Dreamwidth Vamptober writing prompt: @meli_writes — Vampire whose favourite late-night coffee stop is being run by a damn werewolf now
“I heard somebody bought the place,” the vampire at the counter says stiffly, radiating hostility, and Sunny gives her a once-over. This is the fourth vampire to come in here on weekday soft-opening night to warn her that she’s hanging her shingle in their big honcho’s turf, and she better look sharp.
Kind of a shame. This one’s tall and the cut of her coat whispers things about shoulders and biceps that Sunny wouldn’t mind having a listen to. Pixie cut, artfully tousled just so. A full and mobile mouth, currently telegraphing sulky.
Sunny blinks away a vivid and pleasant image of worrying that sulky lip between her teeth.
“That’s right,” she says pleasantly.
“I’d like to speak to the new owner, please,” the vampire says, sulking harder to demonstrate the impossibility of charming her.
God, but Sunny likes the ones on self-built pedestals. The taller they hide, the messier they break at the bottom when you tip them over.
“Well, that’s me, so that makes me feel special,” she drawls, performatively wiping down the espresso machine.
The vampire’s lip curls in annoyance. “You don’t want to feel special,” she says shortly. “Specials go at the top of the menu.”
Sunny can’t help it; she’d have burst something trying not to laugh out loud. “Listen, babe,” she says, “your boys have been hassling me all evening. I better watch my step, or Slick’s gonna bust me. I better not fuck the place up, Slick won’t take it kindly. You know what? The more y’all talk Slick up, the more of a picture I get of someone without the stones to come harass me themself—”
The vampire shoves balled fists deep in her pockets and looks at the ceiling, face slowly flushing a delicate pink.
“—I just really like it in here,” she mutters grumpily.
“Oh, man,” Sunny says. “Oh, man. Do you have brothers? Because calling you Slick is some kinda wicked irony, babe, I don’t know anyone but siblings would mock someone’s game like that—” and whistles at the embarrassed head-jerk in the direction of outside and, by synecdoche, Sunny’s serial vampire problem.
And here she’d felt vaguely guilty at thinking they all looked just the same.
“Just sit in your usual roost,” she says. “I’ll bring it over.”
“You don’t even know what I like—” the vampire says heatedly, and chokes to a stop when Sunny gives her another, hugely exaggerated, once-over.
“I know exactly what you need,” Sunny says, and lazily turns her back to start with the grinding and tamping and pulling a shot, the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth and breath bated until the vampire stops fidgeting and huffing and goes to sit down in outrage.
God, Sunny likes the ones on self-built pedestals.
They always think they’re out of reach.
