Witching Hour

You stub out a half-smoked cigarette, shaking your head for even trying. You haven’t enjoyed one for a while; the nicotine doesn’t do anything anymore. You just smoke for the warmth in your chest.  

You trace over the bubble letters and the flaky glitter glue of the card the girls had given you when you joined the band. Your sixteenth birthday was a filming day– the music video for your debut song. Bossy had talked the costume crew into getting you a longer skirt and a top with a higher neckline. 

“She’s a baby! She’s only fifteen!” she shouted, waving them away. 

“Sixteen,” you corrected her passively. 

“You’re not fifteen, Lovey?” Smarty asked.

“No, um- well, today-”

“It’s your birthday?!” Baddie shouted in surprise, shaking your shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, we’re working today,” you answered her.

“And?” Smarty laughed. “We can still celebrate.”

“Shit, we could have gotten you something!”

The videotape plays quietly on the fuzzy TV. It’s a scratchy recording of you wiping at tears while the girls serenade you.

“Happy birthday dear Lovey,” their harmonic voices buzz in the speakers– your memory plays along with it, and you recall that Smarty added a riff to make you giggle. “Happy birthday to you!”

You sniff and blink away a tear. You reach over and press the button, turning off the TV. You keep your hand on the box, feeling the heat slowly fade against your icy touch. 

“Baby, you in here?” Remmick calls. 

You step out and close the door. He catches you in a kiss and grins. 

“Sun’s down. You hungry?” he asks, his hands squeezing your hips. 

“Very,” you reply. 

After breakfast, you head down to the studio to work. It’s been a while since you’ve put out music. It’s been a while since you’ve been out. The tour was wildly successful; you both made bank on merchandise and CD sales. The Christmas show did a lot for Remmick’s image. Suddenly he was less of a mysterious freak and more of your misunderstood rocker boy. You keep your eye on the forums and fanclubs, and the disdain for him dies out more and more every day. It’s harder to get his fans to come around to you, but you’re cautiously optimistic for the future. 

And you have nothing but the future to think about. 

You dropped a surprise single on the radio in January. Yours & Mine, a lovey-dovey melodic tune that harkened back to your old tracks without feeling too immature. A verse with a sweet reference to Jamie and the band as your family had pregnancy rumours circling you like sharks in the water. 

That line of gossip was quickly dispelled by keeping a drink in your hand all night at the Grammys. You and Remmick didn’t win– you never would– but you got to perform a more stripped back, acoustic medley of SIN/SACRAMENT. Remmick made sure you felt like a winner that night, making you cum until you scratched his face, which only made the both of you want each other more. 

You’ve been feral since December. You fuck like animals. You want him deep and raw at all times. You were able to finally push away your hopeless desires for a baby, instead giving all of that bottled-up affection to Jamie. Not expecting anything to come from fucking Remmick has made it more fun. You scratch and bite and you don’t give a fuck about marks left on either one of you. He’s yours and you’re his just as much. If the media knows, it’s even better. You want your names in everyone’s mouths. Everyone should be talking about you and him and nothing else because there’s nothing better.

In those months, Remmick could feel you digging deeper. He felt most vulnerable while tangled up under the covers with you. He could feel your claws in the hivemind scratching for information. 

It’s a dark place up there, sugar, he told you, shutting you out. Every time the door slammed in your metaphysical face, it stung. 

When he does give you little breadcrumbs about what he was before he was this, you follow them diligently.

He lets you remember what you had seen those first hours of your turning. The montage of green and grief of his history in Ireland. When you and the girls would tour in the UK, you would half-watch the news stories on TV and listen to the hushed way the girls would talk about it. You have hundreds of years of context now.

He finally lets you in. Names and dates and locations. You’re finally starting to meet him.

It only took the both of you pretending to get married. Everyone thinks you are. It started as a stunt for the music video last year. The airing on MTV combined with paparazzi photos of you in a white dress sold the idea to your fans first– it was a harder pill to swallow for his fans. You doubled down with a cutesy I do on every night of the tour. You don’t wear rings, but nothing about either of you is very traditional anyway. You don’t want to correct people. You want people to think you belong to each other. You’re one and the same, just the way it feels in the hivemind.

You miss Jamie so much it hurts. His first album is out and he’s been doing shows around the country to drum up interest in a potential tour. He’s so far away that you can hardly feel him through that bond you made when you sunk your fangs in. You can’t imagine being that far from Remmick. It’s almost been a year since you turned him, and he’s taking to it a lot better than you did. 

A tour for Jamie would be easy to fund; you and Remmick have so much money that you don’t even know what to do with it. You fill up Jamie’s pockets, even if he’s far away, and you buy lavish things for Remmick. 

You want him to live in his memories and be proud of them. You want to fill the house up with mementos of his past. You try to build a timeline of his memories with little gifts. Your first present was a vinyl pressed at the recording studio he worked at in the sixties– you bought a second copy for the producer, of course. 

You buy him old guitars and vintage synthesisers. You find weird, expensive instruments he doesn’t even know how to play. You even manage to track down a very old banjo, one that makes his eyes light up in a new way.

You’re on the floor, kicking your feet as you try to write lyrics. You watch him above you. He absently plucks at the banjo as he sits on the edge of the sofa, his legs crossed to prop it up. You love him like this. You’ve let yourself act like him, getting lost in the music like it’s a deep ocean or a thick forest. Not allowing yourself to be scared of the depth, just surrendering to it.

You see his eyes closing, feel that thick, dreamlike fog of a memory filling up the room. You let your eyes fall shut and join him.

The sounds and smells of a smoky pub flood your senses. A pack of musicians share a corner, all beautifully in time. Remmick is snugly tucked in the middle. You’d know his face anywhere, and you’ve seen him in a hundred styles. His hair is longer now and he has a full beard with especially thick sideburns. He wears a brownish vest and funny shoes. 

“‘Twas there I first met with sweet Molly Malone,” he sings.

You’re abruptly taken out of it. You pop up on your elbows. 

“When was that?” you ask him softly. 

“Hm, eighteen hundreds. Banjo was new, I was old by then,” he answers you, plucking out a scale. “You saw that one was five strings. This type though… this four string… that’s newer.”

“Oh yeah? And how new is newer, grandpa?” you tease. 

You knew he was old when you used to call him that before, but knowing his real age, he’s more like a dinosaur. 

He scoffs.

“Ninteen twenties,” he huffs with a roll of his eyes. 

You scan through the mental timeline quickly and realise what that means. 

“So you were here,” you chirp, sitting up on your knees. 

You see the uncomfortable expression on his face– the one he’s been making for months since you’ve started piecing together the timeline of his life. You never want to pry. The memories sting less when he offers them willingly.

You get up and perch next to him on the sofa.

“Play me something,” you say, squeezing his shoulder. 

“Play you what?”

“That song.”

You hesitate.

“Give it to me,” you offer in a whisper.

“Baby…”

“Just the song,” you beg him, “it doesn’t have to be the whole memory.” 

He takes a measured breath and nods for you to move forward. Your nose brushes against his. 

You feel his breath on your lips as he lets you in. You inhale the past like smoke.

You’re there, but it feels like you’re underwater. The music comes through distorted and muffled– garbled like a bad radio wire. You turn to the side glacially. It’s like you’re moving through oil. Remmick is beside you, but not your Remmick. He’s the one from the memory with the vest and the sideburns. He reaches through the barrier and sucks you into his memory, pulling you into his lap and placing the banjo on your thighs. 

The song feels like it bursts out of you. He chuckles from behind you, kissing your shoulder. A song has never been like this before. It feels like you’re pushed together by the music, like it fills any space between the two of you and creates a vacuum, pushing your heart against his. It feels like there’s no end or beginning to the hands holding the banjo, like you’re holding it together. 

All of the sudden the song feels heavier on you. The oil has returned to fill up your lungs while Molly Malone grabs your heart and pulls down.

You gasp for air and drop, seeing the studio around you. Remmick catches the banjo before it can hit the floor– so it was in your hands. He sets it off to the side.

“Shit, y’alright?” he murmurs, his face painted with concern. 

He’s so worried for you. He means it. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him, crawling into his lap again. 

“More than alright, huh?” he jokes in a low tone that makes you moan.

“Thank you,” you breathe, your lips smearing over the corner of his mouth. “I love your memories,” you profess, holding his face. “I love you, Remmick.”

“I love you too, angel.” 

You wait in the studio nervously, watching the producer listen to the demo you and Remmick made the night before.

“Intimate, but bassy. Like a heartbeat. Sexy,” Remmick explains the sound, leaning over the producer’s shoulder to the soundboard. 

When he started to let you in, you were almost jealous about his intimate past with the band members. You’ve calmed down a lot in the last year. You’re not the same girl who scratched the hell out of the keyboardist after she blasted you with the image of a mullet-wearing Remmick fucking her in the back of a beat-up truck. You’ve come to realise it’s more of a who hasn’t slept with him situation. You’re not a one bite stand like her and the producer. You feel special now. You understand how much you mean to him compared to the others. 

The producer thinks for a second.

“Um, I like it. It’s…” he hesitates.

“Be honest,” you beg him.

“Sweetie, I’m not your publicist,” he starts.

Oh shit. What will Marcia think of this?

“It’s a little… desperate?” he finally says, a slight grimace on his face. 

You take it in. The lyrics are a little over the top. 

“How can we make it sound more fuck you?” you ask him, crossing your arms. 

Remmick grins and the producer follows suit. 

“He really is rubbing off on you,” he snarks, taking the pencil from behind his ear. 

You sit in Marcia’s office, her nails tapping on the jewel case of the CD as she listens to the final product. The CD player clicks off, leaving the two of you in uncomfortable silence. 

You like the song. You’re proud of it and you think it portrays exactly what you need everyone to understand. Remmick is your everything. 

“What do you think I’m going to say?” she finally speaks. 

“It’s tone deaf and rude and glosses over all of the actual issues and after that pregnancy rumour you owe me seven bonuses,” you joke, mimicking her voice. 

She sighs and pinches her nosebridge.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her softly. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. This whole thing just… it didn’t happen the way I wanted it to and I wish he wasn’t so much, but I love him, Marcia. I love him so much I… I don’t even know what to do with myself. And we’re so close, it’s like… we live in each other’s skin. I feel like I’ve known him for a thousand years, I feel like I’ve been him,” the words pour out of you without care. 

Marcia doesn’t understand the hivemind. You hope she never will, especially not because of you. Remmick is blowing smoke out of an open window in the hall, listening to the physical cues of your body and making sure you don’t get too excited. 

“I mean, all that wedding stuff for the album last year, that wasn’t just promotional, I want to marry him,” you gush. It’s sappier than you mean to sound, but you know what you want.

Marcia knows you’re not married, but she’s been crafting a very vague narrative that you probably are. 

“Do you? Really?” she huffs sarcastically.

“I mean it, Marcia. I want to be with him forever, I want people to know that. It’s a mess, but it’s my mess,” you finish.

“Oh, believe me, it’s my mess too,” she scoffs. 

She sucks her teeth.

“But it’s a good song,” she admits. “Write up a statement. We’ll send it next week.”

She eyes you.

“Your birthday is soon.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say. You had forgotten too. 

“Got any plans for that?” she questions, clearly hoping it won’t be another fire to put out.

“Uh… not yet. I’ll let you know. Um… Marcia?”

“Hm?” 

You meet her eyes. 

“I’m gonna wear a ring. On Up Late,” you confess. “Not… because we’re engaged. Yet. I just want to make Johnny look like an idiot.”

She looks surprised. 

“Yet?” she repeats your addition.

“C’mon, Marcia. It was gonna happen eventually, I don’t know why you’re so surprised.”

You see the disappointment in her eyes when she realises you’re serious about this.

“You want this? I mean really, truly want this?” she prods in a harsh tone. 

She leans forward.

“If he’s making you do this-”

“No, Marcia! Jesus. He’s- he’s not making me do anything! I’m my own woman, I-I’m not his little… fucking… minion!”

She shrugs, her eyes glassy as she teeters on the brink of tears. 

“If that’s what you want,” she relents.

“I’ve never wanted something so bad,” you sniffle. 

You promised yourself you wouldn’t tear up in front of her. It’s hard not to under that severely maternal glare of hers.

“Well. Thanks for the warning,” she says dryly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me, kiddo. I’m not the one sticking with him.”

The new single Talkin’ acts as both a profession of the singer’s love and a denial of any accusations about her boyfriend’s alleged drug habits or “cult-like” activities. 

The industrial rocker Remmick, controversial since he first blew up on the scene, has continued to be in hot water for the better part of the decade. Since 1993, there have been allegations of his band distributing narcotics as a means of recruiting young members. The band has also been very private, not revealing any personal information about members. 

Every CD of Talkin’ includes this statement: 

I hear a lot of talk, but I know that these people just do not know him the way I do. I know they see that cocky attitude and make snap judgements about his character. He is a natural born leader and I know other musicians are jealous of that. They wish they could have the same kind of trust and respect from the band and the roadies that he has. 

I love Remmick more than anyone I ever have before and I am never going to stop. 

So keep talking.

The next week you’re sitting across from Johnny Moon again, rolling the charm on your gold necklace between manicured fingers. He holds up the cover for Talkin’ and whistles.

“Wow! Just wow!” he laughs over the audience roaring.

You grin, feeling your fangs itching to slip down. 

“You look great. How are you?” Johnny asks. 

“I’m better than better,” you purr, pushing up your sunglasses. 

“Yeah? You looked a little queasy last time,” he jokes.

“Can you blame me for being a little nervous? You’re too cute.” 

He chuckles and you see a blush on his cheeks. 

“Tell us about this song,” he starts.

“You all saw what I had to say, right?” you ask, addressing the obscured people around you. 

They clap and cheer. 

“We love you!”

“Shut up, I love you too,” you respond, blowing a kiss. 

“Whoa, whoa. What’s that?” Johnny asks, reaching for your hand.

“Oh, this?” you laugh, showing the sparkling engagement ring. 

“You snuck up on me,” he chuckles, his teeth clenched.

He’s actually mad. It’s pretty cute. That was your intention. You wanted to stir the pot and get people confused. You might be the first celebrity to pull off two stunt marriages to the same man. 

“Till death do we part,” you tease in a singsong voice.

You see him nod his head away to the PA holding the cue cards and run his hand through his hair to calm down.

“I thought you were married already,” he counters with a tense smile.

“No, so there are these things called music videos, and they usually do a little story in them…” you make fun of him, the audience laughing. 

“So you’re really not backing down?” Johnny asks. “Even with everything that’s been said about him? All the rumours and-”

“Why should I? It’s complete lies or people who don’t like the way he talks. Newsflash! He’s a rockstar! He’s not a goddamn politician!” you shout to the audience, throwing your arms up.

“You love him?” he asks like he doesn’t believe you.

“I love him so much. I’m stupid about him. And I’m so happy because… we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. For forever,” you announce, tapping your nail on his desk.

You can hear talking upstairs as you autograph a few vinyls and CDs for the next event you and Remmick are having. Your stomach turns slightly remembering your last time “meeting fans.” The nausea just turns into heartache when you think about Jamie’s sweet face.  

You set down your pen and sigh, heading up the stairs. 

“Don’t let her see that,” you hear Remmick say from around the corner. 

“Her better not be me,” you joke, grinning at him.

He takes your hand and tugs you to him, kissing your temple. You see the bassist holding a magazine and your smile drops. 

“A new review?” you ask, trying to steel yourself. 

“Ain’t nothin’,” Remmick waves it away. “Let’s talk birthday.”

“No, I don’t want to. Give me that,” you snap, taking the magazine. 

Your eyes find the review. You read the section quickly but carefully, taking in the negative energy and letting it curl around you. 

Inauthentic. 

Embarrassing. 

Irresponsible. 

You don’t realise your claws are growing until they puncture the paper, piercing through the image of the single’s cover above the words. You tear the magazine apart, leaving it in shreds on the floor. 

“Inauthentic?” you hiss, tears pricking at your eyes. “How do they know?!” you shout, throwing your hands up. 

“Baby-”

“Th-they don’t know what we are,” you snarl, storming away from him. “They don’t know what we can do! Everybody thinks I’m fucking brainwashed, they don’t know I’m better than them!”

You’re not sure if you mean these things or if you’re just angry. It feels good to be so strong. It feels great to not get tired, to not sweat or get short of breath. You know you’re not a porcelain doll. You know you have your own thoughts, even if Remmick has shared enough of his to fill up half your mind.

Your mindless hands find the things in your home you know you cherish. A crystal candlestick shatters when it hits the hardwood. A picture frame flies off of the shelf. The Kids’ Choice Award for 2*Sweet flies toward Remmick, who catches it before it can hit the bassist. 

“Fuck these people! Fuck them! They don’t know anything about us! They’re nothing!”

Your claws dig into a pillow, feathers puffing out and covering the den. Your hand goes right through your new flat screen TV. 

You stop in the corner. 

Your old guitar. The one you used to sing hymns on the road. Before 2*Sweet or pop music, before you even knew who Remmick was. When your father would turn off the radio if he couldn’t find the praise station. When your mother would pluck you off the swingset and chide you for dirtying up your Mary Janes. 

The past smacks you out of your rage and Remmick sees you deflate. He’s wanted to ask about the guitar before, but it had such heavy energy that he thought it wasn’t smart.

You turn with tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, seeing the path of destruction.  

You run to the picture frame first, picking it up. You brush away the glass and delicately lift the photo. You and the girls before your first show of the tour. 

The frame is cracked and the glass is everywhere. You spent a day after the tour decorating the four corners of the frame with little beads or charms in each of your signature colours. Now your sisters are scattered around the room. 

“C-can you help- help me find them?” you beg Remmick pathetically.

He’s never seen you like this. You’re like a little girl, on your knees and picking up beads with no care for all the broken glass around you. 

The bassist leaves quietly. 

Remmick kneels down and helps you pick up each one. You sweep up the glass and he holds the dustpan. You vacuum the feathers and he empties the bag. He carries the television to the dumpster and puts the stupid orange blimp back in its place. 

He cleans up the shredded magazine.

He embraces you when the tears come back. He leads you to your room and lets you hide in his chest. 

“I don’t want a birthday party,” you admit to him in a whisper. “I just wanna be with you.” 

“We can do that.” 

The night has been all about you. You woke up to breakfast in bed– one of the blood bags Remmick keeps for special occasions or emergencies, whichever comes first. You snuggled for an hour watching TV until Remmick decided to give you your first present, three orgasms from his fingers and tongue. You scratched a whole new language into his back before he left you drooling. You had a shower together, even if half of it was spent with him fucking you against the tiles. 

Your first real present was a new piano. You covered his face in kisses for it. You spent some time testing it out and playing hits from your collective discographies, along with other favourites.

The next was a new car, which you both took out on an evening drive around Los Angeles. 

Now you’re just sitting in the kitchen swapping industry stories, laughing and moving cake around your plates with forks. It doesn’t taste like anything, but at least it looked pretty. 

You glance at the clock. 10:37. Goddamn it. You promised Jamie you’d call. You stand up and cross to the phone, dialing the number of the hotel and tapping your fuzzy slipper on the kitchen floor as it rings. You give his room number and your name.

“Right away, miss. Let me connect the call.”

It makes another clicking noise and you hear laughter and clinking glass. Music plays in the background. 

Jamie answers, slurring your name out. You hear the door shut and the music muffles.

“Hey! Oh, I thought y’like, forgot,” he chirps. You can hear his smile. “Happy Birthday!” 

“Thanks, Jamie. How is everything?” you ask.

“S’awesome! Thank you so much, this hotel’s way too fancy.”

“Aw, well, you’re welcome, J,” you laugh at his drunk honesty.

“‘N I made the guys promise t’clean up, don’worry. Seattle is the shit, I fuckin’ love these grunge boys. Fuck, they’re so hot.”

You hear what you can assume is him clapping a hand over his own mouth.

“Oh, fuck. Oh no, I’m sorry,” he giggles. “You don’need to know that.”

“You’re being careful, right? Just because you’re… like this doesn’t mean-”

“Super careful. Super, yeah.”

“And, y’know, I want you to be careful with the drinking and the drugs and everything-”

“Mom, seriously, m’being so careful-” 

Remmick watches your face change. He worries for a moment. Did something happen? Is Jamie hurt? 

“O-okay,” you manage to say. “I trust you.”

“Thanks.”

You hear talking behind him.

“Fifteen, Jimmy!”

“Jamie,” he corrects them. “Thanks. Hey, I gotta go for my show.”

“Okay,” you almost sniffle. “Break a leg.” 

“I miss you,” he adds softly. 

“I miss you too,” you breathe out, blinking back tears. 

“Bye.” 

“Bye, Jamie.” 

You hang up the phone and press your lips together, trying not to cry.

Mom. He called you Mom. He was intoxicated and he probably didn’t mean it, but deep down he thinks of you that way. Your baby.

Your baby who is drunk somewhere in Seattle surrounded by grungy punk rockers.

Remmick’s hand smoothes over your bare shoulder, kissing the long healed scar of your bite

“I bet he’s havin’ fun,” he chuckles.

You nod tensely.

“Baby,” he coos. “What’s the matter?” 

“I just miss him so much,” you whimper, hugging him tightly.

He laughs at you– not mean, just lovingly– and kisses your cheek.

“He’ll be back soon. And he’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” you respond in a small voice.

He pats your back. You listen to him take in a breath like he’s going to say something. He pulls back slightly.

“Do you wanna maybe… see another one?” he offers cautiously. He can’t bring himself to say memory, so he just taps his temple. 

“Really?” you ask, sniffling. 

He holds your face and smiles at you. His red eyes glint in the flickery kitchen light– you need to get it fixed, but you’ve been too busy. 

“We can go back, calm down a little bit?” he starts to explain the offer. 

“How far back?”

“Hundred-something. Not too bad,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing over your cheek. 

“Not too bad. You’re so old,” you tease. 

“C’mon, birthday girl.” 

You move to your room, holding each other, snuggled in bed.

Suddenly you’re sitting on the floor in a corner. Your knees press against a wooden cot. This is a look you haven’t seen. His face is shaved, unlike your scruffy Remmick. He pulls off his brimmed cap and runs his hand over the short cropped cut. He shrugs off his thick coat and you spy his suspenders– you love him in suspenders. He pulls them off and unbuttons his shirt. 

Quiet, dark, musky. It smells like bodies and sweat, but it’s not a club. The air is full of the thick smoke of something you can’t place. 

You can’t speak, but you don’t have to with him. The knowledge wafts into your head with the smoke. Opium den, 1915. His face is dirty. His eyes are tired and sad, but so much more human. This is decades before you were even born. He was still ancient, but something about him was younger. He didn’t have the confidence he has now. 

You’re too busy looking around the room to catch him heating the pipe and inhaling deeply– but you feel it with him. You thought you were just observing this memory, but he reaches out and grabs your wrist, tugging you to him. It feels like a warm blanket wraps around you both. The tension in your shoulders morphs into liquid as you sink into his chest. 

You stay like that for a while, hardly feeling the wood beneath you. You breathe in time with one another with no regard for the smoke. You touch the thick fabric of his shirt and rub it between your fingers. 

It changes in your hand, turning back into Remmick’s worn Woodstock ‘94 shirt. The comforting feeling fades fast, replaced by want. It’s not the hyped-up horny that you feel from coke, but a deep, throbbing need for him. You crawl between his legs and pull down his soft flannel pyjama pants. You kiss his thigh and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him lightly until he’s hard in your hand. 

“Baby,” he breathes, his head falling softly back onto the pillow. 

You kiss the tip and take him in your mouth, sucking on the head as you squeeze and jerk the base. His hand grabs your hair– lightly, he seems like he’s still a little dreamy. It was his memory after all. He doesn’t pull, just uses the grip to keep himself grounded while you work your hand over the length. 

“Get up here, get up here,” he begs. “C’mon, princess. Need’a feel you so bad,” he encourages you. 

You walk on your knees, pushing down your shorts and kicking them away.

“That’s it, yeah, baby, siddown,” he groans, feeling your wet cunt hug his cock as you sink down. He twitches inside of you and winces.

Your ass hits his thighs and you both moan. Sex is different now. The hivemind makes it better. Everything is felt by the both of you. If you hone in enough, you can even switch places and he gets to ride you. 

You just want to feel him now, planting your hands on his chest and lifting your hips. Your nails dig into his skin and his claws slice into your hips. Your lifting and rocking quickly turns into bouncing, letting him hit that spot that always gets you teary. His hips buck and your nails drag down, making ten little cuts on him. You gasp and cry out when his claws grow and pierce further into your skin, anchoring him to you.

“Good girl,” he purrs, moving with you, rolling up into you. “You’re my fuckin’ star, my angel… never been anythin’ like you, never will.”

Your blood runs faster than his, so he can take his hand away and lick the blood from his fingers. A gush of your wetness coats him, making your bouncing that much more fluid. 

“Fuck, Rem,” you whine.

He sits up, moving his hand from your hip to your shoulder– the spot where he bit you all those months ago– and his claws latch again. You’re so close.

Like you live in his skin. 

His claws retract and he rubs your clit in devastating circles. Your drool rolls down the column of your throat and he licks it up. He spits on his hand and returns to your clit, then ducks his head down to suck on your nipple. 

“My girl. My star,” he moans. “B-baby, I’m gonna cum-”

“Wait, wait, Remmick… wait… let me feel it, let me in-”

You’re in a rough straw bed covered in a wool blanket, the warmth of a fire filling the room. You breathe in woody smoke and breathe out sex. His hair is long– you reach to grab it and pull. 

“I lived here with my wife,” he whispers. 

You push him back down– half angry and half desperate. Why would he show you this? Why would he bring you here, now, with everything you’ve been doing in the past weeks? Your devotion rewarded by getting to fuck in the bed of some dead Irish girl?

“I’m your wife!” you sob into his mouth. “I’m your wife, you’re mine, I love you!” you wail, slicing him across the chest.

“Fuck! Yes!” 

You both scream as you cum, your vision and the memory whiting out. You shake and cry and he holds you through it. 

When you gasp for air and open your eyes, it’s just your bedroom. 

“Happy Birthday,” he laughs weakly. 

“Marry me,” you sob breathlessly. “Marry me, marry me, please.” You don’t care how pathetic it sounds. “Please, I just wanna be yours, I want everyone to know. Please…”

“Of course I will. Of course, princess. Anythin’ you want.” 

You wake up the next afternoon and stretch your arms. You’re still so full of blood and booze from last night. If you were still human you’d make yourself some kind of hangover cure, but today you just tidy up the mess you left behind. You see a message on your answering machine and press it. You pick up the cake to move it to the fridge. 

A hushed voice starts. 

“Okay… ready? One, two-”

“Happy Birthday!” a child’s voice shouts. 

Laughter rings out and you freeze.

“Happy Birffay Auntie Lovey!” another child says. 

“Alright, go find Daddy. Hi, my love,” Bossy– Noelle coos. “Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And my littlest- it’s his, too! Can you believe that? I guess you know it, I sent you that card. You’ve been ‘round my side of the pond and not said hello, so I expect your bum in a seat at my dinner table next time. I’ve been missing you, love. Give us a ring. Happy Birthday.”

“You down there?” Remmick calls as the answering machine clicks. 

The cake falls from your hands and hits the floor.