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“Let’s do it again,” Nandor says, “the human sex.”
Guillermo’s rage toward Jan is certainly strong and deep enough to encompass a multitude of indignities, but high among them must undeniably be the selection of films provided by the Wellness Center to educate its devotees on normal human behavior. Guillermo doesn’t have the complete watchlist, but he knows that both Showgirls and Wild Things were prominently featured, because he had to spend almost an hour convincing Nandor that a swimming pool was not required for modern humans to copulate.
“Or can I not yet get it up again, because of my refractory period?” Nandor asks, looking up at Guillermo from the cage’s cot without a trace of guile in his eyes. “My poor, weak human penis,” he laments, glancing forlornly down at his lap—where he is obviously and extremely hard.
He’s hard for Guillermo. Hard because he wants Guillermo. It is (almost) everything Guillermo ever wanted, and yet also, rather significantly, not.
“It’s been two days since the last time,” Guillermo says, because Nandor is still disturbingly perplexed on this point, and also, Guillermo wants it acknowledged—if only by himself to himself—that he’s shown some restraint. He doesn’t think having sex with Nandor is helping. But nothing is helping. And it’s not not helping, necessarily?
This is all very confusing.
Confusing like the look of absolute trust Nandor gives him as together they tug his stupid shorts down his thick, gorgeous thighs. Guillermo kneels between his legs and strips off his own sweater; he can feel himself flush but the look in Nandor’s eyes doesn’t change. “My heart beats faster at the sight of you,” Nandor lies, with very great sincerity. “And I can feel the breath in my working lungs coming quicker—?”
“Sure,” Guillermo says.
“Faster and faster,” says Nandor, encouraged. Yet he continues to lie there passively.
This is not how it went in Guillermo’s fantasies, not at all. In all of them—years of them—Nandor was the aggressor, Nandor lived up to his name: relentlessly, he pursued and bedded Guillermo, who was helpless to resist. Who gave up his virginity and his lifeblood, his very humanity, so defenseless was he in the face of his master’s raw, penetrative power.
Instead Nandor says, “Please, Guillermo,” until Guillermo rocks up and kisses him—because how can he not? Guillermo may have worn a number of titles—familiar, vampire hunter, bodyguard—but he’s never been a saint.
“Oh,” moans Nandor, “I am so hot for you. Just like the temperature of my body likewise is.”
“Shut up,” mutters Guillermo. “Humans are actually mostly quiet during sex.”
Nandor’s brow furrows—he looks like he wants to dispute this, but lacks the surety to do so. Guillermo grabs a fistful of his shorn hair—hard enough to hurt, if he really were human—and kisses him again, because then he will at least be silent, will stop saying things that make Guillermo’s all-too-human heart hurt.
Nandor’s beard is surprisingly soft. Guillermo doesn’t think that’s something he could have changed, so it must have always been this way—he was just never in a position to know, before. Nandor's body is so big and Guillermo thinks that he could find him wonderfully overwhelming, except for how gentle, how hesitant he’s being. Not like he thinks Guillermo is fragile, but like he wants to believe that he is. He trembles beneath Guillermo, sighing when Guillermo breaks away from the kiss. “Please,” he says again, “make love to me, your submissive human lover.”
Just who does he think Guillermo is, in this scenario? This is also confusing. Has he forgotten that Guillermo is also—wait, no, the sole actual human present? Because Guillermo never forgets it. Never ever.
But this is apparently what Nandor wants now. What he needs to…get better? (Maybe?) He actually smiles when Guillermo slides his hands back down his thighs, between his legs. He’s become very careful not to smile lately, since Guillermo refused to grant him the tools to mutilate himself every night (and since it turned out that, even with a lot of effort, it was really, really difficult to pull out your own fangs with your bare fingers—especially if you weren’t at full vampiric strength). That cute—fierce! That fierce peek of fangs makes this a little better for Guillermo; he can almost pretend this is the lead up to his turning: that Nandor is preparing to ravish him instead of the other way around.
Although—Nandor does make the most amazing noises when Guillermo works his fingers inside him. They’re almost growls, deep in his throat, like the purr of a great cat. They aren’t very human sounds—they are something raw and animal, and Guillermo wants to echo them. Not in the way he used to pretend to be a vampire, but because he wants to feel as lost in the moment as Nandor clearly is: tipping his head back against the rough blankets, canting his hips up.
Nandor takes his fingers with preternatural ease—could probably take Guillermo’s whole fist if he wanted him to, if he told him that was what humans typically did. The thought makes Guillermo’s gut twist, also confusingly. He could do anything to Nandor right now, and Nandor would probably let him.
But Nandor will never do to him the one thing he wants.
Here’s something, a single thing he doesn’t have to rage at Jan about: she didn’t teach Nandor about STDs or condoms—either out of ignorance or selfishness, he doesn’t know or care. What matters is, this means Guillermo can fuck his master raw, and it does feel—it is amazing, it is incredible to take that powerful body, to rule it with his own. Nandor’s knees come up, greedy to keep Guillermo firmly inside, but otherwise he lets Guillermo set the pace, the rhythm, everything. Almost—there is an unspoken assumption that all human sex is missionary-position sex, and while part of Guillermo would like to disabuse Nandor of this notion by taking him roughly on his knees, there is something to going along with it for now, to watching Nandor stare up at him with absolute trust in his beautiful dark eyes.
His fangs peek out of his parted lips as he tries to induce a pant. “Shh,” Guillermo finds himself saying. “You don’t have to do that. Just feel it. Just feel me.”
“Yes, Guillermo. I do.”
Guillermo is sweating. He can feel the heat of his own body, his skin rubbing deliciously against Nandor’s—and maybe that’s why Nandor likes this, because he can pretend that some of Guillermo’s heat is rubbing off. Guillermo would give it to him if he could. He would trade places with him in a heartbeat, if he only could.
His hips snap and he presses forward, lips moving over Nandor’s chin and down the side of his throat. A sudden compulsion: he scrapes blunt teeth along the edge of Nandor’s inert jugular, warm lips to cold skin, and then steals just a nip, a nibble. Nandor lets out a sound that’s almost a sob; he shudders beneath Guillermo, spasms, and then Guillermo lets out his own gasp as his wrists are seized.
He would topple onto Nandor if Nandor weren’t so strong, if he weren’t suddenly holding Guillermo up.
“Please,” Nandor says. “Be gentle with me, like a human.”
Guillermo huffs out a breath. “You think humans are always gentle? You have a lot to learn.”
“Teach me, then,” says Nandor, lowering Guillermo’s hands back to the creaking cot’s mattress.
He’s still inside him and the shift in position feels strange and impossible and impossibly good. Guillermo bites his lip; he does not need to be coaxed into resuming his rhythm. To moving inside and over Nandor, claiming ownership of his body like he himself would want to be claimed.
“Teach me better,” Nandor says—practically begs. And Guillermo…he’s still sworn to service, at least in his own heart. Will be, until one promise or another gets fulfilled: until one of them, impossibly, gets what he wants.