gesturing. It's endearing and adorable all at once, and the closest the boy ever gets to smiling.
…But now he has to cut it all short because he has something important to tell him. About leaving. Leaving this place. This city. This room.
Leaving him.
Lovino's eyes widen at Antonio's interruption before narrowing in annoyance. The boy folds his arms across his chest and looks about to respond sharply, but once again, Antonio cuts him off.
"I'm sorry for interrupting you," he says hurriedly, "But I have something really important to tell you and I was supposed to tell you right when I came but I kept getting distracted by your adorable face and beautiful eyes and your interesting stories and the way your cheeks puff out-,"
"Sh-shut up!" stammers Lovino, aforementioned cheeks as red as ever. Antonio smiles softly and reaches over to caress the boy's skin softly, rubbing at the red blush on the Italian's face. The blush deepens and Lovino's eyes narrow, but he doesn't move, and he falls silent, allowing the man to continue his soft caresses. Lovino's body stiffens as Antonio's hand drifts down to push his shirt off his shoulder, but he still doesn't move, and Antonio leans forward to plant a single kiss on the brunette's exposed collarbone before pulling back with a sigh.
"It really is too bad," says Antonio with a pout. "I really wanted to make love to you Lovino! So badly! But now there's no time! No time at all! Today is the last night and I-,"
"What are you talking about?" interrupts Lovino sharply, pulling his shirt back up onto his shoulder and glaring at the brunette. As always, his eyes hold more than the anger that his voice portrays, panic hidden deep in those green-flecked depths.
It makes Antonio sad. Even moreso because he really can't do anything to make it stop.
"I have to go away," says Antonio, almost sheepishly, as if he is saying something he is deeply ashamed of. "I've been in this city for too long, so now-,"
"You're leaving?" interrupts Lovino shrilly, his eyes wide as he takes a step closer to the other man, "What the hell do you mean, 'go away'?"
Antonio smiles sadly, reaching a hand up to brush at the hair falling on Lovino's forehead. So soft, as always.
"Angels of Death can only go unnoticed for so long," he says softly, "It is time for me to fly away, Lovino."
Antonio stands up from the floor in a fluid motion, closing his eyes and sighing while running his fingers through his hair. He still doesn't know what happened, really. Why is he saying goodbye like this? He's just going to kill the boy, right? He might not have time to fuck him but there's certainly enough time to drain all the blood from his body. It is the only thing to do in this situation. He can't just leave with Lovino knowing all about him and what he is. And why would he leave him alive after tonight anyways? The whole point was that he liked the boy, liked talking to him, liked the way he tasted, and didn't want to snuff him out from the world. But if he is leaving the city and is never going to see Lovino Vargas again, then surely it doesn't matter if he kills him?
That's the logical way of thinking.
And yet…
"Y-you can't just…"
Antonio opens his eyes to see his precious little Italian staring at him, hand clinging onto his sleeve and eyes wide and…afraid.
Finally.
After all these nights of the boy being resigned and nervous and sometimes a little frightened but never afraid, Lovino finally has genuine fear in his eyes. Horror, as well. The look sends conflicting emotions through Antonio. The boy is not scared for the reasons he should be, and the expression makes the Spaniard more sad than anything else.
"You can't leave me," says Lovino after a moment of stammering desperately, still clinging to Antonio's sleeve. "You- you came here and did all this shit. Y-you were supposed to fucking kill me and instead you…you didn't and-,"
"I'm still supposed to kill you," says Antonio in a matter-of-fact way, "I really shouldn't just leave you alive~!" he laughs, though he's not sure why. He doesn't think what he says was funny.
"But I'm not going to," continues the brunette softly with a smile, "I decided. I'm not going to. Because…ah, I don't know! It's not a matter of liking you anymore, I don't think. Maybe I just don't want you to die?" Antonio shrugs, Lovino's pale, horrorstruck look rolling off of him like water.
"It was really fun talking to you and getting to know you, Lovino," states Antonio, once again reaching forward to run a hand along Lovino's face, down his neck, and back up to run through his hair. The Spaniard then leans forward, pressing his face to the boy's throat and breathing in deeply.
"So good," he hums, pressing his lips against the skin before retracting with a sigh.
"So this is goodbye now, for good. Okay?" says Antonio as he straightens up, "I'm leaving you alive so go and have a lot of fun with your life! And I'm trusting you not to tell anyone about me, because than that means I really should have killed you and- well- you understand, right?"
Antonio stares at Lovino expectantly, but all he gets is that wide-eyed, almost stupefied look. And silence. Absolute silence.
He stands there awkwardly for a few more seconds before rubbing the back of his head and smiling crookedly.
"Well….," he says, giving Lovino a sad kind of look,
"…Adios."
/
The parting with Lovino hadn't gone well, in Antonio's opinion. He really is going to miss the boy, and was hoping for something a bit more…heartfelt? That's probably not the right word, but he definitely wanted something more than the boy staring at him blankly with his mouth practically hanging open.
But now it is the next night, and he, Gilbert, and Francis are all sauntering leisurely down the darkened streets towards the edge of the city. They are leaving, for good.
"You should have just fucked him," says Gilbert bluntly as the three of them stroll along the street with only the hanging moon to bear witness to their departure. "Fucked him and killed him. Would have saved you all of this ridiculous drama."
"He is just a human," adds Francis, "There are plenty of beautiful boys in Italy. And even more beautiful girls. No need to get so torn over one farmboy with pretty eyes."
Antonio sighs, but nods. They don't understand, he knows. They are both far out of touch with what was left of their humanity and see humans as food or playthings at most. If he is being honest with himself, his opinions of humans do not differ much from his friends.
But when it comes to Lovino…
"There is a little mouse up ahead," murmurs Francis suddenly, "Sounds out of breath too, the poor thing. Shall we take one last snack for the road?"
"Is there?" replies Antonio, surprised. Francis has really good ears, but Antonio has a really good nose, and he's surprised that he didn't pick up on whatever person the Frenchman is talking about. It probably has something to do with the cloying scent of pollution hanging over everything. He can't smell anything properly.
"How far up ahead?" he asks, moving ahead of the group to look into the darkness.
"I see him," comments Gilbert, licking his lips as he peers forward with red eyes narrowed, "Stupid isn't he? He sees us too, but he's not moving. Can I just kill him here and now? There's no one around and we're leaving anyways."
Francis sighs but makes no room to disagree, Antonio however peers forward, the person standing in the distance becoming clearer and easier to see.
His eyes widen.
"Don't move, Gilbert," he snaps suddenly, "Or you, Francis. That boy is mine."
Because now he can clearly see the dark auburn hair, the slight frame, the honey-coloured eyes sparkling in the darkness as the young man stands there with his hands clenched into fists and teeth digging into his bottom lip.
It is his Little Italian.
Lovino.
Surprise flits across the faces of both of his companions, before it gives way to annoyance on Gilbert and smug amusement on Francis. Antonio ignores the looks and the comments that follow them, choosing instead to break away from his friends and begin walking forward to meet the boy standing in the shadow of a building up ahead.
Lovino.
Lovino.
Why are you here you silly little boy?
Lovino stands stock still, one hand braced against the brick as he watches Antonio approach with a stony look on his face. His lips are trembling a bit, but his eyes are firm and unwavering as they lock with the Spanish man's.
"Lovino," breathes Antonio as he stops in front of the boy, staring down at him with all those hungry emotions he has been trying so hard to suppress. It is a hard thing, Antonio thinks, to constantly be presented with the thing you want more than anything else in the world and not be able to have it. Especially now, with the object of his desire thrusting himself back at him when Antonio had just resolved himself to never see the boy again. He is starting to get just a little bit annoyed, not necessarily with Lovino, but with the situation.
"Antonio," replies Lovino, his words firm but hurried and desperate just like his eyes always were. "You bastard. You asshole. You fucking piece of shit. You utter failure as an Angel of Death! You fucking bastard!"
Antonio blinks and tilts his head to the side. He can't say he was expecting that. It's not like he's a stranger to Lovino insulting him, but for the boy to come all the way out here to the edge of the city to call him names?
It's strange, even for him.
"And you," continues Lovino, his body shaking with rage and his eyes brimming with tears-
-tears?
"You don't even know do you?" The young man is right in his face now, cheeks puffed out and lip pouting but eyes full of hurt and body trembling. "Asshole. Think you can- can just come in through my window? Interrupt and mess up everything. Everything when I was finally ready- when I was finally going to-,"
He stops, blinking back the tears and taking a deep, shuddering breath before launching back into his tirade with vigour.
"You were supposed to kill me," he accuses vehemently, "That's what you do, isn't it? I thought…I thought the world was finally giving me a fucking break and I wouldn't have to die in sin, but no, you just had to- just had to leave with a fucking smile on your face-,"
"Lovino, I don't understand," interrupts Antonio, tilting his head to the side "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I was going to kill myself!" explodes Lovino, hands clenched into fists and tears dripping down those reddened, pinchable cheeks. "I was…I was tired and I was ready and I was finally going to do it…but then…"
And then, the boy deflates. All of the anger rushes out of him as he slumps, head dropping and body shivering.
"Stupid bastard," he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking, "Complementing me, talking to me, saying you liked me. What the hell was that about? You were supposed to kill me, so that I wouldn't have to kill myself. But then you…you just…,"
Lovino looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with water. One of his hands latches out and grabs Antonio's sleeve, and the Spanish man notices for the first time that the boy is wearing only a light shirt, and pants. No shoes or jacket for the cool night.
"I was ready," croaks Lovino, "I was so ready. But then you came and…I became scared! Scared to take my own life! Because all of sudden….I knew what it was like to have something to live for. Something to look forward to."
Antonio can only stare. This is not something he expected at all. At all. In fact, the situation is blowing his mind just a little. In what world did humans get upset for being left alive? For someone liking their company? For liking them?
Dios, these strange Little Italians.
"And now you're just going to leave?" The boy is angry again, hands in fists and face thrust belligerently forward. That fire that Antonio likes so much is burning brilliantly and hotly and with pulses of pain that are practically tangible in the air.
"You're just going to leave? Just like that? When you've fucked everything up? Hell no. Hell no, you bastard."
Antonio blinks in surprise and lets out a small sound as Lovino grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him closer, so that their noses are almost touching. A thrill of anger runs through the Spaniard, and he feels a growl building in his throat. At the same time, excitement pulses up from his chest and he finds himself surprisingly aroused by the show of dominance in the boy.
"Take responsibility," growls Lovino, eyes burning with intensity and tears as they stare into Antonio's own green depths, "Take fucking responsibility. I don't care how. Kill me now, right here, if you want. D-do anything you'd like to me, I honestly don't give a fuck anymore. Just…,"
Though there are a thousand things Antonio wants to say he keeps silent and watches with his mouth firmly shut as Lovino squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath.
"You can't leave me like this," he says after a thick silence, opening his eyes and staring at Antonio resignedly, "You…you have to take responsibility. I wanted to die. I wanted to die because there was nothing to live for. But then…then all of sudden there was something. Someone who talked to me, acknowledge me, liked me. There…there's nothing to my life except for you, you bastard. So take fucking responsibility. Either do what you were originally supposed to and kill me, or...o-or anything else. I'm yours to do whatever you want with. But you can't leave me. Not like this. Not when you've robbed me of the ability to take my own life. Not when you've given me a taste of what it's like to want to live. Not like this."
The boy falls silent then, and he takes a step backwards, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. His cheeks are that familiar bright red, and he is staring at Antonio with a new kind of fear. A searching, anxious fear as he waits for the Spaniard to respond to his strange demand.
So strange, so unusual, Antonio can only stare. This little Italian, constantly awing him with that bright fire burning behind those flushing cheeks and continuously rocking the foundations of what Antonio knows about the world and about humans.
Humans are just so different now. Maybe in a few years, they really won't sleep at night anymore.
Antonio is torn from his thoughts by Gilbert and Francis approaching from behind. The night is young, but the two are still impatient to leave. An impertinent human's interruption, however startling the things that were said may have been, is nothing but an annoyance that they would very much like to get rid of.
And still trembling, Lovino waits for Antonio's response.
Seconds pass.
Antonio smiles.
"You are mine?" he asks, tilting his head to the side with his green eyes sparkling fiercely.
Lovino swallows thickly, before nodding, wiping the last of the tears out of his eyes.
"I am yours," he whispers.
/
His eyes are like emeralds.
Lying flat on his back, staring upwards at the man who is hovering above him, those eyes, smiling hungrily and glittering darkly.
Like emeralds. Emeralds of death.
There is a feeling of disgust rolling in the Lovino's stomach as he thinks about what he is about to do. What he is about to let be done. Lying with a man as one would a woman is one of the deepest forms of sin, he knows. But so is taking your own life, and that had been a sin he was willing to commit.
This might be worse, but he finds he just doesn't care anymore.
He used to care. He can remember a time when he did care, and care a lot. But it seems far off now. The days spent sketching beneath trees, in the tomato field, stretched out on the grass. The sunny days in Naples that he loved so much. Naples, where the beauty of the country distracted him from how much he was ostracized from the rest of his family. How his grandfather and brother only had eyes for each other and paid him only the slightest of glances. Ignored. Forgotten.
In his tomato field, with his sketchbook, he can forget it.
But in a dark, rundown apartment, his sketchbook forgotten as he is forced to go work in the factories, he feels like he is drowning in it.
Because Feliciano is allowed to stay home, oh yes. Because something will come of his art. He will be a great painter someday while Lovino's silly sketches are just that- silly. Time-wasting. When he could be making money. So lazy, Lovino is.
But Feliciano, Feliciano staring into space with a dreamy look on his face is alright. Yes, he is just thinking of his next masterpiece is all. And Lovino why are you standing around for? Shouldn't you be going to try and strike a deal at the market? If you have extra time you should try and pick up an extra shift at the factory. You can't laze around all day.
Laze. Around.
He works fourteen hours a day.
And those brief moments of rest are punctuated with him having to do things for his brother. Take care of his brother. Make sure is brother doesn't hurt himself because if, heaven forbid, Feliciano bumps his head on the edge of the cupboard than it is Lovino's fault for not having watched him and warned him of the approaching corner.
And their grandfather will reprimand him accordingly.
Tired, is what Lovino is. Tired. He wants to sketch. He wants to go back to being a tomato farmer. But more than anything, he doesn't want to feel so alone and unloved.
He tries to ignore it.
But it begins to hurt.
A lot.
And then more than a lot.
Because Lovino has been ignored his whole life, but he could always let those horrid feelings wash away in the warm Neapolitan sun, with the scent of tomatoes all around him. Without them, all those memories and feelings are hitting him. Hard.
And it builds.
And it builds.
Until he breaks.
And now, here he is.
And he really doesn't care.
His breath hitches as Antonio undoes the buttons on his shirt, pushing the garment down off of his shoulders and allowing the white fabric to slide off the bed and to the ground. Lovino shivers. The abandoned mansion Antonio was staying in is cold, and the sheets beneath his back are icy and uncomfortable under his skin. His mind is taken off the cold, however, when Antonio's lips press to his throat, just above his collarbone. Lovino breathes in sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as the warm mouth moves against his neck, trailing fiery kisses across the skin. He squeals as teeth suddenly nip at the skin, Antonio leaving bruises and indents as he begins biting down, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to leave a series of marks along Lovino's throat and shoulders.
Lovino grimaces, his neck stinging with pain at the numerous bruises that have been left, and he opens one eye cautiously as Antonio slowly removes his lips from his body.
The Spaniard lifts his head, and Lovino finds himself momentarily breathless as he is once again caught by those eyes, glittering like the dangerous gems they are.
"So beautiful," mutters Antonio, the hungry look in his eyes more prevalent than ever, accented by a possessive glint that hadn't been there previously, "Mi Lovino."
With that, the Spaniard plunges his head down and sinks his fangs into Lovino's neck, causing the Italian to arch off of the bed with a scream. Tears bead in the boy's eyes and trickle down his face, but Antonio continues to suck harshly, the red liquid spilling out from the corners of his mouth.
Lovino clutches at the man's shoulders, tears rolling freely down his cheeks as he bites his lip to stop screams of pain from ripping from his throat. He is concentrating so hard on masking his pain that he does not notice as one of Antonio's hands move down to the front of his pants.
It is not until the hand cups his crotch and tightens around his length that Lovino notices, and his whimper of pain turns into something else entirely as he arches upwards, the fingers clutching at Antonio's shoulders digging in sharply.
The Spanish man makes a dark sound, possibly a chuckle, and swiftly pulls down Lovino's pants and trousers, wresting them from his legs and leaving the Italian completely bare in one swift motion.
Pain momentarily forgotten, Lovino quivers beneath Antonio, utterly aware of his nudity and vulnerability beneath what he knows is a demon. His heart hammers in his chest and he tries to steady his breathing, meeting the Spaniard's gaze fairly.
Antonio is staring down at him, his head tilted slightly to the side as he stares down at Lovino with a questioning, slightly troubled look in his eyes. His wandering, probing hands stop their movement and his green eyes bore into Lovino's, conflict evident within them.
The concept of an Angel of Death having morals is a strange one, but Lovino can see no other reason for the man suddenly stopping. Perhaps, the reason the man stopped all those times all those nights previous. Part of him thinks he should run with it, let the man get off of his naked body and allow him to escape with some chance of redemption and the possibility of not going to hell.
And yet…
"I am only alive because of you," says Lovino quietly, his voice quavering only a little, "And therefore my life is yours. Do as you please."
Silence falls between them for a few moments, before Antonio's face breaks into that familiar all-consuming grin and he begins silkily whispering words in Spanish, dropping his head to nuzzle into Lovino's neck. The boy shudders once, before closing his eyes and letting his body relax beneath the older man's.
Antonio moves his head back, letting his eyes drift down the Italian's body slowly, green eyes staring with rapt attention and a look of utter wonder in his eyes. Lovino tries not to flinch as Antonio suddenly grabs his leg and lifts it, running a finger along his inner thigh before attacking the soft skin with his mouth. The boy squirms and tries not to whimper as Antonio's lips begin trailing lovingly down his leg, giving way to his teeth in some areas and leaving dark bruises along the flesh. When that leg has been properly lavished, Antonio lifts the other one and does the same, the mixture of soft caresses and harsh nips sending a mix of pleasure and pain through Lovino, who clutches at the sheets and clenches his teeth together.
Then, Antonio bends down and his tongue meets Lovino's side, causing the boy to jolt and release a garbled sound from the back of his throat. He writhes uncontrollably as the Spaniard licks and kisses up his side, still caressing the inside of his thigh and moving his lips up to his chest.
Lovino whimpers again and moans as Antonio's lips latch on to his sensitive nipple, pulling and tugging and licking at it with his lips and tongue. The moan becomes louder and needier as Antonio's hand once again clamps around Lovino's length, the sensations a thousand times more poignant without the barrier of clothing around it.
Antonio's mouth and hand continue to work and massage for awhile, sending Lovino into a writhing, moaning mess as the unfamiliar waves of pleasure crash into him again and again. The boy feels a hot feeling cumulating in his lower regions and his whimpers become louder, back arching as his chest presses itself to the Spaniard's.
It is then that the hand around his manhood disappears and Antonio removes his lips from his nipple. Lovino's eyes are blurry from both pleasure and tears and he blinks as he feels the man push apart his bruised legs.
"Sorry, I don't have anything with me," says Antonio's voice, cheerful and light as always, "I do not generally care too much about the comfort of my partners, you see. I will prepare you a bit, because you're so cute and I don't want to see you in too much pain, but I don't have anything to make it slippery, so it's still going to hurt. Sorry!"
And then Lovino squeals, the sensation of something being shoved none to gently right there pushing aside the waves of pleasure that had previously threatened to over take him. Tears form in his eyes anew, and he utters garbled curses as the finger shifts around ruthlessly, digging deeper and further.
Lovino shrieks, as a second finger is added, feeling tissue tear and blood begin to trickle out of his hole, pain shooting up his spine and causing the tears to once again spill over onto his cheeks.
The two fingers shift around again, stretching and pushing and probing, before they are finally pull out and Antonio's smiling face is once again looming over Lovino's tear-stained one.
"Lo siento, mi Lovino," says the Spaniard apologetically, tongue snaking out to lick some of the blood off of his fingers, "I can't wait any longer, so I'm going to start now. It's going to hurt, but hopefully it will start to feel good quickly!"
And then he has lifted Lovino's legs onto his shoulders and has pressed his lower body against the boy's. Pressing against and in until Lovino's head is thrown back against the bed as he howls in pain.
It's like he is being torn apart and oh god it hurts. The feeling of being stretched beyond his capabilities and something that just didn't fit being shoved in deeper and deeper. Sobs tear themselves out of Lovino's throat and he claws at the blankets as he feels blood leaking from his entrance like a running faucet.
But then, a stabbing feeling of pleasure shoots up his spine as something is hit and he arches his back up off the bed. His hands reach up again to clutch at Antonio's shoulders and he gasps and moans as the spot is hit again and again with amazing precision. His screams and sobs give way to moans and whimpers and gasps and somewhere at the back of his mind something is screaming at the sin that is being committed but it is quickly silence and pushed aside.
God forsook him along time ago. It is about time he did the same.
That same hot feeling begins to build in his lower belly before he arches up so far that he feels his spine will break and his eyes and head roll back as his mouth opens in a soundless scream, body spasming and shaking with the waves of pleasure before collapsing weakly.
Lovino breathes heavily, tears still leaking from his eyes as Antonio continues to thrust in and out for a few more minutes, humming softly to himself before making a surprised 'Oh!" sound as he releases with a shudder. Lovino whimpers and quivers at the feeling of the warmth spilling into him and he closes his eyes, bruised and pained body going completely limp beneath Antonio's.
Lovino hears a happy, content sigh from above him, but his eyes remain shut. He can sense Antonio's head once again descending towards his, but he is tired and hurting and he wants to sleep more than anything else in the world.
He doesn't react as Antonio's fangs cut new holes into his flesh, doesn't react as the blood is once again pulled from his body. The draining sensation is one that he is familiar with now, and the pain is nothing compared to the burning in his lower body. He simply lies dozily as the Spaniard continues to feed.
Lovino's consciousness begins to fade, and he finds his body feeling heavy, heavier than it has ever felt before. Antonio is drinking far more than he usually does and Lovino can hear his heart beat pounding in his ears, rapidly slowing as his breathing gets more and more laboured.
So he is going to kill me after all, thinks the Italian sleepily, his thoughts becoming more and more scattered as he begins to drift away from the world, the pain and the sensation and the everything slipping as if being washed away by the rain.
The last thing he does before the blackness takes him completely…
…is smile.
Aha~ So how was that?
I hope you're all able to realize that Lovino does not love Antonio and Antonio does not love Lovino. Or rather, Antonio loves Lovino like you would love a prized doll or a cherished pet. Something to stroke and cuddle and coo at and something you'd treasure and want to keep safe, but not love as you would another person. Lovino just feels like he only has Antonio to turn to. He can't kill himself anymore because everytime he wants to he thinks of how nice it was talking to someone who likes him and doesn't want to die anymore, but he can't continue living the way he is without Antonio there to talk to him. (Or something like that. orz I fail at explaining my thought processes)
I hope everyone enjoyed! I was saddened by the lackluster response to Noise...I hope this does better!
Please review!
xoxo, natcat5 ;p