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Laurence admired his outfit in the full-length mirror, the outdated gas lamps giving just enough light to see the details. His tailor, neat as ever, held a tape measure to the breadth of his shoulders and frowned.
"They won't have grown, you know," said Laurence with a hint of a smile.
Cooper's eyelid twitched just a fraction. "You never know, sir," he replied. His irritation, clear in his heartbeat, did not show in his voice. His own face was shadowed in the mirror, an effect of the gas, so that only a vague impression of his features could be made out.
It didn't really matter, Laurence supposed. His eyesight had been good even before he was turned, three hundred-odd years ago, and nowadays he could pick out the strong line of Cooper's nose and cleft of his chin even in the pitch-darkness of an alleyway. In fact he had, on more than one occasion.
Laurence’s features, of course, were not reflected. He could see straight through where his face ought to be, giving him a fine view of a bolt of herringbone tweed but no idea whether the lining of his new suit would match his eyes. That was part of why he needed this particular tailor, although he had found over time that there were other benefits to be had.
Cooper shifted slightly to note down the shoulder measurement - exactly the same as it had been since about eighteen-forty - and pressed one end of his tape measure to the crook of Laurence's elbow. Laurence inhaled deliberately, his lips a bare few inches from Cooper's throat, enjoying the mix of aftershave and sweat, the tiny disturbance in the air that came with a pulse thrumming under delicate skin.
He was wearing one of the suits he'd had made after the war, a more casual sack suit in grey linen that he usually favoured on cloudy days. The jacket had a lining of red silk which Cooper had suggested as a joke, presumably. Laurence had turned down the subsequent offer of cufflinks with intaglio bats. He could see the lining like a pool of blood where he'd folded the jacket over the back of the fitting room chair.
His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, in a way which usually made Cooper look at him with severe disapproval. He was pale as death, of course, with cobalt veins like a lightning strike. Cooper had, only once, forgotten himself and traced the path of them with his calloused fingertips.
Every appointment followed the same formula. Fifteen minutes or so of proper work - measuring, pinning, cutting, whatever else tailors did with their time. Laurence had yet to successfully hold an occupation other than soldier for longer than a year, and tailoring was hardly suitable for a man of his birth. He couldn't be expected to learn a trade.
After fifteen minutes of standing around being a good mannequin, Laurence got bored - well, actually he was bored from the beginning, but at least Cooper touched him from time to time. Then they would get into a spirited argument about whatever Cooper was most easily needled about, often to do with his other clients, and Laurence could enjoy the flush in his cheeks and racing pulse enough to tide him over until the next time they met in a dark alley.
"Have you seen Reynard, recently?" He asked, as Cooper spooled his measuring tape once again and reached for the pincushion.
"My clients usually appreciate discretion," replied Cooper, somewhat muffled by the pins now pressed firmly at the corner of his mouth. "Yourself being the greatest exception, sir."
The painfully correct sir he appended to disrespect always left Laurence wanting quite desperately to sink his teeth into the man. Whether out of anger or arousal was usually up for debate; he'd always found they intertwined at least slightly.
"Ah, but Reynard is such a great friend of mine," he lied. He hated that little bastard, and the last time they'd seen each other Reynard had bragged about finding Cooper at his local, standing him a pint, and then draining half of one from him in the alley outside.
"Is he? I would've thought you had better taste, sir," said Cooper. He had draped a jacket Laurence brought for alteration over a mannequin; the yoke sat oddly, and there was no way Laurence could be seen out and about with a poorly fitted suit. The pins flashed as he slid them neatly into place. "I think the left sleeve may need to be re-inserted," he commented. "The pitch is half an inch too far backwards - have you noticed pinching around the arm?"
"Yes," said Laurence. "I've been going about with my hands in my pockets, terribly incorrect of me." He winked.
Cooper tutted, as Laurence had expected he would, then offered the newly pinned jacket for him to slide into.
As Cooper settled it over his shoulders, Laurence heard a very slight hiss and then felt his nostrils flare. The smell of blood was unmistakable, even in such a small amount.
"Careless of you," he noted. He turned his head just enough to see Cooper inspecting the meat of his thumb, where a pinprick of blood welled to the surface.
"You might think that, sir," said Cooper. He pressed firmly against the skin, letting the droplet bead and then slide, slowly, towards his wrist. "I would say that trying to glamour a man who has spent twenty years learning this trade was more than careless."
"Oh, I would never do something like that," Laurence protested. "Not in your place of work!"
"But in the alley behind the King's Head, your moral code seems to break down," said Cooper. His thumb was still bleeding, helped along by the firm pinch of opposite thumb and forefinger around the puncture. "Such an odd phenomenon, sir. We ought to ask an alienist if there's some sort of syndrome to explain it."
It was odd, Laurence thought, that someone so obviously trying to make him angry could still succeed. He ran his tongue over his teeth, feeling the sharp point of his fangs with a sort of anticipatory thrill. One of the greatest irritations about his condition was that, without regular infusions, his circulation was very poor. His fingertips and toes went numb; his heartbeat slowed to a crawl. His cock, once so very willing when he was alive, would barely stir even in the face of blatant provocation.
He had last fed deeply a fortnight ago, when he'd drunk a girl – who'd tried to pick his pocket on the Old Kent Road – to near death. That was the last time he'd sought out Cooper in one of his haunts, in fact, when he'd told him with the vampiric glamour heavy in his voice that there was nothing worth remembering about his evening.
Apparently the glazed look in Cooper's eyes had been an act. It was galling to realise he'd been fooled, of course, but more than that it was interesting.
"Is there a syndrome to explain a man happily following a monster into a dark alley?" Laurence returned. "Baring his neck before I had a hand on him?"
Cooper smirked. Laurence liked Cooper's mouth, of course, particularly when his blood was up and he could press the length of his cock inside. "My commander used to call it suicidal," he said. He licked the blood trail that had made its way to his cuff, the perfect pink tip of his tongue flickering from between plush lips, leaving a single round stain by the buttonhole. "But it always gets results."
Laurence was no freshly-bitten fool, head easily turned by the scent of blood at thirty paces. He was old enough to be particular about who and what he drank. Unfortunately, being bare inches from a handsome man he already knew was delicious was more than his reason could bear.
It was always a relief to let his fangs show. They were unremarkable enough to look at, just a hair longer than nature allowed, but when they sank into soft, warm, living flesh they were plenty sharp enough. He took Cooper's wrist in one hand, supernatural strength letting him lock it in place if the man struggled, and brought his hand to his mouth.
Cooper would struggle, he knew. But no man would take up his line of work if he didn't fancy being fed on; there was a reason he had monsters from up and down the country making the tedious journey to his shop. "You've given up the game, then?" He asked. He set his tongue against the puncture, much wider than a truly accidental prick would've been, and lapped up the last welling drop of blood. It was barely a taste, really, but he wouldn't waste it. Not when Cooper had already done so, licking up his own blood in front of him!
"You were never going to," replied Cooper. Laurence narrowed his eyes.
A fucking tease, that's what he was. It shouldn't have taken Laurence so long to realise it.
Cooper made a token effort to pull his hand away. Laurence gripped tighter, feeling the two bones of his forearm grind together, and grinned. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"
"You are," sniped Cooper. He didn't pull away, though, when Laurence fisted his other hand in the back of his shirt and dragged him closer, turning him so that his back was against Laurence's chest. He pressed the injured hand against Cooper's stomach, so that any more blood might drip down onto his shirtfront. His teeth fit perfectly when he pulled his collar aside, where two faint indents were the only sign of their last not-actually-forgotten tryst. Laurence's mouth watered at the pulse of his heart so close by.
He wondered, just for a moment, if he ought to stop this. If Cooper was baiting him into this, it might set a bad precedent to reward him. To drink from him with both of them knowing exactly what was happening, to drink until he was full and satisfied and Cooper was dizzy with blood loss and giddy with it.
The thought of that easily outweighed his anger at being manipulated. He'd done the same, of course, when he thought he was taking what he wanted and making Cooper forget it. This had an unpleasantly permanent note to it; but then, he could always kill him. It was far easier to kill someone than let them live. When he was first turned, with a thirst like a desert and his sire already cut down, he'd cut a swathe through the battlefield and ended vomiting blood into a mass grave, delirious.
Moderation was not in a vampire's nature.
Cooper hadn't moved, while Laurence rested the point of his fangs against his neck and contemplated murder. It might've been bravery, but Laurence thought it was probably base apathy. He could see their reflection in the mirror, full length and framed like the first panel of a triptych, Cooper's eyes closed. It could almost be mistaken for ecstasy.
His own face was invisible, of course, the gaping collar of his shirt empty in reflection, the cuffs seemingly held open by thin air. He could see the indentation of his fingers around Cooper’s wrist, the crescent moon of his nails digging in.
When he did bite down, sharp points of his fangs parting skin like a knife through butter, he felt Cooper's shudder. The warm rush of blood into his mouth was intoxicating, as ever, like waking up after a long, restful day to a beautiful dusky twilight. His eyes slid closed as he drank, long swallows that pulsed eagerly into him, the warm rounded taste of untainted blood. He could sense the arousal that built in Cooper's chest, a supernatural side effect, and after another mouthful he pulled back, lapped at the puncture wounds, and rested his chin on Cooper's shoulder.
It took him a long moment to speak, his voice ragged. "Is that all?" He asked. "Have you filled up on whores again?"
"Hardly," Laurence replied. He released Cooper's wrist, already bruising, and slipped his now-freed hand down to Cooper's fly. It was the work of a moment to unbutton it and slide his hand inside, beneath his underwear, to wrap his long fingers around his cock. He always responded this way to a bite; contradictory, really, that his blood should want to flood his cock like this rather than fleeing all extremities and hiding away in his chest. "Unlike you, I have a little restraint." Cooper's breath hitched as Laurence began to pump his cock, slowly at first, to work it to full hardness with a dry hand. Cooper abhorred gentle touch, preferred to end any night with bruises and shallow wounds. It suited Laurence perfectly well.
He enjoyed working the man up to a panting, sweaty little mess. It was such a contrast to his usual self, so correct and so concerned with propriety, a carefully constructed mask over a man who, at his core, wanted. In Laurence's time, he would have overthrown the king. Now, he ran a tailor's shop. It was disgusting.
With the virtue of experience, Laurence knew when Cooper was approaching his peak. His cock grew slick with pre-come, easing the way for Laurence to experiment, slowing down and rubbing his thumb against the head. He thrust into Laurence's hand, breath coming fast and hard, and actually whined when Laurence withdrew before he could climax, wiping his palm on the front of Cooper's shirt.
"You'll have my cleaning bill," he said, while Laurence busied himself with the buttons of said shirt.
"I won't be paying it," said Laurence. "I'd rather buy you better shirts."
And then, with his shirt hanging open, Laurence bit Cooper again. He sank his teeth into his shoulder, where the muscle would make it more painful than before, and drank again. It was beginning to take effect, now; he could feel his skin beginning to flush with the heat and close air of the fitting room, the stirring of his cock as his body caught up with his hands.
Cooper seemed to be enjoying it. He shuddered again at the new bite, then moaned softly. Laurence resisted the urge to sink his teeth deeper, to drink until Cooper stilled and cooled. It was always there when he drank, but he did think it would be a good idea to leave his tailor alive. He didn't fancy trying to find another who would accept out-of-hours appointments.
Blood wasn't always blood, Laurence found, there being a great variation in taste based on habit, diet, and some distinction in blood cells he wasn't interested in working out. Some veins – victims – he left untapped, knowing by instinct that there was nothing worth drinking. Cooper's was above-average, as it ought to be, and he enjoyed the slightest hint of last night's cider as he swallowed and withdrew once more. This time Cooper strained slightly towards him as he moved, following the motion, as if angling for another bite.
"Patience is a virtue," Laurence murmured, as he reached once again for the other man's cock. It was rock hard now, the skin velvety soft and flushed dark red at the tip. When he wrapped his hand around it Cooper pressed his whole body backwards into Laurence, grinding up against his own hardness, his cock half full now with the new influx of blood and body heat.
"Bastard," said Cooper, as Laurence worked back up to a steady pace, his hand slick again with pre-come and Cooper's own arm pinned against his side. His other hand, ostensibly available for self-pleasure, was clutched in the fabric of Laurence's trousers, which would certainly crease.
"I knew my father very well," replied Laurence. He stepped backwards, quickly enough that Cooper lost his footing and fell fully into Laurence's chest, then sat on the edge of the table Cooper used for — whatever he did after Laurence was gone. Cutting fabric and arranging patterns and other such things Laurence didn't have to think about, probably. It was a sturdy old thing of oak, and it held both their weight without protest. He bent his legs just enough to have Cooper in his lap, his feet a bare inch from the floor, trousers pooled at his ankles. His long, bare legs were firm and muscular, particularly his calves, and Laurence made a note to bite them at the first opportunity.
Biting muscle was much less efficient, but it tasted just as good. Efficiency was hardly the goal of his current endeavour, anyway, and he proved it by once again removing his hand from Cooper's cock, just as the man had closed his eyes and bitten his lip, preparing for his crisis. His mouth was wet and red, not yet bloody. Laurence resisted the urge to kiss him. It was hardly the time for that now.
He now had only one arm really available, as one had to be used to keep Cooper in his lap. The other man had made a disgruntled noise on being moved; his pulse still raced, though, and the delicate flush at the back of his neck had darkened to a darker red. He still had blood to spare, then. He could see him well in the mirror, his vision sharp as ever, the slight curve of his cock where it stood against his belly and the trail of dried blood that ran along the curve of his collarbone. His open shirt hopelessly rumpled and his pupils blown wide in the darkness. The gas lamps were low.
With his free arm he brought Cooper's hand to his mouth once more, the puncture wound already dry, and fit one fang to it. Cooper didn't resist the motion, his arm bending easy as a doll's. Any one of his teeth would be wider than the mark of a seam ripper - and he'd been a fool to think it had ever been a pin, Cooper was far too particular to catch himself by accident - and his fangs would open the wound by a factor of three or four.
Cooper struggled again, shifting against Laurence's cock at just the right angle to light up several of his nerves. His own breath, a pointless action but a terrible habit anyway, hitched. He locked his arm around Cooper's waist, feeling the curve of his ribs, and let his teeth dig into Cooper's palm, just barely a graze, before dipping his head and tearing a gash the length of his own palm to the man's wrist.
This time Cooper made a noise closer to a scream, sharp and harsh, and tightened his fist against Laurence's thigh. He didn't try to get up, though, to push away and leave. His cock jumped, visible in the mirror, and his mouth didn't fully close on the scream. He panted heavily. There was hope for him yet, Laurence thought.
He let the blood flow for a few moments, so that it began to pool in the crook of Cooper's elbow. Then he traced the line of it with his tongue, lapping it up in long strokes, relishing the taste and the feeling of Cooper squirming against him, as this newest dose of blood finally let his own cock come to its full hardness. His stomach was tight with arousal already, coiled like a spring. He let his teeth sink deeper into the initial wound, tearing it wider, avoiding the artery, and rubbed his cheek against the soft, fragile skin that remained.
It had never been clear to him how much the wounds he inflicted actually hurt. He'd been turned when he was already half-dead, the scars of his gut wound the only remnants of his mortal life, and so there had been no way to measure any additional pain his sire might have inflicted. When he found his prey out in the world, he glamoured them into submission, and convinced them that it hurt not a bit. But without injury or manipulation, he did not truly know what pain he inflicted.
Whatever it was, it clearly had not deterred William Cooper. Laurence held the wound closed and licked at it once more, letting his saliva form the weak seal that prevented a quick death. Then he dragged himself further back onto the table, until he could bracket Cooper's bare arse with his thighs. His own arousal was not visible in the mirror, but he knew that Cooper could feel it. The other man pressed back against it now, and with his hand dislodged from Laurence's trousers he was at last touching himself.
Laurence watched him at it in the mirror, his chin hooked over Cooper's shoulder, one arm still around his waist. He watched the man's eyes, the stuttering motion of his fist as it stripped his cock, the trails and smudges of blood across his torso. He saw the blood that dripped down his chin, hanging bodiless in mid-air, glistening and pooling where the hollow of his throat should be. He saw the contrast between them, himself fully clothed, Cooper with his trousers down and his shirt pulled open, exposing the dark hair on his chest. The scar where a bullet must have caught him in the war, the hard line where shrapnel had scored his flesh. The thought of such blood wasted… Laurence pressed his fingertips more firmly into Cooper's side.
Cooper's breath came so heavily now. His pulse was like a hummingbird in his neck, fluttering, and Laurence could feel it in his own throat. So close, pressed together, he could feel the hitch and stutter of his body as his climax approached once more.
"Stop," he said.
Cooper did not stop. He glowered at him in the mirror, eyes meeting empty space, his fist working, cock leaking.
"Stop," said Laurence, "Or there won't be another bite." Not the boldest threat, he knew. He would hardly keep to it.
Cooper stopped. His hand was still on his cock, then, one finger at a time, he removed it and laid it flat on his thigh. "Yes, sir," he grated. His pupils were still wide, but a hint of irritation glittered there.
Laurence smiled, a true smile, his fangs just visible over his bottom lip. "Very good," he whispered. He didn't bite him yet, though. He let the man look at himself, at the spectacle they both made. He watched the way the tendons in his hand twitched, laid against his thigh, and the little hitching thrusts of his hips, held mostly immobile by the strength in Laurence's arm. It looked like nothing at all in the reflection. Like Cooper was keeping himself there, entirely of his own will.
He moved just enough to undo his own fly, pulled his cock free of his underthings and let it rest against his shirtfront. He had plenty of shirts. He liked the look in Cooper's eyes when he ruined things, like it was a personal affront. Perhaps it was, given that he was doing it just to see that expression.
Cooper felt the difference when he settled again. Laurence's cock now rested at the cleft of his arse, hard and leaking, and that was difficult to mistake for anything else. He shifted, pressing back harder, until he had enough slack beneath Laurence's arm that he could change his motion, rising and falling by inches instead of thrusting forward.
"Stay still," snapped Laurence. He put both hands on Cooper's waist, gripping tight enough to bruise, and seated him firmly on his thighs, several inches distant. "You're fetching for a quick death, not a lengthy fuck."
"Oh, I don't think it's — ah! — that lengthy —" began Cooper. He didn't get to finish his remark; Laurence interrupted him by sinking his teeth into him once again, this time at the curve of his neck where it met his shoulder, on the opposite side. Laurence liked symmetry. He limited himself only in not letting his fangs meet in the middle; this was closer to the motion he used to tear throats in battle. Blood gushed into his waiting mouth. He relaxed his throat and let himself swallow wantonly, overdrinking, knowing that it would cramp what passed for his stomach and past caring.
He felt Cooper shudder and shake, opening his eyes to watch the way tears began to roll down his cheeks, from pain or pleasure he knew not. There was enough blood that he felt it overflow his mouth and spill over him, scalding droplets that splattered across his shirtfront and dripped down the line of his throat. Only then did he pull away and survey the damage.
He'd chosen his spot carefully; it wouldn't bleed excessively, now that he had detached himself, and would fit neatly beneath a shirt collar. It would heal badly, though, with a scar in the shape of his teeth.
Cooper touched the wound straight away, almost before Laurence could fully draw back. His fingers danced over it, pressing lightly at the ragged edge where his incisors had caught the skin.
Laurence looked in the mirror. Cooper, bloodstained and wounded, was still hard. He was still hard himself, but that was hardly a surprise. He was overfull of blood and had a handsome thing in his lap, biddable but with a core of steel.
Perhaps he'd been testing the man, with this last bite. To determine if he deserved what he so clearly wanted. Perhaps Cooper had been testing him.
He didn't know whether he'd satisfied. It troubled him, momentarily, that he cared what the answer might be.
Cooper's cock was a better distraction. Laurence was almost used to the feeling of it in his hand now, heavy with blood. His palms were wet from Cooper's wrist and shoulder, red to his wrist, and he used that to ease the way as he shifted forward, let Cooper rest against his own cock once more, gave him the space to thrust into the circle of Laurence's fist.
He hitched his own hips, now, let himself grind against the curve of Cooper's arse, took a handful of the flesh there in one hand and squeezed to see him jump. He was hard and aching, the tension in his stomach already unbearable, the mirror before them almost too much to bear. Cooper shifted again and pressed further back, then reached upwards and backwards to pull Laurence's head forwards, push his mouth against Cooper's neck once more.
He didn't have to follow the motion. He could have stayed rigid as stone, let Cooper know that he wouldn't bend. He didn't. He pressed himself further against Cooper's back, rubbed his cock against his flesh and bit down once more, high at the join of Cooper's neck and ear, one last flood into his mouth, one last thrust of Cooper's cock into his own fist, one last high, desperate moan from Cooper's throat.
The climax was never what Laurence chased, when he was inclined to fuck. But on this occasion, he couldn't deny the appeal of watching Cooper spend all over himself, his eyes clenched shut, tears rolling down his cheeks. The hand which held Laurence's face against his neck convulsing as his hips stuttered forwards. The satisfaction of coming himself over the back of Cooper's shirt, leaving it utterly ruined, biting down as his muscles spasmed and feeling one last rush of blood into his mouth.
He unlatched himself slowly, pressing the flat of his tongue against the puncture marks. These were high above the collar, much more difficult to conceal. He imagined Cooper dressing himself the next morning, pressing a thumb against the marks and remembering what they'd done.
It was a very tempting image.
Cooper peeled himself away slowly, unsteady on his feet. He visibly wavered between pulling his trousers back up and discarding them, between buttoning his shirt and burning it.
"Do you have another client this evening?" Laurence asked. He'd tucked himself away already, stood and brushed himself off with practised ease, and if it weren't for the blood coating his chin he might have passed for respectable. Cooper, bloodstained and wounded, mostly nude, inclined his head.
"I've always left that space open, sir," he replied, voice raw. "Just in case."