Isaac had raised a brow when you asked for a specific brand of honey—local or wildflower. Though you were able to distract him long enough to avoid explaining why. Not to mention the water syrup—Mizuame—is needed for the traditional recipe.

“You require…” Isaac tilts his head from the countless files sprawled across his desk, “Repeat that for me again?”

“Water syrup,” you affirm with a nod. “Oh, and honey. Not artificial, local.”

Isaac’s lips curl so slightly that someone who did not know how to read the subtle changes in his face would not notice the small smile. But you know. And you did notice it. Your lips follow in tandem despite the feeling of your shaky hands and sweaty palms.

“Alright.” He shifts his chair away from the desk, now facing you. “Indulge me for a second. Why do you need water syrup exactly? Not to mention the honey. Should I be expecting something from you?”

Your breaths frantically shiver between your rib cage. The air somehow is hotter and heavier. If you didn’t have a clandestine mission to surprise him for once instead of him turning the tables on you, you might have decided to tell him the truth. But the tenseness in his shoulder, twitching in his fingers and dark eye bags remind you why you started all of this in the first place.

You step closer, thigh now between his parted legs. His eyes do not leave your frame for a single second. You could get drunk on his gaze; irises blurred over with your mirrored desire that rivals the taste and sight of the most intoxicating wine.

You push forward.

Your leg brushes against his inner thigh. Your mind reels when you feel his body slightly twitch against yours. You place a hand on the chair’s armrest. Isaac gives no sound or touch to signal you to stop, other than a breathy gasp. Taking that as a yes, you place your right hand above his abdomen.

The air felt even heavier, but there’s a force pulling you closer to Isaac. The bemused look on his face spurs you on.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes out; music to your ears—

“Pickle?”

Crap.

You freeze, whisk still in hand. Flour dusts your apron as if you were in a snowstorm. The kitchen is in absolute disarray—melted honey, butter, and sugar cooked together in a pot; amber-hued residue on the stove top, spoon, and saucepan rim. You’re in the middle of it, honeyed fingers still sticky. You turn around, trying to block the messy counter.

Isaac is standing in the doorway. His expression is always neutral, almost pensive and melancholic, but this time, there is something else in his gaze. A small glint of curiosity mixed with the amused raise of his lips.

“You’re home early.” You note, with your voice a little too high.

His head leans to the side. For a moment, he just watches you. You feel small under his gaze; pinned down like you’re playing a game of cat and mouse. Too bad for him, two can play at that game.

“Everything wrapped up better than I expected.” His voice is smooth, and words spill from his lips like a river.

He takes a step closer. You notice that he looks a tad bit more disheveled than usual—slightly tussled hair; blazer gone, only left with his pristine white button-up. Your eyes trail to the top, undone buttons; his skin peeks out. Sweat lightly coats his neck and temples. Probably from the heat.

“Really?” You mirror the way Isaac has tilted his head. “Here I thought you came back early because you missed me.”

Isaac closes the distance between you quicker than you expected. Your chest tightens, hands grip the counter tighter. You might slip, considering how the growing heat in the room is making your palms sweat.

“Couldn’t keep me out of your mind?”

You scoff. “It’ll take a lot more than that for you to get an answer out of me.”

“I don’t doubt that I could get anything—” he hums, “—out of you. Move to the side.”

Isaac’s voice sends shivers down your spine. As much as you’d like to push back, say something akin to a bite to see that controlled and amused smile wiped off his pretty face.

His hand lifts and snakes around your waist. The skin, even beneath the layer of clothes, burns at the touch as if his fingers were akin to a cold burn. You bite your lip as you let him lead you away from the counter.

“What happened here?” You swear you can hear the way his voice has that familiar tone of sing-song mirth.

You stand behind him. Lying your head on the back of his shoulder, you snort lightly. He slightly turns his head. His lips graze the top of your head. You wonder if he’ll reward you with a small kiss. You know he’s a giver, but not before making you work and beg for it.

You sigh, knowing you can’t exactly lie to him. He’ll know in an instant. You’ve already gotten used to the fact that he knows you like the back of your hand.

“I…” you try to find the proper words. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Isaac’s eyes widen. You could get lost in the way his pupils dilate when his gaze is on you.

“Surprise me?”

“Well, you work so hard—”

“So do you, pickle.”

“Let me finish.” Your hands wrap around him from behind.

Isaac breathes in deeply. He can feel the rapid beat of your heart against his back and he’s sure you can feel his too. Your honeyed hands trail up his shirt, taking home against his chest.

He sure is easy to catch off guard with the right… touches. You wonder what other sounds you could coax out of him.

“You’ve been spending even more nights in your office.”

“Are you upset that I leave you alone at night?”

“I visit, don’t I?” Your fingers trace shapes mindlessly on his shirt, nails catching on the buttons. “But that’s not it. I do miss you, but I wanted to make you something you could enjoy. Like a sweet dessert. Unfortunately, I was a tad too overconfident.”

“Tad?” Isaac smiles while wiping a finger on the flour dusted across the counter.

You roll your eyes. “You’re welcome, by the way. It’s a honey cake. Kasutera, I think. Should have chosen something easier.”

You free one hand, lifting it to the melted honey. The liquid is heavy and warm on your finger.

“Is that the honey you asked me to purchase for you?”

“Yes,” you chirp. “How nice of you to get me everything I ask for. How so—”

A chuckle vibrates in his body. The feeling reaches your chest. You take a step closer, taking note of how his leg instinctively gives you a piece of opening to slide a thigh between.

“—very obedient.”

“What do you want?” Isaac’s voice is heavier. Not need— want. Like you’re being a brat, pushing his buttons. Like he’s waiting for you to have your fun before he has his own.

He knows you so well.

You raise your honey-covered fingers just a breath away from his lips. “Want a taste?”

Isaac’s breath is caged in his throat. A crooked smile forms on his lips. His hands grip the counter, just where you were just a second ago. His mind is wrapped in a euphoric haze, bordering on erotic because of what you’ve just asked of him.

He’ll deliver, he always does. Not once has he ever disappointed your whims and fantasies. Though after entertaining you, he’ll want—no—need even more.

Isaac’s hand leaves the countertop. He snatches your wrist. He can feel your chest shift against his back in surprise. He’d drink in the sight of your eyes, locked onto how he takes your fingers in, tongue wrapping around you. Though he realizes you planned all of this to give yourself the upper hand, leaving him purely to his senses while you watch entranced.

“I’ll indulge you.” His lips graze the inside of your wrist, feeling the unsteady pulse under the hot skin. “For now.”

Isaac’s lips part. You almost gasp at the sight. He takes your honey-covered fingers into his mouth. His tongue curls around the tip, and you sense the warmth of his mouth, every deliberate graze of his lips along your fingers, the heated flicks of his tongue as he parts your fingers. Or maybe you parted them. Honestly, because of your hazy mind, you can’t really tell.

He abruptly stops, and you whine at the slight suction as he pulls away, at the loss of touch.

He hums, considering. “Sweet.”

“Just sweet?”

His hand catches your wrist, holding you there. He brings your finger to his lips again, kissing the tip this time. “Like you. Do you want to taste it?”

Isaac slowly turns away from the counter, now facing you. His gaze is heavy upon your form, but you don’t break or bend. Your straightened spine, ghost of a smile now replaced with your sweet lips slightly parted.

“You already know my answer.” You say with a hiss escaping your lips.

“I want to hear you say it.”

A small scoff leaves you. “Seriously?”

“Is that a no?”

Of course it’s not. He knows that.

“You’re messing with me on purpose.”

His hand reaches your cheek, cradling the skin with the softest touch you’ll ever know in your life. It’s cut short as his hand lowers to your jaw. You swallow. His lips curl at the sight.

“Maybe I am—” he doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Not before your hands grip his collar.

His lips feel so familiar. You’ve tasted the peppermint on his tongue so many times, but every time you do, the sensation lights your skin on fire.

A small gasp from Isaac is muffled by your lips. The knots in his shoulders seem to dissipate. His body melts into yours— one hand on your back, trailing up your spine, making you arch into him. Your chest grazes his own. He moves his hand from your jaw and presses it into the clothed flesh of your hip.

Your knees weaken just for a moment. Isaac catches the change in balance, using the moment to slip his leg between your parted thighs.

“You’re eager.” You tease, already feeling his arousal graze the inside of your thigh. “I could help with that.”

“You will.”

You giggle as he pushes you against the table. There’s barely any space between you. The need to feel his bare skin under your hands becomes more and more unbearable with every passing teasing second. He’s enjoying this so much— collar left open, button up clutched in your hand, eyes dark with craving only you can satisfy.

His lips find your neck, and you tilt your head, giving him access. He hums into your skin in approval. His teeth graze your pulse point, making you lean your head back. The glide of his lips is taunting.

Your hands trail to his belt, fingers hooking through the loops. You coax him closer. The table’s surface is cold against your clothed skin; the temperature change makes you ache.

“How do you feel?” You can barely make out the sound of Isaac’s words.

You’re a mess of muffled giggles and whispers as he pulls away. His lips have turned red and flushed, and the sight is downright sinful to look at.

“I feel—” you move your fingers to his belt, asking for permission, “—like the dessert I made tasted good. But…”

He’s towering over you now. Letting out a soft laugh, his hand traces the same shapes you did on him just a few moments ago.

“Not enough for you?”

“Not nearly.”

He’s left breathless, and you want to push him even more. See him unravel under your fingertips.

“You can let go, you know.” You’re fine with begging, no matter how it makes your mind spiral.

“Greedy.” He tuts.

“What can I say?” The words tumble out of you as his hands lie on top of yours, guiding you while undoing his belt. “I like sweet things.”

“Take your fill then.”

He lets out a shaky gasp as you trail your fingers down his exposed abdomen. Your lips curl. The twitch of his own lips sends electricity through your nerves. You don’t break eye contact, too hungry to let go of the blurry way his eyes tear slightly at your teasing hands.

“You’re stalling,” he spits out through unsteady breaths.

“Greedy,” you repeat his words back at him. “Do you have any idea how it excites me that even though I am the one basically pinned to the table, you’re the one unraveling. Literally.”

His jaw tightens. You watch him fight for control— and lose. His lips part—a gasp, whine—you’re not sure. You don’t let him finish.

Your hand slips beneath his waistband, finding him warm and hard. He gasps—a sharp, broken sound—and his forehead drops to yours. You flick your wrist near the base of his cock, trailing slowly up till you reach his tip—wet, you note.

“There you go…” You whisper near his ear, teeth grazing his lobe.

Your fingers glide over the flushed tip, forming a gentle hold over his length. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You hear him barely forming the words—

“What about you?”

“What about me?” You are too busy tracing the vein along his cock right back down to the base. “Tonight isn’t about me. You coming undone in my hands is enough to sate me for the entire night.”

Isaac’s breathing speeds up. You can see how today’s stress melts off his shoulders. He curls into you, closer, and needier. You readjust, coaxing his voice higher. His hips twitch under your moving hand. The physical sensations are completely drowned out by the rush you’re instilling in him.

But, of course, he can’t let you have all the fun.

His shaking hand rises, tracing up your abdomen.

“Isaac—”

Your skin twitches as his fingers trace your collarbone, completely missing your chest. Your brows furrow.

“What are you planning?” Your wrist flicks again, holding just below his cock.

He doesn’t answer. His fingers find the sides of your neck first, cradling the column of your throat. His thumbs press against your pulse points, feeling the rapid, unsteady beat beneath your skin.

“I need to feel you,” he breathes. “Please. I need to feel you.”

You swallow. He feels it—the movement of your throat beneath his palms. His gaze is completely unguarded.

“You’re feeling me right now,” you say, your voice falling back into the same fit of soft giggles and gasps.

He shakes his head. “Not enough.”

His hands trail down slowly from your neck to your chest. His palms press flat against the fabric of your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin beneath. His thumbs find your nipples through the cotton, circling them in slow, measured strokes.

Your breath catches. Your hips press forward, and you sense him twitch against your wrist.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs. You can’t tell if it’s an observation or him teasing you.

“Isaac.”

“I want to make you feel good too.” His voice is rough and strained. “Let me. Please, sweetheart.”

His hands press a little harder against your chest, pinching and rolling your nipples through the fabric. “I want to make you feel as good as you’re making me feel. I want to touch you, taste you, hear you. I want—” He swallows. “I want to do something for you. For once.”

You shake your head, knowing the one thing he cannot stand to even think of is not being enough to please, protect, and satisfy you.

“Isaac,” you call his name again, and this time his hand slowly leaves your chest. “I already told you that tonight is about you. This is what I want. Is it what you want as well?”

There’s a storm in his eyes. Though it does not last for long before he’s bucking his hips back into your wrapped fist. A yes, barely above a whisper, is all you need.

Your hand slips lower, pressing into the sensitive skin just behind his balls. He jerks against you, a shudder running through his whole body.

“There,” he breathes, his voice catching. “Please—"

You press harder, circling the spot with your thumb. His hips buck into your hand, desperate and uncoordinated.

“That’s it,” you murmur against his ear. “Let go, Isaac. I’ve got you.”

Your thumb finds the sensitive ridge beneath the head of his cock, and you circle it slowly. He makes a sound—not quite a moan, not quite a whimper—and his face hides deeper into the crook of your neck.

His whole body tenses against yours. You feel the way his breath hitches, the way his hands grip your waist.

“I’m—” His voice breaks.

“I know.” You press harder against that sensitive ridge, and he cries out—a broken, desperate sound that makes your chest ache. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

He does. His body arches against yours. You feel the warmth of him, the way he shakes, the sound he makes—raw and vulnerable and completely, utterly yours.

You hold him through it. Your hand slows, stroking him gently through the aftershocks. Your other hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

“I’ve got you,” you repeat. “I’m right here.”

His hands tremble against your waist, along with breathing hitching, uneven, and broken.

“I’m here,” you say again.

He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks flushed. His lips are parted, still catching his breath. He looks wrecked—and beautiful.

“Shh.” You press a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t say anything.”

Slowly, deliberately, you bring your honey and cum slicked fingers to your lips. His eyes widen, tracking the movement—watching you taste him, taste the honey, taste the heated moment that passed between you two.

You let your tongue curl around your fingers. The honey is still sweet, warm, mixed with the salt of his skin. You hum, considering.

“Sweet,” you say, echoing his words from earlier. “Just like you promised.”

He stares at you, completely undone. His lips part, but no words come out.

“What?” you ask, innocent. “You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun?”

He shakes his head, a breathless laugh escaping him. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Probably.” You lick the last of the mixed liquid from your thumb. “But what a way to go.”

He pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck again. You feel his smile against your skin.

+++

“You’re going to get my sheets wet if you don’t stand still.”

Your hair is still wet from the shower—a shared one the two of you took—that simmered warmth down your nerves in an instant. You didn’t think Isaac could look even more relaxed, but here he is—a soft smile tugging on his lips as he holds a hair-dryer in his hand.

“Your sheets?”

“Our sheets.”

“Getting the sheets wet is also a particular choice of words,” you smirk. “Actually, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were asking for round two. Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

He turns the dryer on before you can continue. You pout, but the feeling is short-lived. His hand trails to your nape. Hairs stand on end. Isaac guides you with his palm against your neck. The warm air is blowing past your ears, but it can’t drown out the gentle beat of your heart.

“You need rest, pickle.”

“Stay with me?”

The hair-dryer turns off. He places a chaste kiss on the top of your head. You chuckle as the sensation.

“Of course.”

You don’t want it to be over. Your eyes leave the figure, though His blood is still dripping through your lips, choking down your quiet sobs. Wet soil sticks to your limbs. Your breath gets stuck in your ribs as bones twitch, break, and form. Skin burns, blood, and dirt are too much sensory input on the expanse of your body. You gasp, clawing at your own body like a puppet being reanimated.

The figure wraps His arms around you, bringing you to His chest. He swallows down His own sobs. Before you could feel His own tears as your own. Now it all contorts into a haze, bending at the will of someone else, not yours. You can’t feel him. Nor the dirt, the salt, the blood, nor the grime under your fingernails.

The world loses its sound. The river water quiets. The waves lose their wrath, their unquenchable stubbornness. The night sky is robbed of its stars, like some thief has gotten too greedy and possessive over something that wasn’t His to take. The moon hangs alone, stripped of the sun’s light of compassion.

“I promise,” He repeats, words turning into a useless mantra.

You wonder if you’ve been cursed.

+++

The quiet cracking of firewood being burnt wakes you. Even before opening your eyes, you can smell the ashes gathering under the wood. The stretch of a leather chair. Hurried steps. The silk sheets around you are like rivers flowing. Your mouth is parched. You think of water, but the idea isn’t enough to quench your thirst. Or hunger? You’re not sure.

You shuffle into the bed, recognizing the room. Heavy velvet curtains frame the windows. You can’t tell if it’s morning or night. Half-closed drawers with old parchment peeking out. The faint smell of ink and paint.

“Love?” His figure bleeds into your sight. “You’re awake.” He doesn’t sound like he even believes Himself.

A pang of pain echoes in your head. You groan. He leans across the bed, and you instinctively reach closer. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers running through your tussled hair.

“Easy,” he coos. “I’m right here.”

His fingers tighten just slightly around your hair. You’re surprised that you even caught the change in grip.

Your eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. The candles do you a small favor. No artificial lights weigh on your already heightened senses. The wax smells of vanilla, surprisingly, the iron tingle of new jewelry, or blood—you can’t quite put your finger on it.

“Xanthus?” Your lips move without thought. So do your hands, reaching and pulling for any kind of anchor.

Xanthus lets out a shaky gasp, you suspect He was keeping caged between His ribs. His free hand quickly wraps around yours. Icy cold fingers intertwine with yours. It’s only this moment that you realize how cold you are. Neither the warmth of the fireplace nor the flickering candles reaches you.

Your elbow supports you as you rise from the bed. Xanthus brings you even closer.

You look over your body, surrounded by silk blankets. No warmth is trapped under the sheets. Your skin can feel and make out every thread of the silk fabric. Your free hand clutches the sheets in a tight grip. You rip the fabric. Your heart aches at the sight, but it’s not really an ache. More like a doll pretending to be hurt. A superficial beat of a heart.

Your chest does not rise. You do not breathe. Air is not needed. You press your hand against your chest. Still no heartbeat. If you press any harder, you might break your own bones.

You gasp.

“What is happening?”

“Love,” Xanthus grips your shoulders, His touch pronounced because of your sensitive senses. “Listen to me. Focus on me for just this moment.”

“Why?” You writhe in His hold. “Let me go!”

You want to get these sheets off. You want to pull open the curtains. See the sun. Or the moon. You hear the movement of the fence on the east side of the property. The wind is dancing between branches outside.

“I said, let me go!” You yell, teeth clashing on the inside of your cheek. You feel blood on your tongue. Metallic, wet, warm, saccharine.

What did he do to you?

You push back against His chest. His hold on your body lessens. You climb off the bed, the silk finally off your skin.

“You didn’t—”

“I had no choice.”

“You had no choice?” You spit out the words. “What about me?!”

Xanthus slowly leaves his side of the bed. He circles it, shuffling closer to you. You can hear the wood creak under His feet, though there is no sound of His own steps.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your hand is still pressed to your chest, feeling the absence of the one thing that made you human.

“I can’t hear it.” Your voice is hollow. “My heart. What did you do to me? We didn’t agree to this. I didn’t agree to this!”

Xanthus says nothing. He stands like a statue, ivory marble skin and golden threads like rivers. Even when your body burns with cold heat, you can’t ignore how he is a part of your soul made flesh. Was.

“Why?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes are wet, crimson irises blurring with dried tears. You’d feel your chest tighten at the sight, maybe share His own pain. But you don’t. He took that away from you.

“Because I couldn’t,” He says, his voice breaking, “I couldn't let you go.”

+++

Days bleed into each other, all becoming a blur. You spend most of your time in a single bedroom, watching the sun and moon hang in the sky through the cracks of the curtains. You rip the silk sheets once more. Though they are always replaced. You’re sure it’s Xanthus’ doing.

The room feels like a cage of your own making. A glasshouse. A dollhouse just for you.

You claw and grip at your mind, trying to remember the past. The time when you breathed; when your heart ached and moved; when you weren’t haunted by every creak of the cage you’re stuck in.

“Your heart is beating fast,” Xanthus comments, his finger tracing the pulse point on your wrist. “Am I right to assume it’s because of me?”

In response to his words, you feel your chest tighten, your pulse elevated even higher under his touch.

“You’re too confident.” You mumble, trying to avoid locking eyes with him. Though you feel his gaze on you, peeling back your layers and leaving you bare.

In your peripheral vision, you can see the smile on his lips, almost predatory. You haven’t freed your hand from his hold. His finger spreads something akin to a cold burn on your wrist. The feeling makes it hard to breathe.

“Wouldn’t you say that confidence is warranted?” He quips, fingers slowly leaving your pulse point and touching the golden bracelet he gifted you. The one branded with his blood. “Your heartbeat seems to agree with me.”

Xanthus haunts the mansion like a ghost. Sickly and obsessed. You can hear the wood creak as He covers around your room. The leather chair sighs when he hits, fingers around His furrowed brows. You can hear the blood through His veins. How does it call to you? Sweet like sugar, bitter like metal; siren-like.

You’re not sure He can feel this like you do. You want to rip his rib cage open in anger, in hunger.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble, attention on the stubborn strand of hair that frames his face. “I still want to read through your diaries.”

Xanthus chuckles; the sound is like a melody. “They're not diaries, love.”

Your hand reaches his face, tucking the strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes widen slightly, but you still notice it. Your lips curl at the sight.

“I like reading them.”

“I’m glad you do.”

He leans into your touch. You cradle his cheek in your palm. The warmth of your skin seeps into his own.

You haven’t touched Him in days. You haven’t felt the one thing He promised to you.

For however long forever lasts for us.

What a lovely lie, wrapped in vine, dripping with wine akin to blood. Forever with him, your bones bent and cracked, reanimated corpse walking alongside Him.

+++

The first feeding was as bloody as it could get.

You can’t stay here forever, love. He said. The world is still out there. Waiting for you.

What use does the world have for you?

You listen to Him anyway. You could try, but biting the hand that feeds never ends well. He’d let you, you’re sure of that. But you’re tired of scratching at His arms every time He tries to grab you with a pathetic hope to calm you down.

Your leg bounces. You can’t stop it. Xanthus moves to place a hand on your thigh. You know He means to stable you, but your glare stops His hand midair. The pathetic look of defeat on His face is impossible to take in. You rip your eyes off Him.

That night is a blur now.

Darkness, as tendrils peek through alleyways. Xanthus hovers near. You can’t survive on vampire blood, He said. Or maybe he doesn’t want you to end up like Him. A mindless husk looking for their next fill; chained to the sweet poison of a maker’s blood.

You regret what you’re turning into. A monster with jagged teeth. Truly a walking, lifeless husk.

“—I didn’t mean to!” You rasp.

“I know, love.” Xanthus takes slow steps near you.

Before you would allow Him to get so close. But back then, you hadn’t drunk someone dry.

You don't remember the taste. You remember the sound—the wet, shuddering gasp as they realized what was happening. You remember the way their hand went slack in yours.

The body fell at your feet. Forgotten by their friends, you charmed them out of their seats at the bar. Hands clutching at their sleeve, promising them an innocent indulgence. Instead, you took all their worth. Their breath. Their blood.

“What did I do?” You whine, tears burning down your cheek. You forgot you could cry.

Xanthus wraps His hands around you. Against your bones yelling at you to push Him away, you sink back into His touch; the only sanctuary you have left. He doesn’t tell you that it’ll be okay. He just cradles you, blood and all. His hands shake against your back. You stain his shirt with wet tears and hot blood.

Your hand rises, gripping His own. Your body moves against your broken mind. You cling onto your only anchor left in this cursed world.

At least both of you are monsters now.