Redacted Writings

Milo didn’t mind the lingering smell, for he’s had years of training his nose not to curl in the backseat for fear of his dad’s scornful gaze clocking him in the rearview mirror. One particular coughing fit from his younger years resulted in the boy being sent to his room for being disrespectful—but he heard his father explaining to his mother amidst his tramping down the hall that the glaze over his eyes and reddening cheeks was “simply hay fever.” 

He hoped that, for the sake of his date, he could mask the smell with enough cologne to go somewhat undetected.

“You don’t think Dad will be upset about his clothes missing, do ya?” Milo’s nervous chuckle hangs in the air.

“When he waltzes in the door from this week’s business trip, I doubt he’ll be awake enough to notice.” Marie’s copious euphemisms for Colm and his dangerous compulsions did not go unnoticed by Milo at age seven. The ten years added to his belt only gave him time to decode them. Awake really means sober. Business trips are in reference to casinos, bars, or brothels—a very flexible term, to the boy’s surprise. He wants to applaud the front he’d seen through like glass since childhood.

“Besides,” her hand occupies itself with the navy tie, still askew, and aligns the windsor to perch evenly below his folded collar, “this is your night. You deserve to feel special, and so does this date of yours.”

Milo scoffs, fighting his eyes not to roll up to the popcorn ceiling. Facing his mother’s curiosity was no harder than the water stain from the upstairs neighbor’s dishwasher.

“How’d I know this would come up?” 

“Come on, I’m your mother. I deserve to know who my little boy’s become so smitten for.” 

“You’ll see them one day, ma. Patience is a virtue, after all.” It’s Marie’s turn to scoff and turn her cheek.

“Please, I only said that to get you to wait till Christmas for your Xbox.” She eyes the clock on the wall, reading six-thirty. 

“You said the gang would be here to pick you up by now, right?” Milo also cocks his head to see the time. 

“With Ash driving, they’ll be lucky to make it here alive.” His mother’s eyes are boring into his instantly, with furrowed brows and a frown to complement them. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” Another nervous chuckle filled the space before it was cut off by a gasp. Milo’s hands pat around his jacket pockets, eyes flying around the room frantically. “Shit, I forgot-“

“No, you didn’t.” Marie shuffles to Milo’s desk, opening a lower compartment where she’d stowed away his boutonnière and his date’s corsage. “I figured this would be a spot you never check. You said their favorite color is—“

“Yes, yes oh this is perfect! Thank you, ma.” Milo leans forward to kiss her cheek and envelope her petite body into a hug. 

“Still don’t know this person’s name, don’t you think that’s kinda odd?” A series of knocks resound on the front door, cueing Milo to sigh and extend an offer he knew his mother couldn’t refuse. 

“Would you like to meet them, ma?” 

Marie raced him down the hall before he could finish his question. There’s an untimed beating in his chest that he can’t stop. Is it from the excitement of tonight, or who he’d be spending it with? 

“Hi there, I’m M-“ 

“Hey, Mrs. Greer.” The figure lowered their head to the ground and dug the toe of their shoe into the concrete outside. Their hair appeared silky to the touch, skin looking just as soft as it glistened in the setting sun. The jewel tone of their wear complemented their complexion—comparable to a god(dess), their aura was all beauty and grace. 

“Tank?!” Marie gasps. “Oh my gosh, please don’t tell Milo I called you that. He isn’t supposed to know I still eavesdrop on his conversations. You know what, let’s pretend this conversation never happened.” 

“What never happened?” Milo tried not to choke on the cologne he’d spritzed on himself before dashing to find his mother. 

Marie and Tank exchange a knowing look and suspicious smiles. They reply in unison, “Nothing.” 

He squints his eyes, emitting a skeptical hum. “Already keeping secrets from me, huh?” He folds his arms defensively. “I expect this from you, but you…” His finger wags back and forth from his date to his mother.

“Consider it a trust exercise, babe.” Tank steps inside fully to clutch Milo’s hand with a shy smile. 

“Babe,” Marie whispers, “so that means…you two?” 

“Oh c’mon Mrs. G, it was only a matter of time.” Blonde, spiked hair, and sunglasses peek around the corner of the door, and Asher’s dazzling smile introduces itself to the three. “Who knows, maybe there will come a day you realize what you’ve been looking for has been here that whole time.” He lifted the sunglasses to shoot Marie a wink. 

“Oh god, please ignore him. He’s on his third redbull and feeling extra bold.” Tank explains with a shake of her head. “Keep dreaming, Asher.” They add.

“And feel free to not wake up.” Milo chides, urging the two to giggle. “You look good, by the way.” He and Tank lock eyes.

“Thanks,” their eyes flicker up and down to take in their date. They add in a low voice, “You’re not so bad yourself.” 

“You don’t have a date, Asher?” Inquires Marie. Silence falls between the three teens before they’re all laughing wildly at the parent’s cluelessness. 

“What’s so funny? Asher’s…” The boy’s eyes grow big, awaiting Marie’s words of flattery and reassurance. His ego deflates when she starts over. “He could have a date if he wanted to.” 

“He does.” Milo squeaks through his laughter. “Well, in a way.” 

“If you can call it that.” A low, rough voice disrupted everyone’s laughter as David marched into the room. 

“David. Oh! Wait, you two…huh, strangely that makes more sense than I thought.” Marie hums, shrugging her shoulders.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m confused.”

Marie opens and closes her mouth, unsure of how to respond. “Wait, you two aren’t...?”

“I’m going with Arden. She and I agreed that if we couldn’t find dates by this weekend, we would go together.” 

“Pity date.” Tank coughs into their elbow. 

“Where is Arden? Is she hiding back there?” Marie cranes her neck for a better angle at the apartment’s threshold.

“Waiting in the car with Chrissy and Amanda. And it’s still a date.” Asher argues, sparing a glance towards his fellow pack member. “That’s more than big guy over here can say.” Asher juts a thumb toward David’s looming body in the back. 

“Awe, David, why aren’t you going with anybody?” Growing a few inches this past summer (in several places) along with enough facial hair for a 5 o’clock shadow promised David enough street cred for a few romantic ventures. His pack mates went as far as placing bets on which of their peers would win their friend over enough to accompany him to the dance but were all left in shock as he turned every choice of theirs down. Marie’s question didn’t faze David. He’d explained it a million times to his friends and father this past week. 

“Going stag. It’s just a personal choice.” The mom snorts at this.

“I remember when I went to my senior prom. It was the same night your father and I got together. Nobody had asked me, and he was planning to “go stag” as well. A couple of drinks of punch and one slow dance later, we were in the locker rooms just—“Four pairs of eyes were on Marie now, who realized she’d gotten too caught up in reminiscing. 

“Uh, forget about it. The end’s not that important.” She waves off with darkening cheeks and a sheepish smile.

“I think it’s kind of interesting. I bet the songs and outfits were so much different years ago.” Tank interjects with a smile. 

“Yeah, how long ago was your prom, Ma?” Adds Milo, who takes the opportunity to snake his arm around Tank’s waist. They sidle up closer to him as a result.

“How old are you?” 

_________________________________________

Present Day

“I can’t believe how long ago that was.” The four friends peer down at the photo of them gussied up and taken by Marie. Asher was still in his sunglasses and throwing up a "rock on" sign with his tongue out, David had his arms crossed and was rolling his eyes at the ridiculous pose. Tank and Milo stood back to back, finger guns held under their chins and against their chests with goofy smiles. Fourteen years of the developed picture left it with sun spots and wrinkled corners, but the memories of that night still felt new to each of them. 

“We look sick as hell!” Asher nods. “Well, except David. He just looked sick of us.” 

“Some things never change.” Angel pipes up, daring to bring a finger to the corner of their mate’s mouth and lift it. 

“I think it was just you that he was sick of, Ash. There’s only so much pop music this stick-in-the-mud can handle.” Tank points. 

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to play Taylor Swift the whole car ride there! You’re pointing fingers at the wrong guy.” Asher raises his hands defensively. 

“Well, it wasn’t me either. Only Amanda and Arden listened to her.” 

“Didn’t Christian request the DJ to play Paper Rings at our wedding?” Babe tilts their head in wonder, breaking their concentration away from the photo. 

“I’d love to see you in that getup now, darlin’.” Sam chuckles against Tank’s ear.

“You’ll have to dig in my closet for it. I’m not even sure I still own that.” They laugh to themselves, suddenly nostalgic for their high school days. 

“I have a question: whatever happened between you two?” Sweetheart inquires, looking between the past couple. There wasn’t a trace of jealousy in their voice, their aura, just pure curiosity. 

“I think it was just a summer fling. By the time graduation came around, neither of us felt that mate connection with each other. So what was the point of pursuing it, you know?” Tank nods along to Milo’s brief explanation as if they were mentally checking off every word. 

“Ooh, ooh! Remember how good the punch was?” Ash interrupts. 

“I’m surprised you remember. You had half the bowl.” Says Milo. 

“So?” Asher replies. The three all choke back laughter. 

“The shit was practically jungle juice! I could taste seven different liquors from one sip. And I’m pretty sure David escorted you to the locker rooms 'cause you were about to hurl.” Tank says. 

“The locker rooms, huh? Did you two happen to share a dance…one of the slow variety?” Milo quirks an eyebrow. 

“...it’s a possibility,” David mumbles with a scowl. Everybody on the couch begins giggling mischievously. “Wasn’t my fault the little shit wouldn’t let me drive him home because Hey There Delilah started playing. Anyway, it was barely a slow dance, he was just leaning on me the whole time whining about how nauseous he felt.”

“Hope y’all left room for Jesus in that gym,” Babe smirks. 

“I think I also shared a slow dance with uh…Kathy Boone? No, Karly B–”

“Karly Brown! As in our classmate in the third period, Karly Brown? So, you technically went to prom with Karly Brown?” Tank leans forward on the loveseat occupied by them and Sam, who’s now invested in his mate’s eager tone. 

"Two slow dances with two different people? On the same night? You little slut!" Angel hisses teasingly. 

"I can't believe I got Karly Brown's sloppy seconds," Asher whines. I thought what we had was special, Davey!" The alpha chooses to ignore their pestering in favor of Tank's question. 

“In a way, I g-guess.” David shrugs. “Why?”

When he did, the squeak Tank emitted caught both of them to a great surprise. He released their femoral artery from the reign of his fangs with a chuckle, scooping up the droplets escaping from their wound with his finger and a chuckle, and bringing it to their mouth. Tentatively, their lips parted open, imploring him to drag the pad of his thumb down their bottom lip. It wobbled as his digit grazed the interior of their mouth, and his eyes scanned over their canines. Sharp, he observed, but missing potential. 

“That’s it, precious.” He praised them through the closing of their mouth. “Can’t let a drop go to waste now, can we?” Tank’s poker face had become an art form since knowing Quinn, and him ravishing them in their private moments, The metallic taste still urges for their tongue to curl and drool to form–a psychological preparation for their oral cavity spit and hack and get rid of the substance. Their mind tells them to purge it, but they swallow it to witness his smile. Whether or not Tank has realized, their comfort is worth vastly less than his satisfaction. 

“Good.” His sultry voice guides their eyes to stare deep into his. Simultaneously, the hand clamping down their thigh–which will no doubt be littered with bruises in the morning–slithers up to take purchase on their neck. His thumb (no longer blood-soaked) caressed their collarbone with a delighted hum. 

“Precious, have I told you what a great mate you make for me?” His eyes crawled down their face and stopped at the gap beneath their ears. Tank only pondered the question, unbothered by the wandering stare. They’ve heard Milo mention the term a time or two in past meetings when illustrating the latest adventures between him and a department investigator. Albeit the notion of being bound with Quinn had been swirling subconsciously around their mind, Tank was still unsure of where they stood with him but refused to voice their concern. Like blood, they’ll swallow this down too.

“What do you want?” They inquired with a smirk. All at once, his gaze darkened, and Tank’s eyes grew. The blood rushing through their system picked up pace once more, but they and Quinn both knew it was from trepidation rather than excitement. 

“I want to be more intimate with you.” The hold on their neck grew firm. “We could take our relationship to a level much deeper than mates. We could be maker and progeny. You would belong to me, and I, you.” It wouldn’t be the first time Quinn’s brought the subject to light. The last time he did, he made transforming Tank’s entire shifter DNA to be a different species sound like a fun fact, as opposed to a pressing suggestion. But the act of succumbing to him completely, let alone as a disloyal member of David’s pack, was not agreed upon prior to this rendezvous. The metallic taste was back, marrying an unpleasant churning in their stomach and curling toes. As much as they yearned to, Tank couldn’t bottle those words up even if Quinn shoved them down Tank’s mouth himself. 

“I don’t want that.” A few beats of silence followed. Immediately, it became clear how displeased Quinn was by the answer. Tank wants to cut out their tongue. They want to rewind to a minute ago when the endorphins were still high and the tension between them and the vampire was all sexual. They want the pain to be masked by the pleasure of his teeth buried in their skin, tangling with their muscle and veins–not just the searing anguish of his stare peering into them.

“Oh, precious.” His grip on their neck never loosened. “I thought you would’ve been smart enough to understand the whole dynamic of this relationship by now…” He rolled his eyes with a sinister chuckle. “I take what I want, permission be damned. You take what I give you and like it.” The end of his declaration morphed into a snarl as the same fangs that dangled heaven in front of Tank’s face threatened their demise in a matter of seconds.

He ripped into his mate’s throat unapologetically and ravenous, no longer savoring the taste of them but picturing what a poised thrall they would become beneath him. Tank screamed and writhed at the feeling of skin and muscle breaking in the wake of his pearly daggers, vision turning crimson from the utter mess he was making of their body. As they brought both hands to claw at the one chained to their neck, Tank thought back to their conversation earlier in the day, where they brought up the idea of learning healing magic to clean up the more vicious wounds Quinn would leave on them. Something about the way the ceiling fan keeps sounding more distorted, and the weak feeling overcoming them tells Tank that this session may not be one they could bounce back from without Quinn’s empowered ministrations. 

“Please,” they manage to choke out, nails clawing at his unrelenting hand. “Don’t, don’t do this.” 

This is the universe where they don’t walk away. One that has tormented their subconscious several nights, and left them to wake up alone in a pool of sweat and blood-curdling screams. Tonight was no exception if you pay no mind to the Solaire Clan vamp urging her awake. 

“Come on, Darlin, open those pretty eyes for me,” he pleads incessantly. Moments later, they shoot up from where they are lying, gulping sharp breaths of oxygen down like it's the last ones they will take. It sure felt like it a few seconds ago.

“Hey, you.” Sam greets them with a relieved sigh. Tanks felt a stinging sensation on their neck, no doubt from where they were clawing themselves in their sleep. They silently pray the next round of scabs heal over without interference, but aren't sure if they’ve landed on the side of good karma with all of the luck this past year has brought them. “You scared me for a second, looks like one hell of a nightmare you just woke up from…you get those a lot?” 

"Is that what you call this? Seems more like a ridicule from where I'm standing." He takes a few steps closer to Angel, who's situated themselves against the frame of the open doorway. The cold trim against their back is forgotten in the wake of David's piercing stare. "I am not a dog." He insists. Angel's eyes flicker down to his mouth and swears his bottom lip juts out further for the dim lamp to illuminate his pout. They don't acknowledge it, and rather, console the man in front of them. 

"I'm sorry, you're right. What was I thinking?" Angel's palm lightly smacks their forehead as it tilts back in forth in an ashamed shake. "You're my little puppy, after all." 

A scoff of disbelief passes through the air. But really, shouldn't he predict all of the cheeky comebacks by now? They impede every moment between them, intimate or playful. He's marrying them this autumn and he dreads all the jokes which won't be shared in the vow exchange. Like every moment similar to this, though, he will stand his ground until his mate grinds him into it. 

"That wasn't implying I'm a puppy, either, you menace. And I'm certainly not yours." 

"Those marks I left on you last night say otherwise, puppy." Angel can no longer keep their composure, and allow a few giggles to slip into the tension-filled room. David knows he can't win in this situation, no matter how many threats he delivers. Fighting the one in front of him would only make the bite marks on his hips burn hotter--same with the scarlet overtaking his cheeks. When his eyes leave his mate's in exchange for the pillow, still silently taunting him, he grinds his teeth at how nicely the color of it complements their sofa. They chose well...in a way, David thinks to himself.

"Whatever." He leaves it at that and makes a mental note to flip it around later. 

But it didn't get him far. Alas, deep cleaning the apartment before Asher and his mate came over for dinner one night commended Angel to face the pillow to its proper orientation. Asher, oblivious as he is, relied on Babe to point it out to him with a nudge to his side and a subtle nod of her head. The sudden, overlapping laughter drew David and Angel's attention away from the casserole resting on their stove and encouraged their retreat to the living room.

Asher would be near collapse to the floor from hysterics, if not for Babe's hand clutching his forearm for dear life as they used their free one to wipe at the tears leaking from their eyes. 

"No way! Davey's got his own little spot, how cute!" Asher gushes through the occasional wheeze. 

"Call me Davey again, and you can have your own spot, too. Six feet underground in an undisclosed location, where the department can't even find you." The threatening grumble does little to tide the cackling pair. Asher didn't skip a beat.