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summary: new orleans, 1995. a folklorist researching her new book bites off a hell of a lot more than she can chew.
warnings: banter as foreplay; murder as foreplay; p in v; f receiving; just truly nasty work
notes: evil dilettante remmick is something that can be so personal !! let's all get very horny very quickly. a like and reblog makes my little heart beat faster ♥️ title is interview with the vampire s1
In the morning, you wake with a killer hangover and an address.
You vaguely remember a journey home from the bar, a beautiful man walking behind you. You remember flashes of anxiety, of unnatural stillness, of suppressing that innate fear of being stalked by a predator you can't quite trust not to strike.
And… you remember how that same man did something that silenced the gaggle of frat guys who’d whistled in your direction. How he’d caught you by the elbow before you tripped on an upturned sewer grate. How he led you to your porch without you having to tell him the house number.
At your door, it was impossible to miss the look of devastating and unabashed want that passed over his handsome face, the shiver it sent across your skin. Part of you wondered just what kind of want it was. (The other shouted RUN.)
You could've invited him in. (You didn’t.) He could’ve killed you. (He didn’t.)
All good stories have to start somewhere.
-
It began, as everything does, with blood.
A night out with a few girls from your program. One too many cosmos. Your half-drunken insistence of it’s fine, really, I’m just around the corner. Heels low enough to be walkable but high enough to make the busier sidewalks a challenge. That little voice in your head whispering that drunk cigarettes never count.
So you’d stopped, feet aching, and lingered a moment in the back alley behind some dive bar.
There’s - thank God - that loose cig at the bottom of your bag, the novelty four-leaf clover lighter you got as a gag gift last Christmas. You exhaled, slowly, pushing the smoke out in a tight ring, idly thumbing at the blistered ink of a new tattoo.
The dark city hummed with life.
Just a few feet away, you watched as students lumbered up and down the street, some red in the face and some too wasted to get one foot in front of the other. Someone blaring dance music from a car window. Honking and sirens. A drunken shouting match.
And behind you, a faint cry followed by the crash of a metal trash can.
You turned.
You shouldn’t have.
The ground was wet, though it hadn’t rained in days. The light from the road - the streetlamps, the passing headlights - couldn’t quite penetrate the shadows beyond, nothing at all past the milk crates and overflowing dumpsters.
The glowing red eyes were, however, quite visible.
Your stomach dropped.
The man stepped forward. You couldn’t see all of him, not yet, but the crimson of blood and the ivory of too-large teeth were unmistakable.
“Shit,” he drawled. Everything about him rang false. “You weren’t meant to see that.”
But you were too drunk and confused to manage a coherent reply. He took that as some kind of permission and inched closer, reeking of iron and wet earth. Still, you stood your ground.
“S’pose that puts us at an impasse.”
“Why’d you sound like that?” is all you could think to say, your gaze flitting between pointed teeth and burning irises.
“Like what?”
“Like a… like John Wayne. I don’t know.”
He cocked his head. “Ain’t that somethin’.”
“You some kinda vampire?”
“Shit, what gave it away?”
You nodded over to the limp pair of legs still twitching behind him.
“That was rhetorical, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed.
“You gon’ run?”
“No.”
“Shame. I like to chase.”
“I wouldn’t get far in these shoes.”
And the vampire actually laughed - full-throated, good-natured.
“Oh, you liked that…” you mumbled, straightening, leaning against the bricks for more support. By some miracle, you hadn't dropped the cigarette and so you permitted yourself another drag. You blew it at him. His eyes flitted shut.
The thing about academia is that once you’ve devoted your life to eating, sleeping, and breathing your chosen discipline, it’s just about impossible to ever really stop. Those questions are always working in the background, a hum so quiet you can sometimes forget it’s even there.
But it is. It always is.
And your chosen discipline just so happens to be folklore.
Now, there was no way to outrun this guy, nor were you even getting a punch in before he drained you dry. Not many options on the table, not unless you could summon a silver dagger out of thin air. So fuck it: if all you could do was talk, maybe you’d survive the night.
And… well, some research for your monograph couldn't hurt either, could it?
“Let me ask you something.”
“Why should I?”
“You’re enjoying yourself.”
“That right?” he laughed, eyes crinkling with something almost fond in them.
“Sure seems it. Be a shame to kill me just yet.”
“Alright,” he grinned, and the teeth were wrong. “I’ll bite. What’d you wanna know?”
06/09/95 : #001
The vampire lounges across from you on a dark velour couch that probably cost more than a year’s rent. His thighs are splayed wide, one ankle resting easily over the opposite knee.
He’s dressed better than he was the other night: a pricey leather jacket that seems softened from years of wear. Faded white t-shirt. Jeans. Loafers. (No more bloodstains, in any case.)
All the light in his home is artificial. No overheads - nothing so tacky - just a few candles and low-hanging lamps that cast a golden hue over the room. A dozen false suns to make up for the one he can’t have. The windows are tightly sealed with blackout blinds. There’s a scent like incense in the air, an old one… something that recalls prayer and antiquity. (That, and Drakkar Noir.)
“Can I start?”
“By all means.”
“Alright.” You hit the button on the tape deck and it starts to whir. “9 June 1995, session one. Please state your name.”
“Remmick.”
“Your full name.”
“Only name that matters.”
You roll your eyes, only briefly and not even a full rotation - but he catches it. Cocks his head.
“Somethin’ funny?”
“Nothing. One name, you’re like Madonna.”
He laughs, teeth flashing white.
You clear your throat. “Where were you born?”
“North of Ireland. Town ain’t there no more.”
“Alright. So how old are you?”
“Very.”
This, really, is the question you’ve been dying to have answered.
The idea of living long enough to see empires rise and fall, to see wars started and ended, to see the world move through its infinite many stages… For a historian like you, there’s no greater fantasy nor sharper jealousy.
But when he finally mutters “Must be comin’ up on a thousand,” you nearly drop your pen.
“One thousand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he smiles, slowly, like the sudden shock on your face is feeding him. “Don’t believe me?”
“No, I do, I - but, that’s just a very big number.”
“As I said.”
“Can I ask…”
“Ain’t nothin’ out of bounds, sweetheart.”
“Do you remember it all?”
“Broad strokes, big things - y’know, Easter Rising, Napoleon, Al Capone. The rest, it's just bits n’ pieces.”
“And ho-”
“My turn. Question for a question.”
You swallow your retort. “Alright. Sure.”
“What is it you're lookin’ for?”
“What do you mean?”
Remmick leans forward, both feet planted on the soft Persian rug underfoot, leans in so close that you catch the glints of red buried in the soft blue of his human eyes.
From a distance, he’s handsome. Up close, he’s a vision. There’s a dusting of reddish stubble across the expanse of his sharp jaw. A tiny gold ring in his ear. Eyelashes nearly as long as yours.
“I mean, what is it that possessed you t’come after me, honey, askin’ all these questions?”
“Curiosity.”
“What, you gon’ take what I give you and pen a bestseller? You fixin’ to be the next Anne Rice?”
“No.”
“No? Really? Just… curiosity.”
“I write about folklore.”
“Yeah?” His voice hangs, soft. It envelops you. “What kind?”
“Vampirism as metaphor.”
He barks a laugh.
“Metaphor? Baby, I’m sittin’ here plain as day.”
“And… as a moralizing tool, a holdover from pre-Christian society. Make girls behave, make ‘em too scared to leave the house, fraternize with strange men.”
“That what I am? A strange man?”
“Well. I wouldn’t exactly call you normal.”
He lets that sit for a moment, potent and hungry.
“Nah, y’ain’t wrong,” he speaks suddenly, leaning back. His arms stretch lazily across the seat of the couch. “But I don’t know who’d be stupid enough to fraternize w’the likes of me, anyway.”
“Is that a threat, Remmick?”
“No threat,” he says, and it’s so casual you nearly believe him. “Just fact.”
“Alright. Fine.” You decide to shift gears. “That accent doesn't seem very Irish.”
“Been here a while. Comin’ up on, oh, I don't know, ‘bout a hundred years?”
“Here as in New Orleans?”
“All over. Came through Ellis Island n’just… followed the wind ‘ever it took me.”
“But why here? Why Louisiana?”
He taps a finger against the velour. “I like it.”
“That’s all?”
“Couldn't say. Just feels right. Feels old.”
“And -”
“Ah. My turn.”
You sigh. “Go on.”
“No boyfriend?”
“What?”
He lifts his palms to you. “Or girlfriend. I don't judge.”
“No. Neither. And how would you know that, anyway?”
“Well, I been watching you since that night and I ain't seen no one comin’ or goin’ - no one you been fixin’ to fuck, anyhow, if you'll pardon my French.”
You eye him.
It’s obvious the man's looking for a rise: he wants you flustered, blushing, or else angry, off-kilter. But you know men, even ancient ones, and this is the oldest trick in their book.
“Maybe I fuck with the curtains closed,” you offer, voice neutral.
“Maybe.” He smiles like he doesn't believe a word of it.
“Why does it matter?”
He shrugs, unaffected. “S'pose it don't.”
The standoff is interrupted by the beeping of your watch. You hit STOP on the tape deck.
“Y’got somewhere t’be, sugar?”
“Seminar. I’m giving a lecture.”
He sniffs. Nods slowly. “You’ll be back?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. You will.”
06/12/95 : #002
“How do you hunt?”
Remmick’s eyes go wide.
Today is grey. Overcast skies. Intermittent roiling thunder. It’s so gloomy that he’s actually left the curtains open a fraction of the way, cracked the window onto the stormy street below.
You sit across from him in the plush chair you’ve come to think of as yours. A half-empty bottle of vintage cabernet sits between the two of you.
“Ah, darlin’, now that’s some nasty work, what I do in the dark. You really wanna know?”
“Yes. Do you pick your targets beforehand or is it opportunistic? How do you lure them in? What is it that excites you, exactly: the hunt, the kill, the blood…?”
“Christ, Dr. Scully,” he laughs, incredulous. “Make it sound like yer huntin’ down the damn Son of Sam.”
“Well, you are a serial killer. No?”
“Alright,” he says, tight. “Sure. I kill.”
“So-”
“Nah, one question at a time. Makes you seem bloodthirsty, otherwise.”
“Fine.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “How do you choose them?”
“Stragglers. Tourists. Assholes. Anyone not liable to trigger a manhunt.”
“Alright. And then how do you get them alone?”
“Well,” Remmick says, “I can be very persuasive.”
He leans forward.
The room tilts.
There’s something all-encompassing in the way he watches you, the way he traces the veins in your neck with his eyes, drags that same gaze up and across your collarbone. It’s as though he’s seeing through your skin, right down to the bones and marrow.
He eyes you like a meal.
The cast of his skin is warmer in this light, not quite as pallid as last time. There's a gold to it, bouncing through the red and brown of his stubble, of his brows, of his disheveled hair. His teeth, when human, are a bit crooked, a bit sharp. Something low and awful hums in your belly.
You can’t find it in yourself to panic.
The rational half of your mind is sounding the alarm, pumping adrenaline through your system in an attempt to force an escape. But… it isn’t enough, not against this. And as he sits there eyeing you, enjoying you, you think back to the manuscript you found in the university archives last fall, some supposed firsthand encounter back in 1931:
It was the strange magic of what he was, that’s what called to me. He was a creature designed for seduction, for the gentle erosion of boundaries. That’s how he lives. That’s how he hunts.
Thank God for the tattoo on your hip.
That little patch of ink stands like a dam between you and the vampire making your blood sing. It’d been the product of another one of your drunken escapades last month, a little five-pointed star that kept coming up in the literature as a sigil of protection. Better safe than sorry, you’d thought, sitting in that tattoo parlour three martinis deep while some girl from your methodology class rubbed soothing circles into the palm of your hand.
You’ve never placed much faith in it - it’s not like you’d actually believed in any of this stuff - but right now, it grounds you like a cold glass of water in the middle of a bender.
Remmick’s breath fans across your cheek - sweet, minty. His gaze is fixed on your mouth, the way you nibble at your lip like a nervous tic, how you hitch a little breath when his pupils blow.
“Seduction.”
You mumble it like an accusation, but there's no real weight to it.
“Could call it that. Yeah.”
“What is it, then, pheromones? Mind control? Black magic?”
He laughs a little. Pulls back, like the show's over. “Why does it matter how I do it? Call it whatever you like. All I know’s that it works and it works pretty damn well, don’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No?” His brows go wide. “Sugar, if I hadn’t stopped when I did, you’d be slidin’ clean off that damn chair.”
Your cheeks burn with the shame of the truth. “Well. I guess we’ll never know.”
“Shame.”
“Okay.” You straighten your spine - shake it off, settle back into your body. “What is it about the hunt that excites you? You told me the first night that you enjoy the chase. Is that what it is?”
“Sure. I like that part. Little too much, maybe,” he begins, cat eyeing mouse. “But it ain’t only about the excitement, darlin’, not really. It’s more about… the satiation. Yeah.”
You nod up at him, a silent plea to continue.
He takes a swig of wine. Gestures to it.
“You know I cain’t eat? Not food. Lil’ liquor here n’there, but no meals. And sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don’t. Some days, all I wanna do is lay out in the sun like one of them cats you used to find hiding way up in the parapets.” He pauses, as though he hadn’t meant to reveal quite that much. “So, see, I ain’t got much to keep me satisfied.”
“And it’s the blood that does it?”
“That and the performance, baby. Followin’ folk down them alleyways, choosin’ the right things to say, readin’ their bodies, what makes ‘em tick. Gets electric when I turn it on - but then, you already knew that.”
You ignore the taunt. “It’s sexual, then?”
Remmick whistles low, rubs at his jaw. “Shit, darlin’, you call ‘em like you see ‘em.”
“Nothing’s out of bounds. That’s what you said.”
“Oh, sure. But I’m an old-fashioned man, see, and I’m wonderin’ whether it’d be decent of me to share those particulars with an impressionable young lady like yerself.”
“It’s just research.”
“Oh, it’s a lot more n’that.”
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“Don’t bother me none.”
“So tell me.”
“Alright. D’you know that I’m about as hard as a fuckin’ rock by the time I’m done drinkin’?”
Your stomach drops. He doesn't stop.
“Wanna hear how sometimes I gotta toss ‘em aside, limp as a doll, and take care a myself right there in whatever fuckin’ hovel I’ve found myself in? See, it’s an excess of blood darlin’, hot blood, and I am but a man.”
“A-alright. That makes sense.”
He sits forward on the divan, quick and bold. Leans across the table and in towards you.
“No. It don’t. None of it does. ‘Cause I cain’t enjoy life in half-measures, baby, not like you with yer two cosmos - three if you’re feelin’ naughty - or whatever toy I’m sure you got hidden under your pillow. An abomination like me’s got two options: suffering or ecstasy. And, as you can imagine, I do tend to lean towards the latter.”
“It’s an addiction, then.”
“It’s a mode de vie, baby. I am what I am.”
As if on cue, your watch beeps.
“Thank you for all that detail.”
“Anytime.”
“I’ll see you next week, Remmick.”
The vampire is still as a statue as you rise, as you collect the writing materials scattered across the dark oak coffee table. You drop them all into your satchel without ceremony, without rush but without delay. You’ve revealed too much of yourself today. Shown too many weaknesses where propriety is concerned. He got to you.
And worst of all, he knows it, too.
“Bet you’ll be thinkin’ about this one all night,” he taunts.
“Probably,” you admit, tone flat. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But it’s…”
“It’s…?”
“It’s in my nightstand. Not under my pillow.”
“Alright.” He rubs at his jaw. “Yeah.”
07/08/95 : #006
“Do you mind if I…?”
“Please.”
You take a heaping bite from the apple and set it down in your lap. He watches as you chew, the grinding of your jaw, the way you lick up the sweet juice collecting at the corners of your mouth.
“Couldn’t stop for lunch. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“What would happen if you took a bite?”
“Of you?”
“Ha ha.”
“Ah, nothing. Just tastes bad.”
“Huh.” You grab another bite, scanning quickly over your notes. “Okay. So…”
“Why don’t you let me ask a few, just for now? Finish yer lil’ snack.”
You nod your consent, eyes narrowing in curiosity. He runs with it.
“You ain’t been afraid of me since the first night. Why’s that?”
“Who says I haven’t?”
He points to your heart. “Her. Too steady. Always has been.”
You shrug as you chew.
“And since I’ve spent the last two weeks detailin’ all the nasty shit I’m liable to do,” he continues, “I know you know I ain’t exactly safe t’be around. So… what? You think you ain’t in danger? Think you’re special?”
“I think,” you say, wiping away the last of the juice and setting the core onto a spare notepad, “that you find me interesting. Or entertaining, anyway.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I think you’re lonely. By your own admission, you’ve got no coven. You’re alone in the world. So… I imagine it feels good to share these things with someone, to think you’re impressing a pretty girl who can’t do anything but sit here and play nice. That’s what I think. Am I close?”
“Ain’t you bold.”
“I am.”
“Silly me. Here I was, thinkin’ maybe it was somethin’ to do with the pentagram on your ass. Am I close?”
You freeze.
“What, you thought I didn’t know?”
“I didn’t care if you knew.”
And he can hear your heart, hear the way it stutters, so he knows it’s a lie but all he says is: “Hm.”
“Can’t blame a girl for using protection.”
“No. I cain’t.”
“You’re wrong, though. It's my hip, not my ass.”
“My apologies, angel. Why don't you bend over, show me just how wrong I am?”
You roll your eyes.
“Tell me, though, what exactly you think that lil’ ink is doin’ for ya.”
“I…”
“’Cause sure,” he starts, “I can feel it in the room w’me and, sure, maybe my charm ain't hittin’ quite as strong as it's meant to, but I could rip your throat out before you even open that pretty mouth to scream. Ain’t no ink could stop me. You get that?”
You swallow. “I’m aware.”
“So… why the hell d’you keep coming?”
“Because I want to know things. And… well, everyone dies eventually. If I die here, then that’s just how it is.”
“Everyone, huh?”
You sit in the silence a moment. No one blinks.
Your gaze flits down to his mouth, to the pink of his lips and the crooked smile just barely visible. He isn’t even doing his witchy thing and yet all you can think about is crawling into his lap.
“In the end,” you manage. “Yes. Everyone.”
He nods.
“Come with me next time.”
“Where?”
“Hunting.”
He says it like that, like it’s a totally reasonable thing to offer.
“You’d let me?”
“Yeah. I want you to.”
“Alright.”
“Good.”
07/15/95 : #009
“ - and you gotta bite down hard, ‘cause if you don’t, if you mess around in there, well, then, now you’ve got yerself a stain too big to write off when the cops spot ya. You gotta move in the shadows. Y’ain’t meant to be noticed, y’understand? Visibility, that’s what gets you killed. Ain’t garlic. Ain’t silver. Visibility. Now, you see this, sugar?”
Remmick holds the thrashing out-of-towner by the collar, digging a knuckle into the exact part of the neck that protects the carotid. He brings his free hand up to cradle the base of your skull, directing your gaze. You peer down at the man’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the tears in his wet eyes.
“Yeah. So it’s gotta be right there or else you’ll make a big mess of it?”
“Exactly,” he coos, rubbing a soft thumb over the nape of your neck. “Smart girl. Right here.”
And then he bites.
The man tries to scream but it’s too late, too wet, too gargled. You avert your eyes. The guilt in your stomach roils. Are you an accomplice now?
You tell yourself that your presence changes nothing. You tell yourself that Remmick would be out to kill tonight regardless of whether or not you joined him. That this poor tourist would still be dead.
The only difference between action and inaction is a clear conscience.
The vampire sucks at the man’s neck with a bacchic, frenzied hunger. The blood dribbles from the corners of his mouth, victim of his own animalistic greed. He takes it all at once: no hesitation, no moderation. It’s awfully gory. The wet tear of flesh, the squirt of red…
You’re too horrified to really process anything except the strange rush of want bubbling low in your stomach. It’s the only emotion that manages to cut through the fear, through the shame and guilt of participating in what you’ve witnessed here.
The body is drained. It hits the concrete with a thump. Remmick wipes his mouth.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “Ain’t nothin’ to it.”
And then you notice he’s hard.
You don’t mean to look down. It’s just - well, it's not exactly inconspicuous.
He follows your gaze. It’s visible even in the shadows, the tenting under his leather belt. He grins slowly, fangs gleaming in the low lamplight.
“Ah. Well, I told you, didn’t I?”
“You gonna take care of that?” you ask, voice just a little too high. “Or are we done here?”
“What, baby, you don’t wanna?”
“No.”
“Alright, sweet girl,” he laughs. “G’on, then. I’ll see you in a bit.”
You nod, turning on a heel, careful not to step in any of the pools of blood.
From behind, there’s the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle hitting the ground.
-
Remmick reemerges in a collared shirt you’ve never seen before, the ends of his hair dripping with water. When you crook a brow in confusion, he nods over to the little pond by the edge of the woods.
“Ew. Really?”
“Well, I ain't about to walk around all painted like a Jackson Pollock. Visibility, remember?”
And then he wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you into him. His body is cold - though from the water or the vampirism, you aren’t quite sure.
“Please tell me you washed those hands.”
He tosses you the little bottle of sanitizer gel from his jeans pocket. Before you can stifle it, you’re laughing. That draws a smile from him - not a teasing one, not a smirk, but something much warmer. More honest. He looks down at you like he’s pleased.
“You're ridiculous.”
“Good hygiene’s my utmost priority, angel.”
He pulls you in closer, pressing a long kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re so touchy. I thought you took care of your little problem.”
“Little? You wound me.”
You roll your eyes.
“Nah, alright, it’s just that it’s always the lone men that catch people’s attention. Makes ‘em jumpy. Better t’have a pretty girl at my side after the cops get here. No one’ll suspect a thing.”
“What does it feel like?”
“What?”
“The blood. Does it make you stronger? Give you superpowers?”
“Nah,” he chuckles. “Only, I’m feelin’ real good, like I wanna do something stupid.”
“Like what?”
“Like taste you.” You stiffen. He sighs. “Relax, darlin’, I didn’t say kill.”
“Sorry Nosferatu, I can’t justify a turtleneck in July.”
“Why should you? F’anyone comes at you sideways, just tell ‘em your boyfriend’s a real freak.”
That elicits another laugh from you, real and loud and clear. It’s got him preening.
“How long did it take you to get used to it?”
“Drinkin’ blood?”
“Killing.”
He slows a little. You wonder if you’ve toed the line too far.
“My life ain’t like yours,” he says, finally. “Never was. Didn’t take me turnin’ into… this to kill a man.”
“No?”
Remmick clicks his teeth. “Baby. I was born in the Dark Ages. Death’s always been nippin’ at my heels, just waitin’ for me to trip up.”
“Oh. I… Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
“Ain’t all bad.”
“Good.” You hesitate a moment. “So, what now? We just stand around, waiting for the police?”
“Nah. Now, we go find ourselves a real drink.” He beams as your brows furrow. “Lucky for you, I got the best joint in town.”
It’s field work. Participant observation. Ethnography, even.
You run through the list of anthropological buzzwords like you’re trying them on for size, contorting them until they fit the situation you now find yourself in.
The music in here is very loud, so loud it rings in your ears, so loud it catches in the hollows of your throat.
And Remmick’s got you by the waist from behind, rubbing heavy thumbs into your hips, gripping tightly at them like he thinks you’re about to bolt. Bodies are everywhere. You’re pressed into him, drink in hand, trying very hard not to spill it.
His hand crawls up your forearm, completely covers your own, and brings the glass of gin to your lips.
“Drink up, baby,” he says into your ear. “Need ya to feel how I feel.”
“Blood gets you drunk?” you shout back.
“Somethin’ like that.”
So you down the drink and swear it’s your last of the night.
He wasn’t lying - this really is the best joint in town.
It’s not one of those yuppie gastropubs that the New York Times writes about where the drinks cost more than the minimum wage. It’s also not like the dive bars you and your peers frequent, those little holes in the wall where the booze is cheap and the floor is sticky with unidentifiable liquid.
No, this place is a living, breathing thing.
Remmick moves you like water. Guides you right and left, nudges you where your feet need to go. You like it like this, like not overthinking it. No thinking at all, really.
He spins you like it’s second nature to him. That’s a thousand years, you suppose, one thousand years of finessing every possible social skill. How many girls has he spun like this? How many has he fucked? And how many has he drained dry?
Then he digs his hands into the flesh of your hips, just over the hidden tattoo.
“I like this lil’ thing. I’ve decided.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that?”
“’Cause I feel you drippin’ all over me and I know it ain’t ‘cause you been compelled.”
You stumble on the beat, trip a little into him. He steadies you.
“Remmick.”
“I mean that. Ain’t gotta run circles in my head, ain’t gotta wonder if it’s me or the magic: I know you want it.” His hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. “I’m a very bad man and you want me anyway. Bet you’d let me do it right here, huh?”
And maybe it’s idiotic but you arch into him anyway, letting the curve of your spine melt into the broad expanse of his chest. He brings his arms over yours, hugging you from behind, holding you where he needs you to stay.
“You would. I know it. And if you weren’t so drunk - fuck, I’d do it. Let all these freaks watch.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Nah, we ain’t talkin’ about fair. Not like this, not when your body’s singin’ like she needs me to shut her up.”
“Fuck you.”
“Eventually. But… shit, I think I like this better, knowin’ you’ll be up all night with an ache so deep you cain’t even name the place it’s hidin’.”
“Bring me home, then. I’ll find that toy.”
He laughs against your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the length of it. “Oh, now that, I’d like to see.”
“Too bad. You can’t come in, can you?”
“Not yet.”
“Boo hoo.”
He nips at your ear and you squeal. “Don’t tempt me, baby.”
“Hm. You really won’t fuck me tonight?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then go get me another drink, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
07/19/95 : #010
The air is heavy today.
A sudden chill hangs over the city. It might rain, it might not, but the humidity’s so high it hardly matters. This day wasn’t made for hard work or expending energy.
And yet…
One step through his door and you’re already struck by the supercharged air between you, something like voltage - sizzling and humming just below the visible. He sits across from you, nearly unblinking.
You drink the wine, slow, like the heat in your cheeks could possibly be attributed to the alcohol. To warm you up, he’d said, eyeing the way you shivered in your sundress.
The interview is a short one.
Neither one of you can concentrate. No one addresses what happened at the club.
“Man on the news said there’s a storm on the way.” You offer it like an olive branch, some boring factoid to distract from the way his eyes wander. “Said it's a big one.”
“Hm.”
“Can't believe I walked here.”
“Shit.”
“You aren’t worried?”
“Not in the least.”
Silence.
You flick off the recorder.
“I can’t use of any this.”
He shrugs. “Just makin’ some small talk.”
“I probably should’ve stayed home.”
“How’s that?” He seems almost offended.
“If there’s a… storm.”
“I got candles.”
“You got food?”
“Not unless you don’t mind joinin’ me for eternity.”
“So no.”
You nod. Outside, a crack of thunder rings out.
“Alright. I’ll drive you home, angel.”
“What about the sun?”
He casts a glance up at the slate-grey sky as if to say, what sun?
“Right. Okay. Thank you.”
Remmick watches you.
You know that look, know what it means. You’ve been on the receiving end of it a hundred times in your life, both wanted and not.
It’s not the way a vampire eyes a meal, but… more like the way a man eyes someone he wants to taste, something he wants to devour.
You know he can hear the erratic beat in your chest. You know he can tell from all the way over there how wired you are. You know he’s picking up and cataloguing every hitch in breath, every tiny shift in your thighs, every time your eyes dart to his mouth.
You can’t take it anymore.
-
The rain comes down as a sheet just as you reach the top step of your porch. Fumbling around for your keys, you momentarily forget there’s an apex predator just over your shoulder with his hands dug into his pockets like there’s nothing strange about any of it.
The lock gives with a click and you swing open the door. “Thanks again for the ride,” you call over one shoulder, dumping your work bag by the welcome mat.
“No sweat, sugar.”
“D’you wanna…?”
Remmick stills. “Wanna what?”
“You know.” It just slipped out - but you realize, quite immediately, that you really do mean it.
“That’s so sweet of you, angel,” he says. “But...”
“What?”
“Your name ain’t on the deed. Is it?”
Something cold shoots down your spine.
And then he walks in.
You step back.
“That’s my bad, sugar. I didn’t even think to check. Who owns it, then?” He shuts the door behind him - slow, easy, like nothing’s gone terribly wrong.
“The university.”
He crooks a brow.
Nods.
“So. What d’you want me to do, then? Want me to go?”
“No.”
“You’re shakin’.”
“No - yes, I don’t know, I… But I don’t want you to leave.”
“Alright. Won’t budge.”
“Just… You can follow me.”
It’s like a twisted reimagining of that first night, how you led him through the streets of the dark city praying he wouldn’t snap and rip your throat out. You hear his steps behind you, measured and even, the creak of him on the stairs. The lamps flicker as the rain hits the roof.
But you wonder something.
It’s true you don't own the place. Technically, you’re just renting. And technically… the only place in this house that could kind of be considered yours is the bedroom, the bright one with the bay window overlooking the tree-lined street below.
Now here's a research opportunity.
With a few feet to go, you dash through the door to your room and stumble over the threshold.
Remmick growls, not far behind and -
Nothing.
You wait a beat. Two.
He hasn’t followed because he’s still in the doorway, his figure backlit by the lamps downstairs and casting a long, black shadow onto your carpet.
“Sorry, Rem. Just wanted to test something.”
“I see that.”
“You really can’t…?”
“I cain’t.”
“You’d need me to say it, then.”
“I would.”
You nod.
And reach over to your nightstand.
A flick of the switch and the toy buzzes to life. Remmick bangs his forehead into the doorframe. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”
“Nope. Just wanna see you sweat a little.”
You settle just in front of the doorway, shift your legs apart, letting them fall open from the knee. Slowly, you move the toy up and down your thigh. You’re soaked. He can see it.
He snarls, nails biting into the wood of the frame.
“What? Think you could do better?”
“I get it,” he grits out. “I teased you - I'm sorry, alright? You want me to fuckin’ beg?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Please, alright? Please, I’m - sugar, I need you. I need you t’let me make it up to you. Cain’t do that from all the way out here, can I?” He presses forward, as far as he can get, straining the barrier between you.
Your hand hovers over your core, just inches from where you need it most. “How long’s it been since you had to beg for something? Since you couldn’t just take it?”
“Sweetheart, I - please, I can smell it on ya, it’s all over you n’I - I need it.”
“You’re so pretty when you whine, baby.”
“That’s sick.”
“So are you.” You can’t hide the crack in your voice when the toy makes contact. “Shit, Rem - I wish it were you. Bet it’s big. Bet it’d fit just right.”
“Please.” He falls to his knees, holds up his hands in a mockery of holy prayer. “Anything you want, angel, anything. Just put that fuckin’ thing down and lemme in.”
All he can do is watch as you writhe, still clothed, chasing the feeling as you teeter on the edge.
“Feels so good,” you whine.
“I cain’t fuckin’ watch this. Please.”
One flick of the wrist - you know it - and you’ll come. Just one. It’s now or never.
“You gonna eat it, Rem?”
“Yes. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I’m gonna eat it.”
“And then you’ll fuck me good?”
“So good you won’t walk for days.”
“Come in, then.”
And the space between you closes.
The toy is on the other side of the room before you can even switch it off. His mouth is on yours, licking into you like the flavour is what he craves. One hand comes to squeeze at your tit, sharp and possessive. You gasp into him.
“Don’t you ever do that again, baby,” he spits against your teeth. “Y’understand?”
“Won’t,” you manage. “Just get to work.”
It’s another minute before his mouth finally leaves yours, before he’s ripping the dress clean in two and letting the pieces fall unceremoniously to the floor. He kisses down the length of your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, the valley of your breasts, all the way down to your core.
You half-expect him to tease you right back, to draw the whole thing out - bt he doesn’t.
He eats it in a fury, like he’s exacting a punishment. Your fingers weave into his soft, ruddy hair, start tugging at the roots like you could possibly control his motions. Remmick hasn’t even bothered to drag you to the bed, to find you a pillow, to even angle you over the plush carpet just over to the right - no.
You’re doing this right here… and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
The dig of his hands into the flesh of your thighs, the way he's got one arm locked across your stomach so tight you can't even buck your hips, the wet sounds barely audible over the crackling thunder and howling wind -
Between all of that and the half-abandoned orgasm you nearly achieved, it takes no time at all for him to shove you over the edge into ecstasy.
You scream. He laughs.
“Ain’t no fuckin’ toy could do that,” he mutters into your thigh, pressing wet kisses into the soft skin of it.
“I need more, Rem, I need - holy shit.”
“I got you, sugar. Lie back, now, lemme do what needs doin’.”
Remmick crawls up over you. There’s a surprising tenderness in how he moves, a distinct attention to keeping his weight even, to giving you enough space to breathe.
“What’d you think, baby, think it’s big?” he mutters between kisses, between the wet stripes he licks across the flushed skin of your neck. “Think y’can take it?”
“Y-yes, I - shit - I can.”
“That’s good, sweet thing, ‘cause I’m gonna make it fit, n’you’re gonna lay right there and you’re gonna thank me for it. Ain’t that right?”
You nod furiously, whining at the feel of canines scraping at your skin. He nips at your breast - not enough to break the skin, but enough to make you keen into him. All the while, his hands roam the length of your bare body.
“Speak up.”
“Yes.”
“Smart girl.” He nuzzles into the slope of your neck, inhaling deep. You claw at his shirt, some faded old band thing that smells of expensive aftershave and iron-rich rot. He understands, pauses his attack, peels it off and over his head.
And then he’s right back where he was, colder than the night and far more beautiful. His skin burns with a strange ice, overwhelms the sticky humidity of the room and the flushed heat emanating from your every pore. The world is made perfect in his expert, ancient hands.
“You let me in.” He mumbles it into the flesh of your stomach - an accusation, yes, but laced with adoration. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t make you. Nah, you did it ‘cause you wanted it. Wanted me.”
“Obviously,” you gasp. “Fucking obviously I wanted this.”
He laughs, soft and airy.
“I know, baby. She -” he runs a finger against your core and you keen - “has made that very clear.”
“Please, Remmick, would you just - I can take it, I’m ready, just - fuck, please…”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, even now, even as he’s rocking back and forth over your bare body, grinding his clothed self into you. “What, y’ain’t so bold now that y’need some cock, huh?”
His blunt words leave you clenching around nothing.
You swallow. “Fuck you.”
“You can, if you ask real nice.”
“I got mine already, Rem.” Your voice cracks as the head of him catches against you. “You gave it to me, remember? And if you want yours, you’d better get on it.”
“Aw, there she is,” he coos, grinning against your mouth. “Dirty girl. Silly girl, playin’ with fire, survival instinct of a fuckin’ pebble.”
“Shut up.”
Remmick reaches down to undo his zip. Tosses his belt aside, the leather sliding through the loops and the buckle meeting the hardwood with a heavy clank. You lower a hand to feel him and he slaps it away.
And then he’s moving against you again, feeling his way through the combined wetness between your bodies without ever breaching it.
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he starts. “Is this what you been hopin’ for? Whole time, sittin’ there across from me all pretty n’breakable, pokin’ and proddin’ at a thing so old it cain’t hardly remember what it means to say please… What, you kept comin’ back just hopin’ I’d get you under me? Get you squirmin’, just like this?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says simply, and then buries himself to the hilt. You scream. He makes a sound like choking.
“Rem, you’re so - fuck, just slow down -”
“Nah, baby,” he counters, pulling himself out just to push in again. “I can take it, Rem, I’m ready - ain’t that what you said? Ain’t that how you begged? See, I’m just givin’ my girl what she wants.”
My girl.
You whine at that, clench down around him, and he groans.
“Oh,” he spits. “Y’like that? Like bein’ mine?”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, I-”
“Good, ‘cause that’s what you are.” He hisses it, his hands coming to land on either side of your face, digging into your cheeks, forcing your gaze. “You been mine, sugar, since the first night, since them college boys looked at you like a meal n’got their throats ripped out for their trouble.”
Your eyes go wide.
“Aw, you don’t even remember, huh?” He laughs in your face. “Poor baby’s just lucky was me that found her in that alley and not one of them.”
“Rem-”
“Mine.” He hits you with a cant of his hips that shoves you forward. “Say it.”
You drag your hand from its resting place on his bicep, from the five little indents in his pallid skin, and bring it to rest in his hair. You tug. He snarls.
“Yours,” you whisper, drawing his lips down to meet your own.
“Goddamn right.”
“Because you’re mine.”
“Fuck.” It’s almost a whine. “Oh, angel - fuck, that’s right, just like that - so fuckin’ perfect, so fuckin’ - “
He reaches down to the nub between your legs, chases that same pattern with his thumb as he had with his tongue. You cry out, grip on his shoulders so tight that the tips of your fingers start to tingle.
“Just like that, baby, go on - one more. Know y’can, know y’wanna.”
“Don’t stop.”
“Shit, angel, could be fuckin’ armageddon outside and I wouldn’t stop. Not when I got you like this. Not when you’re cryin’ all over me like a fuckin’ whore.”
All you can babble is his name, rising and falling, swelling and bursting.
“I’m gonna - “
“Oh, you goddamn better.”
So you do.
Remmick doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you the briefest second to acclimate, to ride it out, to come down from the peak. He’s still bucking and moving, still chasing his own high.
What can you do but lie there and take it? What can you do but grab at his mussed hair, coo soft words of praise in his ear, tell him how good he is to you?
“Sweet girl,” he pants, pressing wet kisses across your face, down your neck, in your hair - anywhere his animal body takes him. “You let me in. Let me… let me in again. Ins - lemme come inside, yeah?”
“Inside,” you whine, eyes screwed shut. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Please.”
So he does.
“You’re mine, baby,” he groans, kissing softly at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck. All mine.”
“I’m yours.” You brush a loose lock of hair from his eye. Drag him down again for a deep kiss - slow, filthy, indulgent. “You know that.”
“And I ain’t talkin’ about a fling, angel, ain’t talkin’ about you’re mine up ‘til you get your degree n’get the hell on outta Louisiana. Nah, this here’s forever, sugar, for life. Get that?”
“Your life or mine?”
“Why not both?”
You both look at each other, then, properly. The red’s almost dissolved from his iris. If you squint, he might just be a handsome man like any other, all hungry hands and slick words. You wonder what he sees in you - something fragile to cradle, some sweetness to indulge in.
There's something very human in the way he watches you, how he hangs on whatever words might next leave your lips. Like he knows what he wants to hear. Like he's terrified he won't. Like any of it matters to a creature older than God.
“Bring me to bed, please.”
With a kiss to your forehead, he’s pulling himself from your body, shushing you as you wince. Wordlessly, he lifts your sore frame from the floor as if you weigh nothing, carrying you up and over to the king-size mattress laying unused only feet away.
“I mean it,” he says, drawing your body up against him. His fingers play in your hair, scratch at your scalp. “I could give you forever.”
“I know.”
“You don’t want it?”
“I don’t know. Did you choose this?”
“No. But you could.”
“You think I’d be happy?”
“Think I could make you. Yeah?”
“You’re probably right.”
“Yeah.”
“D’you think I’d also get horny after drinking blood?”
“Goddamn, I hope so.”
“Pervert.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Y’know, I’d like to turn thirty first, I think.”
“What’s so great about thirty?”
You laugh. “I don’t know. I just want to.”
“Alright,” he mumbles into your hair. “When’s your birthday?”
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considering that jesper is canonically older than kaz, id like to think at least once they were bickering and jesper goes “you know, you need to respect your elders buddy” and the resulting Kaz Glare™️ was that scary that he never dared to say it again
Crazy Ass Vampires Gang + your ex tries to come back
warnings: yandere/toxic behavior — YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
❥ immediately murders them in cold blood ❥
Lestat De Lioncourt -
It would be easy to mistake his instantaneous blustering and anger for wounded pride. On some level, it is wounded pride. He has given you everything. All of him. From his heart and soul, to the dark gift running in his veins. For some nothing mortal to feel it is their place to come waltzing back into your life, expecting to regain the spot in your heart reserved for him—it would break a lesser mind, he’s sure. But Lestat is not lesser. Nor does he accept defeat. It goes against his very nature, to not fight for the things he cherishes. Your former paramour lives only long enough for Lestat to see that you would not choose them, given the chance. Because they seem so sure that you will. That you'll abandon him. Leave him to suffer without your love like a farmer flees rotten land for greener pastures.
The certainty of your former lover’s belief shakes the foundations of Lestat’s trust. Makes him paranoid. Drives him mad.
He sees shadows of betrayal on every wall. In every expression on your face. He follows you both like a hunter stalking his prey in the days leading up to your former lover gathering all their courage to ask you to take them back. He couldn’t chance—with the inability to read your mind—never knowing what had truly taken place between you two during these final moments. It would have driven him to the brink of sanity. Finally, the little worm fixes their mouth to ask you to run away with them. Lestat’s heart soars when you reject them—it dances and burns for you when you turn them away. When you tell them to never come back. But you need not concern yourself with the risk of them ever darkening your doorstep again.
You’ll return home to Lestat making a show of dancing with their corpse. He kisses away your gasp of shock with reverence.
Armand -
He’d acted too rashly. This lone thought is the overture to the harmonious sound of your former lover’s bones cracking and burning to ash in the incinerator. He watches them burn with a nearly superstitious zeal. He does not blink. He does not move. As if allowing his gaze to falter will cause spontaneous resurrection—and your former lover will walk the earth once more.
Callously armed with the power to destroy all you had built with Armand with but a few simple words: I made a mistake. Come back. Please.
A gentle popping fills the air. Armand’s mind drifts to a trip the two of you had taken while you were still human. The mountains of Northern Italy a backdrop to a burgeoning romance. You curled against his chest, sitting before a fireplace, and the cracking of the wood there. You’d been so content. Content to be on such a grand adventure. Content that the grand adventure was with him. Just content, and he had made you that way.
But that was a different time. The gentle popping he hears now is not wood burning itself away to keep you warm, but the sound of a femur bursting. Too delicate to hold up against such an intensely sustained heat. Armand watches the cartilage begin to bubble, and then burn away like everything else.
These are the frantic actions of a fledgling a quarter of his age. And now, a web of endless consequences has opened up. A gaping hole he could fall into at any moment. Not for the first time, he regrets turning you—regrets that he can not reach into your mind and pluck out any suspicion that he knows will begin to fester there.
And fester it will. You’re too clever for anything else. He’s quite enjoyed that until now.
Now, everything that comes next will be so terribly difficult. Any paper thin deception he can weave would melt to sludge like a sacramental wafer on the tongue of a sinner. You’d have to be a fool—with his track record, especially—to believe he has nothing to do with your ex’s disappearance.
He should have waited at least a week. Ideally, months. But he’d flown into a rage as soon as the wretch had started upon its begging and coaxing. It had taken everything in him not to kill the loathsome creature right before your eyes.
All the good that fleeting “control” had done him. Your former love still dead. Armand, the bringer of this death, as he has been for so many others. And all the love in the world you might hold for him could evaporate to nothing the moment you realize what he’s done.
The smell of the burning is far more bothersome than usual. Acrid. But perhaps that was only a trick of his mind.
❥ tries to be normal about it, but can’t ❥
Louis de Pointe du Lac -
He does not want this to bother him. It’s not fair that it bothers him. He has lived so many different versions of a life. Embodied so many aspects of the human experience. And with all that experience, all the lovers notched into his own belt (sweet, bitter, and doomed, alike)—he would begrudge you this? One single love that is not himself?
He’s disgusted with himself. Feels out of his own mind with the jealousy… with the fear. Louis offered you the world during his seduction. Offered you kindness and romance. Trips to far off places and quiet nights curled into his side. Gave you everything in his power that was available for giving. All to make up for what he could not give you. What you were most deserving of—a human life, lived out together until its natural and peaceful end. One full of love and joy, where your soul might remain intake, untainted by his darkness. By the rot of the dark gift.
But Louis has lost far too many loves. The very nature of immortality a perpetual state of loss and grief. He cannot lose you too. Cannot bear to add you to that sum total of things that were once there, and now are gone, and never coming back. That dread had driven him to turn you.
It’s what drives him onto his knees in front of you, gripping at you, blood dripping from his eyes. Borrowing grief from the future, and digging it up from the past.
“Don’t leave,” the words little more than a moan. They could have been the screams of the damned from hell, the way they claw upwards from his stomach and drip out his tongue.
“I can’t be without you. I won’t. Don’t leave. I’ll beg if I have to. I will—” A shock to your system, considering the thought had not occurred to you at all.
Wrap your arms around him and whisper the words to him, the love. He’ll try to believe them. And even if he doesn’t today… eternity stretches out before you, for better or worse.
Daniel Molloy -
It’s like that one saying: the way to boil a frog is to slowly turn up the heat. Increment by tiny increment. Until it’s too sluggish and weak to leap out of the pot and save its own life. That’s what your ex is trying to do to Daniel.
Trying to turn up the heat on him. Turn up the heat on your relationship. He knows the game. Hell, he’s played it a time or two—back when he was young, and stupid, and bored enough to indulge in endless parades of bullshit. But that time in his life is over. Long over. He has no interest in revisiting it—and to get dragged back there by some snot-nosed little human who thinks they’re being slick?
Daniel has been watching them. Watching them creep their way back into your life under the guise of friendship. Of wanting to make amends. And sure, some part of them does want all that kumbaya-esque malarkey. The bigger part of them wants what Daniel would want if he were in their position. You, back in their arms and back in their bed.
One big fucking problem with that, though: You’re Daniel’s.
You’ve been Daniel’s. You’ve been Daniel’s since the moment he laid eyes on you, and ignored that ever-present burning fledgling thirst to talk to you instead of ripping your throat out. Daniel Molloy—in love again. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him until you. Of being in love again. Of trying again, despite the futility of it. Despite knowing first-hand (twice over!) how fast love can turn from hate, to apathy, to fucking nothing. All of that knowing feels small when squared against the way you smile at him.
Always smiling at him. The sweetest, sappiest little quirk of the lips he’s ever seen anyone do. Every time he turns to look for you, when your eyes meet, you smile. Like clockwork. Even now, after he’s turned you. After he’s heard from every vampire he’s ever met how bad that goes for every version of love there is.
But you two had survived it. At least up till now. And Daniel has some stupid, optimistic thing burning in his chest—telling him you could survive eternity together.
So the thought that he could lose everything he has right now to some fucking nothing kid? Yeah, sure.
Your ex pulls the unlucky card of coming around the house when you’re not there and Daniel is. Daniel’s not particularly irritated that night. The two of you haven’t fought. He’s already well-sated from a hunt earlier in the night. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just time for it to happen.
Daniel drains him dry, and doesn’t really like the taste. There are echoes of how much they loved you in the blood. And it’s a shitty, Plato’s shadow version of how Daniel loves you. He spits the taste out of his mouth.
Daniel knows how bad lying goes in a relationship. But some things can’t be helped. He digs down deep for any modicum of acting talent and aims for contrition.
“I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart. I was just so hungry—I lost control.”
A/N: this one gave me a bit of trouble because all the characters are pretty new for me. i'm happy with what i wound up with characterization-wise, though! if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer’s fuel is engagement. if you really loved this, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo
a big thank you to my current patreon subscribers: jazz and @u1tra-vi0lent. without amazing readers like you, i wouldn't still be up and kicking on this blog!
heyyyy could you please write literally anything roman roy related i’ve just got into the succession fandom
ofc i get if not but just wanted to send a request in
you wanna guess what me and roman have been textin’ about?
🎧 ﹐ ♡﹒ roman roy oneshot﹒ ᶻ ᶻ
𝐚/𝐧: anon i am always happy to write for this freak.
requests are always open <3
in which: roman has never been one for self control, especially in the work place.
words: 1.1k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none!
𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: guess - charlie xcx & billie eilish
it’s almost the end of your shift when you finally return to your office from the third tiresome meeting of the day. the setting sun creeps in through the curtains, spilling across the carpeted floor, and the door is slightly ajar. roman’s been in, again. despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth at thought of your … insistent boyfriend.
it was almost admirable the extent to which he dedicated himself to annoying you at work, even at the expense of his own productivity. this time, there’s a post it note on your desk, his messy handwriting identifiable to you even from the doorway, and a bouquet of roses beside it.
you reach your desk, and read the post it note. in his scrawly handwriting, it read,
can’t wait for tonight, sexy. xx
god, he is incorrigible. but even you have to admit the roses do smell lovely. you take a moment, admiring the carefully wrapped bouquet, and the fraying ribbon that held them together. that’s how you know roman did it himself. but it touches you, that he decided to do diy it rather than paying someone to do it, like he would for anyone else. you sit on your desk, flipping the edge of the post it note back and forth as you stare the scrawled message.
you’re lost in your romantic reverie, before an infuriatingly familiar voice snaps you out.
“enjoy the gift, princess?”
you jump at the sound of roman’s voice, head shooting up to see him peering around the corner of your still ajar door.
your paranoia overrides the feeling of annoyance and reluctant appreciation, and you scan the building through the glass walls of your office. you know he doesn’t care that your relationship is supposed to be secret, but you do.
“it’s lovely.” you respond, cursing yourself for the genuine gratitude that shines clear as day through your words, despite roman’s teasing tone.
but instead of taking the piss like he usually does (and you expected him to), a little genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“glad you like them.” he said, strutting over to you with infuriating smug confidence. too close. you can feel his warm breath tickling your face, and you know the sight would raise questions if anyone else saw.
he comes to stand between your thighs, his fingers immediately reaching out to feel your skin against his. you give him a look, a weak attempt to keep him professional, although you both know roman roy hasn’t been professional a day in his pathetic life.
he drops his head, his lips tickling against the skin of your jawline, down along the hollows of your throat. his hair is gelled, but stray strands still tickle your skin as he mouths your neck.
“your dad fucking scares me.” you say, eyes darting around the building, but your hands give you away, tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
roman manages a slight scoff, pulling away for a moment. “yeah, he fucking scares me too.” he lifts his head to look at you directly, his brown eyes making your stomach twist.
“… missed you like hell today.” he said, the raw honesty in his voice rare, but that made it all the more meaningful. it makes your heart swell, seeing the genuine emotion that only you seem to bring out of him. you go to respond, an attempt to validate his rare words of affection, before a voice rings out.
“roman!” kendall. from down the hall. that prick.
roman spins around, shooting you a teasing smirk, as he marches out of your office. it’s like a switch, the way he changes between the roman that you are familiar with, and the roman that panders to the expectations of the roys.
he pulls away from you, shooting a slightly apologetic look your way, knowing you don’t like being interrupted. kendall’s getting closer, you can both hear his brisk footsteps. roman looks at you once more, before taking a reluctant step back, and turning to go, as kendall comes into view.
“see ya later, bitch!” he calls out as he sways his hips through your door.
“bye, jerk.” you say, a fond smile on your face despite your words, knowing he can’t hear you anymore. he’s probably too busy yelling at kendall now.
greg is in your office now, sitting stiffly in the seat opposite you as you explain logan’s latest attempt at bold acquisition. his eyes wander, across the office, until they reach your phone, which lit up with three messages from a certain ‘roman♡ ’.
he looked back up at you, managing a croaky, nervous, “roman? are you— like, roman roman? roman roy?”
your eyes shoot to your phone at his words, hand snapping out to shut it off, and turn it face down on the desk. not that you didn’t trust greg, but it was unlikely he wouldn’t go snitch to his precious tom, who would in turn tell shiv, and so on so forth. you couldn’t afford it snowballing like that.
“no. … another roman.” you say, voice brisk.
greg nods, evidently keen not to get on your bad side. “right, yeah, of course.” he doesn’t believe you, of course, but he’s not willing to interrogate this any further. not at the risk of his job, anyway. he looks over at you, at your averted eyes, stiff shoulders and furrowed brow, evidently hiding something.
“… it’s okay… if it is … like, this roman. i won’t tell anyone.” greg says, eventually. “… mainly because he scares me.”
you look up at him, a hint of appreciation in your eyes. roman could be an intimidating figure, especially to someone like greg, who was … easily intimidated. you don’t respond verbally, but he nods in response, catching your drift.
there’s a moment of silence, before you start again.
“he’s not that bad.” you look up at greg, and spot roman in the office, making exaggerated kisses and suggestive references, blowing kisses in your direction, just outside your doorway. “once you get to know him.”
(Definitely OOC Daniel, reader gets really chill really fast, not proofread, poorly written, etc. I just want Danny to hold me while I cry)
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry baby—“ Daniel’s voice takes on that soft, gentle tone it does when he’s trying to diffuse a fight. But you’re not fighting. He didn’t say anything to piss you off. It’s… this. What you’ve walked in on. Your eyes, wide and glassy with tears, stay fixated on the body behind him. “Don’t— don’t look at that, look at me.” He gently grabs your face with his blood-slicked hands, smearing red over your cheeks in a way that makes you want to gag. You push his hands off and stumble backwards.
“You’re— you—“ the words catch in your throat and you harshly wipe your sleeve against your cheek as the tears begin to fall. Behind you, your free hand feels around nervously for the door handle. Something flashes across Daniel’s eyes when the tips of your fingers brush the cool metal of the doorknob and he lunges forward, wrestling you to the ground. He holds you firmly in place with one arm, the other, which he wiped crudely on his jeans, comes up to stroke your hair comfortingly. “You killed him, you killed him…”
“Shhh,” his hand comes down from your hair to cover your mouth, his thumb wiping away your tears, “He’s fine, don’t look at that guy, he’s fine. Look at me, don’t cry, honey.” A choked sob escapes your throat and you claw at his arms. You’re scared. Daniel’s hand leaves your mouth, shuffling away but still holding your arms.
“You— you’re a— you killed him!” You yell frantically, hands beating against his arms.
“That guy’s fine, baby. Look, look he’s still breathing. I won’t even finish him off.” He moves out the way so you can see the shallow rise and fall of the man’s chest. Surprisingly, his terrible strategy works, and you seem to begin to calm down. You sniff, fighting your tears back. He gently pulls you to his chest, hand on the back of your head, thumb gently smoothing over your hair.
“He’s okay? He’s gonna be okay?” You ask hesitantly, Daniel nods.
“Mhm. Something like that, yeah.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“So… so what, you’re a— a cannibal?” Daniel laughs at that, you can feel him shaking his head.
“Actually, a vampire.” He corrects, scratching your back, “common mistake, though.” You breath out a laugh,
“Yeah? That common?” You ask, looking up at him. He nods.
“I ate the last guy who made it though.” He notices the way you tense at his joke and clears his throat. “But I’d never, ah… eat you, baby.” You melt back into his arms.
You've been laying on the master bed for at least three hours now, in and out of a hazy, sun warmed state. An unexpected early heatwave had burned up any urge you had to do anything.
"Hot?" Roman's voice breaks the silence to taunt you as you lay with your shirt pulled up to your armpits, legs stretched out and kinked for maximum cool air coverage.
An almost purr escapes your throat that turns into a soft cough and roll over, exposing your back now to the air conditioning.
"You're sweating all over my side of the bed, you know," he grumbles, discarding his button down and his belt. "It's going to reek like you for weeks, and what do I get out of it? Nothing."
"Rome," you sigh exasperatedly into the fitted sheet, lifting your head enough for him to hear you properly. "You have the sheets changed every week, can you just be quiet and-"
"Yes, oh yes, just enjoy the weather or whatever bullshit you're into these days. No conversation lest I get accused of 'killing the vibe' again." Unceremoniously he shoves his slacks down, almost tripping as he kicks out of them. His cheeks are flush as he hears you make a soft snrk at the noise. "Don't."
He climbs on top of the bed and kneels between your legs, his hands running up the soft expanse of your back. Even when you seem to be suffering, he loves getting to feel your skin. The bead of sweat that forms at the dip of your spine rolling onto your lower back, hints of scars from childhood, a splattering of freckles he has yet to constellate. It's all you.
"You're more," he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, "tolerable this way," another one, "can't see your dumbass face when you," and one more, "say stupid shit to me."
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