The Life of Me

You give yourself two weeks to wrap your old life up. Remmick had said you could stay if you wanted, but you don’t think it’s a good idea. No, it’s better to cut the cords.

You turn in your two weeks’ notice on a day when Miles isn’t there. It’s cowardly, sure, but you have no fuckin’ clue how you’d even begin to explain this to him. He’ll figure it out.

As for Angelina, she’s been unusually quiet since the night Remmick went to her place. She’s sent you a couple of texts to check in, but she’s not trying to apologize or anything like that. You know this means that she realizes she’s royally fucked up, but you can’t bring yourself to care about it. Why waste time hating her when you’re never gonna see her again? Nah, best to cherish the time you have left.

The finale of Dancing with the Stars airs. You and Remmick watch it together, dissecting the dances, yelling at the audience to shut up, cheering for your favorites. Everyone does a great job. Rick wins, of course, with Rebekah as the runner-up. Not surprising, but you’re still glad he won, even if that’s overshadowed by your looming death.

And then you finish everything. Well, ‘everything’ is probably a bit broad, but you’ve wrapped things up for the most part. The apartment is the only thing left, but that can be dealt with…after.

Remmick has been unusually soft with you. You know he’s excited, eager, but he’s restraining himself. He doesn’t ask why there’s occasional tears freaking down your face. He doesn’t try to canoodle with you. Doesn’t try to tell you that everything’s gonna be alright, that you’re needlessly freaking out. No, he’s quiet and simply…there. He rubs your back while you cry, makes you food, watches whatever you wanna watch in the evenings. You’re the one who leans on him, who clings to his torso and digs your face into his chest, inhaling his scent and wondering how silent the world will be when you no longer have a heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

He is your anchor, keeping you from being washed away even as he drowns you.

In no time at all, the day arrives. Well, the night, that is. You spend your time out on the balcony, relishing the sunlight on your skin despite the chilled November air. As the sun begins to sink in the evening, you can’t help but hate it for daring to set. If it could only hover in the sky for longer, prolonging the inevitable, then maybe you could forgive it. Acceptance doesn’t mean there’s a lack of bitterness.

How many times have you watched the sunset without appreciating it? How may times have you witnessed the transition of vibrant oranges, dandelion yellows, and neon pinks into the soft periwinkles, deep indigos, and nearly-black navy of night? How many times have you watched stars come out, brightest to dimmest, and never fully understood how magical that was?

Past you was an absolute fool, in more ways than one.

The sun sinks below the horizon and you hate it. The balcony door opens, closes behind you. You feel Remmick sitting behind you, but he doesn’t speak. He’s got nothing but time. The wind blows, light at first, then harder, colder, almost like it wants you to go inside. You ignore it. The air itself will not tell you when it’s time to die. You can do that on your own.

The stars peek out, dozens of glittering celestial bodies watching, waiting. They all must be so much older than Remmick. How long will you live your new life with him? Will those stars still be there? Will they burn out before you do?

The wind picks up, chilling you, making you shiver as your skin breaks out in goosebumps. Your teeth are beginning to chatter, but dammit, you’re not ready, not yet.

Something soft drapes over your shoulder. A blanket. Remmick has placed a blanket on you, allowing you to remain outside for a while longer.

That makes your eyes sting in both hatred and gratefulness. You despise him and love him all the more for his silence, for his patience, for the illusion of choice that’s fractured by the harsh reality that you, (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), are going to die tonight.

What if you stayed out here all night? What if you refused to go inside? What if you tried to freeze yourself to death instead?

Questions, questions, questions. Yet even as you wonder, you know without a shadow of a doubt that Remmick wouldn’t let you get away so easily. He’d made a promise that he fully intended to keep.

Without a word, you stand, feeling your joints pop as you do so. You open the balcony door and head to the couch, dropping the blanket to the ground. Remmick follows, closing the door behind you both. You hate that you can feel his anticipation without looking at him. You hate the way your own heart is pounding in anticipation as well.

He sits down first. You automatically sit down next to him and lean against him with a sigh. He puts an arm around you, then lifts you onto his lap, where he holds you tight to his chest. You don’t resist. There’s no point. He nuzzles your neck, inhales deeply. You half-expect to feel drool, but there’s none of that. He simply begins combing his fingers through your hair, soothing you, calming you. It doesn’t stop your eyes from welling up, though.

It’s not until your heartbeat calms down that you dare to speak. “Will it hurt?” you ask. God, your voice sounds so tiny.

“Yes,” he replies, equally soft.

You wish he would’ve lied to you.

“Will you—will you stay with me?”

He pulls you closer, tighter. His mouth moves against your neck. “Of course I will.”

The tears are threatening to spill over. You lift your head to stare out the balcony, wishing with every fiber of your being that time could reverse, that the sun would come back up, giving you one more day, one more hour, one more minute.

You inhale a shaky, watery sigh. “Okay, then. Let’s—let’s get this over with.”

“Will you look at me?” How dare he sound so melancholy? How dare he try to mimic your sadness?

No, you want to tell him. Just because you’re about to say yes doesn’t mean you have to look into his stupid eyes while he consumes everything that makes you you.

Your head slowly turns to look at him. His eyes are dark, no fangs, no drool. He looks…human.

Just for a moment, as your eyes meet, you envision a life where he wasn’t a vampire. You picture how the two of you might’ve met, might’ve dated, broken up, come back together. Maybe even gotten married in the future. You can see the wedding, actually, can see Miles and Blake cheering and clapping, can see Angelina doing her damndest to not take the spotlight off of you. You see a lifetime with Remmick in those eyes, one full of dance classes and joy and walks along the roads of Ireland, of pubs with traditional songs being sung with such enthusiasm that you can’t help but shout along even without knowing the words.

“(Y/N), will you dance with me?” Remmick asks. Neither of you blink, neither of you move.

“Yes.” It somehow comes out strong, firm. Is that you or is it the geis or is it the handfast? You may never fully know.

The air between you both is still for a moment before Remmick closes the gap, pressing his lips to yours. The tears finally break free as you kiss him back, moving to make yourself more comfortable on his lap. One of your hands tangles into his hair, digging into his scalp. The other hand curves along the back of his neck and presses in an attempt to get closer to him. Meanwhile, one of his hands is under your chin while the other is at the small of your back, eagerly assisting in your desire for closeness. You close your eyes, trying desperately to hold onto this moment, this final bit of humanity between the two of you.

But then your lips scrape against something sharp. You taste blood at the same time as the stinging starts, and you pull back.

Remmick’s eyes are a burning red, his teeth wicked and curved. Blood—your blood—is on the tips of a few teeth, resembling lipstick. You watch as his tongue licks the blood off, and his eyes flutter as he lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, I have been waiting for that,” he says, his voice husky, “for so long.”

You lick your lips, the coppery taste blooming on your tongue.

Remmick growls at the sight, sitting up as he does so, his hands latched onto your hips. “Mine,” he hisses before lunging at you, smashing his lips and fangs against your mouth. You feel his tongue tracing along your lips, eagerly lapping up any remaining blood. You squirm, unprepared for this level of ferocity, but you’re stuck in place. You can feel his erection growing as he sucks, his lips tugging at yours in a last bid for anything left, but the bleeding has stopped. He pulls away, disappointment lacing his forehead.

You swallow. You want to say something, but nothing comes out. There’s no thoughts in your brain, nothing except him staring at you, hungry, reverent.

“Give me yer hand,” he commands.

You do. Remmick holds it with one hand, still keeping you trapped on his lap with the other, and presses it to his mouth. His lips are warm from your body heat, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that shudders through your body at the sensation. “Mine,” he repeats, kissing your wrist. You feel his teeth scrape against the skin. “Mine,” he says again, pressing a kiss a little higher, a third even higher up your forearm. “Mo chuisle.”

Your heartbeat thrums, your cheeks searing. You suddenly, crazily, want him to keep going. You want him to kiss the entirety of your body, to whisper, “Mine,” over and over again as he claims each and every part for himself.

“Yours,” you agree. His eyes flick to you, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything. You see the way the hunger has deepened in the glowing red. “Yours,” you repeat, bolder.

His face cracks into a wide grin. “Yes,” he says, mouth hovering over your wrist again, and then he bites.

You cry out in pain. He hadn’t lied; it hurts. His teeth tear your skin apart easily, finding the veins beneath and sucking. You wonder how long it’ll take before your heart flutters in panic, before your brain fully realizes it’s doomed. How much longer do you have left to live?

As it turns out, not long enough. Remmick is clearly savoring your blood, but he’s also hungry as hell, and before too long, you’re feeling sleepy. Your head feels heavy, like gravity has increased tenfold. It’s hard to sit up. If Remmick weren’t holding you in place, you’d probably slump to the floor.

There’s lightheadedness and dizziness, too. Both contribute to your inability to keep upright. With nothing better to do for support, your lean your head against Remmick’s shoulder, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His arm moves up your back to cradle you in place, the other arm still holding your wrist to his mouth.

The room feels colder now than it was before. You try to shiver but your body can’t do it. With a sigh, you close your eyes. So this is it, you think. This is what dying feels like.

Spots swirl behind your lids. Your heart feels sluggish. You’d thought it’d be freaking out, panicking, but no, it’s simply…slowing. Between each beat, it feels like it takes a few seconds longer. The world is dimmer. You can’t hear much aside from the sucking noises coming from Remmick. He continues to hold you up, his arm curving over you as he drinks.

It’s hard to form coherent thoughts. It’s all a jumble. Memories flicker across your closed eyelids, but you’re struggling to distinguish any of them. There’s Angelina, grinning at you when you meet for the first time. There’s Miles, rolling his eyes as someone makes a horrible jab about him being gay. There’s Wildhearts, the lights flashing, the bass line pounding, the boots clacking.

And there’s Remmick, watching, always watching, always knowing that he’s going to be your undoing.

“Yours,” you breathe into the darkness, aiming at the twinned red eyes.

Yours.

————————————

You open your eyes, startled. Something’s different, but what?

You’re not in your apartment anymore. You’re in an unfamiliar location, a place that teeters on the edge of your memory. You take a step forward, your feet clacking on a polished floor. Ahead of you, surrounding you, actually, are empty seats. You turn around to see a set of five stairs leading to a secondary stage, two staircases mirroring each other as they stretch up and out.

Why do you know this place? Your mind is foggy, the edges of everything you’re looking at blurring. You glance about some more in the hopes that you’ll know where the fuck you are. To your right is a long desk, three empty chairs behind it.

I know this, you think. I know this place.

You look up to see a massive disco ball hovering over your head. The bottom of it reflects the lights back down at you, sending them scattering across the floor.

“Would ye like to dance?” a voice asks. You spin around. A man stands in front of you, though where he’s come from, you have no frickin’ idea. He’s handsome enough, dressed in an off-white tuxedo and black pants. As he moves, you can see that he’s got a black shirt, or maybe it’s the lining of the tux, or something underneath his tux jacket and over a white shirt. He’s also got a black bow tie, which, for some reason, makes you wanna snort. His hair is neatly combed, and he’s extending a hand to you.

Well, that’s weird, but what the hell. “Yes,” you say, because why wouldn’t you?

The man grins. You place your hand in his and he pulls you close. There’s music playing from somewhere, soft, flowing, vaguely Celtic. The two of you waltz around the dance floor, which is crazy because how do you know how to waltz? You’re pretty sure you’ve never done that before in your life.

No, waltzing isn’t your favorite kind of dance. You like…you like…you frown, feeling your forehead wrinkle as you try to remember. It’s not that you don’t like waltzing. You do. But there’s another dance that you prefer. What is it?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ mighty hard about something, darling,” the man comments, and it’s weird because you could’ve sworn he had an Irish accent the last time he spoke. Is he Irish or not? “Penny for yer thoughts?” Ahh, there it is.

“I’m trying to remember—,” you begin, then stop. “I’m trying to remember something. Something…important, I think?” He spins you out, and you stretch your arm towards the judges’ desk as gracefully as possible before he spins you back in and into a deep dip. “I don’t think—we’re doing a, a Viennese waltz, aren’t we?”

“That we are. Why?” He pulls you out of the dip and you begin to dance around the floor again. How the hell do your feet know where to go?

“I don’t, I mean…I don’t—I don’t think I like waltzes?” You swirl around and find yourself facing the judges’ desk again. But how do you know it’s a judges’ desk?

The man tilts his head at you. “Oh, would ye like something else instead?”

The music crescendoes and then stops, a single string holding a note. When the music resumes, it’s darker, more dramatic. You recognize the tempo as one meant for a Latin dance, like a paso doblé or tango.

Wait, how do you know this?

The man releases your waist to step back, lifting his arms up as he does so. You mirror him, and he lunges forward. You spin to avoid him, lifting your foot and stomping it against the floor, a taunt. He’s still grinning but now his teeth look…sharp?

There’s a person in the audience, too. A single person, someone that you don’t recognize. Her eyes glow in the darkness. She’s smiling at you, or maybe she’s smirking? Sneering? You’re unsure. You’re too busy noticing the glowing eyes as you dance.

The air pulls at your hair as you spin around again. This is fun! No, wait, it’s more than just fun—it’s exhilarating. Yes, that’s the word. You know that you’re supposed to keep your expression neutral and intense in a paso, but you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. The man matches your grin as he marches towards you on his knees, then hops up. The two of you interlock arms, slamming them against each other in a controlled manner.

“This is fantastic!” you tell him.

“Glad you think so!” he replies, beaming. Up close, you can see that his teeth are indeed sharp, curved, too, wicked fangs that fill his whole mouth. His eyes are glowing, just like the woman in the audience’s, but his are a bright, arterial red. You stumble a bit when you realize that, but then he grabs your arm, catching you, twisting your arms up as he spins you around the floor before releasing you, sending you sliding, just like Nev Schulman did to Jenna Johnson in season 29. But how do you know that?

The man jumps, his legs landing on either side of you as you look up at him and he looks down at you. His hair has come undone a bit, curling around his ears. A lock is plastered to his forehead. You want to brush it away.

He extends a hand, which you accept, and with that, he pulls you back to your feet, close to the chest. The music has morphed again, and as you two begin to tango, you spot more and more audience members, all with glowing eyes.

“Where are we?” you ask.

“Oh, you should know the answer to that, mo chuisle,” the man chides you. There’s a hint of disappointment lacing his tone. “I thought you were stronger than that.” Your legs step in several ochos, feet popping up in sharp, familiar kicks. You’ve danced this before. You’ve done these exact moves before.

And so has he. You’ve danced with this man in the past.

Which is why you know what to do next, which is to stop in front of him and allow him to pick you up by the hips. You hold onto his wrists as you walk in the air while he lowers you.

Daniella did this move on this season, you think as the man rotates you and hoists you into the air. And Remmick and I practiced it over and over again.

Remmick.

“Remmick?” you gasp as he sets you back on the floor. His hands hold yours up in frame, your bodies pressing tightly together. “Oh my God, Remmick?”

“Ahhhh, there it is. Knew you’d get there,” Remmick replies. “But you’re not quite done yet.” He doesn’t push you, but you feel the extension of his arms sending you away from him to give you the momentum to bounce back, using his foot to keep you in place. You kick your leg out, then hook it around his in a snappy gancho.

“Am I dead, then?” you demand. “Did you, did you—,” but you can’t finish the sentence.

His gaze softens. “Yes.”

You swallow. “So then I’m a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“But who are—,” you nod your head at all the people filling up the audience.

“That’s everyone I’ve ever bitten, and everyone they’ve ever bitten. Every single one of ‘em live up here,” he breaks frame to tap the side of his head. “And now, so do you.”

Just like that, the memories flood your brain. You’re still dancing, but it’s more like someone’s puppeteering your body as you process everything. There’s rounded stone buildings with thatch roofs, people walking about in clothing that looks like it belongs in a medieval movie or something. You spot Remmick, jumping in the air and laughing as he dances while a crowd watches. The memory-Remmick meets your eyes and then it changes to a stormy night, where Remmick claws himself up from the ground that he’d been buried in, muttering curses the whole time. His hands are elongated, and you feel his sheer hunger, his bloodlust as he lurches towards the village.

You see him running at night under the light of the moon, see him leaping into sky and flying under the stars, the wind in his face tasting of freedom.

You’re barraged with everyone he’s ever killed, filled with his despair at the death of his culture by the church, buoyed with rage at his inability to connect with his ancestors like he used to. You can see how he remembers being able to call on them through his singing and dancing, can see how he screamed at the waning crescent when he realized he couldn’t do that anymore.

Everything that was his life flows into your mind until you’re no longer you, you’re Remmick. Remmick and every single vampire he’s ever been connected to. You see their lives, stored in his mind. You can identify the recipes he used when he made dinner for you, the songs he sang that he stole from another mother as she’d soothed her sick child. You recognize the man and woman who’d come to your apartment for Sammie Moore’s guitar—Stack and Mary, and you know how they became part of the hive.

All the while, you keep dancing because Remmick wants you to dance, wants you to stay in his arms, and you can’t tell him no, not like you could before. His will presses into you, not exactly forcing you, but persuading you—this is what you wanna do, (Y/N). You wanna keep dancing with me forever.

The memories don’t subside. If anything, they intensify. You’re living all these lives at once, including yours, because Remmick can see your memories, too. He’s watching them and you’re watching him watching them and at the same time, you’re witnessing his perspective. You see how he found you, how he sensed the joy coming off of your body as you danced in Wildhearts. You see the way he decided he was gonna have you, no matter what. You see how he made a plan to trick you using a geis and a handfast, how from the moment he’d chosen you, you were doomed.

The entire time, you continue to dance, to tango, but the joy in it is a lie because Remmick is telling you to enjoy it, this stalker’s tango. You love this kind of dance, but being commanded to love it takes the exhilaration away.

There’s nothing you can do to stop it, though. Remmick is too strong, too powerful. Stack and Mary had broken free, sure, but that was because of their family. You don’t have that connection keeping you tethered to yourself.

“Mo chuisle,” Remmick calls, and now you know that means my pulse. “You’re stronger than this, I promise you. Fight me.”

I can’t, you try to say, but the words stick in your throat.

“Oh, yes, you can,” he replies. Somehow, he’s no longer in the white tuxedo. He’s in a light blue shirt and black pants that are held up with black suspenders.

I really can’t, you think. It’d be easier to give up, too. He’d won no matter what. There was nothing you could do to defeat him. You’d tried again and again and each time, he’d come out on top. You win, Remmick.

The tango cuts off abruptly. A fiddle plays instead. It’s joined in by drums and flutes and you recognize the song not because you’ve heard it before, but because Remmick knows it intimately, having stolen it from another Irishman he’d killed. The audience of vampires claps and sings along. Remmick himself lets go of you and dances, kicking his legs up, his arms loose, just like the night you’d had your first date. His hair is plastered to his scalp now but he doesn’t seem tired. This feels like finality somehow, like he’s celebrating his victory over you.

He won. He fucking won. He rigged the game, sure, but he still won. You’re his now.

He’s stolen your life and claimed it for himself, just like he’d done with all these other victims who were cheering for him.

A tiny bubble of rage begins to swell from somewhere deep inside. How dare he. How fucking DARE he.

He rocks back and forth on his toes, taps them rapidly, spins around. You watch in angry fascination. He’s still an amazing dancer, even after he’s consumed you. Nothing can change that.

He won.

That bubble of rage is tight in your chest where your heart used to beat.

No, he cheated. You’d seen it all—seen him plotting, seen him stalking, seen him waiting in the dark and watching you for weeks—weeks, before he’d approached you. And he’d had the audacity to let you approach him first, just to give you that illusion of choice, but there’d never been a choice in the matter, had there.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

Remmick locks eyes with you and holds his pose, reaching out. “Dance with me,” he commands.

You begin to walk towards him but stop.

Remmick frowns, cocks his head at you. “(Y/N), come here and dance,” he orders. You feel him pressing on your mind, persuading your body to respond to him. Your legs take the steps, bringing you closer, closer.

The bubble ruptures, sending that indignation and fury rushing throughout your body.

The lights of the ballroom spotlight on the two of you, but it’s not bright. It’s soft like full moonlight. The audience is no longer in the sides, but surrounding you and Remmick in a circle, still clapping, still obeying. You feel how much they want to participate, how Remmick has convinced them to listen to him, how he’s manipulated them.

You search deeper, using the hive mind to find their residual memories of being human, of their initial reluctance to comply with Remmick’s wishes. It’s fuel.

Your hand lifts towards his. Your fingers graze his outstretched hand, and then you throw everything you have, all of that fury on behalf of the other victims, on behalf of you, at Remmick. He blinks, confused, and the fiddle music cuts off. You take a step backwards, then another, then another. The other vampires have stopped their celebration. They watch, wearing equally confused expressions on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Remmick asks. He doesn’t sound angry.

You stand apart from them all. Remmick has stolen so much from you. Your mind, your life, your whole world.

He’s not about to take dance, too.

You kick with your right leg, stomp it. Kick your left leg, stomp it. Repeat.

Then you kick your right heel out, bring the toe across the left knee. Repeat the motion with the other foot. The kicks and stomps echo across the dance floor as the hive watches you do the line dance to Copperhead Road all by yourself.

The music starts, soft at first, but you remember it, and that’s all that matters because with each stomp, the volume increases, a little at a time. It grows louder and louder, your stomps more and more emphatic, and then you’re no longer in the ballroom of Dancing with the Stars, you’re on the dance floor of Wildhearts. The ghosts of the hive watch from every chair, every available opening, and Remmick is standing at the edge of the stage. His head is still tilted, but a slow smile makes its way across his face as your kicks get higher and higher, amped up by vampire stamina. Your arms are moving with the momentum, a feral grin on your own face.

You could do this for eternity and never get tired of it.

When the music ends and you stomp for the last time, you’re facing Remmick, giving him the most defiant look you can summon. It’s tempered with joy, but this joy isn’t tainted by Remmick forcing it on you—this is your own. You found it.

The space between the two of you vanishes as you move at the same time, you jumping into his arms while he holds you up, both of you pressing your lips together. You feel his fangs scrape your lips but you have fangs now, too and they scratch against his, earning a deep moan from him that sends heat shooting through everywhere. This kiss could last until the world ends—neither of you need to breathe, not anymore, at least.

Remmick somehow manages to pry himself away, if only long enough to tell you, “I knew you could do it.” You feel the pride radiating from his mind to yours and kiss him again, harder, deeper. You want all of him.

You open your eyes and lift your head to see Remmick watching you with glowing red eyes. You’re back in your apartment. The light is nearly blinding, even though it’s artificial. There’s noises everywhere, too—thrumming, humming, footsteps above and below. You can hear the neighbors having sex upstairs, can hear the argument three floors down, the cars passing by on the road. You hear the electricity powering the building, the lights, the TV.

There’s a strange absence of something in your ears. It takes a second for you to realize it’s the absence of a heartbeat.

“There you are, mo chuisle,” Remmick says with a wide grin as he leans his forehead against yours. “I knew you could do it.”

“What do I—,”

And then you’re looking at yourself. You see yourself as Remmick sees you right now—messy hair, wide eyes that glow like his own. You feel his affection, how it demands that he remain by your side until the day you both perish. You can feel his desire, how he wants to fuck you over and over and over again until you beg him to stop, but how he also knows you never will because he is yours and you are his.

You expect him to rip your clothes off and fuck you right there on the couch, but no, he stands, tugging you gently to your feet as he does so. He leads you to the balcony, where he opens the door, allowing the night air to waft into the apartment. You smell smoke, asphalt, fast food, life. The moon shines down on you both as you step onto the balcony. Remmick climbs onto the railing and extends his hand again.

“Shall we?” he asks, that toothy grin never leaving his face.

You place your hand in his, returning his grin. “Hell yeah,” you reply.

You text Miles to let him know that you’re alright. Well…alright enough. Then you crawl into bed, exhausted. For the first time since being sick, you don’t close the bedroom door. It’s not an invite, and Remmick seems to understand that, because he doesn’t join you. He remains in the living room, giving you space to process the reveal that you were never making it out of this alive, that he intended to kill you all along.

You don’t cry. You press your face into the pillow in despair, but you don’t cry. You breathe deep, inhaling the scent of your room. It smells familiar, but you’d be hard pressed to identify the specific smells that make it up.

Somehow, you fall asleep. Your alarm wakes you—you don’t remember setting it, but whatever. You rise like the sleepy zombie you are and go through the motions of getting ready for work.

I’m going to have to quit my job, you think as you brush your teeth. To keep Miles safe.

Not only that, but you’re gonna have to move away, leave everyone you know behind. You can’t risk hurting them after—after you say yes.

The thought stings your eyes, and you blink at your reflection. You’ve never really noticed your face before, or if you have, it hasn’t been with the ominousness of knowing that one day, you won’t see it anymore. You stare at your nose, your eyes finding pores that you’ve ignored forever. You notice the delicateness of your eyelashes, the hairs of your eyebrows, the shape of your earlobes. All of these things are so old to you and yet so new.

“You’re gonna be late,” Remmick calls down the hallway, startling you into movement.

You finish brushing your teeth and wash your face, then stride to the kitchen to grab your shoes and tug them on. He’s already made coffee for you, which you gratefully and resentfully accept.

“You okay?” he asks as you take a sip right off the bat, even though you hate drinking coffee so soon after brushing your teeth.

“Fine,” you reply.

Remmick holds out an arm towards you. “You don’t look—,”

“I said I’m fine, Remmick,” you say, stepping back, away from him. “See you when I get home.” With that, you leave. You don’t really remember the walk to the elevator or to the car, just that it’s cold. You’ve forgotten a jacket. But maybe you should relish the chill, too. Do vampires get cold?

Work passes in a hazy blur. You move mechanically, going through the motions on autopilot, responding to your coworkers with the most generic statements possible. You don’t give Miles a chance to corner you, to demand to know what happened. You feel the weight of his eyes on you, though, aching with concern.

Remmick has dinner ready for you when you arrive at the apartment. You register that there’s food, then ignore it, going straight to the shower. You roast yourself under hot water, almost like you hope that the heat will scald the truth of Remmick’s geis off of you.

He lets you be until it’s nearly seven, then he’s there, in your doorway, a dark silhouette blotting out the light of the living room and kitchen behind him. “You gonna watch the semifinals?” he asks. “I’m kinda invested in finding out if Jazz is gonna make it to the finals or not.”

You blink, your eyes finding your alarm clock and staring at the red glow in confusion. It takes a minute for your brain to catch up to Remmick’s words, to understand that he’s referring to Dancing with the Stars. With a sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, your still-damp hair plastered to your scalp. The journey to the couch is a slow one, but there’s food awaiting you, and as much as you don’t wanna eat, you also had skipped lunch and you’re hungry.

Remmick continues to give you space. It’s the kindest he’s been to you, which is meaningless now. You wonder if he senses that.

Meredith and Alan are the first dance. You stare at the screen, numbly making mental notes of the sharpness of her turns, the way she’s clearly struggling with a rib injury yet pushing through because she wants this. The baby-blue dress she’s wearing swirls in the foxtrot spins, the feathers splaying outwards then inwards. She deserves tens, but receives mostly nines instead, though Bruno gives her that ten. You see the annoyance flicker on Alan’s face—he knows what scores she’d deserved.

“She oughta have gotten higher scores,” Remmick comments. “Don’tcha think?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you reply, unwilling to give him any more than that.

“Food okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“How was work? Anything interestin’ happen?”

You sigh and set the plate of food down on the couch armrest. “You don’t have to do that,” you say.

“Do what?”

“Act like you care. Pretend that you actually wanna know. You’ve won. Good for you. There’s no need to keep acting like you give a shit about me.”

The couch creaks as Remmick turns his whole body to face you, his foot barely missing the coffee table as he moves. “But I do care about ya,” he replies.

You dare to glance at him. His eyes are normal, his head tilted to the side in confusion. He looks like he’s perplexed by your statement. But you know how excellent of an actor he is. “You care about winning. Well, you won. Yippee-ki-yay for you.”

The couch creaks again as he leans towards you. You flinch, pulling yourself away from him, even though there’s not much room to flee. “(Y/N), you know that isn’t true.” He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am mighty pleased with the situation, but I ain’t—I do genuinely care about you. I wanna make sure you’re alright.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before shoving yourself into my life,” you tell him. It feels like it should be yelled, but you’re calm, soft-spoken. “‘Cause I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m not fine. I’m not alright.”

His brows lift, giving him that pathetic puppy-dog look again. “How come? Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Yeah, you can get the hell outta my life! you wanna snap, but you don’t. How many times have you had this conversation? How many times has he offered to listen but then claimed that ‘it doesn’t work like that’? It’s pointless to try and explain it to him.

Fortunately for you, the commercial break ends, and Remmick knows the rules of watching Dancing with the Stars. He shuts up.

Rebekah’s dance is up next. Her fiery red hair makes a lovely contrast with the green-and-black satin number that she’s got on. She swooshes her skirt over her partner’s head, her paso kicks aggressive and precise, but there’s something lacking in her expressions. She doesn’t have passion. You’ve noticed this for several weeks now, even had conversations with Remmick about how she’s an amazing technical dancer, but she just doesn’t…click with you. You’ve seen this happen with a few other stars in the past, and have always been disappointed if those people win the trophy, though you can admit that their freestyles are always epic even without the emotion fueling it.

She executes a move that involves her sliding around her partner’s body to the ground, her legs creating a spiral as he grabs her arms and drags her across the floor backwards, her back arching but careful to keep her feet on the ground so Carrie Ann doesn’t deduct points for lifts. You swear you see the foot leave the floor, though, and you almost reach for the remote to rewind it and confirm. The remote, however, is closer to Remmick than it is to you, and you have no desire to enter his space.

“Whatcha think of that one?” he asks while Alfonso asks his questions and the judges give their critiques.

“She had a lift. If Carrie Ann doesn’t comment on it—aaaaaand nope, she didn’t, because she’s playing favorites.” It’s irritating how easy it is to slip into old habits, to engage with him over this show. “She’s literally gotten soooo much backlash online over this favoritism. Why the hell is she not dealing with it?”

“I thought it was a fine dance,” Remmick counters. “The scissor kick was done well. Better than you, at least for now.” He flashes you a goofy grin that you ignore, pursing your lips in annoyance. “Aww, don’t you worry about that. We’ll have time aplenty to refine your legs.”

And just like that, he’s fucked up the mood. Again. This guy sucks.

You wonder if he can feel the chill radiating from you. Probably not. For someone who’s been around for as long as he has, he’s not picked up on any human common sense.

You punish him by ignoring him the entire commercial break. You focus on your food, on chewing and swallowing and drinking the can of soda that he’s gotten out for you. But then it’s Lexie’s turn to dance, and you’re tensing up in anticipation because she’s got a tango and you expect it to be excellent.

It is, earning soft gasps of delight from you and all tens from the judges. “Oh, she totally can win this,” you can’t help but say. “And I would be one hundred percent cool with that.”

“What about Rick?”

“Well, he’s the obvious favorite ‘cause everyone loves him, but Lexie is so good. I would be happy with either of them. Or Jazz, as long as her dance tonight is on par with what she’s been doing.”

“D’ya think Jazz will actually make it? ‘Cause she’s been underscored all season long.”

You cross your arms over your chest and squint at the TV. “Yeah, and everyone is pissed off about that. If she doesn’t make the finale…” you pause. “Wait. Lemme rephrase: If she, Lexie, and Rick all don’t make the finale, I’m gonna be very angry with the producers.” You shoot a glare at Remmick to emphasize your point.

He gives you a small smile in return. “Guess you’d better vote, then!”

You snort. “Yeah. Guess I’d better.”

Just like that, the tension from earlier is dissolving. Not entirely, mind you, but that stupid easyness of his presence is eating away at your attempts to stay cold towards him. Is this the geis? The hand fast? Or is it you?

You flex your hands. “You said geisses can’t be broken without seriously bad things happening, right?”

Remmick’s head bobs in a gentle nod. “The plural of ‘geis’ is ‘geasa’, but yeah.”

You hesitate, but your curiosity is stronger than your wariness. “And you said that, that part of the terms of yours was that you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t bite me or drink my blood or whatever until I said yes, right?”

His head tilts to the side as he blinks. “Ye-es?”

You grab the fork resting on your empty plate. “So what’s to stop me from stabbing myself with this fork and shoving my hand at your mouth? What if I broke the geis by forcing you to drink my blood without explicit permission?” You poise the fork at your palm.

Remmick sighs and angles his body to better face you, leaning into the corner of the couch. “Yeah, this is another one of those questions you’re not gonna like the answer to—,” he says, but you cut him off with a small jab of your fork into your palm. It’s not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave an indent on it. Remmick’s eyebrows lift in a condescending manner. “(Y/N), I really don’t think that’s a good idea on your part.”

“Why the hell not?” you challenge, pressing the fork deeper. It’s starting to sting. “Explain to me why the fuck I can’t break this stupid curse or whatever by doing that.”

Remmick’s gaze flicks between your palm and your eyes several times, like he’s considering what to say. “Well, ‘cause if you break the geis, then there’s absolutely nothin’ stoppin’ me from killing you and turnin’ you right here, right now.” He says it so nonchalantly that you know he’s not lying. “That geis, (Y/N), is the only reason you’re alive right now.” He gestures towards you with a flippant wave of his hand. “You break it, I don’t need to wait for a ‘yes’ anymore, and you get no choice in the matter. At all.” His eyes flash red. “So go ahead. Make yourself bleed, shove it down my throat, see what happens. But I can guarantee you prolly won’t like it too much.”

You stare at him, daring him to be wrong as you poke the fork deeper, almost enough to draw blood. Remmick holds your stare easily, expectantly. He’s bluffing, you wanna convince yourself. He’s bluffing, he’s gotta be.

Something in his glowing eyes convinces you, though, and you lower the fork with a huff. “Damn. Really thought I might’ve had ya there.”

Remmick gives you what might almost be considered a sympathetic smile. “Hey, I don’t blame ya for tryin’. It was a good idea.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t work.”

That, more than anything, is weirdly comforting. You don’t know why he’s trying to—what, console you? Praise you?

The semifinals resume. Now it’s Rick’s turn to dance. He’s got a paso, and it’s pretty damn good. He’s definitely making the finals; his growth has been exemplary.

The next commercial break, you don’t waste any time. “Okay, what if I killed you? Would that free me from the geis?”

Remmick laughs. “D’you think you could?”

You look at him. “I’ve got a yew tree in the car. I could try, at least, right?”

He sends you another toothy grin, his fangs bared, eyes still red. His fingers aren’t as elongated as they could be, but they’re certainly longer than usual, giving him a bat like appearance. “You’re very welcome to try,” he purrs, “but somehow, I don’t think you’ve got it in ya.”

You scowl. “Rude. I’m defiant and determined as fuck. I could totally take you on.”

With that, Remmick moves. You blink, and then he’s in front of you, the coffee table pushed away, towards the TV. You punch at him, more out of reflex than actual fear, and he catches your wrist, pins it to the couch arm. You swing with your other arm, which he grabs equally as easily, pinning it to the couch cushion behind your back. You try to headbutt him, but he simply leans back out of range, his elongated limbs giving him extra leverage. He clucks his tongue at you. “Aww, c’mon, is that really all you’ve got?” His grin widens, taunting you. “You’re s’pposed to be determined and here you are, acting like you’ve given up.”

You kick at him, but Remmick handles that by blocking you with his hip, then straddling you. You feel your blood pounding in your head, racing through your veins in and out of your heart as it frantically pumps away. Now you can feel him, and to make matters worse, he grinds on your lap just enough to make you ache. You let out an involuntary moan.

Remmick leans in close, his mouth right by your ear. “What was that? Hmm?” He applies a little more pressure to his grinding, earning another low moan. “Thought you were taking me on, yeah?”

You feel heat rising to your face and also lowering to your groin. “Get offa me,” you say, but it’s not emphatic at all.

Remmick’s teeth graze your neck, sending your pulse jumping erratically. “What was that?” he repeats.

“I said, ‘get off of me’,” you say again, this time putting a little more force behind it.

“Is that what you really want, (Y/N)?” He draws out your name, adding a growl to the end of it. “Is it?”

No, I think I actually wanna rip your clothes off and let you fuck me senseless, but considering you’re planning to murder me… “Yes,” you lie, peeling your eyes away from the ear that’s right next to your mouth, right within suckling distance. “Please get off.”

Remmick does so, but he moves slow, pulling his weight away from you. Your body protests, automatically trying to scoot closer to him, but he’s still pinning your arms in place. He notices the struggle, however, and gives you yet another toothy smirk as he lifts each individual finger away from your skin.

“Thank you,” you mutter, fighting the urgent to shiver. It’s not that he’s warm, but his presence is so—so—

“What was that you said about tryin’ to kill me, then?” He raises an eyebrow.

You roll your eyes at him. “Okay, so it might be harder than I thought.”

Remmick shakes his head. “No, I want you to tell me the truth.” He’s next to you, no longer giving you any space on the couch. He grabs your hand and places it over his chest, over his heart. “Could you actually do it?” he murmurs, each word softer and softer. “Could you actually put a stake through my heart, end my lonely suffering, eradicating a whole group of people in the process? Could you end us all?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, with such sadness and heaviness that you feel your own heart stutter under the weight of it.

You exhale, your shoulders slumping in resignation. Your hand clenches at his shirt, wrinkling it. You spot the chain necklace around his neck before lowering your gaze to his chest. “No,” you admit. “I don’t think I could.” You lift your head to meet his red eyes. “Is that—is that ‘cause of the geis? Or the handfast?”

His expression is tender, sympathetic. “I don’t think it’s either of those, (Y/N). I think it’s somethin’ else, somethin’ you’re too scared to admit.” His other hand reaches up to cup your cheek.

He doesn’t make the first move. No, he lets you do it, lets you be the one to lean forward and press your lips to his. Lets you deepen the kiss, lets you push him down and climb on top of him, your lips never once pulling away from his. You probe at his mouth with your tongue, and he lets you in, lets you trace over his still-sharp teeth with your tongue. His hands grab your arms, helping you lean down without falling, and then you’re straddling him, but right at that moment, you hear the familiar theme music that indicates Dancing with the Stars has resumed.

You ignore it. What’s the point? Why should you care about who wins when your life is all but over?

Surprisingly, it’s Remmick who gently pushes you away. “Hey, show’s back on.”

“I don’t care,” you tell him.

His eyes radiate pity. “Yes, you do. You know it.” He full-on picks you up, earning a grunt of protest from you, and sets you on the couch next to him. “There will be time for that, too. So much time.” The pity is gone from his gaze, replaced with hunger. “So much time,” he repeats. You sense that the hunger is more than carnal, that it runs deeper than that, and why the hell doesn’t that scare you anymore? It should. It should be terrifying. He wants to devour you in every way and you’re—you’re gonna let him. You’re gonna let him, oh, God, you’re gonna let him.

But not tonight.

Not. Tonight.

Jazz is last to dance. There’s one more commercial break before they announce the finalists. You don’t turn to Remmick as you text your votes. He’s got his own phone out and is doing likewise, also going directly to the ABC website to vote there.

“Will we have to leave?” you ask softly as your fingers tap the screen.

“That all depends on what you wanna do,” Remmick replies, setting his phone down. Evidently, he’s voted. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do. If you wanna stay…” You see him rubbing the back of his neck. “We can make it happen. Might be tricky, but it’s doable.”

You submit your votes. “What about my family?”

Remmick makes an odd sound that seems a bit like a mixture between a laugh and a scoff. “What about them? They stopped givin’ a shit about you a long time ago.”

You should question how he knows that. Was scoping out familial connections part of his scouting you out? You’ve spoken little about them in his presence, so you don’t think you’ve given him too much information. No, he must’ve learned this on his own.

He isn’t wrong, though

“People disappear all the time, (Y/N),” Remmick adds, setting a hand on your thigh. “You won’t be the first, and you’re far from the last.” He glances at you. You glance back and are surprised to see a kind expression on his face. His eyes are still glowing, but the fangs are gone. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be okay, yeah?”

You chew on your lip in consideration. You don’t dare vocalize anything in case that constitutes an agreement. You nod instead. Remmick pats your thigh and turns his attention to the screen, scooting himself closer as he does so. When your shoulders brush, he sets his head on top of yours.

It feels so natural to have him leaning on you like this. Your hand automatically goes to rest on top of his, earning a low sigh of contentment from Remmick.

Surprisingly, Rebekah makes it through, which means Rick is the only male star left in the competition. You’re a bit annoyed that there’s five fucking finalists, which translates to a three-hour finale next week where they have to do three fucking dances (including an instant dance), but whatever. You can’t do anything about that; it was production’s decision, not the audience’s.

The show ends, but neither of you move. You stare blankly at the pink screen that states the repeat episode will start shortly. Remmick is holding so still that you wonder if he’s asleep before remembering that he doesn’t really seem to sleep. Your fingers are absentmindedly stroking his hand, still on your thigh.

“Remmick?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What’s that, darlin’?” he murmurs back.

You chew on your lower lip again. “Just…wanna watch the repeat?”

“Sure. Long as that’s what you want.”

It is and it isn’t. Who the fuck even knows what you want anymore. You want to peel his clothes off and feel his bare skin against yours. You want to run away. You want to ask him to turn you right now, to get it over with. You want to beg him to renege on his vow to turn you in the first place. You want…you want everything and nothing.

“Yeah, that’s what I want,” you reply.

“Works for me.”