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Drifter arrived at The Baroness and knocked upon the door, a pattern of raps that he growled underneath.
"Oh-ho, mon cher?" he rumbled, grinning. "Petit cher, petit cher, let me come in."
When the door stayed firmly locked, he leaned against it and continued to knock in time with his words.
"Or I'll huff..." his voice lowered even more, becoming more threatening. "And I'll puff..."
The door opens, causing him to stumble forward as he tries to catch his balance.
"I hate when you do that," the Doorman scoffs, standing, perfectly coiffed, glaring at the Drifter in that cool, disdainful way that he might look upon shit smeared on the sole of his shoe.
Drifter's lips curl and his eyes are filled with a furious anger and hate that catches his fellows off guard.
"Now is that any way to speak to a guest, mon cher?"
The Doorman doesn't let his expression change, but he also clearly is rising to the bait if the way his shoulders tense is any indication.
Rigidly, the Doorman steps to the side, but only enough to allow the Drifter to pass through by making himself as small as possible. The immediate, ready tension between them feels as static in the mere inches between their bodies, as the Drifter steps into the entryway. Everybody else in the room can feel it from quite the distance, and a distance they keep as the two Eldritch men maintain eye contact like two feral animals sensing a threat, a competitor, a meal.
"You're late to your reservation," the Doorman says, cool and sneering as he trails behind the other man with the cold clack of his shined dress shoes.
"Better late than never," the Drifter rumbles. "It's more fun with the party's already started, and every body is good and warm."
"I'm sure," The Doorman says through his teeth, his lips barely twitching.
If Drifter is a slavering wolf at the door, the Doorman is a stern and well-bred guard dog and they both have teeth that are made to rend and tear. And Drifter always loved seeing the Doorman bare his teeth.
He pokes and prods throughout the evening as everyone goes over the plan of attack, and then at one point Drifter starts flirting and flashing his teeth at one of the other members of their little party.
And that is what makes the Doorman snap, makes him grab at Drifter in a way that everyone translates as violence but Drifter knows is possessiveness.
It was Billy, the goat-headed punkrocker. The hybrid had been watching the Drifter the moment the man had walked through the door, ears stiff at attention like a proper prey animal witnessing a wolf stalk through the flock. Expectant and braced for dangerous attention.
What was clearly unexpected was for the Drifter to approach him with a grin that was just soft enough to elicit a twist of morbid curiosity. An interest in what sort of hunger the wolf was flashing with his canines dipping over his lower lip.
"Why, ain't'chu a showstopper. What's your name, kid?" Drifter croons, looking down at the hybrid from where he stood before the couch. Blocking him effectively, entrapping him under his attention, and finding it in a surprised flick of an ear.
"Eh... don't laugh. It's Billy."
Drifter grins and offers his hand for a shake, only to turn Billy's hand so he can offer a kiss to the back of it like he's a damsel in a story and not a terrifying creature straight from the Satanic Panic.
The Doorman appears out of nowhere before Drifter's mouth can make contact. Long, gloved fingers grasp at Drifter's chin and jaw, dragging him so that he stares up at the Doorman, who is glaring down at him, eyes burning bright blue as Drifter's own eyes burn red in return.
"Do not harass the guests of the Baroness, mutt."
"Or what, mon cher?"
Drifter can feel the crackle of the Doorman's powers, licking across his skin and flesh like the feeling of a lightning storm in the air right before it hits.
There is the slightest suggestion of anger, of *rage,* buried deep within the tight muscles of the Doorman's jaw. The quietest creak of grinding teeth and restraint slipping. His gloves itch against the rough facial hair of the Drifter's scraggly jaw as his grip tightens down, dimpling the skin, feeling the impression of teeth beneath the flesh.
"You would like to know," the Doorman says low, the inhuman drag of something otherworldly bleeding through his projection of his voice, stereoing it in layers in the Drifter's ears.
"Oh, withholding hospitality?" the Drifter growls, unable to flash his characteristically jagged grin with the Doorman's hold over him. "My, I do believe that would not reflect well on The Baroness reputation, now would it?"
The vampire's accent melts words into one brush, purring together consonants and lengthening the hiss between his teeth as he croons his jeers up into the other man's face. His red eyes narrow for just a moment before dilating out, a snicker building in his throat as he can practically taste the Doorman's ire coming through the perfectly-coifed layers of refinement and aristocracy.
The others settled on the couch edge away as much as they can, sensing that whatever it was going on between these two was patently not something they wanted any involvement in. Billy looks especially put off and confused, stressing to himself that he may have inadvertently caused a schism of the Eldritch powers that be, when it was already an inevitability set in motion generations before his conception.
"Do not speak of The Baroness as if you put any respect on that name, vermin."
"Ah, there he is. The loyal lapdog, the Patron's pet," the Drifter sneers, even as the Doorman refuses to relinquish his hold over his jaw. He pushes into it, bringing them almost nose to nose, making sure to catch the disgusted wrinkle of the Doorman's features at the scent of his hot, bloody breath.
"All bark. No bite."
His next breath is driven through his lungs as the Doorman delivers a swift, nausea-inducing punch right into his gut. The many centuries he's spent on this miserable rock never brings about an immunity to the pain of a fist, and it blooms throughout his core in a twist of feral excitement.
Like a wolf hitting a tree root in a mad chase through underbrush, he sees the glimpse of a white tail as his paws are only momentarily unsteadied before the resounding thrill of the hunt surges through him, his next breath pulling harder as he pushes himself forward towards his prey now that he sees it.
Resisting the reflexive urge to curl down against the gut punch, he instead rears his head back in spite of the Doorman's hold over his jaw and slams his head forward with everything he's got– hearing just as much as feeling the crunch of nasal bone and tissue sweetened with the delectable tang of that divine blood.
The sudden violence is jarring to everyone in the room and they are all jerking into action, prepared to fight, to defend, to do something.
The Doorman can see the panicked looks on their faces and he snaps his fingers– The Baroness begins to warp around him, tiles peeling aside to form a gaping, empty maw in the ground.
Everyone is screaming, shouting, the sound of weapons being drawn filling the air. Drifter lunges forward but the Doorman grasps at his wrist with one hand, relinquishing the grip on the mangey mutt's jaw with the other in order to grasp at his coat's lapel.
He turns, steps over the seemingly endless void, and drags Drifter in a bizarre and familiar waltz of violence, to a tune that only the two of them can hear, and into the unnatural unending chasm they plummet.
All that is left behind once they leave is the perfectly repaired and beautifully immaculate insides of the Baroness. Their team is confused, frozen, but neither Drifter nor the Doorman care.
Not when they are now being held, cradled, in the bowels of the Doorman's domain, the darkness moving like a living thing around them before changing to the Doorman's will, depositing them with a hush into a part of the endless nothing where the Doorman can finally get his hands around Drifter's neck, pinning him down into what feels like one of the luxurious beds of the hotel's many rooms, but he knows is simply the darkness playing pretend, mirroring his whims and wills and what he wants.
And what he wants is for Drifter to scream beneath him as he takes him.
The plummet into an endless nothing serves well to trigger the primordial hindbrain that lives within the Drifter. The ugly, vestigial thing that commands the man, propels him forward with hunger and violence, now snaps taut like a string of fear for just a fleeting moment.
It's enough to stagger the snarl from his lips, a stunned moment he can never fully stave off as he comes back to himself. Like a free fall ad nauseum, he feels as though he were stuck in limbo trying to right himself in air with the Doorman being his only anchor.
"You never play fair, Doorman," the vampire growls, ears twitching instinctually, like a disorientated feline, before snapping back against his skull when gloved hands wrap around his throat and squeeze.
"Fair is not the game you want to play," the Doorman seethes out.
He squeezes, hard enough to feel the shift and pop of the tendons in his own hands before he relinquishes. One palm stays cradling the other man's throat, the bob of an adam's apple beneath his glove as he swallows thick spit against the asphyxiation. The other comes to wipe beneath his nose, smearing black against pristine white fabric.
The beast beneath him goes rigid and still, and after inspecting the soiling of his glove, he turns his burning blue eyes upon the Drifter. The man was staring at the blood spilling down over his lip, trailing towards his chin before it was smeared to the side, the rivulets interrupted.
"A hungry stomach doesn't know fair, darling," the Drifter croons, as though he suddenly knew niceness when he thought it could get him what he wanted.
He knew the Doorman. He knew he wanted subservience. He knew he wanted blood.
His tongue peeks out over his lower lip, pointed and far too long to be recognizably human anymore. It shows for only a moment before curling sweetly and dragging over the ridges of his pronounced fangs, where something catches the Doorman's eye.
With the bloodied glove, he harshly drives his thumb into the Drifter's mouth and hooks it in his cheek. Pulling, he feels as much as he sees visualized in the paradoxically freezing cold and too warm void of nothing the unsteady breath that his blood rips from the Drifter's very core. His jaw trembles as he resists the urge to just bite down.
"You bastardize the sanctity of gold and ornamentation," the Doorman says coldly, inspecting the tooth cap covering one impressive fang.
Ignoring the slow shift of motion at his hips, he toys with the man's mouth. Inspecting, testing, seeing what the wolf of a man under him would permit to in his hunger before something snapped and the pitifully thin thread of restraint he's trained into the Drifter breaks. He disregards the brutishly large hands, tipped in impossibly long and sharp claws, roving over his waist, for that won't draw blood even as it brings it to the surface of his features.
The Doorman doesn't bleed per se. He is not a creature of true flesh and blood. It is all an illusion.
But Drifter has tasted the ichor that runs through the Doorman's veins and he would be a thrice-damned fucking liar if he said that he didn't crave it just as much– if not more- than the feeling of his cock sheathed inside the lean, tight body of the creature currently keeping him pinned.
The Doorman leans over, staring down at Drifter and drawing the ichor in his body to his bruised and aching nose. The black ichor, so dark that it seems to absorb any semblance of light around it, drips out of him, slow and molasses-like and just as fucking bitter and sweet to Drifter as he opens his own mouth, tongue lolling.
The golden toothcap with those goddamned rubies in it glints as Drifter runs his tongue over it, breathing and swallowing around the saliva pooling within his mouth, threatening to drown him before he can even hope to taste the tantalizing ambrosia just out of his reach.
"Disgusting," the Doorman scoffed.
With any other being it would cause a spray of blood across Drifter's face, a fine few faint droplets that Drifter could desperately catch upon his tongue if he tried. But of course, in even this, the Doorman wouldn't bear something so messy and indignant and human as to let his own blood cause a mess.
So he just sat there, upon Drifter's lap, like a prissy little purebred cat, staring down at Drifter with his blood slowly, tantalizingly, dripping down his mouth, his chin, nanometer by nanometer, never enough to give Drifter the taste he so desperately wanted.
"Well?" the Doorman arched a neatly manicured brow down at him. "Be a good mutt and beg for your scraps."
Breathing noisily through his nose, the Drifter has to force a swallow that is wet and loud and demeaning for the fact that he wasn't being allowed to close his mouth to preform the action. A shudder traces up his spine as it only grants him a deeper pull of air, like he could will the blood into his very lungs to drown in.
But he wasn't going to beg.
Narrowing his eyes into beady, red slits, he only angles his chin down to bare more of the wanting hole of his mouth. Lashes fluttering as he doesn't dare look anywhere else but into the Doorman's striking eyes that speak to a powerful horror that could utterly consume him without flinching, he simply rumbles. It's a throaty, glottal noise of an animal that hasn't been properly domesticated, still lineages and eras away from being a recognizable being distinct from the beast he is.
For it, the Doorman sweeps his thumb down, into the pocket of lip before his incisors, to collect the ample drool pooling there. It clings to the glove, dampening it, saturating it so entirely that when he retracts his thumb and smears it across the Drifter's face— beneath his nose, through the facial hair, up along his cheekbone— it leaves a visible, clinging trail.
"You will beg."
His voice reverberates endlessly in the empty chasm of his domain, reaching its fingers of hard consonants deep into the Drifter's very being and plucking out the quietest noise from his vocal cords. A meek gasp, a mere hitch in his breath that catches wrong enough to produce an unbecoming sound.
Still, he doesn't. He doesn't even offer a retort, or a sneer, or anything of his voice willingly, knowing that anything is invigorating reward enough. Shifting beneath the Doorman, he arches his back and cants his hips, pressing up into the weight of the other man.
As soon as his eyes start to flutter shut, reaping the stolen pleasure from the friction against those ridiculous bellboy trousers and the shape of lean muscle and the memory of pleasure past, he's struck.
In his lapse of acute awareness, the Doorman draws his hand away and strikes him with an open palm. It rings in his ears, ripping a grunted hiss through his teeth, as his head is wrenched to the side with the sheer vindictive force behind it. There's a swim to his vision for a fleeting second that he blinks away, slow moving to recenter his attention before it's forcibly done for him.
The Doorman grips his jaw hard enough that he knows, with a certainty that any mammal possesses about their fleshy, futile body, that it will bruise deep and ugly and purple within his pallid skin. He grins, slow and soft around the sharp points of his teeth, as he chuckles. It's a tempting sound, low and slow and tumbling and inviting.
Many have called him such things as a sadist; he was cruel, cold, torturous. But those weren't the only facets he possessed. He was quite generous, if it only came to the pain he could dole out. And the Drifter was the most gluttonous man-thing he's ever dirtied his hands on.
He almost didn't want to hit him again, because he knew that would be the true punishment. But it would also mean denying himself the very true pleasure of spilling the stolen blood of the vampire.
"Now look at what you've done," the Doorman said, voice quiet and deadly in a way that never failed to make Drifter's unbeating heart give a tight squeeze, his entire body shivering imperceptibly for a moment with the keen desire to give in, to show his belly and submit to whatever the Doorman wanted.
The Doorman held out his gloved hand, sullied by the smear of Drifter's stolen blood, the dark brown nearly black of it covering the Doorman's entire palm.
"Filthy beast."
Drifter's eyes, disoriented as they were, fixed on the line of perfectly even, perfectly white, perfectly human teeth as the Doorman captured the tip of one gloved finger between them, tugging until the desecrated article was removed and long, slender fingers tipped with neatly manicured nails- not claws and wasn't that just a fucking tragedy- were held up. The Doorman dropped the glove onto Drifter's chest as he observed his own fingers with a displeased moue, blazing blue eyes observing clean nails and smooth, uncalloused fingertips and unsplit knuckles.
Always so beautifully put together.
Always so tidy.
Drifter wanted to smear his own filth across him.
The next swallow of his own saliva made Drifter nearly choke from the sheer volume of it, his eyes fixed upon the Doorman with rapt attention on that small, chaste, expanse of skin. It was nothing, it was less than nothing. The last time he had been so achingly fucking hard from a scrap of skin was back when it was scandalous for a lady to flash her ankles.
But here he was, hard and throbbing and twitching against the fastenings of his own trousers, trying to rut against the Doorman's fucking inseam like it would give him anything.
Terrifyingly, the Drifter finds his next breath hard to capture around the knot of need in his throat. It makes it hard to swallow, to breathe, to even think straight. So he doesn't think, and he allows his jaw to drop open and for his tongue to laze over the cusp of his teeth.
His lip was split, but he ignores the driving spike of carnal hunger that pierces his stomach at the taste of his own blood. Not when he watches how the Doorman appraises the offer of his waiting tongue with the slightest tightening of his lower lids, never dulling the eerie, hollow blue sheen of his irises.
In a moment of terrifying gentle, the other man appraises the offering and accepts it with the smooth slide of fingers against the wet muscle. Probing, pushing, and slipping deeper until he met resistance with no reflex.
Something that the Drifter wasn't wont to give as freely as one would expect from an animal like him— the control of his tongue and what it suggested. He would allow for nothing to strip him of his liberty to use it how he deemed fit, from jawing off to the silent treatment to using it to lave clean a delicious, disgusting mess. It was miles from open submission, but it was novel penance to the fledging god straddling his lap.
The writhing muscle flexes, presses up against the Doorman's two fingers in mutual exploration, pushing against their seam until they split and allowed him to curl around a knuckle. Tasting him, and finding absolutely nothing. He was free from even the slightest tang of sweat and skin.
It brings a lull to the Doorman's eyes, watching with paralyzing intensity as he worked his tongue between his fingers. Slicking them amply. He paid no mind to how the Drifter's hands tighten around his waist, claws threatening to rip apart the expensive bellboy coat at his middle.
Long, thin fingers press against Drifter's tongue, thrusting slowly, nearly absently, as his other hand moves to the Doorman's own mouth. This glove- pristine compared to the last- is also removed, tugged from long, smooth hands like a reptile shedding a skin. The white fabric falls onto Drifter's chest alongside its twin, before the fingers not currently occupied with the man's drooling mouth begin to undo the perfectly polished brass buttons of the Doorman's uniform.
It is always so thrilling, seeing the Doorman in this way, knowing that this perceived vulnerability is his and his alone. It is ridiculous, of course, to even entertain the idea that the nudity of the Doorman's avatar could be any more vulnerable for the horror than Drifter being more vulnerable because he cleaned off a smear of dirt from his face.
But still, it was a delicious avatar to behold, all smooth, unblemished skin, peaches and cream and with a smattering of freckles that had to be an aesthetic decision on behalf of whatever the Doorman actually was. Not a single scar, not a single bruise, nothing ever ruined the man's skin, no matter how Drifter tried and it was maddening.
But still... wasn't half the joy of doing something in the trying itself?
And then Drifter's attention is stolen all over again when the Doorman carefully undoes the fastenings of his own trousers and draws the fabric down, enough that he can pull his fingers free from Drifter's mouth, dripping with drool, to slide inside his trousers.
The flutter of those unearthly blue eyes- because of him, Drifter, and only him, even if tangentially- tastes sweeter than any blood straight from the source.
Short of the Doorman's own ichor.
The Doorman's hand shifts, his knuckles pushing at the visual barrier of his pants the keeps the Drifter from seeing him in full. It's purposeful, preventing the man-thing under him from getting too excited while he leans back, hips canting forward, pressing his slicked fingers lower between his legs until he can't stifle the mammalian reflex of a shuddered breath.
"Stay," he hisses out, never betraying the twisting of ethereal arousal that permeates the entirety of his godly being, "or I will put you back in your place."
It's asking a dog not to bark. The Drifter's eyes snap to his where they had wandered south, stilling with such resolution that it inspired in full the very real reminder that this man was designed to hunt and kill. It isn't the first time he's entertained the thought of orchestrating a demise at his hands that he could feel it in full, like extending his being into that of a dog's toy to feel it rend its stitches apart and leave it in tatters.
Long claws tracing along the seam of his trousers, but resist the urge to dig in, pull back, filet the fabric from his frame. Even then, he still feels the twitch of bound-up energy, the occasional shudder or spasm of a body meant to be in motion laid in forceful rest. Waiting. Even as each breath draws more ragged and labored.
The smooth pads of his fingers pass over his rim, teasing the slickness of the Drifter's ample drool around until he can effortlessly press in. It was foreplay, something neither of them cared for, nor something his fleshy avatar needed. It was a manner of control, over himself and over the other man. And, in spite of how he was merely a light in a chasm of darkness with borders that only outwardly resembled a human body, it felt good.
It takes only a few short moments before the trousers are troublesome, and not worth the appeal of teasing trembling breaths from the Drifter. When he blinks next, they're completely gone from sight, as is the rest of the Doorman's clothes— because, of course, it would simply look tasteless to still don his bellboy coat.
He physically jerks off the invisible floor comprised of nothing but suggestion, like he were making to lunge at the man. But he remembers, just before he fully follows the action, that his satiation hinged on his subservience.
And in that moment, watching the Doorman press his fingers deeper inside of him, leaned back far enough that each stroke allowed for his knuckles to brush against the tent in the Drifter's pants, he wanted nothing more than to behave.
"Let me- come- come on, cher," Drifter panted, staring and drooling as the hand that had been wrapped around his throat dragged slowly down his chest, long, thin digits digging into the dense muscle of Drifter's chest.
For the first time in centuries Drifter wished that his heart still beat, that blood still pumped and pounded through his veins so he could feel the throb of muscle under a harsh touch.
"Lemme taste you, cher, just a taste, just a lick."
The Doorman scoffed, glaring down at him before he rolled his eyes and leaned forward. The back of his hand moved over Drifter's groin, slowly and barely perceptible but enough to feel the obvious erection where all the stolen blood in Drifter's body was gathering.
"You already ate before this, why should I let you glut yourself?"
"Yes, and I need more if I'm going to satisfy you, cher," Drifter growled, low and slow and gravelly in the way that never failed to make this feeble and fallible human form tremble with a very weak and disgustingly ugly want. "Gimme a taste and I'll lick you open like you like."
And wasn't that such a tempting offer, such a delicious and beautiful offer from such an ugly, base creature.
"Lick me open and then I will give you a... taste, as you say."
He didn't need Drifter to assist him in moving to straddle the beastly creature's head, but his broad, clawed hands still grasped at the Doorman's hips and thighs, as if to stabilize him in a realm where everything, even gravity bent to the Doorman's will. Still, as he settled over the hungry, drooling maw, dragging his hand away from its previous occupation, he could appreciate the brief moment of gentility of the gesture.
It especially felt good at the press of Drifter's tongue into him, those clawed hands squeezing tightly to hold him in place upon the man's face, that gluttonous hunger of his put to use for once.
The blunt fronts of the Drifter's fangs dimple the fragile skin of his intimacy, dragging dangerously as he nuzzles as deep as he can. He was a man that wanted to eat until his jaw fell off, and it was translated well in his enthusiasm— nosing, lapping, huffing like an animal in rut.
To many men, it would be a humiliation. For him, there was nowhere else he wanted to be, and not because it wasn't debasing to a degree, but because it was. He was crushed between the Doorman's smooth, hairless thighs, trapped beneath him, the threat of being suffocated in his sex a pleasing but impossible thought.
The Drifter's sharp nose presses into the crook of his thigh, breathing in deep the too-clean scent of the fledging god. He laves his tongue up, from his rim and perineum to that sensitive little spot where muscles separate in the seam of his legs, and rumbles with delight when it elicits a harsh shudder like it always seems to do. It was a god trapped in flesh, but it didn't mean the flesh was mute to its worldly sensations. That, the Drifter made sure to generously worship.
Hands are fast to twist in his hair, knocking away his cap into the endless nothing. The Doorman makes a fist, pulling the other man's face to where exactly he wanted it, using it as leverage to rut his cock against his sharp features. And the Drifter obliges, going readily with no fuss because he's too busy purring and rumbling, the glottal noises of his enjoyment dominating the space between them.
"To think you use this filthy mouth for anything else," the Doorman says, voice tight and face impassive as he stares down between his legs, "is a travesty."
All the Drifter does is open heavy-lidded eyes, looking completely intoxicated with pupils blown so wide the glow of red was a mere sliver.
He pushes at the Doorman's hips until they cant, and takes the new angle with zeal. It forces the other man to have to lean back, plant a slim palm against the Drifter's broad chest, fingers twisting into the fabric of his ratty shirt as he flinches against intrusion. A jolt carries up his spine as that inhuman tongue works him open, rolling against his rim until he's able to steal depth from pliancy. He settles down heavier as the Drifter works his long tongue against his walls.
Each roll of the thick, wet muscle warrants a flinch, and shudder, and eventually a quiet gasp. He can feel the Drifter's enthusiasm dripping down the smooth curve of his ass, wetting the facial hair the prickles and brushes against sensitive intimacy. He doesn't need to look back to tell that the beastly creature beneath him was rutting his hips into the air, straining against his trousers like it could give him a facsimile of pleasure the Doorman could. But he didn't seem all that bothered by the denial, not as he rumbles so happily, nuzzling hard to inspire a twinge of discomfort in his hips.
"Just as... sloppy and brutish as when you hunt," the Doorman comments, quieter, on the verge of breathlessness.
Rocking his hips, grinding down into his tongue, he watches as a rope of pre falls from his cock, into the Drifter's hair, where he then makes sure to rub it in.
Red eyes burn and the Doorman shudders as two of those eager fingers steal between his thighs, pressing alongside the Drifter's tongue, slow and kneading to coax him even further open. Part of him wants to see the way the tongue that had been stretching him open teases and drools around the two digits pressed to the first knuckle within him, teasing and easing the stretch in a way that took off the edge of pleasurable pain. Neither of them were shy about inflicting pain, even in this, but for some reason the Drifter liked this. The slow, aching pace of teasing and opening and taking that the Doorman couldn't help but enjoy with him.
A low, rumbling sound of pleasure, from Drifter's mouth straight through the Doorman's core, made the Doorman gasp and shake and his hand upon the Drifter's chest and in his hair grasp tighter. He took a moment to lament the fact that the Drifter kept those two specific fingers neatly trimmed, out of all of his wicked claws it was always those two digits that every time the Doorman caught a glimpse of made his gut roil with want.
The Doorman gasped, shaking, as the fingers and tongue within him worked deeper, rutting his hips harder against the sharp features of the man beneath him. Drifter's low, animal groaning rattled behind the Doorman's own teeth as he accepted the pleasure for what it was.
Worship.
Forever ago Drifter had a name, and he had been alive. He had been a drifter then and that had never really changed. He had eked and scratched out something vaguely- pathetically- resembling a life by sneaking into homes, stealing and scavenging and masquerading as a servant then disappearing onto the breeze wherever he pleased.
Once, back then, so fucking long ago, somewhere back on the continent, he had slipped in amongst the servants and had found a shipment of oranges about to be prepared for the masters of the house.
He had pilfered one of those oranges as he had abandoned the servants colors and made his way across the property. He had walked for a few miles before he had pulled the orange from his rucksack and lifted it to his nose, sniffing at the dense, waxy skin before he dug his teeth into it and began to peel.
The fragrance of the thing alone had made his mouth water, but the juice of it? Sticky and sweet and tangy and running in rivulets down his face, turning him sticky with his stolen treat's innards, had been everything.
And here- with the Doorman above him, leaking and dripping and sticky with desire- He was reminded over and over again of how the sheer mess of that plundered delight had been half of what had made it taste so sweet.
Then– abruptly, without warning– it was ripped away from him.
The Doorman rises to his knees, despite the shudder of his thighs, away from the Drifter's face. Drool clings to his inner thighs in slick webs, trailing down the length of his inseam. His cock bobs, flushed and leaking, as he shifts back just enough to bend at the waist. The hand in the Drifter's hair tightens into a painful hold, wrenching his head back until the long, strong column of his throat was bared to the Doorman.
A growl rips from the Drifter's throat, unable to stifle the reflex of hunger at his meal being stolen from his maw. The hands on the Doorman's waist pinch, his brutishly large hands easily encircling him and then some. The moment he tries to pull, drag the smaller man back to his face, he suddenly loses all control over them as the suggestion of something shackles around his wrists and slams them into the ground beside his head.
Now the snarl is real, as he strains at the invisible cuffs stopping him from getting what he wants– what he needs, There's no hope in being able to break them or even earn a modest inch of leeway. The Doorman's domain was not kind or persuasive, just as the fledgling god in control of it wasn't.
Settled on his chest, the Doorman looms over him. His face was impassive, even as his lids lay heavy and his lips remain parted in the quietest show of pleasure. The blue of his eyes cut through the eerie murkiness of the abyssal nothing around them, the contrast of his eyes against the hazy blue-green shimmer of the void eliciting a violent shudder up the Drifter's spine.
"Keep your filthy hands to yourself, dog," the Doorman says coolly.
"Whatever you want," the Drifter sneers, even as he pulls at the restraints. "Je ne voudrais rein d'autre vous, mon cher. Juste vous."
"That mouth is only good for two things," the Doorman hisses, eyes narrowing into a disbelieving blaze. "Poetry is not one of them."
"Can't a man be a little sweet?" the man beneath him says, lips curling into a wicked, sleazy grin. "What's so wrong about that?"
"You know I see all of your intent."
Grabbing the Drifter's jaw again, even as he shifts his hips down until he's settled over the man's stomach, he leans down until they're nearly nose to nose. The Doorman was always so serious, and it always garnered his frustration– but here? It makes him feel like a rat trapped in a corner for what it was.
"I know you are afraid of telling the truth, so you dress it in your tongue hoping I will not believe it."
The proximity brings back into stark focus the scent of his blood, the sweet smell filling the Drifter's lungs as his eyes flutter open wide and he goes terribly still once more.
"Say it again."
The Drifter swallows heavily, watching the drop that never came. He ignores how the Doorman raises onto his knees just enough to snake his hand between their legs to grope at the shape of the Drifter through his pants. The only tell that he even felt the sparks of pleasure and blissful friction was the flutter of his lashes as he fought for a breath that wasn't chokingly full of the god's blood.
He wanted nothing more than the man's blood, to have him in his mouth, to bite down as hard as he could with abandon in the way that only the Doorman was capable of withstanding. It was said once that his blood would kill a normal man, and that's why he was privy to long range; the thought of it being the Drifter's demise was far less terrifying than how the Doorman has pried into his skull and knows how he very much wants it to be what kills him.
"A vous ça."
The Doorman, despite his congeniality to guests of the Baroness, was, at his core, a possessive creature.
Centuries ago he had been worshiped in temples, by acolytes that were willing to give whatever his whims and fancies dictated. Sometimes that was things that they toiled to produce from the earth only for him to blight the crops and reap the blood and suffering of his followers as retribution for their "failure". Sometimes he would outright demand the blood of one of his most loyal spilled across an altar and promise to not slaughter the others in exchange.
He had never seen the appeal of this particular form of worship. Old Gods such as himself demanded blood. Sex had never entered into his mind before.
But this? From Drifter, who was a single-minded beast, a creature of hunger and blood and gluttony to match the Doorman's own incessant and unending greed that he was oh-so-careful to not indulge in?
The Doorman was only so self-sacrificing. Even now, try as he might to put on the guise of humble servant.
The Drifter's trousers were no barrier for him, and as the Doorman quickly, efficiently, stripped him out of his clothing, he couldn't hold back the hungry, shuddering sound that whispered out of him at the sight of pale skin, covered in scars and hair, smelling of sweat and the night air and fresh blood.
Leaning over the man pinned beneath him, the Doorman let out a slow, quiet breath as he positioned himself over the hard, twitching cock of the man in his grasp.
"Good mutt," he said simply, letting the blood that had been clinging to his face slowly drip down onto the Drifter's waiting, lolling tongue as he rolled his hips and took every inch of his hapless prey into the inviting warmth of this close to human body.
How the Doorman studies the other man's face, with keen, intense eyes that don't waver, only makes the open admission that had dripped off his tongue all the more humiliating and terrifying. The fact that the Eldritch being is intent on witnessing it for himself, how much the Drifter was willing to concede in order to gain for his own gluttony, maddening.
There is the softest noise that whistles out of his lungs, a reedy breath as he fights down the urge to buck his hips and drive himself deep into the tight heat around him. He knows that if he does, this is done. Not just paused or adjusted, but ended. He has done it before, disappearing and dropping the Drifter, pants down and cock hard, back onto the streets of New York as consequence for his misbehaving.
He at least had the pity to drop him into an empty alley, then.
And he can't do anything with his hands, still restrained. As the Doorman settles with the other man entirely hilted inside him, he settles both hands on the Drifter's wrists. Even being physically bigger and assuredly stronger than the mortal coil the Doorman has injected his essence into, he was astronomically weaker.
He knows his cock sunk deep into his guts was not the cause for the softening of the Doorman's features, the hum of pleasure, or the thin press of his lips as he begun to grind down. It was his fear in which his stomach coiled and clenched, knowing how utterly helpless he had chosen to be.
He was only given a single drop of that rich, precious blood before the Doorman sits up. The few that followed that were sure to have landed on his tongue were trailed across his chest, soaking into the ratty shirt the Doorman hadn't decided to do away with. The sight of it diffusing into worn, stained cotton, destined to not even leave a stain, works a proper noise of despair out of him, fingers curling as he flexed his claws in frustration.
"You kill me and you will lose your favorite plaything," the Drifter growls, sucking in a shuddering breath to remain steady, still. "And you're killing me."
The Doorman only gives a measly smirk, watching how the Drifter's frustration plays out across his body. The twitching and shuddering of his stomach under his touch, trailing his hands down from his wrists, biceps, chest, and ribs to tease through the thick body hair. The bob of his adam's apple as he swallows down another sound that he hears even if he stifles it, knowing everything of the Drifter without needing a single sense to perceive it. The drool that connects his teeth as he gasps at the scoring of the Doorman's nails down his abs.
And how hard he tries to keep quiet, keep still, let his body be used as an instrument of pleasure by a god for the hope of blood.
Leaning back reveals the prominence of the Drifter's cock pressing through his stomach. It's something that both of them enjoy far too much, to the point that the Drifter pointedly looks anywhere else lest he get plagued by thoughts of properly playing in the other man's insides. He's still yet to convince him to let him have his bloody way with the cosmic being's imperishable form. Thinking about it too hard is liable to make him whine.
"So pitiful," the Doorman mocked, purring as he gave his hips a slow grind, back and forth on Drifter's lap, not thrusting or properly riding him, just adjusting his hips so that he could better see the way the Drifter twitched inside of him, distending his abdomen in a way that pleased something in the human hindbrain of this body.
Tone turning sterner, however, the Doorman barked out, "Look at me."
He ordered, like he was demanding the full attention of a servant he might viciously beat if they decided to disobey. The faint, bloody rings of the Drifter's eyes fixed upon him, his pupils blown so wide with desire that the Doorman knew that he would be the pathetic creature's undoing.
The Doorman said nothing more, his hand trailing from his own face, where he wiped away the blood that he had taunted the man beneath him with, and then dragged the soiled fingers down the slender column of his own throat, to the dip of his clavicles, down his chest, to rest right over his abdomen where he could feel the wanting, obscene twitch of the Drifter's cock within his body.
It was pathetic, the way that the Drifter's entire body tensed, his breath hitched, the way his mouth fell open all over again, desperately begging without words for a brief moment for the Doorman to sink his fingers back into that hungry maw.
But he was never one to just give the Drifter what he asked for.
It just wouldn't do to give him proper encouragement when the Drifter's own gluttonous want would be his own undoing, would make him beg and plead and promise anything that the Doorman wanted in exchange for his own hungers being satiated.
All he had to do was just wait and see what the man would come up with to try and bribe a God.
Who knew? Perhaps today would be the day he promised something worth taking.
"You can't give me nothing," the Drifter growls, though it loses it's harsh edge at the mere sight. "C'mon."
He knows at once that it was a mistake to offer a paltry whine over anything of value, as the Doorman only grins infinitesimally wider. The frozen trickle of a nosebleed from his earlier outburst suddenly pops. Black trails down his lips and down his chin in a steady torrent like a severed artery. It would fall past his stomach and onto the Drifter's if he wasn't leaning so far back, exaggerating their size difference and the generous endowment trying to ruin his impermeable form as blood spatters aross the distention.
"Fuck–" the Drifter hisses, though he remarkably doesn't look away. He doesn't maintain eye contact anymore as he can only helplessly watch all of that precious blood slip down his hips in rivulets and disappear into the nothingness around them. His breath comes harsher, more ragged, and his ears bend back pitifully.
"Doorman," he pants, the thick of his accent wrapping prettily around the false name. "Mon cher, mon coeur–"
It is smeared up, towards the arch of his ribcage where he strains against the binds at his wrists. An unbecoming whimper catches in his throat, and he only spares a flash of embarrassment across his face before he's doggedly lost in bloodlust.
"I'll beg for you. You know I hate to. I'll beg, so prettily," the Drifter says, voice rasping as he grows almost frantic. The Doorman's fingers trail up, pushing under his torn shirt, rucking it up past his chest. "I-I– sil-vous-plaît, please."
"Keep whining, mutt. You're almost as pathetic as you were last time," the Doorman murmurs, finally raising himself onto his knees just a few mere inches before lowering himself back down. Leaning over, bracing his hands beside the Drifter's ribs, he slowly and shallowly fucks himself on the vampire's thick cock with only rapt impassivity.
"But you'll need to do better than that."
Blood drips onto the space left exposed in the loss of his shirt's cover. It pools in grooves of his muscle, between his pecs, down to the hollow of his throat. It was hot against the vulnerable muscle there, working like a relaxant to work loose more desperate, pitiful drabble.
"Mon Dieu, I... I'll kill every mortal on this plane for a taste– just one more taste. I've been good, I've behaved," he manages, barely above a whisper. He only gets a meager tip of the head, unimpressed. It makes him panic. "Je me voue à toi. Pour tourjours, pour ton sang."
That- earnest and desperate and echoing vows that had once upon a time been chanted to him en masse once when he was truly worshipped, no longer this self-imposed servitude- was what he wanted.
The Doorman said nothing, merely swiped his fingers through the inch black ichor that covered the Drifter's chest, caught in his hair, the rucked and ragged fabric of his shirt.
It was a cruel tease, the way one might dangle a scrap of meat just beyond the chain of a starving dog, but it made that same pitiful little sound well up in the Drifter's throat, spilling out into the air between them as the Doorman slid his fingers against the Drifter's mouth, slow and lingering. The smear of black caught in the man's unkempt facial hair, across the razor slash of his mouth, before the Doorman leaned forward, lifting his hips to maintain the same shallow pace that he had started.
"Open." he ordered, and the Drifter obeyed, and in an instant the Doorman had slashed his hand upon the man's mouth, allowing himself to bleed directly into the gaping, slavering maw of the man below him.
"Keep it open."
And then he began to ride the Drifter in earnest.
It was a pace that would have likely damaged or pained a normal human but for the Doorman simply made his entire body light up with raw sensation against every nerve within him. Pain and pleasure mingled and turned into a miasma that made the vast and endless realm that surrounded them feel tighter, smaller, like they were the only points of contact within his own vastness and that was all he could ever possibly need again.
The blood poured into the Drifter, filling his mouth before it pooled and spilled out between the Doorman's fingers. The blood spattered across his arm, the Drifter's front as the man struggled to keep up with the unending torrent of what he had begged so desperately for, blood slowly filling his gullet, his lungs, his throat, overflowing out of him even as the Drifter's glazed eyes struggled to stay open from the burning warmth of being filled with the godly ichor, the satiation of his hunger making the twitch of his hips slowly but surely still beneath the Doorman.
It was too much and never enough, even as he could no longer keep up with desperate, choking swallows to his stomach. He is many things, but he was still a bodily creature that demanded oxygen, and it made his lungs sear with pain as they were clotted with blood not his own. His awareness dulled at the sides, boxing him in, made worse with the ripples of pleasure the Doorman allowed him with his body tight around his cock.
There were weak mewls and whines trapped under the blood, making grotesque gags that only work Heaven deeper into his core. He's not even sure when, but he's suddenly with control of his hands again, though he's too numb to make use of them for a few dizzying moments. When they move, they are not to pull the hand over his mouth, suffocating him, with the diminishing strength he has left.
They brace, shaking and light, over the Doorman's toned stomach, jostled with the force of his pace. There's no push under his palms, and his claws barely nip into the sensitive underbelly of the fledgling god. They rest, even as his hips begin to twitch and buck again without control.
He felt– no, he knew that the Doorman was going to kill him.
His God was to be as kind as to kill him with what he loves most of all.
The Doorman watches raptly as the beast beneath him convulses, back arching off the invisible floor as the raw, desperate core of need within him snaps tight and releases. Those unfairly long lashes flutter and fail to open to awareness again as the Doorman feels his cock throb and spasm inside of him, the hot wash of his insides with the Drifter's seed sparking every nerve in his body with bliss. There was no climax for him, no true end, past a personal satiation he makes a conscious decision on– and breaking the Drifter was his peak.
The hands against his stomach start to slip, sliding down his waist limply as the Doorman works the fading man beneath him through his orgasm even as he began to lose consciousness. Slamming home one last time, he stills and grinds down hard enough to ache between both of them as he rips his hand away from the Drifter's bloodied mouth.
He coughs on reflex, the hindbrain alive and well within him acting on electrical impulse to breathe. It's gross, and blood wells up aplenty. It bubbles up from his lungs and down in trails along his sharp jaw, through the facial hair and even into the shell of a pointed ear. His coughs cause spatters to spray across his own ashen face, painting a beautiful contrast to his undead complexion as his eyes came alive in a feral blaze.
He's able to take in a gulping breath in moments, shuddering and raw and ragged and devastated.
The Doorman hummed, chest heaving with his body's own breaths. He stared down at the creature beneath him, pathetic and wrung out and savage and with eyes absolutely desperate for more as he stared up at the Doorman as if his god had betrayed and abandoned him in his time of need.
"Do not look at me like that," the Doorman scolded, rising slowly.
The heavy, brutish length of the beast beneath him easily slid out of him, the thick viscous fluid of the Drifter's spend leaking down his inner thighs in a smear as the flaccid length flopped onto the man's heaving abdomen. Those desperate eyes tore away from the Doorman's hand, away from the blood that had nearly smothered him and yet he could not get enough of, to instead focus between the Doorman's lean, pale thighs.
"S'il vous plait," he managed, mind still caught in his mother tongue before he swallowed, throat clicking, as he drooled and panted, catching his breath. "Let me... Please, let me."
His touch was coaxing, gentle on the Doorman's thighs.
"I will make it good for you."
It truly was such a delight that Drifter- to the point of madness, to the point where he abandoned all self-preservation- would beg for all that would destroy or kill him to just for an instant satiation of whatever hunger that lived within him.
The Doorman hummed, contemplating. While his own pleasure had been reached and this facsimile of a body could not even produce a paltry imitation of a man's spend... He was dirtied by the desperate, mewling creature beneath him.
He could clean himself.
It was a moment's work to reposition himself once more, no longer facing the Drifter to look down upon his face as he straddled his head and sat upon him, letting the long, inhuman tongue of the thing press and clean and pry at his body. Instead he leaned over, smirking, and stroked his hand over the over-sensitive, twitching flesh of the creature's cock. He would see how long it would take before in this too the man would regret being given what he wanted.
He can feel against himself the soft hiss of breath as the Drifter's hips bucked upwards, both trying to chase away and chase after the terrible over-pleasure. But he's dogged, one-track-minded, as he pushes himself flush with the other man's intimacy, working to get his tongue as deep as his cock, to taste himself mixed with the divine blood coating his face.
He's dutiful as he works, worshipping the mess he made and the perfect body in which he made it in. He relishes the odd twitches and shudders around him, feeling the Doorman's own hips jerk forward like he were trying to sheathe himself into something, chasing the pleasure. His hands frame the slender waist above him, keeping him steady and never straying so much as a half-inch from his tongue.
Even when the smooth, slim palm sliding over the underside of his spent cock elicits a desperate buck, he doesn't push at the Doorman. Even when everything in him tenses and wants to curl away from the sensation, he fights to remain still, remain accessible to the god.
Except for when the Doorman takes him in his hand once more, no longer stroking his palm over the length of him in long, kittenish passes. Only one of his hands jerks forward, claws outstretched like he were making to gouge at the other man's forearm before he catches himself, hand suspended in the air.
There's a satisfied hum from the Doorman as he watches the spent cock in his fist weakly throw a rope of pre over his knuckles in a pitiful attempt at preforming. It was far too sensitive, and it far too soon to do much more but twitch in his grasp and leak, slicking his palm.
"You wanted this," the Doorman says lowly, smooth and unblemished in tone by pleasure. "You should be thankful."
"Je vous remercie."
The words were ripped from him like the perfect, slender fingers currently stroking his cock had fish-hooked behind his vocal chords to drag his voice into the soft, damp space between the Doorman's thighs. Panting against the tender, spit-and-condensation soaked flesh the words rumble through the man's core.
"What was that?"
The grip around his cock was still loose, but now focused on the tip of him, sensitive and desperate and aching with the too-much sensation that was confused between pain and pleasure.
"Speak up."
"Merci," he managed, choking in a new way on his breath alone, suffocating beneath the weight of the man even as he struggled to lick and suck and speak all at the same time, as hungry and desperate and resisting the urge to claw and grab and shake against the body above him. He gasped and shuddered and mumbled the words into beautifully soft skin.
"Thank you."
The words, pressed like a prayer into the Doorman's skin, whispered into the soft, wet core of him, were enough to make the Doorman's thighs tense on either side of his head. A sort of pleasure that was beyond the endorphin rush of sex that this human body craved. It was a base desire, something that tickled what humans would call a hindbrain but the Doorman had no other term for even as he didn't have it.
"Mon cher, mon coeur," the Drifter gasped, shivering as the Doorman's grip around his cock tightened, sped up, the muscle in the pinned man's thighs twitching and jumping with each upwards stroke-and-twist around the head of his cock. "Fuck, s'il vo-vous- s'il vous- Fuck!"
His abdomen clenched and the Doorman grinned, settling back more firmly against the Drifter's face, feeling the man's sharp features press harder and harder against his flesh as those large, brutish hands held onto the Doorman like he was a buoy in a tumultuous ocean.
"Please what?" the Doorman chuckled, low and pleased as he rocked his hips back and forth, his palm still tight around the Drifter's cock on each slow roll of the Doorman's hips and jerky movement of the Drifter's own.
A noise is ripped from the Drifter's throat, clawing and reedy and tossed as he throws his head back. A rope of drool flies through the nothing around them with the force of his head hitting the empty floor, chest heaving.
There's a word trapped in his gullet, slicked with blood and spit and rapture. The Doorman hears it in the rough panting and stunted growls of pleasure too intense. He doesn't chase when the long, slick muscle slips from him, as it was bodily pleasure he was chasing. It was this.
The Drifter's hands tremble around his waist, the instinct to dig his claws in and rend away from the painful pleasure, but he never so much as breaks his perfect skin. His back arches despite the weight on his chest, the Doorman nothing to strain against. It would be effortless to throw him off, separate himself from the nigh-nauseating twist of pleasure building in his core.
"Please, what."
The Doorman's hand never slows, enjoying far more than anything how he can feel the resolve of the man trapped between his legs, thighs bracketing his thick chest, completely gives way.
"Puh— please—" the Drifter gasps out. "It's— it's too much—"
"Oh," the Doorman says, feigning a sympathetic pout. "It's not too much. You will take what I give you and you will be so grateful for it."
A whimper is choked out behind him, and the grin on his face is genuine and sated.
"F-Fuck— mh-merci pour tout," the Drifter manages to get out, hoarse and dragging as his next breath is choked out of him.
The first orgasm had been given to him, an indulgence that had been allowed by the being looming over Drifter.
This one was ripped from him like a broken tooth. It was painful and vicious and overwhelming but the sheer relief afterwards- when the Doorman's hand slowed, sticky with the Drifter's spend, before releasing him altogether- was euphoric.
"Disgusting brute," the Doorman sighed, dragging his palm in broad smears across the Drifter's chest and abdomen, covering the man's skin and chest hair in his own spend.
He didn't need to. Not when he just willed away the mess on his own skin, leaving the Drifter debauched and soaked in his own spit and spend and the Doorman's blood when he stood.
He felt languid and pleased as he always did after these encounters, the human form that he wore delighting in the intimacy of the entire interaction.
Staring down at the Drifter, the Doorman slowly began to peel off the skin of his human form, like the rind and pith of an fruit, revealing his bellhop uniform until he was tossing aside the skin of his hands to reveal pristine white gloves, holding his hat before placing it upon his head.
"Now," he huffed, brushing off non-existent dust from his uniform's shoulder. "Clean yourself up, we have kept the others waiting for long enough."
Chest heaving, the Drifter can only stare up into the endless nothing above him. Sweat clung to his skin and cooled unbearably with the rest of the fluids smeared across his bare body.
"Aren't you the sweetest," the Drifter growls, low and exhausted.
With a grunt, he starts to roll onto his hip, having to brace his palm against the invisible floor. It traces a shiver down his spine at the chill of it arcing through his nerves towards his core, and pulls the drool and blood from his lips down in thick ropes.
"Hard to clean up when my clothes just–"
Blinking open his eyes blearily, he peers down under his arm to look at the Doorman only to realize that his clothes had been returned to him. It made no difference to the temperature across his body, the weight of the clothes as temperate as the void around them.
It did nothing to eliminate the disgusting, cool slick spread from throat to cock.
Glaring at the other Eldritch being, he understands all too well what he is expected to do.
Bringing one hand up, he laves his long, slick tongue along his wrist up to his fingers. It's a repetitive, continuous motion, never cleaning the deep stain of blood that has sunken as far as his bones but cleaning off the tang of salt and sex. Then, under the Doorman's searing, intense gaze, he drags the curve of his hand across a cheekbone, drawing the blood spill from his suffocation back towards his mouth.
It was unfortunately embarrassing, and even mortifying to know that he couldn't bring himself to protest the expectation for him to roll over and show his belly, lick himself clean like a simple housecat, and say thank you. But he's devoted and dutiful, even glowering through heavy lashes at the fledging god's gentle smile of satisfaction.
It's several long moments before Drifter is even close to... well, he is never presentable, but the Doorman has come to accept a certain level of dreck clinging to the man at all times. This is no different, even if he itches to simply will the man's appearance into what he would find acceptable. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that doing so would ruin the game that they have together, so he refrains.
Time is irrelevant here, in this space, it is what the Doorman could wish of it. He can make it so that mere seconds have passed or hours and no one would be any the wiser while within the confines of the cavernous bowels of his very being.
"One of these days I will pin you in place and properly groom you," he threatens anyway, brushing off nonexistent dust from his own sleeve as he watches the Drifter's shirt stick to his abdomen where his come was quickly drying, the man having no concerns towards the disgustingly stained rag that he wore.
"You wouldn't," Drifter snarls, his lips peeling back into a toothy grin as always, removing any semblance of the deliciously submissive creature he had been not moments before. "You like me like this, cher."
"Hmph," the Doorman wrinkled his own nose at the man, eyes narrowing, his hands clasping behind his back. "Hardly."
And then without even a theatrical gesture, they were back within the Baroness proper, amidst the chaos of the others panicking and preparing to fight and battle one another. As long as he had kept the Drifter there, it would be better to ensure that it was only a short time between their disappearance and reappearance.
It wouldn't do for these guests to forget what he could do in what they perceived as mere moments.
The sudden reappearance of the two men brings the cacophony of confusion to a stuttering stop. Several of their team had already taken to brandishing weapons at one another, using the slightest suggestion of a reason to bring up grudges and unfinished business.
It helped that, contrasting the Doorman's ever-present appearance of dignity and neatness, the Drifter was still on the floor.
The hardwood floor was much harder than the soft suggestion the void presented, and immediately brought to mind the many aches a centuries old body can harbor.
The move to not right the Drifter in the transition from one plane to the next was intentional, albeit lacking in desired effect. It would require that the vampire had a single bone of shame in his body outside of his perception under the Doorman's scrutiny.
With a huff, he drags himself to his feet and brushes his shirt down. A grimace pulls at his features feeling what was beneath the clothes, and it translates into a snarl thrown at the Doorman.
"We've wasted enough time," the Drifter mutters, turning to skulk off. He knew that while cold, the Doorman was cordial and would have a bar available to the guests. "Collect me when you dolls are finished discussin' our dinner plans."
All earlier interest in Billy is heavily alluded to as a facade, at least for the passing moment of their paths intersecting on his way out. The goat-headed man hardly suppresses a full-body recoil when the Drifter comes near, flashing his teeth at the man before the snarling smile drops just as fast.
Paige, otherwise having kept entirely to herself at the perimeter of the room since the beginning, nervously steps forward. She worries her hands at her lap, glancing after the exiting vampire before quickly turning towards the Doorman.
"He's, ah... he's kidding, right?" she chuckles uncertainly, "about the whole dinner thing? He's not going to eat us, is he?"
"Don't worry," the Doorman says, voice neatly in place with a polished, customer service melody. "If he knew what was good for him, I would say yes, but he is never short in his greed for what he doesn't deserve."
Paige blinks at him, confused.
"Uh... thank you...?"