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The Doorman is summoned to a church.
As he stands staring at the marvel of 19th-century spires that reach up toward the clouds, he thinks that Father Quinn might lack originality, that his commitment to the priestly get-up is overindulged. The Doorman doesn’t hesitate in forming assumptions about the Venator he has heard so much about. Like most humans, he knows the priest also grovels at the limitations of morality and desperately grasps at beings above his eyeline to prolong his miserable excuse for a life. He wonders whether the priest truly believes his god extends the courtesy of providing sanctuary in his house. A god whose eyes wander neglectfully - or perhaps the other way for its Venator.
The illusion of safety is what has made this colourful, shiny lure so riveting.
He was summoned quietly from his position at the front desk. A sly tug. A string wrapped around the meat of his wrists pulled him toward the northern side of the Cursed Apple. It wasn’t a guest. The leashes he keeps on the Baroness' patronage are much, much tighter. This was a long line, the kind you give to dogs who can't be trusted off lead and fail to recall at their own name.
Drifter comes to mind.
After the last two encounters with Drifter, it doesn’t surprise Doorman that he is attempting to lure him away from the Baroness. That was his sanctuary after all, but unlike Father Quinn, his security to her extended through the fabric of time and space and warranted no crying plea for a god to save him.
Saint Anthony’s Church. Not the Venators' home but a temporary residence until the maelstrom blows over. The Doorman knows Father Quinn has taken to sleeping in the broom cupboard with barely a window to shed light in. Upon whispers of the Venator's arrival, Doorman had kindly procured an invitation for him to stay at the Baroness, which had gone long ignored. Taken with a grain of salt, the Doorman had to admit perhaps the Venator quietly declining was for the best.
But now he was here, and of all places, the Drifter too.
He could only imagine what mess was awaiting him.
If the vampire had tested his luck, salivating for a taste of things he doesn't deserve to try. The Doorman knows no matter the arsenal that Father Quinn carries, the Drifter would try to sink his teeth in and likely succeed.
“I hope you haven’t made a mess of our priest.” The Doorman announces once the dark oak doors creak to a close. He has to stop by the second row of pews to allow the noise to bring him back to a grand cathedral settled in the mountains deep within Andalucía. The creak of the doors called forth an impeccable silence. The cooling stones punished the outside heat and gave shade to those begging for recognition. Intoxicating. New York lacked that quiet, but briefly, for a moment, it was here in this church.
“Your priest?” Father Quinn asks and lacks repulsion. Amusement sits in the strain of his voice, clouded by cigar smoke. He stood under the shadow of the great wooden cross. A bronze Jesus looks down at him with shallow forgiveness. He bears no stakes or giant cross fashioned into a bow. The Doorman has heard of the priest's choice weapons and has only amused himself at the thought of an incense-wielding stake-slashing monster hunter in a fancy skirt, but he’s born down to his basic black cassock.
The Doorman is caught staring too long; the priest is the first to look away as he steps out of the shadows of Christ.
“Oh. Forgive the intrusion, Cane. I thought Drifter had summoned me here.” Doorman straightens up. He quickly releases the disappointment that there was no blood bath to stumble upon, maybe another day, he’d have the luxury of picking the scene clean until he had a full play-by-play of who devoured who.
“Who’s Cane?” Drifter's voice whistles in behind him. He’s slumped back in the last row of pews. His arms outstretched and his legs spread as you would on your own sofa and not at god's feet.
The Doorman looks from the vampire and back toward the Venator, who has quickly taken to turning his back to smoother the incense that suffocates the outside smells with jasmine and sandalwood. Doorman's lips turn gently upward. “Slip of the tongue.”
He can't take his eyes off the priest, who is unable to meet his or the Drifters.
“I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I am the Doorman of the Baroness hotel.”
“Quite the mouthful,” the priest lets his eyes flick to the side as if to catch a proper glimpse of this Doorman.
“And the Venator of Saint Benedict isn’t?” The Doorman snorts.
“Doorman, it is then.”
The Doorman smiles, always polite, until he remembers the shadow behind him. “What are you doing here?” He glances over his shoulder, Drifter, as nonchalant as ever, smiles back.
“I can’t show some appreciation for the great architecture of this city?” Drifter says with his chest puffed outward. The Doorman can only bring himself to stare at him as if he were yesterday's dirty laundry. Drifters’ smile gets wider.
“That appreciation must’ve struck you recently. Seeming as you certainly didn’t mind disrespecting the external walls of the Baroness a few weeks ago.” Doorman swipes his gloved index finger across the top of the closest pew and inspects the dust.
Father Quinn makes a repulsed noise as he smacks his lips against his cigar. He exhales the smoke through his nose.
“What? Too gauche for you, Father?” Despite the sweet smile Doorman sends the priest’s way, he’s certain the innocent facade will not land here. He can blink his lashes, smile softly, hold himself in a way that should make Father Quinn weak-kneed, but his knees don’t bend. Not yet.
“There's no need to rupture the purity of this church.”
Drifter pulls a chuckle into the air. He sharpens his tongue against the points of his teeth. They all know as well as each other that any purity was surely thrown out the window as soon as the vampire was invited in.
“No? So why am I here? Has your Saint struggled to procure your car keys?” Doorman gestures to the space between them. The church is beautiful. In between the low candlelight, the inside is illuminated by the dull purple street lamps that cast colours of green and yellow through the stained glass saints.
The corner of Father Quinn's mouth twitches.
His hands brace the lip of the altar as he leans back. He offers a poor attempt at looking inviting - harmless. His shoulders still tight by his ears, and his knuckles turning as white as the marble he grips. He’s certain the priest has lost the ability to laugh through time, tormented and beaten. A withered man with waning belief.
“I don’t get it,” Drifter calls flatly.
“Yes, well, you wouldn’t.”
“Oh, you wanna’ go bellboy?”
“Enough.” Ventor’s voice is a poor imitation of thunder. It lacks strength, and Doorman can see the heavy grey clouds in his eyes and holds the belief that the storm is not far behind.
“Well, this has been lovely, but unless you have summoned me here for an actual reason, I'll leave you two to… architecture.” There’s a click of his heel, he turns to leave, and as he does, his eyes drag across Drifter. He’s far too calm. He’s seen Drifter relaxed like this before, when he’s enacted an entire scenario of how his prey will ignore the large leaf-covered hole he dug for them to fall into. He fights the urge to look down.
“The Ritual.” Father Quinn calls, and Doorman stops.
“Yes. What about it?”
“He wants to know who’s takin’ part.” Drifter interrupts. He dares to look bored. Picking uneaten parts of yesterday's meal out between the gaps of his fangs with a long black claw.
There's a prolonged silence. One where the priest purses his lips against his cigar and follows Drifter's gaze toward Doorman. The cogs don't need to turn in Doorman's mind; he already knows why the Venator wants him here.
“And I’m supposed to divulge the private information of my clientele to you, because?”
“He thinks he deserves it.”
The Venator rolls his eyes, his clouded one struggles to follow. “It is not about causation. Give me names, and I will offer you protection from the unnatural abominations that think they deserve gifts from false patrons.”
“And if I don’t?” The Doorman turns his full attention to the priest.
“Then I will take no pride in procuring the information myself.”
“By eradicating me?”
“If it must be done.”
The Drifter lets out a long, amused whistle.
Doorman becomes all too aware that he was not destined to watch a fight between a vampire and a priest. “You lured me here for this?” Doorman's mouth thins into a tight line. He thinks about the disposal furnace in the gut of the Baroness and how fitting a home it would be for this overgrown dog.
Drifter raises his hands in surrender. “He gave me quite the deal.”
Doorman is aware he has no allyship in Drifter, but he can't help but think of the word, traitor.
“Just the names of those partaking who take residence in the Baroness. I will do the rest.”
“Will you now?” There’s a tight snap in Doorman's voice that makes the air grow stale. The jasmine and sandalwood have all but been sapped out of the church.
“And how would your handlers take to such a thing? Consulting with the abominations you wish to save me from? And if that doesn’t take, you’ll slaughter me like a lamb!”
“I will bring no harm to you if you do as asked. The diocese would be greatly aided. I would be greatly aided. I am asking kindly, but I am not begging. I will get my names.”
Drifter is lapping it up. This is the longest he has held his tongue between his teeth, his face is torn up into an insatiable grin. The Doorman feels his forehead tighten. His jaw locks in a way that should feel painful, but doesn’t. The wolf in priests’ clothing is almost assuredly not aware of The Doormans’ true nature, and Drifter is greedily drinking it all in.
Drifter knows that look and laughs, “Don’t look at me like that, mon cher.”
“Speak another word.” There’s an edge to his voice, one that distorts ever so slightly, but he knows better. The Doorman inhales and wipes away the anger from the front of his jacket. He knows Drifter is angling for a fight, but not between them, he wants Doorman to reveal himself. To shed his skin and lay himself bare for the Venator. Drifter wants the Venator dead, or worse, traumatised.
The church falls silent. Father Quinn is no idiot by any standards, he’s headstrong first but an observationalist second. In the silence, ash falls from his cigar and smears against the stone slab flooring.
“I cannot give you names any more than you could protect me, Father Quinn.” The Doorman adjusts, composes and smiles. “But let us not stain what could potentially be the start to a long friendship.” The candlelight casts shadows of puppeteered flame against the side of the Venator's face. Doorman has to resist diving into the recesses of his mind. To pluck and pull and those wonderful memories. Regrets. Failures. “Surely I could accommodate you in some other way?”
The pews creak behind them. “What’re you doin’?” Drifter doesn’t sound like he's smiling anymore. It’s a deep anger that he has only managed to summon a few times in their meetings together.
“Utilising opportunities.”
“I can assure you I am only interested in this one opportunity.” The Venator has yet to move, still glued to the altar. His eyes flick to Drifter. He finds in the second, he’s blinked, the vampire has shifted from the back row to the front third.
“The ritual is dangerous, but you already know that.” A gloved hand gently redirects the priest's chin, forcing his eyeline back to meet the piercing blue gaze and not the fierce red ones over his shoulder. “That’s why you’re doing it, aren’t you? The danger of it all. The risk. It was never about the reward, not even for the privilege of having a name that strikes fear into the hearts of all abominations. You want more than bloodshed and banishment. You want something new.”
The Venators' brows sink over his eyes, he considers it, or at least for a second, he lets the implications swirl in the front of his mind. Doorman's words bounced off the corners with a fervent determination to catch him off guard.
He wants to want it. Doorman can almost taste the tobacco on his lips.
Drifter's boots hit the floor with sturdy anger, before he can breathe down the fledgling's neck, the Venator pulls away. He rounds the side of the table and places his hands flat against the top. Perhaps the fledgling pushed it too far. Perhaps gently sending his words forth to embed themselves into the cracks of Venator's mind was too much, too fast.
“I want names.” Father Quinn looks tired, perhaps even a little desperate. The fledgling hazards a guess, he’s vastly unprepared for the ritual. Drifter was a last resort, and the Doorman wasn’t even considered on the Venators' list of important agents.
Doorman's sigh slips into disgust, “shame.” He turns and sits in the first row of pews. The bench is hard and unforgiving, just as any catholic would enjoy.
For the brief second Doorman turns his eyes upward, he sees a spark of something odd in Drifter's face. It’s not the surface anger that catches him off guard, but the very subtle hint of jealousy that makes his eyebrows sit heavier, darkening the red swallowed pupils. He wants to see more, to poke at that gently swelling jealousy.
As if he could hear Doorman's thoughts, Drifter's hungry grin returns, his face softens, and his eyes lighten. “Was never gonna work.” Drifter's shoulders pull back. The darkness that started to seep from him disperses, “he’s soft.”
“Speak again, vampire, and I'll have you eviscerated.” The priest spits harshly before he plucks his cigar from between his lips and stubs it into the small silver collection bowl, undoubtedly brandishing the nice shine of its metal.
“Ooh, you promise, father? Please, I haven’t tasted a Venator in years,” he breathes, and the sound rattles his chest. “The last one I bled dry screamed and cried like a newborn, not for god though. No, god wasn’t there to save him, and neither were you.”
The thin line in the priest's resolve snaps. The Venator slams his fists on the altar, sending the silver cross toppling to the floor. In a few strides, he’s in front of the Drifter. Fingers sharp, pointing toward the underside of the vampire's chin. “Your foul words hold no weight here, you’re nothing but vermin.” His fingers shake with the resistance to stop himself from wrapping his hands around the vampire's throat.
“And yet, you sought me out.” Drifter teases, his voice cleared of all its rage and sings that sweet old tune Doorman has become so accustomed to hearing. “Vermin in your house, priest. You may as well put cheese down for me.” He laughs slowly, a deep rumble that makes the Doorman's chest squeeze.
“Oh, come now.” Doorman tries to sound as uninterested in this petty squabble as possible. When he’s left ignored, he sinks back into the bench, watching the two natural enemies slink closer into each other's orbits. He can practically see the steam rising from them. If he were a lesser eldritch god, he’d sit back, watch, and enjoy the show, but he can’t. Not that he’d ever outwardly admit to the Drifter how fond of him he is, but perhaps he knows. Through their ethereal ties and leashes. Through their week-long fights and arguments.
The Doorman can’t let the Venator go to waste either…not yet.
“They said you were the worst one.” The Venator's voice is an angry hush. He drags his eyes painfully up from the worn boots on Drifter's feet to the top of his hat. “I brought you here to see just how dangerous you are. But so far, you’ve proven yourself to be nothing more than a weak, meager dog brought to heel by a singular man. It looks pathetic, Drifter, that collar around your neck.”
“You think you have any audacity to speak to that priest? When your god doesn’t even know your name!”
“When you spend eternity rotting in hell, all you’ll remember is who put you there!”
“Oh, if I'm going to hell, padre, you’re coming with me!”
Before the Drifter can sharpen his claws, the two men bite their tongues. The brief heated silence is cut by a short, sweet laugh. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The Doorman raises a hand in a feigned apology. “Please, go on. I’ve taken the evening off, which means I'm more than delighted to sit here and listen to your petty squabbles.”
“He started it.” Drifter chimes, his eyes remain locked onto the priest in front, sizing up the veins that pulse against his neck.
The Venator’s lips twitch, “I’ll be more than happy to finish it too.”
“Are you both quite done?” the Doorman says as he pushes his weight up off the bench. “Perhaps we should focus on reducing the tension here before we slaughter one another, yes?”
“Clearly.” Father Quinn mutters, his voice a low gravel. It’s hard not to feel delighted by the vibrato of it. The look he continues to give Drifter only leads Doorman to imagine all the ways the priest is killing the vampire in his mind.
“I mean, really, if we get ahead of ourselves now and kill each other before the ritual…well, it takes all of the fun out of it, doesn’t it?” The Doorman passes a look, a soft smile, and gentle but firm movements. They may be blood-hungry animals, but he certainly isn’t afraid of them. He places a gloved hand on the nape of Drifter's neck. Fingers slip through long dark strands.
The priest watches, and after a beat, a gloved hand slides gently across scar tissue that smothers the Venator's right cheek. It’s gentle and somewhat exploratory, feeling the bumps and dashes of hardened skin, he has to restrain himself from wanting to know more. His hand eventually comes to rest under his chin.
“Let us come to a resolution.”
“What’re you suggesting, bellhop?” Drifter asks, but doesn’t need to.
“Well, we could all use a little…stress relief, couldn’t we?”
For the first time, the Venator and the Vampire share a look that a fledgling god simply can't deduce.
***
“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The Doorman says, his voice a slight hitch in the hard exhale he’s forced to take.
The Drifter grins against the back of his thigh, “Yes, it was. Just this is better.” Doorman can’t argue with that. He supposed this wasn't a lot different from what he had expected, with Drifter behind him and Quinn under him, held in place between them both. He’s only half naked. His pants long discarded in a pile somewhere at the front of the church, and yet both the Venator and Drifter remain fully clothed, it’s almost humiliating, if the Doorman could admit to feeling such a thing.
“It’s just - when I suggested stress relief -” the fledgling hisses and screws his eyes shut. The priest has two fingers in his cunt, working him open. He’s been diligent, thrusting rhythmically with an air of softness. On occasion, he pulls his fingers out and reminds the Doorman that his throbbing dick has not been forgotten.
Drifter, on the other hand, has been less than kind, tongue fucking him in a way that makes the concept of sin feel utterly real. He’s been at it for a while, lathering up every hole with spit and drool. Coating him inside and out, it’s still going to hurt, Doorman thinks, but that's only half the fun.
“Gentle.” Father Quinn breathes against Doorman's temple, he knows Cain is not talking to him.
“You think he deserves gentle, Father?” Drifter muses behind Doorman. He pulls away and wipes the sting of spit from his chin. For a moment he and the Venator's eyes meet. The vampire takes a long moment to drag his tongue across his teeth. Whatever point he tries to make, the priest ignores and simply turns his attention back to the Doorman.
The priest's fingers curl inside him, and it earns the hymn-less church a soft moan.
Just when he thinks he’s free of Drifter's constant petting and touching, a large red hand pushes against the dip in Doorman's spine. Nails dig in for a moment, threatening to break the skin. Drifter won’t. He’s harsh, but he’s careful, knowing just how much pressure to apply until he feels the first few tiny layers begin to pop under his claws.
Once he’s satisfied with how lathered he is, he shifts, trying to get into a better position, one where he knows he can drive the power from his thighs.
“You spiteful wretch.” Doorman exhales. For a brief moment, he is pleasantly surprised by the kind hand the Venator is leading with, and it’s welcomed, even if it is founded on the idea that Doorman is human, that he is something that can be easily broken. He doesn’t know if he should feel flattered by Father Quinn's protection, as if words alone could save him from being shredded to pieces by Drifter
If he were to witness how they tear each other apart weekly, he was certain the priest would not be so kind.
“Easy,” Venator whispers. He is a balancing point for Doorman. His hands steady on his hips, grounding him to his clothed chest. They’re lying on the floor of the church they are busy desecrating, not that Father Quinn seems to mind.
It must be easy, Doorman thinks, to pick and choose when something can desecrate God and all its toys.
The feeling of wetness makes the Doorman shiver every so often, or perhaps it’s the press of Father Quinn's fingers, careful and experienced. Split him open until the church and its walls all but tip around him.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the priest is good at this. Of course he is. What is there left in the world for men like them? If not blood and sex.
“Can I -” Father Quinn starts, and it amuses Doorman to hear him stumble as much. The Drifter stifles his own amusement, he’s never known to ask, only to take.
The vampire leans down, his eyes peering over the Doorman's shoulder, "That's cute, Father”, he mocks in a way that has his voice purring. “You gonna be this soft when we are tearing each other apart?”
Venator raises his eyes. It almost pains him to tear his gaze away from the Doorman. He feels like a moth, drawn to the flame. The flame dances alluringly, but from a slight tilt to the left, the flame looks painted, thickened oils melting together in a cosmic sunrise. From the right, the Doorman is a blowtorch, ready to scorch his wings.
“If you could both get on with it.” Doorman interrupts, his voice a quiet shake, it's underlined with desperation, one that translates into the gentle quiver of his thighs and drip between his legs.
Drifter doesn’t have to be told twice, he's pulled his neglected heavy cock out from his pants and nudges it forward into wet, tight muscle and pushes in slowly. The noise he drags out of the fledgling is almost as delicious as the sensation of being inside him. He groans with a sharp hiss. The Doorman's gloved hands find purchase in the balled fabric of Venator's cassock.
He feels the priest's hands tighten around his hips, a secure squeeze that grounds him next to the occasional waft of breath that Father Quinn remembers to exhale.
With no further need for encouragement, the priest removes his hands for a moment, careful not to jolt the false human on his chest. He pulls himself free, his cock heavy in his hand. He’s not as long as the Vampire, but he’s thicker, and for a moment, Doorman wishes he had the opportunity for a taste.
“Any day now Father,” Drifter mutters as he pulls the collar of Doorman's jacket down to expose the dip in his neck. There’s a mangled attempt at half-healing the bite still embedded in his pale flesh. He’s left it there as a reminder above anything else. It makes Drifter sink his cock in deeper.
The priest obeys and brushes the head of his cock against the Doormans before sliding into a tight, welcoming warmth.
“Ah…” The Doorman lets slip a loud whine. He bites his lower lip, resisting complaint, but the feeling of them both splitting him open sends his head on a tilt as he dips his forehead down to rest against the soft fabric of the Venator's rising chest.
“Look at you take it, bellhop.” Drifter muses proudly despite the slight slur in his voice, a little dazed in his own euphoria.
“It’s alright.” Father Quinn exhales, determined to silence the vampire's words with comfort. “Just breathe, I'll give you time to adjust.” His voice is patient, soft, slow. The kind you wouldn’t expect to hear uttered out of a supposed zealous crazed priest.
They are for the longest time - still. For the first few seconds, it is undeniably needed. The fledgling god breathes in short, shallow sips. He knows he can take it. What kind of a god would he be if he couldn’t push past the very surface wants of his barely human body?
Drifters' impatience is not the first to falter. Father Quinn's hips stutter into Doorman's warmth. He can barely mask the groan that vibrates through his throat as he attempts to stop himself from pushing further. And it is tight. Intoxicatingly so. His movements only spur the vampire to hiss, clearly feeling the priest move against him.
“You’re going to tear me apart.” The Doorman finally breathes loudly, punctuating the hardness in his voice.
The Venator smiles. Doorman can feel the upturn against his temple. “No, not today.” His hands return to pet the dips in Doorman's waist. His fingers follow the trail of soft freckled skin up until the seam of his jacket selfishly hides the rest of him. He knows the Venator must think it odd - but to expose himself truly would ruin the illusion that he could be simply squashed like a frail human man.
A sudden movement from behind the Doorman earns the room a loud whimper.“Speak for yourself, priest,” Drifter pushes in until the fledgling can feel the vampire's stomach press flush against his back. He feels the Drifter pin - press him against Father Quinn as if neither of them were anything to consider, and when the vampire finally moves, he is sloppy. A harsh rhythmic back and fourth that can't decide on how much he wants it. In the drag back, he’s desperate, quick to feel that tightness return to him and the full feeling of the priest fully sheathed inside of Doorman's cunt. It’s immediately known to them all just how it makes the Drifter feel.
“Oh…god.” The false human in Venator's lap whispers into his chest. For a moment, he feels like a lap dog. Venator's hands pet his sides in an attempt to soothe him, but not long after Drifter's relentless back and fourth his fingers still and instead grip, holding the Doorman still.
“There you go,” he coos, despite the way his voice sounds, “wasn’t this the release you promised us?” The priest has found his gall now that he’s balls deep inside Doorman and is slowly starting to rock his hips up into him. There’s not much he can do, however - with Drifter rutting against Doorman’s ass like he’s in heat - pinning them both to the church floor.
Ode to desire, a white flag of violence.
The air between them is hot and filled with the soft grunts and gasps that catch in their throats before rising to the fresco ceiling. Drifter has his lips grazing against Doorman’s nape. When he opens his eyes, he catches the priest staring at him.
It’s not hard to tear his lips away from where pseudo veins pump cyan blue inside the fledgling god's flesh, his large blood-stained hand quickly replaces the space, wrapping around Doorman’s throat. His hand almost wraps back on itself, claws curling back toward his wrist as he gives the soft flesh an experimental squeeze.
Two things happen the moment the fledgling god lets out a long stifled whine. The flash of anger that sparks in Father Quinn’s eyes burns something addictive inside the deepest pit of Drifter's chest. A look that ingrains in his very marrow that Father Quinn won’t die until he has bled that look dry, over and over. For the first time in years, he feels a rush of adrenaline that rocks his core and ushers him to fuck deeper into the wet warmth below him.
The second that Drifter devours that look, he releases the pressure around Doorman's throat but instead guides him back and away from the safety of the Venator's chest. He lets out a half reluctant whimper, and before the rest of those sweet noises can escape, the vampire almost tenderly pushes his lips against the Doorman's. He parts them with his tongue, letting it linger just for a moment on his bottom lip. He knows the priest is still watching, he can feel his gaze burning against his skin.
Drifter pushes his tongue in, it’s enough to make a statement on everyone's behalf. That jealousy that had started to burn in his chest had finally broken free, and the Doorman contently opened his mouth without argument. In all their centuries of knowing one another, the Doorman did not think he’d ever need to kiss the vampire. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted to, but now they had a witness to it.
Venator watched, his hips at first stilled and faltered to push any deeper than the head of his cock. He watched as this unnatural abomination, this ungodly thing, pushed its tongue down the man's throat to seal its claim.
They kissed with fervency, and the very sight of it was somehow more painful to the priest's morals than having his dick half buried inside wet cunt, and yet, as he watched the Doorman's lips break away to breathe, as their wetness caught the light under the low glow of glass saints, the priest found his hips hammering back into tight warmth with a feverish desperation.
“CAIN!” The Doorman almost yells. His throat catches his breath as he fails to choke up the shock of being thrust into like the priest's life is on the line. Neither of them question the name that is pulled from Doorman's reddened lips, certain a simple mistake heard in the rushing of blood in their ears.
The two pick up pace, they’re sloppy, uncoordinated, it feels too much and not enough. It feels as if the body the Doorman had so perfectly sculpted is going to split in two. He’s panting into Drifter's mouth, trying to steal the air from him that he’s certain the vampire doesn’t need.
Father Quinn has gone slack-jawed, he’s certain that after this, he’ll have to do more than confession and five Hail Marys. His cheeks are flushed, and the colour almost manages to come through against the harsh red of his skin.
Drifter is close. The Doorman can feel the sporadic thrusts from behind. His hand is released at the gentle touch of gloved fingers. He lets the fledgling go and returns to grazing the sharp points of his teeth against the nape of Doorman's spine. He’s learnt his lesson, that warm, sickly sweet cyan is safe under the blanket of pale flesh.
The fledgling leans down, his hands gentle on either side of the priest's face, who suddenly, in the pleasure of it all, looks startled by it.
He offers no words of comfort, just panting and a slight edge of noise that is punctuated as a whimper.
He places his lips against the priest’s and pushes the taste of the vampire against Father Quinn's mouth.
It takes a pump or two, and he feels the Venator release. The priest's vision goes blindingly white and then black before he opens his eyes to two unnaturally blue eyes staring at him. He shudders, his whole body does, and the Doorman squeezes around him as he shakes.
Drifter is not long behind releasing into the tightness of the fleglings ass with a groan as desperate as the day they had started fucking.
No one pulls out yet. Instead, Drifter rests his forehead between Doorman's shoulder blades, his hands gently wrapped around his waist, holding him still until they all regain the nerve and sense to start fighting again. In the brief aftermath, it almost feels strange how natural this unnatural trio breathe in tandem and finds a moment of brief solace in the sweat and heat.
Father Quinn swallows down his pride for once, and his hands follow the Doorman’s side until they grace the short strands of his bright orange hair, and in his euphoric haze cannot help but wonder how closely this Doorman resembles an angel and how utterly wrong the Drifter knows he is.