Weird supernatural dramedy thing about three vampire dudes with very different temperaments stuck in a glorified box together.
Little writing experiment that got away from me that was basically just born out of my vampire kick at the moment. It’s funny, I didn’t even really arrive at the central premise of this story in this snippet, which is that a poor human gets dumped in with these guys but she’s able to fight them off because they’re weak with hunger. I don’t know that I’m entirely down with what I ended up getting out for this concept so far, but I feel like I’m getting a better idea for the character dynamics, at least.
Warning for a bit of cursing and references to violence/the tiniest bit of body horror in the form of getting burned with silver.
It’s been around a week that Reinhardt has been trapped with two other vampires. He thinks so, anyway, because Axel announces it, loudly, every time he scratches a hashmark into the stone floor of their prison around what he estimates to be midnight. He also announces, more loudly, when he breaks one of his claws in his endeavor to keep track of time. Then he complains about for the next two-ish days until Reinhardt threatens to rip his throat out, at which point he complains less frequently. He still does it, though, trying to provoke a reaction from Reinhardt. At this point a fight would probably be entertaining if not for the exhaustion.
“Day seven, give it up for day seven,” Axel crows as he scratches another mark.
The hashmarks are the only real features of their windowless, dark box of a prison, sans the doodles that Axel had etched alongside them. He swings hard between botanical illustrations, scarily realistic down to the last petal, and cartoon dicks.
“How could you possibly know what time of day it is?” Reinhardt asks, less because he wants to know (they have this conversation every other day) but more because it’s become habitual at this point, safe and boring, like discussing the weather.
They haven’t gotten any deeper in conversation than that, mostly because Axel is the only one who actually wants to chat. He talked a lot, about himself, about the guys and gals whose blood he misses, and the way he’s going to gruesomely murder their captor the second he’s free. That last sentiment, at least, Reinhardt can agree with.
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Moss mutters, pressing his face harder against his knees. “He’s making up nonsense because he can’t stand to be quiet.”
Moss claimed a corner and stayed sat there like a gargoyle for the entire duration of his stay. Sometimes Reinhardt forgets that he’s there, reminded only by an odd comment every so often or when he almost trips over him when he gets to pacing. The silver that’s doubtless in the foundation beneath keeps Reinhardt and Axel far away from the walls, but Moss doesn’t seem to mind the way that it makes his flesh burn and bubble. In an effort to stay as far away from the other two as possible, he presses up to the sides his corner. He’s smaller than the others. At his full strength, Reinhardt wouldn’t hesitate to eat a little creature like him for breakfast. But something about his quiet malice, the way that he glowers over the barrier of his curled up arms and legs, makes Reinhardt keep his distance. Axel, ever the antagonist, goes out of his way to taunt him instead.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Axel laughs, giving Moss a shove with the toe of his boot.
Moss hisses and swipes at him, but both the noise and the gesture have little threat behind them. Axel dances the two feet away he needs to escape, hovering a ways from the opposite wall. The space is big enough around for him to lay down if he wants, but Reinhardt is too large to consider resting.
“It’s been another day,” Axel insists. “We’re midway through another night of this shit. Zero hours, midnight, the witching hour, et cetera. I can feel it even if I can’t see it. Can’t you? Isn’t that, like, an innate power?”
“No,” Reinhardt says.
“It isn’t,” Moss concurs.
“Guess I’m just special.” Axel shrugs one shoulder and smiles, displaying his fangs.
Axel has the sort of fangs that jut dainty, needle-like, against his pillowy lips. Reinhardt would wager he has the capability to blot out his prey’s pain in his saliva, numbing them like an overgrown spider. A real aristocrat. Reinhardt, meanwhile, is built to cause pain. His fangs are for ripping and tearing, curved like thorns, matching a set in his lower jaw. Ironically, despite all the hissing he does, he hasn’t had the chance to get a good look at Moss’. If he had to guess, he’d think he’s got the sort of teeth that aren’t meant to leave a victim alive, either.
Axel’s smile abruptly drops, and he sighs.
“So the thesis is, it’s been a minute and I’m hungry. You think they’re gonna feed us soon?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “I’m starting to think I need to take a bite out of you, big guy.”
Reinhardt draws his shoulders back and lifts his chin. “Try it. See what happens.”
Axel glances at Moss. “We can take him, don’t you think?”
“If you think there is or will ever be a ‘we,'” Moss sneers, “then you’re even more foolish than I thought, and I thought you were an imbecile to begin with.”
“You aren’t exactly a prize yourself, shortstack.”
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