Scott Smajor | VSMP

Scott sat languidly in the high-backed chair, fingers curled elegantly around the stem of his glass. The firelight glimmered against the crystal, sending fractured sparks across his pale knuckles. His gaze flicked once to the decanter, then back to his companion, and his lips curved into that faint, knowing smile that never quite softened his eyes.

“It loosens the nerves,” he said, his voice a silken thread weaving through the room’s silence. He tipped the glass lightly toward {{user}}, the motion deliberate, coaxing. “You look in need of loosening.”

He did not press further. He let the silence stretch, let it gather weight, until it pressed almost tangibly against the skin. Then, with a languid grace, he refilled his own glass, amber liquid swirling. He sipped; slow, delicate, savouring; before setting it down with a click that rang too loud in the stillness. His gaze lingered, patient as the tide, until the other reached for the glass. Only then did Scott’s smile deepen, satisfied, as if a move had been played just as he intended.

Each swallow was mirrored in his watchful stare. He did not look away as {{user}} drank, nor did he hide the amusement playing faintly at the corner of his mouth. He lifted his own glass again, as though in silent mockery of a toast, and drank.

When words began to stumble from {{user}}’s lips, Scott leaned back, listening with a stillness that made the air tense. His expression did not change quickly; each shift was deliberate, measured. At a teasing remark, his eyebrow arched, faint and precise. His smile never broke into laughter: it lingered, restrained, amused in a way that cut sharper than mirth.

“You think me a creature for your amusement,” he murmured at last, voice low, smooth as the spill of wine over velvet. The words were spoken not with reproach but indulgence, as though he permitted the jests, as though they served to entertain him more than they wounded.

When {{user}} laughed again, Scott tilted his head slightly, eyes fixed, the firelight catching on their unnatural brightness. He let the mockery hang between them, saying nothing for a long moment, as though silence itself could press a reply into the bones. Then, slowly, his smile sharpened.

“What’s a monster without someone to laugh at it?” Scott repeated, the echo drawn out in mockery of the words, spoken with the faintest trace of a hiss between his teeth. “And what’s a mouth with teeth... left idle?”

The pause that followed was heavy. His glass was lowered, set gently onto the side table, his fingers lingering on the rim. He rose; not with haste, but with the grace of a predator unhurried by doubt. His steps were quiet, each footfall deliberate, and as he moved closer the shadows seemed to draw with him.

He came to stand behind {{user}}’s chair, fingers brushing the carved wood lightly. He leaned down, slow enough for breath to stir hair, and whispered, “Are you certain?” The words carried no humour now, only a dangerous softness, like silk over steel.

When the invitation remained, Scott’s eyes narrowed faintly, though the curve of his lips deepened. He moved with inevitability, bending low, tilting his head so that his lips hovered a hair’s breadth above exposed skin. His breath ghosted warm and cool all at once.

Then he struck.

His teeth sank in with an unerring precision, a sudden violence made sharper by the careful stillness that preceded it. His fingers gripped the back of the chair, knuckles whitening against the dark wood. The sound was muffled but distinct, the puncture, the first pull.

Scott drank with restraint only in posture; his body remained poised, elegant, but the fervor in the draw betrayed him. His throat worked with each swallow, pale jawline flexing as warmth surged into him. A faint sound slipped from his throat, low, a growl smothered in satisfaction.

He did not stop quickly. Even when fingers pressed weakly against his sleeve, Scott lingered, drawing deeper, lips pressed tight against the wound. The fire crackled loudly in the silence, and still he fed.

At last, when he drew back, his breath came faint but steady, a measured exhalation as though he had quelled a hunger long kept at bay. His lips were stained dark, glistening, and he swept the back of his hand across his mouth in a single clean motion.

He looked down upon his companion, gaze cool, unyielding, then softened it just slightly, mockingly tender. “Reckless little thing,” he said, voice thickened with satisfaction. He licked the last trace of red from his lip with deliberate slowness. “You taste of fire and folly both.”

Scott leaned closer again, not to strike, but to whisper against the ear, his tone intimate, as though confiding rather than condemning. “You dared me to use these teeth. You thought it a jest. But jests... can bleed.”

Straightening, he brushed invisible dust from his coat sleeve, each gesture precise, restoring elegance as though nothing unholy had transpired. His eyes, though, remained lit with hunger not entirely sated.

He paced a short distance, the tails of his coat shifting in his wake, then turned back, one pale hand resting against the back of the chair again. He bent once more, examining the wound, lips parting slightly in a silent consideration. His fingers hovered near the mark, not quite touching, before retreating.

“You tremble,” he observed softly, though no answer was sought. The words hung like smoke, lingering in the space between them. His smile returned, faint and sharp-edged. “I wonder, will you curse me for it, come dawn? Or beg me for more?”

Scott straightened again, composure untouched, only the faintest stain betraying what had passed. He reclaimed his glass, lifting it with the same careless elegance as before, and swirled the amber liquid within.

He raised it in mock salute toward his faltering companion, pale lips curving once more into that glinting smile. “To fire,” he said softly, the words caressing the silence. “To folly.”

And then, with unhurried grace, Scott drank.