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Jasper has done many fuckass things in his life and un-life. Standard vampire shit like scouring the world to get the gift, eating too many people in one go, dismembering other vamps, having a string of dinners picked up by the media and labelled a serial killer, etc., etc.
He’s also done a bunch of non-standard vampire shit like getting hooked on the turning process and developing an addiction to making revenants, deciding to take on the Talamasca; getting caught by the Talamasca and put out to stud and thus contributing extensively to the vampire gene pool; and planning to forge a whole new world order. Just to name a few.
But the most fuckass thing he’s ever done, hands down, is travelling to Night Island to seek audience with the Vampire Armand, while tugging his brand new, three-day-old fledgling in tow.
Three days old! A newborn! He’s just remembered how to walk in a straight line two nights ago! And here Jasper is, wrangling him across the ocean when, by rights, they should both be enjoying their honeymoon period.
At least Guy took to it really well. He’s healthy and strong and so fucking cute Jasper wants to eat him up. Their bond is so fresh and so sensitive with Guy’s reinforced clairvoyance, passing every scrap of feeling and sensation back and forth between them. Fresh. Young. Pretty. Just like his boy.
“Pack up, babydoll, we gotta go to Florida,” Jasper tells him on the second night.
Guy blinks, mouth smeared with blood, a dead body at his feet on the carpet.
“What? Why?”
His eyes are huge, pupils blown like supernovas. Because there’s the thing: Guy is stoned to high heaven. Mellowed out and horny like a cat on catnip, and it was only more magnificent on that first night; the high is fading, but gradually, which Jasper is quietly pleased about — the kid deserves some uncomplicated mental time on Cloud Nine after 27 years of being wound tighter than a Swiss watch.
Still, not the best travel conditions.
“We gotta visit the Vampire Armand, he’s graciously agreed to host us. I have some Talamasca shit to pitch him,” Jasper says, bustling around the room, throwing clothes in a travel bag at random.
“Like what?” Guy asks.
Jasper looks at him; he’s currently dragging his fingers over his face, collecting all stray blood, and sticking them in his mouth, licking them clean; his pupils are the size of dinner plates; his hair is still mussed from when Jasper last fucked him stupid, less than an hour ago. He chuckles, drops the bag, and scratches the back of the boy’s neck.
“You’re so high right now you couldn’t put two and two together.” He kisses his forehead. “I’m sorry, babydoll. I wish we had more time to get you settled before we get down to any kind of business, but Armand’s just replied, and I can’t dictate time and date if I want to get him to help out. I’ll tell you all the details when you sober up, hmm?”
“Okay,” Guy says happily to that; it’s so cute that Jasper ends up fucking him again, right there.
So that’s how Jasper bundles his precious cargo first onto a plane, then into a walk-in closet of a hotel room in lieu of a coffin to sleep the day away, and then onto a ferry. At this point, Guy is three nights old. He’s all over Jasper, clinging to him, cloying to him, going all blissed out whenever Jasper pulls him closer or ruffles his hair. For many reasons, this is the most stressful journey of Jasper’s un-life, but that part makes it also the best.
On the ferry, under the night sky, with the Night Island slowly approaching, Jasper can finally relax. He holds Guy closer, plays with his hair, tells him bits and pieces, listens to whatever Guy feels like talking about — just, in general, appreciates his fledgling. Yeah, technically he has multiple fledglings (36; he counted every single one, remembers their names, found in their drugged-up blood), but nothing has ever felt the way Guy does. He’s it, whatever Jasper has been half-consciously looking for. It’s like starving for decades and finally, finally getting fed.
“So what is Night Island, exactly?” Guy asks, hanging off him and trying to bring him down onto the deck, but no dice; Jasper wraps an arm around his waist and roughly brings him half-upright, like a puppet; they both enjoy that immensely.
“Boy, I know for a fact the Talamasca has info on it. You never looked?” He flicks Guy’s nose with his free hand, just to watch the kid scrunch it up with a three-second delay; oh, he’s fucking delicious, somebody get a spoon.
“Nah, I mean, yeah.”
“Jesus,” Jasper chuckles, ruffling his hair. “I loaded you up bad, didn’t I.”
“No, shut up. I just never got to it.”
Jasper hums, looks at where he can make out the twinkle of lights on the horizon; Guy seems content counting his eyelashes one by one, smiling dopily.
“You know about Taj Mahal, right?” Jasper asks after a moment.
Guy snorts, tilts his head back, like he wants to pull away in offence, but his arms don’t get the memo, still clinging to Jasper.
“The hell kind of a question is that?”
“Go on, share with the class. Show us what a smart cookie you are.”
Guy’s eyes — grey, with a blue ring on the outside, fucking masterpiece, Jasper wants to sign them — narrow, like they always do when he’s gonna be a little shit.
“You mean the casino?”
“Watch it,” Jasper growls, jostles him, pinches him; he gets a drunk giggle in response.
“The Taj Mahal is a marble mausoleum in India’s Uttar Pradesh state, built in mid-17th century in the Mughal style.”
“Gold star, boy. But it’s way more than that. It was built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan as a mausoleum for his beloved wife, Mumtaz Mahal. A symbol of love everlasting, snatching eternity from the gods! Passion, Guy! Love so deep and insane and fierce it tries to conquer time — and succeeds, mind you!”
“Okay.” Guy is squinting again, this time in his Bright Young Lawyer way. “So what does it have to do with the Night Island?”
“Asking the right questions.” Jasper musses Guy’s hair again; the fucking thing feels like touching a cloud. “The Night Island is what happened when the Vampire Armand met Daniel Molloy, looked at the Taj Mahal, and said, ‘Hold my beer’.”
“Oh,” Guy says, hushed, then turns to look at where more lights and the suggestion of a dark shape emerge on the horizon. “Okay, that’s… wow.”
“I’m telling you this so you know what kind of freaks we’re dealing with,” Jasper drawls.
He nuzzles Guy’s neck, takes hold of his hair, tilts his head back a little; Guy gasps, breathy and docile, and Jasper kisses the spot where he gave him the bite; Guy swears it’s still tender, and Jasper can’t have his precious sweet-thing in any discomfort, can he. He nuzzles, kisses, laves his tongue over it, purrs into soft, smooth skin; the kid smells and tastes delicious, all milky-sweet, even more now, with Jasper’s imprint all over him. It does shit to Jasper’s brain, turns him into a cat in heat. Ditto the boy. And, for the past three nights, they’ve been acting accordingly: fucking in marathons and sprints, with breaks only for Guy to feed and sleep through the day. Jasper was all set to continue this fine state of affairs for at least the next two weeks or so, but, well. Duty called.
“He really built him an island?” Guy asks breathily, then keens, tilting his head back to give Jasper more room to work with.
“Yep. Broke his vow of fledgling-making chastity for him too.” Jasper sucks on that spot where there’s no trace of his bite, doesn’t manage to hold back a pleased little groan; oops. “Personally, I’d have been scared shitless. I preferred to know what I was doing when I turned you.”
“He was nice,” Guy hums, distracted, fingers curling in Jasper’s shirt.
Jasper presses one more kiss to the spot he wishes had scarred.
“Who was nice and when?” he asks; he pulls back a little, just enough to lift his hand to gently push Guy’s hair off his forehead. “Can’t read your mind any more, babydoll. Remember?”
“Right, because I was such an open book to you before,” Guy sasses him, which Jasper has a special fondness for. “You said it yourself, I kept some shit locked up tight in my… what was it? Porridge bowl?”
Jasper snorts, pets the kid’s hair again, cups his cheek.
“Trust you to remember that.”
“Of course I do. That was probably the hottest moment of my life.”
Jasper reels back, surprised at how offended he feels.
“What, hotter than you babbling, crying and begging me for the bite? Hotter than me giving you the bite? Hotter than last night?”
Guy laughs, turns his head a little to lick Jasper’s thumb; Jesus, he’s delicious like this, zero inhibitions, just fledgling high and horniness. Good on him. If there’s anyone who deserves to space out hard, as a treat, it’s Jasper’s sweet boy.
“Okay, well, hottest moment in my life up to that point.”
Jasper grunts, grips the back of Guy’s neck, then purrs with how the boy instantly fawns, eyes big and hazy, lips parted.
“I should fucking hope so,” Jasper drawls, just to drive the point home, then kisses him.
Jesus, the mouth on this kid: all soft and pliant, opening up so sweetly for Jasper to plunder and take what he pleases.
“Also,” Guy says once Jasper is done with him, “everything that happened after the bite happened after my death. So not my life. Technically.”
“Oh, your high is wearing off, I gotta dope you up with some of my blood, you’re getting too lawyer-y,” Jasper grumbles, squeezing the back of Guy’s neck; he gets a little grin in response. “Hey.” He flicks his nose again; less than a two-second delay this time. “Who was nice and when?”
“Hmm?” Guy’s eyebrows twitch minimally, then the thought registers. “Oh. Mr Molloy. Back when I first met him. I mean, he was a dick, but he was nice. He warned me off the Talamasca, and he didn’t eat me, even though I think he kinda wanted to.”
“’Course he wanted to, kid! Have you seen you? You’re vampire jailbait, a juicy piece of kobe beef steak!”
“You don’t even know what that is,” Guy calls him out immediately.
“No, but I heard great things. Anyway, from what I know of Armand’s boy, you probably… well, let’s say you reminded him of himself, hmm?” He swipes his finger under Guy’s chin, watches his breath hitch, feels their bond telegraph the flash of desire that goes through him.
“I read his book,” Guy says, pressing closer into Jasper. “I guess I kinda see it, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Right, right, you liked the whiny Louis dude, clinical depression solidarity.”
“I didn’t like any of them,” Guy, well, whines. “I like you.”
“Well, that’s a fucking given,” Jasper growls, roughing him playfully by the back of the neck. “See? I told you we could have some fun together!”
Guy huffs, then lolls his head, presses his face to Jasper’s neck.
“I’m hungry,” he says there, then licks Jasper’s throat.
“Again? Jesus, kid, I just fed you.” Guy licks him again, scrapes blunt teeth over his skin. “Okay, okay, let’s go down below deck, I’ll grab someone from staff so you can have a sip. Maybe this time you won’t drain them dry, I mean, hey, third time’s the charm, right? C’mon, I gotta dress you up anyway.”
“Dress me up?” Guy asks, lifting his head, both arms wrapped around Jasper’s waist as they head across the deck.
Jasper hums his agreement. “Armand has a soft spot for curly-haired potheads. Wish we had a leather jacket to put you in, he’d agree to whatever I ask him in five seconds.”
“I’m not a pothead.” Guy rolls his eyes.
“You’re high as a kite, babydoll. And you’re gonna be even higher when you’re done with lunch.”
At the mention of lunch, the boy almost trips in excitement.
“Armand is on the outs with some vampires,” Jasper tells Guy as they disembark on Night Island, steering him gently yet possessively by the back of his neck; Guy tries to focus on his words rather than on his hand. “He’s made a sort of deal to not challenge Lestat’s position, in exchange for some old fuckers leaving Daniel alone. Idiots, if you ask me — Armand never wanted to be a leader. It’s right there, in Daniel’s book, if you pay attention when you read.”
“I did,” Guy reminds him. “He’s a control freak.”
“Oh, for sure, no doubt about it. But you can have control without being a leader, boy. In fact, you often can have more of it that way.”
Guy nods, and tries to listen, he really does, but the Night Island is a swirl of lights and sounds and smells, full of stimuli and strange beauty, and he clings to the sound of Jasper’s voice, if not necessarily the exact words he says, and allows himself to be guided along busy streets full of enchanted, intoxicated people and occasional vampires.
And then, over the top of the hill, a massive, lit-up clown face emerges, round like a moon, with crazy eyes and like a hundred teeth in an open maw hovering, devouring people in throngs as they pour in and in and in…
“Jesus,” Guy mumbles, grabs blindly at Jasper’s shirt, unable to take his eyes off that… that thing, in case it’s real. “Jas. Jas, are you seeing this?”
“What, the freaky moon face? Yeah, I see it, you’re good.”
“Oh. Okay. Wait, what the fuck is that thing?”
“Tell you what, let’s not ask our host in that exact tone of voice, hmm?” Jasper nuzzles Guy’s temple, and that’s at least kinda reassuring. “Wanna make a good impression, sweet thing.”
Guy eyes the monstrosity half-distrustfully and half in fascination (it’s like he can see colours that he has no names for, that no human has a name for — because, oh. He’s not human any more), and laces his fingers with Jasper’s, where his arm is thrown over Guy’s shoulders.
“Is that a fucking amusement park?” he asks in disbelief.
“Looks like. Warm, willing human bodies practically pushing themselves into a vampire’s mouth — gotta hand it to Armand, he has vision.”
Guy nods slowly. “It’s like a mall crossed with an arcade and, like, hunting grounds. And he built it all for Daniel Molloy?”
“Yep. Hell of a standard to set for makers and fledglings. Don’t get ideas, boy, I’m not that rich.”
Guy wants to tease, to goad, to play it cool; but Jasper’s blood is so fresh and hot in his veins, and it makes everything… easier. It makes saying things easier. It makes honesty easier.
“I just want you,” he says simply, and grins when Jasper’s eyes lose that cynical cool.
“Well, you got me locked down good.”
“I had you from the start,” Guy grins, leaning heavily into him — this, too, is easy now.
Jasper laughs, slips his hand out of Guy’s to ruffle his hair; Guy grabs it back as soon as it’s available.
“’Course I did! Big wet eyes, pretty little mouth, and that fire? I was gone hook, line and sinker! Now come on, babydoll, we can explore later. Can’t keep our hosts waiting.”
The villa, situated on top of a hill overlooking the whole island, is… weird. As they approach, Guy can’t decide if it’s brilliant or terrible. Once they step inside, the confusing impressions are only multiplied. It’s colourful, for one thing. Like, really warm and cosy, but also not? The rooms are a little too big, the décor really eclectic (there’s a model of a chemical molecule hanging next to a massive jigsaw puzzle of a tapestry), and the dining room, where they are led, is impressive, with its dark burgundy walls strung with art and wood panelling, but it’s small and almost cosy, the furniture comfortable and in cheerful, bright colours.
Their host, though, is… wow.
Guy has read Molloy’s book. He definitely noticed the overly elaborate descriptions of the manservant Rashid and his drooping necklines and doe eyes, which then shifted into even more elaborate descriptions of the Vampire Armand’s unbuttoned shirts, gracefully slow movements, cascading dark hair, perfect nose and unrelenting amber gaze. He thought Molloy was overdoing it. Apparently, he was not. Armand is… otherworldly. Ethereally beautiful in a way that unsettles Guy deep inside, makes him captivated and uneasy because of it. He’s addictive to look at, and Guy doesn’t like it.
During the introductions, Jasper keeps his hand on the small of Guy’s back; it’s equal parts grounding and possessive, and Guy feels too mellow with his recent turning to be embarrassed by it, so all that’s left is to enjoy it.
Molloy squints at him, like he’s sizing him up.
“What year were you born, kid?” he asks out of nowhere.
“Uh… 2000?” Guy says.
“A child of the brave new world,” Jasper drawls.
Molloy grunts, still taxing Guy with his eyes — they were violet just a moment ago, but now they’re shifting to match the amber of Armand’s, and wow, Guy didn’t know vampire eyes could do that!
“They can’t,” Armand says with a mild, gently patronising smile that makes Guy feel like he’s an insignificant pebble at the foot of a pyramid. Armand then turns to look at Molloy, eyes suddenly blazing and proud. “Daniel is exceptional.”
“Geez, Mom, you’re embarrassing me.”
Armand hums, that smile coming back to his lips. “Yes, on that item: in 1999, weren’t you in—”
“Oh-kay, let’s dig in, I’m starving, who else is starving?”
The blood is served in some weird, molecular gastronomy ways: crunchy; spongy; foamy; ice cream sorbet… Guy isn’t sure what he thinks about it all, but Jasper seems to really appreciate it, he and Armand engaging in a conversation about texture, and Guy would be jealous if it wasn’t for Jasper’s hand on the back of his neck, scratching lazily the entire time.
And then Guy eats the blood, and nothing matters any more: clear, fresh water bursts into indescribable flavour on his tongue, washes over his mind and muffles the ever-present noise in it, and he speaks with great alacrity and cohesion for at least five minutes, connecting various threads and ideas, pulling them together into conclusions.
He would speak more, but he’s suddenly caught by the slow glint of candlelight in his spoon; once more, he sees colours he has no names for, sees each fibre of the metal, could swear he sees each individual photon making up its reflection.
“Wow…” he breathes.
He moves the spoon, tilts it just a fraction, and watches in aeons-slow motion as the light glides through it, like liquid or some secret, fourth state of matter. No, fifth. Plasma is a thing. Is this plasma?
“No, babydoll, it’s not plasma,” Jasper replies with a wry smile, and oh, Guy must still be talking.
He looks up, embarrassed, remembering they’re in public, sort of. He can feel himself blushing hard with the blood he’s just ingested, and he almost cannot bring himself to look at their hosts.
Armand is nodding slowly, eyes fixed on Guy; they’re really beautiful eyes, but really uncanny, the way they flick between faces without Armand’s head moving an inch; without blinking. Once more, Guy feels this instinctual unease, something that comes from deep within him, a new part of his existence and perception that Jasper’s blood implanted in him. A vampire instinct. A newborn fledgling’s instinct to fear this ancient, powerful vampire sitting so close across the table.
But it’s fine. Jasper is with him. Jasper won’t let anything happen to him. Guy turns to him, eyes seeking reassurance, and he gets it, Jasper smirking at him affectionately and leaning in to squeeze his knee under the table. Guy is instantly flooded with endorphins and whatever else it is that makes up their bond, and he squirms in his chair.
Armand gives a curt little sigh.
“Well, this is a horrifying glimpse into what could have been,” he says in a voice like polished glass, then looks at Molloy. “I was right not to turn you in the ‘70s, feel free to officially admit this at any time.”
“Jesus, he’s gonna be fine, it’s a temporary high!” Jasper groans, throwing his head back, then lifts it again to look at Armand. “It’s already fading, on night one he was so loaded he couldn’t walk straight. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Not like I was a virgin when I did him. No offence.”
Armand huffs, then gives a dour look to Molloy, who is currently hiding a snort in his glass of blood and doing a pretty shitty job of it.
“Uh-oh, careful there, pal,” Molloy says with a crooked grin. “He’s ripped people’s hands off for less.”
Jasper chuckles, the raspy tone of it dancing across Guy’s skin, kind of like… like sandpaper, but so fucking good, and Guy doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how things feel now. It’s so good. So, so good. So good, in fact, that it takes him a moment to realise he’s spaced out again, but Jasper’s voice summons him back into the present, dancing in his blood.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Danny,” Jasper drawls.
“It’s Daniel, asshole.”
“Daniel, my apologies. But, as I was saying, I think I got protected status,” Jasper says, reaching out to lazily scratch the back of Guy’s head, fingers burying in his hair, then squeezing the nape of his neck idly. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to me, now that I’m taking care of our little Guy, would we.”
Molloy’s eye twitches, and Armand sighs, and Guy knows something is going on, he isn’t stupid. He’s not even that high any more. He just… doesn’t care. It’s nice. Not caring. For once, his mind feels quiet, padded in cotton and pink clouds. His heart rate isn’t spiking, his hands aren’t sweating, his brain isn’t pierced with cold needles over and over again. There’s just Jasper, who is deadly and insane and safe, and Guy leans into his hand, nuzzles his cheek into it, kisses the heel of his palm. Somewhere in the back of his head he recognises he would never, ever have done something like this back when he was human. Not in front of people. Even the very thought of it makes him mortified enough to briefly squeeze his eyes, but then he’s at peace again, because he’s not human any more. He’s Jasper’s now.
“’m not little,” he still points out sourly, because the ‘boy’ thing is hot, sure, but he wants to be treated seriously by those other vampires.
“Babydoll, you’re three days old in vampire terms.” Jasper ruffles his hair.
“Jesus,” Molloy says for some reason, and now it’s Armand’s turn to hide a smirk in his glass.
Curious. Guy’s eager brain absorbs it all, makes note of every detail. Once he’s back down from his high, he will analyse it all, try to make out the puzzle — once he can spend more than a minute thinking about anything other than how much he wants Jasper as close as possible, or how good Jasper feels cradling him and shushing him as he fucks him.
Guy’s lips part open, his breathing quickening a little as he remembers Jasper’s hands on his body, Jasper’s voice whispering sweet, obscene, insane nothings in his ear. When was the last time? Three hours ago? Four? Doesn’t matter. He wants it again.
“You, uh, you’re thinking pretty loud there, kid,” Molloy says, a strange, awkward scowl on his face; odd; he doesn’t seem like the type of man to get awkward easily.
“I wonder where he gets it from,” Armand interjects airily, chin resting in his hand, eyes dancing with light as he looks at Molloy.
“Babe, please!”
Guy isn’t sure what this is all about, but for now he really, really doesn’t care. It’s funny. It’s like he can see his usual brain from outside, looking at it while he sits in a soft armchair or something. He knows what he would normally do, and what he will do, but for now… it’s fine.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re fine, he’s fine, we’re all fine,” Molloy says absurdly, to which Armand chuckles softly, trailing his fingertips over the rim of his glass. “Why don’t you get down to business. Let the grownups talk and leave the fledglings alone.”
“Would you like me to set up a kiddie table, beloved?” Armand asks, in a voice like wine and velvet.
Molloy flips him off — he actually flips of an ancient, famously insane vampire; Guy’s happy high experiences a disturbance, and he braces for something horrible to happen—
Armand laughs. It’s the most beautiful laugh Guy has ever heard. And Molloy grins at him, briefly sticking out the tip of his tongue between his teeth, then serves himself some blood sorbet. Armand turns to Jasper, making a face like he’s apologising for Molloy’s behaviour (like he’s some kind of unruly kid), but his eyes are still warm and glowing.
Across their bond, Guy can feel Jasper tensing, gearing up — time to lay out what he came here for. It’s still strange, feeling Jasper’s presence like this, sewn into his own. Strange and so, so very good.
Jasper makes his case.
He tells Armand much of what he’s learned of the Talamasca and how he infiltrated them before it all went sideways — admittedly, with Guy’s contribution. He doesn’t mention that part, not explicitly, but between Molloy’s investigative journalism and the hauntingly ancient look in Armand’s eyes, Guy is pretty sure they both know anyway.
Jasper tells Armand about his family. About the innocent, happy peacefulness of this blended community, human and vampire; and about the Talamasca’s destruction of it. He tells Armand about the ancient vampire they found, kept barely alive and harvested regularly for their blood; and he tells him about his own eventual capture, the breeding farm he was locked into, about what he saw and learned there, before eventually breaking free — in this, he does mention Guy’s role.
Even in Guy’s turning-hazy mind, it’s pretty clear what Jasper is doing; what connection links him to Armand, what card he’s playing, or maybe he isn’t playing at all. As Guy said — he read Molloy’s book. Molloy kept it brief, minimal and almost clinical, but it was there: Armand the child sex slave. Armand, whose life was so violently upended so many times. Armand, for whom deciding not to ever make a vampire was the last, single remaining shred of bodily autonomy.
It’s a term Jasper brings up; he heats up as he goes on, grows less and less restrained, rings glinting on his fingers as he gesticulates, voice lilting passionately despite its raspy tone. He’s so beautiful like this. Charismatic. Spellbinding. Guy could listen to him, watch him, for hours. He could convince anyone of anything.
All the while, Armand listens, poised and attentive and severe, like a shard of smoked glass.
“Poetic, kid,” Molloy drops into Guy’s head. “Ever thought about writing?”
Eventually, Jasper finishes his speech, rests his back against the chair. He feels tired across their bond, and he looks it too, but there’s a fire in him, in his eyes, in his body. He’s done well. Guy reaches out, takes his hand, squeezes it in support; Molloy’s eyes track it with a sort of fondness.
Armand asks Jasper a few questions; Jasper answers them and asks a few in return.
“Word on the grapevine is, you’re in contact with someone who used to work with the Talamasca,” Jasper says. “He used to work with Raglan fucking James, actually.”
Armand is still, but not tense; Guy cannot read his mind, his body, nothing. Jasper taps the claw of his index finger on the edge of a dessert plate (a smudge of blood is all that’s left from his own portion of sorbet), then pushes ahead.
“Word also is, he defected to shack up with another vampire. And that he likes you. Likes us, you know, as a species. But you particularly. I don’t ask for a meeting, I know shit is all fragile and paranoid right now, never know who you can trust. But if you could relay some questions, and get back to me with answers if he feels like giving some. We both know those guys need to be stopped.”
Armand is silent; Guy doesn’t know how Jasper can do this, how he can wait quietly like this, on the edge of this seat, for what feels like decades.
Molloy’s spoon loudly and slowly scrapes over the bottom of the bowl; Guy flinches, at which point he realises he’d stopped breathing, and oh — he can do that now.
Finally, Armand moves; it’s like he was made of stone, and suddenly came to life.
“Very well,” he says. “I will.”
Relief is a burst of air escaping from Jasper’s chest.
Jasper has had champagne exactly once in his life — it was a big to-do, when one of his siblings was turned, and Jasper was deemed old enough to have some at the bottom of a glass, since they were all celebrating.
Ever since then, he’s chased that feeling. Nothing felt as good, not even the first time he fed, when he finally found someone willing to turn him. Cliche as fuck, but — it was the joy.
Tonight is the third time in his life he feels like this. The first was the champagne celebration; the second was just three nights ago, guiding Guy into his first feeding.
“He fucking said yes,” he growls happily into Guy’s ear, walking him down a corridor, plastered to the boy’s back. “He said yes!”
“Okay, you’re not marrying him,” Guy says to that, and oh, that’s delicious.
“He’s taken,” Molloy drops into both their heads. “Also, the voices carry here, he designed the corridors like this. But the rooms are soundproof, you’re welcome.”
Jasper snorts and ushers his puppy into their designated guest room faster.
“Wow,” Guy breathes again, when he sees the interior, the bed, and the coffin prepared for them.
“Told you,” Jasper says, nudging Guy towards the coffin — maker instincts are a real thing when the making is done right, and he wants to shield his fledgling, tuck him close to his own body and guard him throughout the day. “This is Armand’s Taj Mahal.”
“What about me?” Guy pouts, makes his eyes all big and wet, and he’s got Jasper’s signature Cunning Asshole eyes now, but it still works.
“What about you, boy?” Jasper drawls, getting into the coffin with him, playing pretend at taking Guy’s hands off his body only to have them stick to a different spot, like an octopus.
“You looove me,” Guy says, all playful and mocking, because he still gets so fucking juvenile about this, bless his heart.
“That’s right, babydoll, I do. I love you,” Jasper tells him, flays him open with it. “You’re mine now. And I love you so much I might never let you out of this coffin, keep you here, feed you my blood for decades, until you no longer remember anything that isn’t me.”
It gets him a blush and a pair of blown-out pupils, because his sweet boy is deliciously wrong in the head.
“Right,” Guy says, wriggling a little under him, arms wrapping around his neck. “So, are you gonna build me an island or what?”
Jasper laughs, pushes two fingers into that precious mouth; Guy sucks on them, sweet and angelic like a ray of sunlight.
“You’re low-balling yourself, kid,” Jasper tells him, brings his other hand up to run through that floppy, springy hair. “My sweet boy. I’ll build you a new world order.”