dorian & godric
Christ, how Dorian hated Texas.
It was the best and worst of America. There still was so much space, plenty of towns barely hanging on, hardscrabble little places that were trying to make their move, the drive and determination and chutzpah that Dorian adored of the America in the past. America in the 1920s was great. A feisty nation, determined to prove itself on the world's stage, bright and brilliant and ready to take on the challenge.
But the Texas cities? The cities were horrible. Large, ugly things almost crushed under the weight of their own self-importance and overpasses. Forgotten centers where all residents fled to cookie-cutter nigh identical houses set in towns created solely for the purpose of commuting. People didn't thrive in places like that, with their subdivisions and big box stores and fucking Targets. You lived there, but you didn't thrive. And Dorian Gray was always looking for something new, something bright and breathing and alive.
Granted, a shitty little dive bar wasn't exactly what most people thought of when they thought of 'alive.' But Dorian had been lingering around Dallas long enough that a few things had gained his interest. The coming out of the closet, so to speak, of vampires had been the big one. Idly, he wondered what Toby would have thought of it all—he felt so alone for so long. Would vampire advocacy groups or these cute little pamphlets have changed anything? Or would the Sunday morning cable news services about how all vampires are damned have made things worse? There's no way of knowing. But Dorian wanted to learn more about this himself.
Try as he may to fit in, it's obvious that Dorian is here for something. He flirts with the waitress and casually asks a few questions about vampire activity in the area. He loses a game of pool but presses his competition whenever they bring up 'fangs.' This is the third day in a row he's made some not-so-subtle inquiries about vampires, something's got to give eventually. He's British as hell, the accent is a dead giveaway, so might as well lean into the obviousness and see what happens.
And as he slips out of the back door of the dive bar, stepping outside to light up a cigarette, Dorian's certain that something will happen. What precisely? He doesn't know.
It was the best and worst of America. There still was so much space, plenty of towns barely hanging on, hardscrabble little places that were trying to make their move, the drive and determination and chutzpah that Dorian adored of the America in the past. America in the 1920s was great. A feisty nation, determined to prove itself on the world's stage, bright and brilliant and ready to take on the challenge.
But the Texas cities? The cities were horrible. Large, ugly things almost crushed under the weight of their own self-importance and overpasses. Forgotten centers where all residents fled to cookie-cutter nigh identical houses set in towns created solely for the purpose of commuting. People didn't thrive in places like that, with their subdivisions and big box stores and fucking Targets. You lived there, but you didn't thrive. And Dorian Gray was always looking for something new, something bright and breathing and alive.
Granted, a shitty little dive bar wasn't exactly what most people thought of when they thought of 'alive.' But Dorian had been lingering around Dallas long enough that a few things had gained his interest. The coming out of the closet, so to speak, of vampires had been the big one. Idly, he wondered what Toby would have thought of it all—he felt so alone for so long. Would vampire advocacy groups or these cute little pamphlets have changed anything? Or would the Sunday morning cable news services about how all vampires are damned have made things worse? There's no way of knowing. But Dorian wanted to learn more about this himself.
Try as he may to fit in, it's obvious that Dorian is here for something. He flirts with the waitress and casually asks a few questions about vampire activity in the area. He loses a game of pool but presses his competition whenever they bring up 'fangs.' This is the third day in a row he's made some not-so-subtle inquiries about vampires, something's got to give eventually. He's British as hell, the accent is a dead giveaway, so might as well lean into the obviousness and see what happens.
And as he slips out of the back door of the dive bar, stepping outside to light up a cigarette, Dorian's certain that something will happen. What precisely? He doesn't know.

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"I honestly don't know. Scandanavia? I've been to Sweden once before, but I mostly stayed in the back roads and small towns."
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But he doesn't get a chance to say anything more as the car parks and he opens the door. "We're here. Go inside and distract them for me?"
He wants to limit the number of deaths.
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"Alright." There's a moment before Dorian takes a breath and leaves the car. Distract them. Easy enough. So don't mind Dorian as he goes inside, chit-chatting to everybody who's not said cult leader, drawing them into a different room on the pretense of asking a question, talking about something private.
It's not everybody. But it's a number of them. And importantly, that room is by the back door. Dorian's plan when things get audibly loud is just to tell everybody to book it.
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The leader is a nondescript sort, standing by the counter as Godric enters the main room. Whatever ambient noise was there silences immediately.
"You can't be in here," he says. "Get the fuck out of here, leech."
Godric sighs. "This doesn't have to end in bloodshed," he says, but the man is not ready to listen. No one is. Godric's hit in the side with a silver-brushed chain that leaves burns along his arms. It gets loud, very quickly.
...and then there are five dead bodies in the blink of an eye, and Godric stands in the middle of it with bloodstains on his clothes and burns along his face and arms.
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"Get out of here. You've got a whole life ahead of you, don't waste it like this. Leave and don't come back."
It's after she does so, after he's made sure that there aren't any more dumb little children lingering around, that Dorian pushes open the door to the main entranceway.
"You should have let me take care of this," he gently sighs. "Whatever that man did to you to get those burns, it wouldn't have worked for me."
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"Which means he's done his research."
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"So this isn't a commonplace weakness one would have knowledge of? Like the sun? I'll admit, I hadn't ever heard that silver was a problem, but I barely own any silver to begin with."
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"Ah, most people think silver is for werewolves. But it harms us just as much." He looks over his shoulder. "We should go. Back to the car."
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"Shall I get the door?" he asks, as he makes his way towards the entrance. Dorian goes to open the door before sassing, "I am a gentleman, after all."
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He slides into the backseat of the car and rubs at the burns on his arm.
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"Here," he says, as he offers his bare wrist up to Godric. "Drink from me. And don't give me any of your martyr bullshit, you're hurt. The least I can do is get you back to form."
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"There you go," he quietly murmurs. "Drink up. And rest."
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And when Godric pulls away, he presses a kiss to Dorian's jaw.
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"Good to the last drop," Dorian teases. "Or whatever that advertising slogan was."
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"I don't know what you're talking about," he says with a fond sigh. "But - you are the first and only human I have taken from in nearly a century. Of course it would have to be you."
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But he's certainly entranced. The first human Godric's taken from in almost a century! He had no idea he was that special.
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"Stay with me today," he says softly.
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(Is it racism if they hate other species? The prejudice, then. Lord knows there's probably a cute vampire term for people who hate vampires that Dorian doesn't know.)
"I think after all this nonsense, we deserve to go back to mine or yours, close the door, and have a lovely evening to ourselves."
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He knows the answer is no, but he likes to make Dorian say it.
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"And of course sex isn't all I want. I can name plenty of other desirable things aside from sex."
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