teeth into bone 🧛♀️🍷
a (slightly horny) short story about the mortifying ordeal of being known, and lesbians who are also vampires
They’d agreed to meet here at eight, in a roomy little Italian joint somewhere south of midtown. It wasn’t quite her element, she could tell, even from the outside, but... it had a nice vibe to it. Comfortable. Inviting. Pasta.
Laura pushed through the door, and stepped out of the snow. Rubbed the fog from her glasses, shivered off the white from her boots.
And there she was. Tall, striking, dark, stunning. Like a fucking merchant of... god, of little death.
Camilla.
The waiter took her to their table. Offered a wine list. They made their introductions. Laura, Camilla. A friend of a friend of a friend, now they knew, but it had taken an app to get them here. And now...
They both smiled, and laughed, and Camilla picked out a wine for the table. Something red? A blend? Or are you more of a cocktail kind of-- no? Your finest red, then.
Laura just... stared. It’s all she could do. Sure, her lips were moving, and the words she spoke made sense, but it wasn’t quite her. Like something had come over her. A mesmer. Life on autopilot.
It wasn’t this woman’s beauty. But something about her... something that caught the eye, caught the breath. A temptation.
Camilla smiled softly at her. Extended a hand beneath the table, brushed against her leg. Are you okay?
A nod.
Nervous?
A... yeah, a nod. Maybe terrified?
Camilla smiled again, a toothy smile, a flash of white. An expression of... something.
It should have been comforting.
You’re okay, Laura. This was new to me too, once.
It didn’t show. Not a single hint. But Camilla had seen through her in a heartbeat.
Christ.
The food came. Laura had taken the pasta, of course, a white sauce, full of garlicky, parcelled pumpkin. And Camilla...
Red meat. Eaten with refinement. Predation.
Fuck.
A drop of blood on her lips, staining her teeth, but she kept talking. Where do you work, then, Laura? Oh, like a writer? Non-fiction? That’s cute. Anything you’re working on now?
A shake of the head. Slow month. And those eyes, the eyes that pierced, pierced through to the soul, taking her home and undressing her and molding her and--
Her hands were shaking. Camilla grasped her hand gently, and held her firm. Too tight to squirm away.
Would you like a dessert menu, ladies?
Tiramisu. She hadn’t even looked up, just spoken.
To share.
Two spoons, and a small bowl arrived at the table, and Camilla offered her the first bite. It was... yeah, it was coffee, they could have avoided this problem if Laura had said something, anything, but that feeling was there again, that tension in her chest. Just keep quiet, no one’s going to notice you, notice this is a date, notice the way her eyes have locked onto you. Notice how she’s...
Her thoughts kept trailing off. Her hand was in Camilla’s, somewhere beneath the table, the woman’s thumb gently brushing the top of hers. Eyes still locked, barely blinking. But there was a comfort in her confidence. A comfort in the way she licked her lips.
Maybe it could be a comfort.
Did you want to get a drink? Maybe back at my place?
But this was wrong, fuck, no, of course it was wrong. Dinner wasn’t done yet. Her drink was unfinished. She was meant to have time left, time to decide, to escape, to pull her parachute. The room was spinning. The room was... really spinning, and...
No, look at me, Laura. Hey, look at me. It’s okay. No one’s here to judge you. Not in this city. Certainly not in this restaurant. Just look at me, cutie. Take a breath. I’m right here. I’m going to keep you safe. Just look in my eyes.
Do you want to get out of here?
It wasn’t always this way. Maybe once, they’d have stuffed the mouths of their dead with garlic. A spell, a ritual, to stave off the infection. To stave off the beauty. To stave off the...
Laura had heard that, once.
She wondered what it did to the blood. Just a little garlic. Would that be enough? To keep her skin untorn? To keep herself whole and human and loved?
What would it mean? Just a little love bite, a brutal chunk ripped from her, and... garlic pumping through her veins?
Protection? Absolution?
Acceptance?
Camilla lay her down, and teeth tore into bone. And three weeks from now, as they sat together at the back of a cozy little Italian joint, Laura would order the pasta. But... maybe with red sauce this time?
And... a cocktail. Yeah, something peachy. That’d be perfect, thank you.
Camilla smiled at her. A proud little smile. Gods, that smile.
Laura let her hand be held. Let herself enjoy this. All of this.
Except the tiramisu.
She’d work her way up to dessert.
