Summary: He had all the time in the world, but would still never get to finish his paintings of you.
Notes: A one-shot! Got it out of my system super quickly, so I hope it reads OK. Might edit a bit later. Took most of my characterization notes for Felid from the light novel! Edit: I realized after some Googling that “Felid” is probably a mistransliteration of Ferid so I have changed all the spellings lmao forgive me
“You’re a real lecher, you know.”
“That’s mean.”
“But it’s the truth.” Your lips turned up, pomegranate red and just as sweet. Every moment Ferid wasn’t looking at your body or your neck, he was looking at them instead.
“Maybe. But you’re still here with me, entertaining my unique preferences.” He leaned back. “Give me a spin, won’t you?”
“Ugh.” Despite the petulance in your voice, you obeyed. The silk sleeves chased your fleeting arms, but the white lace stayed flush against your body, like an ornate second skin. “Remember—I’m only doing this because you’re putting a roof over my head, and red meat on my table. I don’t actually like you.”
“Really? You don’t enjoy being beautiful for me?”
“Not particularly. I’m beautiful enough on my own.”
“That’s true. And what’s more—your insides are as gorgeous as your exterior. Ahh, it’s why I’ve fallen in love with you…”
Your snorted. “Don’t start with that again. I know vampires don’t fall in love.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head. “How are you so sure?”
“Every book you have in this library says it.” Your eyes scanned the shelves, many of which you’d dived into. It was always the ones detailing vampiric history and psychology to which you were drawn: full of secret histories that few humans could access. It made you feel special, the same way all the scandalizing costumes did. Of course, Ferid let many of his child prey access the same things and dressed them up similarly, but you hadn’t yet seen another adult. Maybe he’d thrown the others away, or maybe you were special. It didn’t matter to you. Being with him was fun, and life was short, and you didn’t want to waste time ruminating on the matter.
“Maybe those books are wrong,” he contradicted. “I have many more years on most of the authors, you know. Maybe after a millennia, vampires develop the ability to love.”
“Maybe they do, but I’ve seen how you are with humans. It’s hard to believe that you’d love any of us.”
“Perhaps you’re my first love!”
You shook your head, catching a sigh in your throat. Draping yourself across his shoulders, you asked, “No, I’m not. So why is it that you do this? I know you’re not interested in me romantically. It’s not my body you’re after—it’s not any of our bodies that you’re after. So why dress me up?”
He hummed, putting a finger to his lips, theatrical as ever. Turning his head ever so slightly, you found yourself under the spell of an entrancing creature. At this distance, noses almost touching, you could make out just how flawless his alabaster skin was, the thick lashes framing his violently red, Cheshire eyes, the cupid’s bow of his lip. He was like a Grecian statue, come to life and impossibly lithe. You couldn’t look away.
“I just like beautiful things, can’t you tell? And I especially love feeding on beautiful things.”
“Creep.”
But you leaned against him anyway, cheek resting upon silken hair. Turning a bit, you placed your lips on his head. It was fleeting and nearly shy, but still unmistakably a kiss. It made him hum, equal parts delight and intrigue reverberating in his throat.
“So why do you do that? Humour me, I mean. If I’m a creep, and you don’t love me, why would you kiss me?”
His tone was so lighthearted, posture so casual, that you knew he wasn’t invested in the question. That was fine, of course. You knew that his strange role as a benefactor in your life was purely economics to him, that he was only interested in your blood and maybe the vague entertainment you provided him. But it had been so long since you’d experienced touch from a living person, and he was so lavishing toward you, and of course your weak, human heart couldn’t help but yield to that…
“Well, you see, I get lonely sometimes…”
“So you’re using me? How cruel of you.”
“Only as cruel as you are to me.”
“Well… that’s fair.”
A silence fell upon the two of you. Ferid took the opportunity to run a hand along the open robe, then the lace on your stomach. You let your spine curve freely, ribs parting for the breath in your lungs. You’d stopped fighting the shudders long ago.
“I can’t decide if I want to paint you in this, or if I want you to slip into another outfit.”
“Does it matter?” Your fingers grazed his cheek. “You have all the time in the world, so you might as well do both.”
“You’re right about that.” He shrugged his shoulders, then straightened up. “But you do not, so we should get an early start. Come, now—go to that wall over there. You’ll look perfect against it. Ah, yes—the ivory on that lace will be even whiter than the background. It will be stunning.”
After the world ended, Ferid had thrown a sheet over one of his paintings, stowing it away in a corner, hidden from light. Time flowed strangely for vampires, especially one as old as him. It felt like just yesterday that he’d dressed you up and down, admired your beauty, tasted your honeysuckle veins. It seemed like only moments ago that he’d envied your human feelings, the limited time you’d have on this earth, the emotions that you’d held for him that he was incapable of reflecting upon you. Covering up the watercolour ghost of you helped him ignore the memory.
He pressed his palm against the glass in front of him. In the darkness of the basement, the light emanating from your resting place was radiant, like an eerie moon at midnight. Despite that, the scene was much less romantic that he would have liked. Your lovely face was obscured by a terribly gaudy mask. It would have been nice if he could have chosen the design, given you something more tasteful, but the delicate system protecting your body was difficult to customize.
Ferid suspected that Guren would fail. There was only a slim chance that he’d succeed and reverse the Apocalypse, so Ferid himself didn’t understand why he’d held onto the corpse that he’d found in his residence eight years ago. It did give him some perspective, he supposed. Vampires didn’t have the sort of desires that humans had, didn’t pine for the dead in the same way, but you had been an endearing novelty for him, and he would have liked to spend a little longer playing dress up with you. He’d even thought of you as a friend, at times! And how he hated to lose his friends. His vague but persistent interest in your memory was the closest he’d ever get to understanding Yuuichirou’s reaction to the head of that girl.
He frowned.
That mask really was hideous, and it didn’t suit you at all. He itched to take it off from you, and draw you in something nicer. He longed to see your reaction, a contradiction of indignation and affection.
It was a shame.
He had all the time in the world, but would still never get to finish his paintings of you.
Toad's Cave 