A pub sat at the crooked end of the street, squat and yellow-windowed. Rain had been falling for three days straight.

The cobbles glistened, gutters ran black and somewhere down the lane, slouched against the brick of a closed bakery, a man stood very still and watched the door of O'Halloran's.

He'd been watchin' three nights now without fidgeting or shifting his weight because the cold meant nothin' to him and neither did the wet.

His dirty tank top was beaded with rain, dark hair plastered flat against his forehead in damp strings while he observed with a small, patient smile playing about his mouth.

The threshold was always the trouble with these places since pub was a home of sorts, therefore he needed an invite.

Remmick had stood at this very curb for two nights running, leaning on the lamppost and listenin' to that music.

He'd heard fiddlers his whole long life and he was older than the pub along the age of every leaving being inside that place.

But he had never, not in all his thousand-and-some years, heard a voice like yours.

He'd come into the lane on the first night by accident, drawn by hunger and a tip from a girl he'd met at a crossroads whose throat he'd opened soft as warm bread and last whispered words had been the pub down by the river with lots of folk, after that he'd stopped dead in the wet street the moment your voice reached his advanced hearing.

He'd stood there in the rain like a fool, mouth slightly open and he'd listened.

You'd taken some old melody and done some twist for it, made it yours.

It had made him feel his dead heart contract, especially when through the glass he'd seen you.

A flush in your cheeks from the heat of the room, hair a bit damp at the temples and shirt open one button too many as the lamplight caught the slip of skin at your throat which caused Remmick to make a small, soft sound at the back of his mouth.

‘Oh,’ he'd thought. ’Oh, would ye look at that, now.’

And he had not been able to stop lookin'.

The first night he didn't get in but just stood by the lamppost till closin' time, watching every silhouette through the smoked glass and tracking your moving shape between sets, watching you laugh with the barmaid while tilting your head back to drink from a tall glass and exposin' the long line of your throat.

He'd had to bite the inside of his own cheek till it bled to keep from doing somethin' stupid, it had only made him hungrier.

Watching you walk home through the rain, he'd followed three streets behind and memorized everything, standing in the wet alley across the way and watching your shadow move behind the curtain as you took off your shirt.

He could've taken you that night while counting down the seconds as you approached the door of your place and have your throat under his teeth before you'd even finished the gasp.

But that would've been a waste because Remmick had developed, over a very long lifetime, certain refinements of appetite and when somethin' rare is found, he was going to take care and savor it.

So he stayed there outside the whole night and understood why you stayed so late at night in that pub.

Wrath overwhelmed his expression at the bruise on your ribs that he knew ached every time you took a breath deep enough to sing properly.

The second night he tried the door, coming earlier this time, at the soft blue hour just before full dark, and he'd washed his face in a horse trough and combed his hair back with his fingers.

The farmers he had killed had a cleaner shirt he put on along a pair of suspenders with only a little blood at the cuffs.

He stood at the threshold of O'Halloran's and he couldn’t cross it.

A man came staggerin' out, sloppy with drink, clappin' his hat onto his head.

"Beg pardon, friend," Remmick said politely with that sweet brogue of his. "D'ye know the pub? Is the landlord about?"

"Yeah," the drunk said, swayin'. "Sean's behind the bar."

"Listen, could ye do me a kindness? Could ye step back in and tell Sean there's a fellow at the door, name of Tomás Byrne, with a message from his cousin in Cork. Tell him I'm to be let in for a moment, just to deliver it."

The drunk blinked as Remmick caught his eye and held it while fighting the urge to just drain his bloodstream.

"Sure," said the drunk dreamily. "Sure, man. Imma tell him."

He went back inside, two minutes passed before the door swung open and there was a big red-faced man with a bar towel over his shoulder. "You the Byrne fellow? From Cork?"

"That's me, sir."

"Well, come on in, then, ye're lettin' the heat out. Welcome— "

The invisible wall crumbled and Remmick stepped across the threshold, feeling the warmth of the place close around him as his hungry currently blue eyes scanned the place in search of the only one who mattered.

He found you in the corner by the hearth turning up between sets, lips pursed in concentration.

The firelight was on you, picking out the down on your cheek and soft curve of your bottom lip.

Remmick took a small table at the back by the wall, a girl came to ask him what he’d like and he simply mumbled a pint without taking his sight off of you without blinking.

You performed with your instrument for an hour without stoppin' And the crowd loved you.

They stamped and threw coins in the cap by your foot. A pretty girl with red curls leaned on a post and made eyes at you and a bigger lad with a beard slapped the table along with the reel.

Remmick sat in his shadow and watched them all and he began, very rapidly, to hate every set of eyes in the room that looked at you.

You'd been his since the first note he heard through the rain and they were contaminating you with their attention.

When you finished the set and came down off the stool, mopping your brow with your sleeve, Remmick was already at the bar just as you reached for your water, meeting your eyes.

"That last one," he said softly, almost shy. "Was it 'The Maid Behind the Bar'?"

You blinked before smiling and up close you were even worse than from across the room, there was a bead of sweat at your temple that he wanted to lean over and lick.

"It was," you said. "Good ear."

"Ah, no, sir, I've a poor ear, I just know that one. My mam used to hum it." He let the brogue come thicker, the way the people liked. "Ye play it lovely."

"Thanks." You laughed a little, embarrassed, looking down at your glass. "Most people prefer it loud and fast."

"Most people are fools," he said and he held your eye when you looked back up.

For one moment somethin' passed between you and he saw your pupils widen when really noticing him.

"What's your name, sir?" You said.

"Remmick."

"Just Remmick?"

"Just Remmick."

"Well, just Remmick, I've got another set in a couple of nights. Any requests?" You smiled at him.

He thought about it, warm pint in his hand as he let his eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth and he watched you notice that, a flush starting up under the collar of your shirt.

"Play me somethin' sad that'll break me heart."

You laughed, uneasy now, and picked up your glass, nodding at him as you walked away. He watched the line of your shoulders as ye went and glanced back once just for a second before you disappeared into the back room.

By the third night he'd stopped needin' to be invited and the old wards on O'Halloran's recognized him now as a regular.

He took his table in the corner and took another pint he won’t be drinking, nor did he speak to anyone but you and only briefly when you came to lean on the bar between sets.

Always gentle, soft-spoken, askin' about the tunes and where you'd learned them.

Falsely speakin’ bout his father bein’ a hard and terrible man who used to take the strap on ‘im for nothin' at all, you'd looked at him with empathy and Remmick had almost laughed out loud at how easy it was to make a beautiful thing pity ‘im.

He thought a great many things in those long quiet nights at the end of the bar, watching you.

How yer skin would smell up close, thinking of a smell faintly of soap and sweat along a particular fragrance that all the truly sweet ones had, blood that had been wrung out by sorrow until it was rich.

He could see how your pulse looked when you performed from across the room, a faint flutter under the soft hinge of your jaw.

He wanted to put his mouth there and feel that flutter against his lips, let the want of it build for a while.

Patience made the meal better.

He did thought about what it would taste like when he finally did sink in, imagining the first hot copper rush of it, how your body would jerk and then slacken, as a surprised gasp would feed straight into his mouth.

Those eyes shimmered red at the thought of peeling you out of those plain shirts you wore and seeing what was under them, the bruises he was already plotting murders for but also wanted to kiss every one of before he ever marked you himself.

Your back would look great when bent over for him, hole tight due to being made of muscle of a body that had never been used, the give of it when he forced his way in.

The noises ye'd make as he pounds into you to than lean down and put his teeth in you while he was still fucking you.

He knew that the moment his fangs broke skin your whole body would clench up tight as a fist around his cock and he would feel it from the stones to his crown. He wanted to drink you while you ride him and hear you sing for him.

About the others…

Remmick had marked the redhead who'd made eyes at you. He'd waited for her one night after closin' three streets from the pub and he'd been very kind to her, lying on how he was lost and asked for directions before taking her by the wrist and walking her into an alley, hand over her mouth before she'd even known to be afraid.

He'd drained her slow while thinkin' of you the whole time, body left in a heap behind a bin.

The bearded lad whose hand had clapped your shoulder too many times got his throat slashed in a quick swing of Remmick’s elongated and sharp claws as the galumphin' bastard thrashed and gurgled.

Many more had been victims of Remmick’s jealousy and by the end of the second week the regulars at O'Halloran's had started to thin drastically, pub half empty by that time.

By the fourth week there were six people in the pub on a Friday night while you, on your stool, looked out at the thin scatter of bodies with unease in your face.

That night, you finally played a slow air for him, looking at him a long moment from your stool before playing somethin' your mother had taught you, sweet and aching that he'd had to put his hand over his mouth as memories of his kin resurfaced.

When you finished, the six people in the pub clapped softly and you looked straight at Remmick, offering a small private smile and Remmick felt somethin' inside him snap.

He couldn't wait any longer.

His teeth were achin' in his gums.

‘Tonight,’ he thought. ’Yer playin’ yer last set in this pub. From now on ye play only fer me.’

He waited till closin', standing at the end of the night and laid a golden coin on the bar and he tipped his head to Sean before stepping out into the rainy lane and going around the back of the building, standing under the eave by the kitchen door where the bins were and waited in the perfect dark with his hands in his pockets, head tilted and listenin'.

He heard you sayin' goodnight to Sean, the little hop you did down the back step along a soft splash as you landed in the puddle by the door.

You came around the corner with your collar turned up against the rain, arm covering your head and Remmick was already movin'.

He came up behind you on the silent feet of his kind and he got one hand around your mouth, lifting you off your feet

Thrashing beautifully in his grip he felt how you were stronger than you looked and Remmick almost laughed out loud against your hair because that was exactly how he wanted you

"Shhhh," he breathed against your ear and his breath was cold. "Shhhh, lad, easy now. I got ye now."

You tried to bite his hand and pressed harder, crushin' your jaw shut as he carried you like a doll across the lane and into the black mouth of the alley beyond.

He pressed his face into your hair and breathed soap and sweat along the faint cheap cologne you dabbed on your throat.

Underneath it, the warm rich blood was goin' wild in your neck, just a quarter inch from his open mouth while you were makin' little sounds against his palm.

"Don't ye be afraid, now," Remmick crooned, almost lovin'. "I'm goin' to take such good care of ye. We've got time, lad."

He shifted his grip and pinched the soft place at the side of your throat and your body went heavy in his arms.

The last thing you saw before the dark took you was his face hangin' over yours with somethin' wet and red just startin' to glint behind his lower lip.

You came back to yourself in stages.

First the cold needles of rain on your face and the strip of throat above your collar. Then the sound of your own ragged breath pluggin' in and out of your nose.

A cold hand clamped at the back of your neck, fingers long enough to wrap halfway round and meet themselves at your throat.

"There's me lad wakin' up just in time, aren't ye?"

Christ, you trashed and threw your weight back against him and it felt like fightin' a stone wall with the way he didn't budge or even breathe harder.

He just laughed against the shell of yer ear and walked you three more stumblin' steps down the lane.

"Easy, easy. None of that, now. I’be been so patient with ye, lad. I was goin' to take ye a proper place, lay ye out on a bed and everythin'. Be a gentleman."

You made a noise against the palm clamped over yer mouth and he pressed harder, thumb diggin' under your jaw, his other hand slidin' down off yer neck to rest possessively over your ribs.

"But I can't. The things ye do t’me…"

He suddenly hunched you back on your feet and pushed forward, causing your knees to hit an old wooden fence runnin' down the side of the lane, separatin' the cobbles from the bit of weedy grass that backed up to the river.

Nobody's lane, pub a hundred yards behind you and not a soul in any window as Remmick bent you over the creaky thing.

One hand on the back of your neck and one between your shoulder blades as he folded you forward on the top rail.

The rail dug into your hips, rain running down your face and into your mouth while making a high thin sound ye didn't recognize as yer own.

"Shhh. Listen to me." His hand left your mouth and clamped down on the back of your head, mashin' your cheek to the wet wood. His other hand was already at the back of your trousers, workin' at the belt. "I'm goin' to take what's mine right here like a beast ‘cause ye've turned me into one. D'ye hear what ye've done?"

The belt came open with a clink, button popping and you felt the cold air on yer lower back as he yanked the trousers down past your arse and a sob came out of your mouth.

"Please—please, sir, please, I— "

"Oh, now he talks with his pretty mouth." Remmick laughed, breathless, half-wild. "Say ’please’ again.“

"Please don't—"

His hand left the back of your head and you heard from behind the rasp of his own belt followed by a wet slap of skin as he pulled his cock out and gave it one rough stroke against the cold air.

Somethin' big and thick against the back of your thigh, slidin' up and leavin' a wet trail of his own drool gather in his hand with how profoundly he was drooling.

"No. No no no no, please, Remmick, I've never—"

"Never?" His voice went soft and crooning, pressing his chest down against your back, cold mouth findin' the shell of your ear as the heavy and blunt head of his cock nestled itself right against your hole. "Never, lad? Oh, ye don't know what ye've just told me."

The points of his teeth bit your earlobe to draw a single bright bead.

"Ye don't know what ye've just given me."

He pushed, driving forward in one long brutal shove, hand on the back of your neck pinnin' you flat, his other arm hookin' under your hip to hold you still and the thick length of him forced its way into you inch by tearin' inch.

A silent scream that got muffled by the wood beneath your mouth.

"Oh, lad, ye're tight—fffffuck"

He bottomed out and your hips were crushed against the rail while he was flush to your arse and you could feel every inch of him buried in, throbbing and enormous, splitting your whole lower body that was now a single hot bar of pain.

You were sobbin' open-mouthed against the wet wood, drool stringin' down your chin and mixin' with the rain.

He held still to feel it, his cold cheek pressed to your hot one, breath comin' fast and shallow against your temple and he was makin' little broken sounds.

"There," he whispered. "There's where I've been wantin' to be fer a month and ye're better than I dreamed, ye're so fookin' warm."

He pulled back, drag of him out that made your eyes roll up with the way it felt bein' turned inside out and you sobbed again and pushed up weakly on your arms but the hand on your neck slammed you flat.

"Stay down fer me. Be good." Each thrust that followed after was a full long stroke, pullin' nearly all the way out and slammin' back in, hips meetin' your arse with a loud wet slap every time.

The fence under your abdomen groaned and creaked with every shove. Each sound of pain timed with a thrust and wet smack of his hips, that punched air out of your throat.

He was deliriously happy in a way that was somehow worse than rage and his thrusts got faster. He'd found his rhythm and he was workin' you on it, all his weight comin' down through his hips into your poor torn arse, cock stretchin' you to the absolute edge of what you could take.

Christ help you out, your own cock was hard.

Not knowing when it'd happened, you were sobbin' from pain and terror, but somewhere in the brutal slidin' of him in and out he'd brushed against that sweet button and now, every thrust and long stroke was directed to your prostate dead-on, draggin' the head of his cock right across it and your own prick was hard as iron between abdomen and the wood of the rail, smearin' precum onto the wet slats with every shove.

Crying from the shame of it and betrayal of your body, Remmick felt your cock against the back of his hand where he'd reached around to grip your hip.

"Oh, lad. Look how he likes it."

"I don't—please—"

He wrapped his cold hand around you and, again, you tried to twist but he gripped tighter.

God, his fingers, when had they got so long?

They wrapped all the way round and overlapped, tips starting to feel pointy where they pressed against the underside of your hot cock, the contrast from his cold hands lit you up.

He stroked you in time with his thrusts and the fence rattled with how force he was putting.

Horrible thing, you were gettin’ close and there was nothin' you could do to stop it.

"That's it, lad, give it to me. I want to feel that little arse squeeze me when ye—"

Your whole body locked, back arching up into him as much as the hand on your neck would allow, cock pulsing in his fist and you spilled hot all over the cold wet slats of the fence, all over his cold long fingers and your arse clamped down on him in a long ripplin' clench that made him snarl into your hair.

He didn't let you come down, fucking you through it even harder and now every thrust into your over-sensitive body was a fresh agony of pleasure, sobbin' open-mouthed as the fence creaked harder, a nail popped somewhere in the rail under your abdomen and a slat split with a dry crack.

His cold and wrong hand was still wrapped round your cock and to your absolute fucking horror you were staying hard.

He fucked you toward the second one with the cold drag of his fist and the brutal pound of his hips along the cold filthy stream of words he was pourin' into your ear.

“That’s me lad takin’ it like he was made fer it, every other man who looked at you… they’re all of them dead fer lookin’ at what’s MINE—“

A whole section of the fence gave under the force of him drivin' you into it, top rail splitting lengthwise with a crack and the slats below sheared off their nails, whole thing pitching forward with you on top of it and Remmick came down on top of you on the wet weedy grass.

The impact drove him another wet crushin' inch deeper into your guts and sudden punch to your insides made you come again with a scream.

Your cock spurted into the grass and into his fist while you saw stars at the edges of yer vision, rain blurrin' into long bright streaks.

"Me good lad, ye perfect…" He was laughin' breathlessly into the back of your neck, pulsing cock still buried to the hilt in your sobbin' body, his whole weight on top of you in the wet grass.

He pushed up off your back and his cock slipped out of you with an obscene wet sound making you whimper at the loss.

What was wrong with you?

"Up," he said. "Come on. Up."

He sat down on the grass, back against the wreck of the fence and cock standin' up red and impossibly long as he hooked his cold hands under yer arms and dragged you up with horrible easy strength to turned your body around and pull you down onto his lap.

You were facin' him now, thighs spread over his as the large crown of his cock was nudgin' up against your used-open hole.

Now you got a proper look at his face for the first time since the alley and you made a sound in your throat at witnessing his red eyes.

Bright color all the way through and the lower half of his face was a wet smear of your own blood and viscous drool that the rain hadn’t managed to wash clean, mouth hanging open and the eye-teeth were long curving, hooked over his lower lip on either side.

A long string of drool was hangin' from one of them.

His fingers on yer hips were too long, each fingertip endin' in a sharp black point now, a claw, prickin' little crescents of blood out of your skin where they dug in.

"Ride me," he purred, sound rattling in his throat when he spoke.

"R-Remmick, please, I— "

"Ride me, lad." He smiled and it was a horror, all those long teeth on display, drool runnin' down his chin in two thin streams.

His clawed hand came up to the back of your head and pulled you down inexorably toward his open mouth that soon came up and met yours in a kiss.

Dangerous mouth of his a swamp, flooded on drool spilling out of the corners of his lips into your mouth the second he opened you, copper-tinged and tastin' of your own blood.

The long teeth scraped your lip as his tongue pushed in, shovin' to the back of your throat and the drool kept pourin' out of his mouth into yours as he held your head pinned.

A long and prolonged hungry kiss till your lungs were burning and were beatin' weakly at his shoulders to try and turn your face away.

He let you up just before you blacked out and you sucked in air in a great whooping rasp, face plastered with his drool and your blood all poorly washed away by the rain, all of it streakin' down your chin and your throat to create the most beautiful piece of art he had ever seen as he observed with those red red eyes shinin', mouth open in that long-toothed grin.

"Now ride me," he said. "Or I'll turn ye." His clawed hand at your hip squeezed, and ye felt warm wet tricklin' down yer thigh where the points dug in. "I'll bite yer neck and bleed ye dry and ye'll be mine forever. I'll fuck ye every night fer the rest of eternity and I'll never stop, lad."

He smiled.

"D'ye want that?"

You shook your head with the lack of words forming inside your throat.

"I’m struggling no t’ do that to ye, lad." His clawed thumb stroked yer cheek, almost gentle, smearin' the blood deeper into your skin. "Ye're me little blood pet, me sweet warm barrel. Won't that be lovely?"

He grinned wider, drool running down his chin.

You were tremblin', his cock was nudged up against your hole again, slick from your own blood with help of his clawed hands along and his own spit and your cum.

"Ride," he said. "Now."

You sank down on him because there was nothin' else to do and his hands at your hips were already pressin' ye down, thighs shaking too hard to hold ye up.

Sinking down on his huge cock and taking every inch of him with a long broken whine through your teeth and when you’d taken him to the root your own prick was hard again between you two.

"There he is. There's me good lad." He lifted yourself on shakin' thighs and back down again and again while tears were comin' hot down your cheeks, his clawed hand was at the small of your back guidin' you and his other clawed hand was at the back of your head guidin' you too, red eyes devourin' your face, drinking every twitch and flutter of your eyelashes.

He bent his head forward and bit your shoulder, setting those long curvin' teeth against the meat of your shoulder, the points dimplin' the skin before he pressed and they slid through your flesh.

You gasped, hips jerking involuntarily and driving yourself down on him harder, causing him to make a deep hum of pleasure into yer skin while drinking.

It was the worst pleasure you’d ever felt. There was pain in it and your head went heavy, hips movin' on him like they'd forgotten how to stop, ridin' him slow and dazed now while he drank out of your shoulder in long even swallows.

His arm wrapped round your waist to lock you against him, greedy of all the iron-liquid that fed your cells while you lost count of your own thrusts up-and-down on his cock.

The world went swimmy at the edges.

He pulled off your shoulder with a wet sound and licked the wound before he bent down and put his teeth into the meat of your arm.

Your hole clenched on him in waves and your cock bobbed between your abdomens as your mind was a soft warm fog of pain.

His face was a wet mask when he finally let go of your arm, lower half black-red and shinin' and his red eyes were brighter than ever, hips jerkin' up to do all the work now, clawed hands grippin' you too tight, drawin' fresh little crescents.

He reached between you and wrapped that long-clawed hand round your cock again, three strokes that ended up being the final element for you to cum, dry this time, just empty bone-deep convulsions, sobbin' open-mouthed against his bloody throat and the squeeze of you was too much for him, nowhere left for his cock to go with how deep he pulled you down, no inch not buried in you.

He was already too big with the way he had split you open ‘round him, but his cock thickened inside you in one long throbbin' surge, head fattenin' against your prostate, shaft swelling to fill out every last bit of slack and you sobbed into his throat from the stretch of it, hole clamping down again helplessly and that was what tipped him.

He came with a grunt into your collarbone, thick length of him kicking inside you, first long pulse of him painting your insides white.

More came in as he emptied himself into you in heavy spurts, each one shovin' a little deeper because he was crushed up against your chest and there was nowhere for it to go but in, fillin' you till you could feel the warmth of it spreadin' through your belly where he was packed inside.

A thin trickle of it started to escape round the seal of his cock and slide down the inside of your thigh.

His hips kept jerkin' in aftershock thrusts, each one squelchin' wet with his own cum and the slow seep of your blood from where his claws had opened you at the hip.

That was what he'd been usin', you realized in a far-off dim way, what had gone slick down the length of him before he'd even pushed in.

He tore his teeth out of your shoulder, fangs coming free with a fresh hot rush of blood that welled up out of the four neat puncture holes, runnin' down your collarbone in two thick streams and Remmick made a desperate broken noise, tongue coming to lap at the wound, gatherin' up every drop, tongue dragged broad and wet across your skin and coming back even redder.

All the slurping he made was the filthiest sound you’d ever heard in your life while the drops kept beading.

Your head was hangin' low, chin almost on your own chest, hair stuck to your face with rain and sweat.

His clawed hand came up under your jaw to lift your face up, long black points of his nails pricked little crescents into the soft underside of your chin as he turned you to him and your head lolled in his grip and allowing you to see a fresh dribble of your blood runnin' wet from one corner of his lip down into his stubble.

This right before devouring your mouth, tongue shoved straight in past your slack lips and the taste of copper exploded inside it along his drool runnin' viscous and stringy out the corners of his mouth and pouring down into yours, smearin' across your cheek where his lips slid wet over your skin, paintin' your chin and jaw along the underside of your nose in a thick streaky red film.

He grunted into your mouth, hips jerking up under you on instinct, drivin' his still-half-hard cock another half-inch into your used and stuffed hole while you whimpered weakly into his tongue and your poor exhausted body clenched on him again.

The fangs nicked you in small cuts on the soft inside of your lip above the line of your teeth and blood welled up in small drops that made the monster moan, tongue suddenly frantic, lashin' inside your mouth, dartin' under your tongue and scrapin' along the cut on your lip, chasin' every bead.

His hand on your jaw tightened and the claws drew thin red lines as he kissed you harder, nose mashed flat against yours, stubble bristly against your chin, ropy strings of it spillin' from the corner where his mouth couldn't seal to your and runnin' down both your jaws.

You couldn't breathe, chest hitching weakly against his and he held you there, drinkin' the little leakin' cuts inside your mouth with the desperate single-mindedness of a monster.

When he finally let your mouth go, a thick rope of pink-red drool stretched between yer lips, swayin', before it broke and fell wet onto your chest.

Remmick sighed, long and satisfied.

"Good lad," he murmured and licked the smear off your chin in one possessive swipe. “Y’ wanna come in wi’ me, now?”

You couldn't move or speak while lyin' against the cold dead chest of the thing that had taken you and you were thinking through the fog about what was waiting for you at home.

Your head fell against his cold shoulder and Remmick made a soft pleased sound.

"That's it, sweet thing. Ye rest now. I'll get ye a home in a wee bit."

Wind pulled at your coat as you made your way up the hill, the cobbled path wet from a late autumn drizzle that had passed an hour prior, stones still slick beneath your soles. Each step toward the cathedral was accompanied by the creak of your own movement against a silence so total it almost made your thoughts feel loud.

The church loomed ahead, a blackened silhouette etched against the bruised violet of the sky, tall spires stabbing into clouds swollen with the last gasps of dying light.

The air grew heavier the closer you drew, saturated with the mingled scents of old stone and scorched wax. A flock of crows flapped from the spire as your shadow lengthened across the moss-dusted flagstones of the courtyard, their caws shattering the quiet.

Stained glass windows stretched high, webbed with lead and split the light into a kaleidoscope of crimson, sapphire, violet and gold. Saints with downcast eyes watched from alcoves serene while gargoyles snarled from above, stone mouths fixed open.

Pushing the large door open, it gave way with a low, aching groan.

Inside, the cathedral was a cavern of darkness and gold. A ribcage of stone vaulted high above, arches overlapping. Every time you saw it, your breath stalled, stolen anew by the sheer impossible scale of it.

Candles lined every alcove, flickering against marble and shadow, painting false movement into the eyes of statues.

Walking the center aisle slowly, the vast silence overwhelmed each footstep in turn, the altar distant and that scent of frankincense clung to the air, sweet and oily.

Father Crowley hadn’t been seen for two days now. He’d told you last time, his voice a rasp, that he’d not been feeling himself from a creeping fever, he’d said.

Turning, intent on leaving, a single click of wood followed by a creak caught your attention.

Head whipping toward the left where the confessionals were, eyes adjusting to the new angle of light. The last rays of the sun poured through the rose window in thick bars, painting everything in a drowning gold.

Three booths, as always.

Two closed.

The third one meant for the penitent stood open.

The priest’s door remained sealed shut.

Stepping forward slowly and cautiously, your shoes scuffed faintly on the floor.

Easing yourself into the booth, fingers brushing the worn edge of the wooden seat, air thicker inside. The moment you closed the door behind you, it shut out everything between light and openness, trapped in a world of old lacquer and incense-choked air.

Your nose crinkled under the rather strong scent of iron.

Not just old wood or dust, a sharpness, metallic and sour, curling at the back of your throat, something far too fresh to rot.

“Father?” you whispered, voice barely louder than breath.

It sounded wrong echoing off the tight walls, muffled by the thick woods between you and the other side. Your own tone came back to you muted and thinned, sounding smaller and unfamiliar.

There was no answer, only a low, drawn-out hum. Deep and slow, vibrating faintly through the wood.

“Y’seem t’ve recovered quicker’n expected, Father,” you said, voice light and uncertain, trying to breathe familiarity into a moment that felt too still. “Y’were coughin’ somethin’ awful last we spoke.”

Silence, followed by another hum longer this time.

You cleared your throat, tension sitting on your shoulders while rubbing your palms over your thighs slowly, a nervous tic you’d never quite broken.

“I… I’ve done wha’ y’said, Father,” you murmured, the words difficult, sticking to your tongue. “I’ve kept t’ labor. Kept m’self busy and avoided… temptations.” The last word dropped into the silence.

That earned a low chuckle, not quite as you remembered.

Rougher and less breathy, more like a growl threaded into laughter, dragging over your skin. It sounded like Crowley too, filtered through the thick wood, like that soft reprimand he’d use when your confessions drifted into despair.

“Y’followed, did ye?” the voice on the other side finally said, slow as honey through gravel. “But y’never should’ve, lad.”

Not ‘child’ or ‘my son’.

Your breath hitched, a shift deep in your gut.

You’d learned not to trust your instincts, they’d never done anything but hurt.

“I— I thought it was best,” you offered, voice cracking faintly. “T’ignore it and kill it wi’ silence.”

Another laugh, shorter this time.

“Yer feelings…” The voice drew close, even through the wood. You imagined his mouth at the screen. “They’re not wrong of weakness, lad. Pain’s not good fer the soul. That’s horseshite they feed the broken just t’ keep them quiet.”

The phrasing was Crowley’s, mimicked down to the tone in that same soft scolding.

You didn’t breathe, never been told your feelings weren’t sickness. Even now in this tiny cage of wood and incense, those words echoed like salvation.

“…thank you, Father.” you whispered, soft.

And you meant it, even as your rational part buried beneath the joy recognized how those weren’t what he told you last time.

“As long as you do not act on it, you remain in His grace.”

The relief tasted too good.

“Ye’re welcome, lad,” the voice replied, no hesitation. “But I already knew how y’were doin’. Knew it before y’ even asked.”

Your chest tightened.

“…how?” you asked, voice too quiet now.

Silence, followed then by a low rumble, laughter again.

“‘cause it’s a small town.”

“Forgive me, Father… for goin’ against your word.” The confessional groaned beneath your weight as you shifted again, fingers knotted into your own lap, voice nothing but a breath while talking

It tasted bitter even now the betrayal of that man you’d stopped seein’, who didn’t deserve the pain your cowardice had caused him. You’d come here to ask forgiveness like always. Even when your guilt was bigger than the church itself.

“I know y’told me t’ fight it,” you whispered, “an’ I tried, I did. I told m’self I would, but for a while I was seein’ someone.”

The silence on the other side was unrelenting and suffocating.

When it finally broke, the voice that came wasn’t angry nor cold but fast, clipped and curious in a way that startled you.

“Tell me ‘bout him.”

The words carried no accusation or disgust. Just… interest.

Too much of it.

“Was he special t’ye?”

You didn’t catch the unnatural press in the tone and possessiveness that coiled tight around each word.

Exhaling shakily, eyelids lowering against the shadows of the booth.

“I— I think so,” you murmured. “He weren’t from here. Had this look ‘bout him like he didn’t belong here. Like me.”

A bitter little laugh, barely a puff of air followed.

“No one here likes me much but he made it not matter.”

A pause, voice cracking then, the pressure of the past months made its home behind your ribs, pushing forward, thick in your throat.

“It’s just—” you said, and stopped yourself, swallowing a sob that clawed for release. “Folk I talked to started dyin’. Men I smiled at in the market, passed a note t’, had a drink with—”

Stopping and pressing the back of your hand to your mouth to fight back those awful memories.

“First it were just names in the paper,” you breathed. “Then faces, bodies burned or torn to bits like dogs got ‘em. When I’d walk home at night, I’d feel eyes and see like a figure from afar.“

Your voice was shaking now.

“Those eyes,” you whispered. “Red and starin’ out from the woods to me.”

Your hands trembled in your lap, squeezing tight just to keep from sobbing.

“That’s why I came back here. T’the church. ‘Cause I think the devil’s got his eye on me an’ he’s enjoyin’ it.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the air in the booth.

You’d have welcomed scolding and taken penance. Anything but that steady, humid stillness.

“I met him then,” you went on, softer. “The man. Remmick. He didn’t flinch when our hands brushed, we spoke and at first it were just talk, then he was gentle, never pushin’.“

The pain bloomed again hot in your chest, looking up at the dark ceiling above the booth, the shape of the crucifix blurred by shadows and time.

“I cut ‘im off,” you whispered, voice on the verge of breaking, “so the devil wouldn’t find ‘im, too. He didn’t deserve it.”

The man on the other side didn’t say a word while you got consumed by thoughts of Remmick.

The way his hand slid beneath your coat on that cold night, tugging you close against the alley wall while you’ve been trembling, but not from fear.

Arms around his neck, one of his hands braced at your lower back, pulling you tight to him while the other squeezed your ass, rough fingers pressing bruises through cloth while his mouth never separated from your own, moaning into it all the same.

Your breath hitched at the memory, heat rushing to your face.

“I— I liked him,” you said, voice cracking again. “I… still think ‘bout him. More than I should.”

A slow scrape came from the other side.

Wood groaned as a large and clawed hand settled on the lattice, pressing against the confessional divider. A sound like wood splitting under pressure, not yet breaking.

The voice came next. But it didn’t sound like before. It still mimicked Crowley, but the edges had started to slip, distorted by the shape of the confessional.

“Why d’ye think the devil’s so terrible, lad?”

It was him. But it wasn’t.

“Is it so bad,” he said slowly, voice dragging over each syllable, “t’be followed by somethin’ that wants you?”

Your breath locked, shaking your head as if trying to physically dislodge the sense of unease worming through you now.

“Who are you?” you whispered. “You’re not—”

But the words didn’t come, impossible to finish with that steady burn behind the eyes.

The laugh that answered you was too low, buzzing through the divider like a whisper from beneath your skin.

Then—

“Father Crowley told ye t’ cut down everythin’,” he said, mockin’ now, the mask well and truly fallen. “T’ deny yer heart t’ e’en me.”

He chuckled darkly.

“Foolish thing.”

“What have you done t’him?” you snapped, voice clenched and bitter through gritted teeth.

The wood creaked again as cracks splintered across the divider like veins.

“I killed ‘im.”

Another splinter followed by another as Remmick’s voice dropped further, almost a growl.

“Same way I did t’them other bastards that laid eyes on ye.”

Body reacting before your mind could catch up as you flung the door open and stumbled backward out of the confessional just in time for a clawed hand to burst through the divider where your chest had been moments earlier.

Wood shattered and you tripped over your own feet, scrambling back on the cold stone floor.

But it didn’t matter.

The priest’s door on the other side was already open, turning toward the nave,but the great front doors groaned shut.

Air had become colder now with the sun now gone, moonlight poured through the rose windows, casting pale beams of blue and silver across the stone.

The culprit of everything turned once he had locked those big doors of the church.

Moonlight hit him from the side, sharp and cruel, drawing hard lines across his cheekbones, dark hair tousled and face narrow but severe like how you remembered.

His eyes God help you burned. Glowing and alive over the darkness that fell inside this imposing place.

The cassock he had on was black, clinging to his shoulders and hugging the tight pull of his waist.

That white collar on his neck was soaked crimson and still wet.

His sleeves were rolled to the wrist, fingers long and clawed, made for tearing and bleed out his victims.

Up close, now that he stood fully revealed and no longer hid behind lattice and borrowed scripture, Remmick looked like something dragged half‑formed out of a nightmare and then dressed carefully in a priest’s skin.

Blood caked him in layers, dried and crusted, darkened to brown‑black where it had soaked into his collar and the seams of his cassock. It flaked at the edges of his jaw when he moved, cracked along his stubbled chin where his mouth stretched too wide in that sharp grin. Streaks ran down the hollow of his throat and vanished beneath the fabric, proof of how long he’d been marinating in it and how little he cared to clean himself when the scent still pleased him.

He inhaled slowly and deeply like he was breathing you in, voice low and husky, thick with amusement and hunger both.

“Ye said it yerself,” he murmured, accent curling heavy now, no effort left to soften it. “Lovable and lustful thoughts ‘bout me.”

Grin widening, sharp teeth white against the red.

“Seems we’re far more alike than I first thought, you an’ I.”

Your knees threatened to fold, but you didn’t let them, takin’ a single step back instead, stone cold beneath your heel, spine screaming at you to run even as your chest burned with something traitorous and warm.

“I knew ye were different,” he whispered. “Could smell it on ye. Had t’ make sure no one got in the way before I made ye mine.”

The air cracked as he levitated in the air in a blur of black and red, just as fast slamming into the space in front of you.

Hands all over you in a second, one clamped hard around your waist, fingers digging in with bruising intent, hauling you flush to him. The other sharp one, sticky and blood‑crusted, slid up behind your head and fisted into your hair, yanking your face close to his.

“You hurt me,” he breathed against your cheek, voice rough, raw. “Cut me off like I was nothin’ fer all those months, lad. Months thinkin’ of ye wonderin’ how sweet ye’d sound beggin’.”

His mouth hovered near your ear as his hips pressed forward deliberately and sinfully.

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout havin’ ye so tight ‘round my cock ye’d forget yer God ever had a name.”

Body betraying you instantly as heat flooded low and vicious, pooling heavy beneath your waist, cock thickening painfully against the inside of your trousers and swelling hard despite the terror screaming in your skull, hips tipping forward without permission in seek of him.

“Please,” you breathed. “Don’t hurt anyone else. Not here.” You swallowed hard, heart battering your ribs.

For a long moment he simply stared at you, expression unreadable and eyes too bright, then his mouth fell slightly open and drool gathered at the corner of his lips, thick and slow, sliding down to smear across his chin where it caught in the dried blood already there, tracing a wet path through the dark crust like fresh paint over old wounds.

He smiled again, softer this time and almost fond.

“If that’s what ye want,” he said quietly, “then I’ll keep it.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, almost tender.

“I want nothin’ but my darlin’s happiness.”

Your pulse spiked wildly at the words, body buzzing with fear and something far more dangerous.

“I’ll ask fer somethin’ in return.”

You held his gaze, breath shallow, letting him see that you were listening.

The air tore itself open around you as he moved again, impossibly fast, dragging you with him, stomach dropping and breath ripped from your lungs before his mouth crashed into yours in an assault.

A growl rumbled from the back of his throat as his lips devoured yours, teeth scraping, tongue thrusting deep and tasting. Gasping into him and he swallowed the sound eagerly, saliva slick and red‑tinged as it smeared between you. Clutching his face with both hands, fingers digging into his stubble.

He landed with you near the altar, stone biting into your back as he pressed you down against it, mouth never leaving yours as that heavy kiss went on and on, relentless and filthy, until your head spun and your lungs burned and you had to pull back just to breathe.

Lips chasing yours, noses brushing as strings of saliva stretching and snapping between your mouths.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice thick, coaxing and cruel all at once. “Away from those miserable wretches that never saw ye proper. I’d treat ye like a god.”

His hand slid lower, possessive and promising.

“Imagine it,” he breathed. “Me makin’ ye mine over and over, fuckin’ ye until there’s not a thought left in yer head but me. I wanna help every sinful little dream of yours come true.”

Hips already grinding in tight, starved motions between your open thighs as he slammed your back onto the altar, hard enough to rattle the crucifix loose on the wall behind. That gasp you let out was swallowed instantly by his mouth crashing into yours again, a string of drool already hanging from his bloodstained chin and falling between your lips the second he kissed you.

He groaned low and long into your mouth, a possessive sound as though your body had already answered him before you ever said yes.

Your whisper still rang in his ears.

“I’m yours.”

And Remmick wasted nothing, those claws bladed at the tips, already slick with remnants of something he’d torn apart for you, ripped straight through your clothes, fabric shredded and thrown aside like trash.

The altar cracked beneath your weight as he swept aside everything on it in a single violent stroke.

Heavy candles, the silver cross and even the Bible hurled across the stone floor where its spine split with a thud. One of his hands dragged hard down your thigh, talons slicing just shallow enough to sting and you gasped again, sharp and breathless as three red lines welled instantly with blood, trailing down from your hip to your knee.

He licked it with relish, mouth detaching from yours in a wet, sticky snap, leaving both of your lips shiny with spit and stained red. He growled low, baring fangs and sinking them gently into your bottom lip with a snarl mid-kiss, sharp points slicing clean through the soft flesh as blood filled your mouth instantly, iron and heat exploding across your tongue.

You whimpered into him, trembling, hips bucking even as his tongue shoved deeper, lapping at the blood like it was the only thing he’d ever needed. His face pressed harder against yours, wet growls rumbling in his throat as his stubble burned your cheeks.

His mouth tore away with a snarl, a strand of bloody spit snapping between your lips and he dropped to your shoulder with terrifying speed.

Fangs punching in deep right below your collarbone, his moan so guttural and gluttonous it vibrated into your bone as white-hot pain came to then melt into something worse as your skin pulsed around the intrusion, claws gripping your hips tight to keep you from jerking away.

“Ffffhhuck—so fuckin’ sweet,” he hissed, lips dragging wet across your shoulder as he pulled off the bite, blood smeared across his chin.

Couldn’t help or stop a moan, breath catching as he yanked your body flush on the altar with a rough, greedy pull on your bitten shoulder. A fresh rivulet of blood spilled from the wound as he repositioned you, both hands now under your thighs, claws digging in tight.

Then his head dipped again to have another bite right on the thickest part of your inner thigh.

“AAHHhh—fuck! R-Rem—!” A growl ripped out from him, deep and shuddering as he drank again, grinding his cheek against your thigh, claws dipping lower, fingers curling back to smear your blood from the bite directly across his cock, already hard and thick, leaking at the tip.

The head of his thick length pressed against your entrance and then he shoved in, fully and brutally.

Your back arched, mouth falling open in a wordless scream, but there was no pain.

Only that unbearable stretch, an heavy and throbbing fullness as Remmick impaled you, hips jolting forward until his cock was buried to the base inside you. A low, harsh grunt tore out of him, nose flaring against your thigh, lips parted in wild ecstasy.

“Aahhh—fuuuckkkk, lad, yer sooo tight—” he started fucking you immediately, pounding like a man possessed, wet slaps of hips to ass echoing off the cathedral walls as he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise.

Every thrust ground his cock deep, dragging your insides apart and you couldn’t even think from every piston of his hips. His lips kept moving, nipping at your throat, chest and ribs, more blood streaking down your stomach.

He whispered through his teeth between thrusts, voice blood-slick and frantic.

“This—this what ye needed, mm?” His tongue licked up the blood at your collarbone, voice a reverent hiss.

Your eyes rolled back, body locking up as he angled just right and stars exploded behind your lids.

“Unnhhh—ah! Ah! There—there—!”

He smirked, savage and wide, licking his own lips clean. “There, is it? Yer hole squeezin’ like it’s afraid I’ll stop. Oh no, this body’s mine now.”

Your hands gripped the edge of the altar, fingers clawing into the wood as he slammed again and again, the thick curve of his cock wrecking your insides, dragging obscene, wet sounds from your slick hole with every stroke.

Your head rolled back and there, just above, the crucifix loomed.

Blood dripped from your lip as you looked up at it, breath hitching.

Remmick leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, hot breath puffing across your cheek as he pulled from the newest bite wound.

“Look at it,” he whispered. “Watch yer God weep as I take what’s His—” your cock leaking untouched against his bloodied cassock as Remmick kept going.

“Good lad,” he hissed. “Take it all—open f’me, yer perfect—!”

With a groan so deep it shook the altar, his whole body seized as thick, hot spurts of cum flooded you, his cock pulsing inside and burying his seed deep.

A screamed followed as you came, cock untouched and spilling over your stomach and his ‘saint’ clothes, legs locked around his waist, blood and cum mixing on your skin.

But he didn’t pull out or even soften.

He swelled inside you, cock thickening again and twitching with fresh life, hips grinding slowly and relentlessly, fucking his cum deeper as you trembled while he licked a stripe up your neck, voice low and teasing.

YOU WERE stretched out on the cushioned couch on your back patio, sunk deep into the kind of comfort that only came with a house you'd worked your ass off to earn. The sliding glass doors behind you were cracked open, letting in the faint hum of your home—air conditioning low, fridge humming, a distant TV you forgot you left on inside.

Out here, though, it was all sunlight and sky.

The late-morning sun spilled over the city of Los Angeles like liquid gold, washing the skyline in a hazy glow. From your vantage point, the City of Angels looked soft around the edges—palm trees swaying lazily, traffic glinting like silver threads between buildings, a light smoggy haze turning everything dreamy instead of dirty. The air smelled faintly of jasmine from the garden below, mixed with warm concrete and that distant, salty whisper from the ocean carried on the breeze.

You sat sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under you, the other dangling off the edge, toes brushing the cool wooden deck. In your hands rested Shawn's guitar—his favorite one. The wood was smooth and familiar under your fingers, the body warm from the sun. The faint scent of his cologne clung to the worn leather strap: something clean and expensive with a hint of spice, the kind of smell that made your chest tighten with memories you refused to name.

Your thumb brushed absent circles over the strings, letting them hum quietly, not quite playing a song, just...feeling it. Every little vibration buzzed through your fingertips and into your bones. You tilted your head back, eyes half-closed, soaking in the light as it kissed your skin.

You remembered when this kind of view felt impossible. Back when L.A. was just a name in your head, just a dream you clung to in the middle of the night.

Back when you first met him.

You could still see it: a cramped studio, wires everywhere, the air heavy with nerves and caffeine. Shawn Mendes, the golden boy with the soft brown eyes and messy curls, walked in with a shy smile and a guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his body. You were both upcoming artists then—hungry, uncertain, pretending to be more confident than you felt. Someone at the label thought your voices would sound good together, so they threw you into a room and called it a collaboration.

It should've been awkward. Two strangers, two egos, one song.

But it wasn't.

You remembered the first time you harmonized on the chorus, how your voices slid together so cleanly it gave you chills. Shawn had looked up from his notebook, those eyes locking on yours like he heard it too—that click. That something. You'd spent hours in that studio, trading lyrics and ideas, laughing over stupid lines, cursing when you couldn't get a phrase to land right. By the time the song was done, you weren't just two artists with a track—you were something closer to friends.

It didn't happen all at once. It was slow, easy.

Late-night studio runs turned into sharing Uber rides home, then staying parked outside just talking for an extra hour. Group hangs turned into just you and him on someone's balcony, nursing drinks and secrets as the city glittered below. You learned his tells—the way he chewed his lip when he was thinking too hard, the soft, breathy laugh he only let out when he actually found something funny, the way his shoulders relaxed around you like you were a safe place.

You never thought about him like that at first. Not seriously. He was Shawn Mendes—sweet, talented, pretty boy heartthrob. The world had already decided what he was and who he was supposed to want.

You didn't know Shawn was even into men.

You didn't know...until the night everything shifted.

You could still feel it if you let yourself: the electric closeness on that couch in his place, some movie forgotten on the TV, both of you too tired to move but too wired to sleep. The way his knee pressed against yours and didn't move. The way he kept looking at your mouth when he thought you weren't paying attention. The way the air between you seemed to thicken, charged with something unspoken and impossible to ignore.

And then his hand touched your jaw.

And then his lips were on yours.

Out on your patio now, the memory made your chest tighten, made your fingers still on the strings. You remembered how soft his mouth had been, how careful and desperate at the same time, like he was terrified of what he was doing and yet had wanted it for a long time. You remembered the way his breath trembled against your skin when he pulled back just enough to whisper your name, like a confession.

You hadn't cared in that moment what he was "into," what labels existed, what anyone thought they knew about Shawn Mendes.

You didn't care about any of it when his lips were on yours, when his fingers in your shirt were silently begging you not to pull away, when his body pressed close like he'd been starving for that kind of contact and finally let himself have it.

You didn't know what it made you—friends, lovers, something in between—but it was real.

Your fingers moved over the strings almost on autopilot, muscle memory guiding the gentle pattern.

You weren't really trying to play anything at first—just letting your mind wander and your hands follow.

And then it hit you.

A melody slipped in, clear and insistent, like it had been waiting just outside your thoughts and finally found a crack to slip through. It was familiar—so familiar that your fingers found the chords before you even consciously named the song. Your chest tightened, a small ache blooming right behind your sternum as you realized why.

You were thinking about Shawn.

Not just his face or his voice, but the feeling of him. The way he looked at you when you said something that made him laugh, the way he absentmindedly fiddled with his rings when he was nervous, the way his presence wrapped around you like a blanket on nights when the world felt too loud. Thinking about all that, it was almost inevitable that this particular song would rise to the surface.

You adjusted your grip, thumb brushing over the edge of the fretboard as your other hand settled into the rhythm—soft, steady, a little slower than the original. The sound was intimate, almost too personal for how open the sky felt above you.

A line drifted to your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper, carried away by the same breeze that tugged lightly at your hair:

"You tucked me in, turned out the lights… Kept me safe and sound at night..."

The words tasted strange and tender in your mouth—simple, almost innocent, but loaded with meaning when you thought about him. They weren't written for Shawn, weren't even about him, but somehow they fit. They reminded you of the way he'd stayed up with you during a panic spiral at three in the morning, phone pressed to his ear as he talked you through every shallow breath until you could finally sleep. The way he'd wrapped an arm around you in the dark after a long, horrible week and just held you, no cameras, no games, no expectations. Just warmth. Just safety.

Questionable lyrics for a friends-with-benefits situation, sure. They sounded more like something you should be singing to a childhood guardian or a first love, not the man whose guitar you borrowed after spending the night in his bed, pretending it was casual.

But you didn't stop.

Your fingers slipped easily into the next progression, the pads of them pressing into the familiar grooves on the fretboard. The guitar hummed low against your chest, the sound soft and intimate, as if the instrument itself knew this wasn't meant for anyone but you and the memory of him.

You kept the strumming gentle, almost like a lullaby, the sun warming the side of your face while a faint breeze curled around you, tugging at your shirt. The city below carried on—cars, voices, distant music—but out here on the back patio, it all felt muted, like someone had turned down the volume on everything except your thoughts and the quiet rasp of strings beneath your hand.

The lyrics rose up from somewhere deep, the kind of words that didn't need to be forced. You parted your lips and let them spill out, your voice low, edged with something fragile:

"You were always there when I looked back.

And when I couldn't sleep at night, scared things wouldn't turn out right.

You would hold my hand and sing to me."

As you sang, images flickered behind your eyes—Shawn sitting on the edge of your bed after a brutal week, hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. The way he'd stayed with you despite having to be up early, insisting he was fine, that he wasn't tired, even as his eyes drooped.

You remembered lying there, staring at the ceiling, anxiety clawing at your lungs while he quietly hummed some half-finished melody beside you. No cameras. No audience. Just his voice and the weight of his hand wrapped around yours, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles until your heartbeat finally calmed.

You dragged your fingers down the strings in a slow, delicate sweep, letting the chords melt into each other. Your voice softened on the last words, almost breaking on "sing to me," because that was the part that felt the most dangerous. The most honest.

Because he did sing to you.

Not into a microphone, not onstage under blinding lights, but in dark rooms and quiet hallways and backseats of cars, where his voice belonged only to you for a moment. Sometimes it was full songs, sometimes just scraps of melodies and hummed lines, but it always did something to you—reaching into the parts you tried hard to keep armored.

You swallowed, the emotion sitting thick in your throat, and kept playing, letting the guitar speak where you didn't trust your mouth to. The strings buzzed softly under your fingertips, the sound wrapping around you like a memory of his arms.

Friends with benefits shouldn't feel like this, you thought

But the way your chest ached as you sang about someone who was "always there" told you it already did.

By the time you slipped into the chorus, the song wasn't just something you were singing anymore—it had completely wrapped itself around you. It was in your fingers, in your chest, in the way your breathing matched the rise and fall of each chord. You didn't fight it. You let it take over, let it pull you under like a soft, familiar tide, even though every line felt a little too on-the-nose for what you were feeling.

Your hand moved in an easy, steady pattern, thumb and fingers brushing the strings with a tenderness that made the sound come out warm and round, like a lullaby drifting through the sunlight. The polished wood of the guitar vibrated against your ribs, the resonance settling deep inside you. The breeze that moved through the patio ruffled your hair and carried your voice out over the rail, letting it fall into the city along with the morning light.

You parted your lips and let the chorus flow out, your voice soft but clear—those lines about the small, curious creature up in the tree, wondering who it's going to become; about not being able to go far yet, but still being able to dream; about hanging on tight and trusting that one day, it'll grow wings and rise, free and beautiful.

As you sang the last promise—the one about the butterfly finally flying away—your throat tightened just a little.

Because it wasn't just a pretty metaphor anymore.

Somewhere those late nights when you were young and scared and unsure if any of this—music, fame, love, happiness—would actually work out for you. Somewhere that remembered Shawn too, sitting cross-legged on some studio floor with his guitar in his lap, talking about how terrifying it was to be seen by the whole world and still feel like a kid half the time.

You could see him in your mind so clearly it almost hurt—head bowed slightly as he listened to a mix, hair falling into his eyes, that thoughtful crease between his brows. You remembered the way he'd talk about his younger self, the boy who had no idea who he'd be someday, just a kid with a guitar and a dream that felt too big for his body. The chorus suddenly felt like it belonged to him, too.

Caterpillar. Butterfly. Growing up under lights you never asked for. Learning how to carry the weight.

As you kept playing, your gaze drifted out over Los Angeles—over the pale blue sky, the clustered buildings, the long stretches of streets that once felt like a maze and now felt like home. You thought about how far you'd come from the version of yourself that used to lie awake at night, terrified things wouldn't "turn out right." You thought about how many nights Shawn had been the one to pull you back from that edge.

You weren't supposed to be sitting on your patio in a million-dollar view house, using a soft, sentimental chorus to quietly confess things you'd never say to his face.

But there you were.

You were so lost in the warmth of the sun and the gentle rhythm of the guitar that you didn't hear the back door slide open at first. Your head was bowed slightly, lashes lowered, fingers still moving out of habit—so wrapped up in the memory of Shawn that you didn't notice the very real version of him stepping onto the patio.

It wasn't until a familiar shift in the light brushed across your peripheral vision—a tall shadow cutting through the sun—that you looked up.

Shawn stood just outside the doorway, one hand still resting on the glass, his hair slightly tousled like he'd run his hands through it a few times. He was barefoot, wearing worn-in sweatpants and a loose, faded t-shirt that hung just right on his frame, the kind of outfit that screamed he felt at home here. The sunlight caught the soft brown of his eyes, turning them almost honey-colored as they locked onto you.

He had that look—half caught, half amused, like he'd walked in on a secret and was trying to decide whether to apologize or tease you for it.

"I was wondering where my guitar went," he said, voice low and warm, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Then I heard you singing."

The words hit your chest with a soft thud. You felt heat rush to your cheeks, not from embarrassment exactly, but from being seen so clearly in a moment you thought you'd had to yourself.

"How long have you been standing there?" you asked, trying to sound casual, even as your fingers stuttered on the strings.

"Long enough," he replied, that small smirk turning into a real smile. There was something tender in his eyes, something that made your heart skip in a way you tried very hard to ignore.

He crossed the patio with that easy, familiar stride, the boards creaking slightly under his weight. When he reached the couch, he didn't ask if he could sit—he just gently shifted the guitar in your hands, helping you angle it without missing a beat, then slid in behind you.

"Move," he murmured softly, tapping your thigh with his fingers.

You blinked. "Move where?"

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Here." He tapped his lap. "Come sit."

There was no hesitation in him, no awkwardness—just that quiet, confident intimacy that had slowly woven itself into whatever it was you two had. You rolled your eyes dramatically for effect, but your body didn't argue. You shifted sideways, lifting your leg over his, carefully keeping the guitar balanced as you eased yourself onto his lap.

His hands immediately found your waist, fingers spreading over your sides, grounding you as you settled back against his chest. You could feel his warmth through your shirt, the steady rise and fall of his breathing pressing into your spine. His thighs were solid beneath you, knees bracketing you on either side, caging you loosely in. He smelled like clean skin and a hint of soap and the familiar cologne that always clung to him—a scent that had somehow become its own comfort.

He adjusted the guitar so it rested across both of your laps now, his arms coming around you to help guide it into place. The move brought him even closer, his chest flush against your back, his chin hovering just above your shoulder. You could feel the ghost of his breath against the side of your neck, warm and distracting.

"Go on," he murmured. "Don't stop because of me."

You took a slow breath, trying not to let the shiver that rolled down your spine show on your face. Your fingers found the strings again, picking up the gentle pattern like the song had never left. The first few notes floated out, slow and soft.

"I heard you from inside," Shawn said quietly, voice brushing your ear. "You sounded...happy." He paused. "And a little emotional."

"Wow," you scoffed lightly. "Way to read me like a diary."

He laughed under his breath, the sound vibrating against your back. "You're not that hard to read," he said. "At least not to me."

Your heart did that inconvenient little flip, but you kept your gaze ahead, focusing on the guitar, on the sun, on anything that wasn't the way his hands felt resting comfortably on your hips like they belonged there.

As you continued to strum, you felt the chorus bubbling back up, insistent. An idea sparked, and you tilted your head slightly toward him, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

"Sing with me," you said.

He leaned back a fraction, surprised. "This one?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding. "You already heard me butcher it alone. Might as well make it a duet."

He chuckled, and you felt his chest shake against you. "You didn't butcher anything," he murmured. "But okay. Tell me where to come in."

You shifted the guitar just enough to play the opening chords to the chorus again, the melody humming to life between your fingers. The moment stretched—warm, suspended, intimate—before you drew in a breath and let the first line slip out.

Your voice was soft but clear as it moved through the words, and you could feel him listening, not just to the song, but to you.

"Butterfly, fly away..."

His harmony slid in seamlessly, instinctual, like he'd been waiting for the cue.

“Butterfly, fly away..."

His voice wrapped around yours, smooth and steady, a little lower, a little richer. The two of you blended together effortlessly, like you were back in that first studio years ago, except this time his chest was pressed to your back and his hands were on your body, and there were no producers, no engineers—just the two of you and the open sky.

You smiled without meaning to, your lips curving as you leaned into him slightly, letting your weight rest against his chest. The chords shifted beneath your fingers as you moved into the next line, feeling the warmth of his breath brush your cheek when he dipped his head closer to follow along.

“Flap your wings, now you can't stay..."

You could feel his smile against your skin, that familiar little huff of air that said he heard the emotion tucked between the words, even if you never said it out loud.

Together, your voices rose, overlapping perfectly on the next line, that easy musical chemistry dropping back into place like it had never left.

"Take those dreams and make them all come true..."

You kept your fingers moving, the guitar resting comfortably across both your laps. You shifted your grip slightly on the fretboard, easing into the next sequence of chords, letting the melody curl back up like muscle memory.

You drew in a quiet breath, and your voice slipped out first, gentle and steady:

“Butterfly, fly away,"

Shawn's reply came instantly, his harmony sliding in just underneath yours like it had always lived there:

"Butterfly, fly away"

His tone was smooth and warm, vibrating softly against your back as he sang right into the curve of your neck. Your fingers danced over the strings, guiding the song forward, the chorus flowing out of you both like something you'd practiced a hundred times even though you hadn't.

"We've been waiting for this day..."

You could feel the emotion hanging there between you—something sweet and heavy and unspoken. Your chest tightened a little, but your voice didn't falter. Shawn followed you effortlessly, his chin almost brushing your shoulder now as he leaned closer, his breath mingling with yours.

“All along and knowing just what to do"

The words floated into the sunlit air, laced with a familiarity that went way beyond the song. The city noise below seemed to fade, leaving only your two voices and the soft hum of the guitar.

You felt the last line rise up in your chest, and this time you let it spill out alone, almost like a confession meant only for the two of you and the sky above:

"Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, fly away..."

You drew out the last "fly away," letting your voice taper into a soft, airy finish as your right hand dragged gently down the strings. The guitar answered with one final, full-bodied strum, the chord ringing out rich and clear. It vibrated through your fingers, into your arms, through your back where you were pressed to Shawn, echoing in the space around you for a long, suspended moment.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

You could feel his heartbeat pressed against your back—slow, steady. His chin hovered near your shoulder, breath soft against your neck. The sun was beginning its lazy drop in the sky, turning the light a softer gold, casting long, gentle shadows across the patio.

Then Shawn shifted slightly beneath you, his hands tightening just a little on your hips, not enough to move you—just enough to let you know he was still fully there, fully in this.

"So..." he murmured, his voice quiet but clear in your ear. "What made you sing that one?"

You felt him tilt his head, like he was trying to catch your expression from the side. The question wasn't teasing, not really. There was something searching in it, curious and a little vulnerable, like he already suspected the answer and wanted to hear you say it.

For a split second, your mind flashed with the real reasons:

Because it made you think of both of you—of the scared, younger versions of yourselves who had no idea who they'd become.

Because the lyrics about being held, soothed, and sung to at night sounded dangerously close to the way he made you feel when everything in your life got too loud.

Because "Butterfly, fly away" felt a little too much like the story of how you both had grown into something bigger than your fears, and somehow, you'd done that together.

All of that knotted up inside your chest at once—but you swallowed it down.

You let out a small huff of a laugh instead, shaking your head like it wasn't that deep. You tipped the guitar slightly forward, letting your fingers idly brush the strings so you had something to focus on besides the intensity of his gaze.

"Honestly?" you said, keeping your tone light. "It just...popped into my head."

You shrugged, like it was nothing. "I was playing around and my brain went, 'Hey, childhood nostalgia, let's be weird and emotional today.'" You tossed in a small smirk and added, "Blame the sunshine. Or your guitar. Or both."

You kept your eyes on the city instead of on him, watching the light smear across the rooftops. Your posture was relaxed, casual, like you hadn't just been pouring a little bit of your soul into the lyrics.

"So don't get too excited," you joked, nudging your heel lightly back against his shin. "I'm not secretly trying to confess my undying love with a Disney-adjacent lullaby or anything."

You heard him exhale a soft laugh behind you, but you could feel it—the way his fingers lingered on your waist a heartbeat longer than before, the way his chest stayed a little too still for a moment, like he didn't fully buy your answer.

"Just popped up, huh?" he repeated quietly, amusement and something else threading through his voice.

You nodded, still staring out at the skyline with a deliberately easy smile. "Yup. Random brain radio. Don't read into it."

You didn't turn around to see his face, because you knew if you did, you'd find those eyes of his—too warm, too soft, too knowing—and your carefully casual explanation would crumble on the spot.

Shawn didn't push the question any further.

You felt the moment ease, the tension in his chest loosening against your back as he exhaled slowly, letting your deflection stand. His hands slid from your waist to your forearms, fingers curling gently around you—not holding you in place, just touching, just there.

Then, with a soft murmur of, "Come here," he moved.

One of his hands glided along your arm, the other reaching down to the guitar resting across your thighs. His fingers brushed over yours, warm and careful, as he coaxed your hands away from the strings. You let go, watching his long fingers curl around the neck of the guitar with familiar ease. He lifted it from both your laps, the motion smooth and practiced, and leaned forward just enough to set it down on the low coffee table in front of you.

The guitar landed with a soft thunk against the polished wood, the remaining vibration in the strings giving one last faint hum before settling into silence.

Without the instrument between you, there was suddenly a lot less space.

Shawn's hands slid back up your sides, slow and sure, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt before settling at your waist. You felt him pause for half a beat, like he was checking in without words.

Then he gently guided you.

"Turn around," he murmured, voice low and warm near your ear.

You let him rotate you easily, lifting your knees and twisting in his lap. His hands steadied you, one on your hip, the other at the small of your back, guiding you until you were facing him fully. Your legs shifted on instinct, knees falling to either side of his hips as you settled into a straddle. The couch cushion dipped under your combined weight, bringing you even closer.

Now he was right there.

Up close, his features were softened by the sunlight—curling lashes framing deep brown eyes, a few messy strands of hair falling onto his forehead, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His gaze flicked down to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes, and the air between you went thick.

Your hands found their own places on him—one resting flat against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the other curling lightly at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the soft hair there.

"You know," he said quietly, his voice dropping into that tone he used only when it was just the two of you, "you're really dangerous when you're sentimental."

You scoffed softly, but before you could come up with a smart reply, he closed the distance.

His lips met yours in a kiss that started gentle—testing, familiar—but the second your mouths touched, something in the both of you gave way. The warmth of him crashed into you: the faint taste of mint on his tongue, the soft pressure of his lips, the heat radiating off his body as he leaned into you.

Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck, pulling him closer without thinking. His hands slid up your back, palms spanning your shoulder blades, then dropped lower, fingertips pressing into your waist as he anchored you firmly on his lap. The kiss deepened, slow at first, then quickly tipping into something hungrier.

You felt him exhale against your mouth, the sound halfway between a sigh and a quiet groan, and that alone sent a spark skittering down your spine. Your body shifted closer in response, your chest pressing to his, your knees tightening around his hips as if you could somehow get rid of whatever tiny space remained.

His tongue brushed lightly against your bottom lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips without hesitation. The kiss turned heated fast—familiar and dizzying all at once. His hand slid up your side, fingertips tracing the line of your ribs through your shirt before curling back around your waist, holding you flush against him. The other hand traveled down to your hip, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles against your skin.

For a brief stretch of seconds—maybe minutes, who knew—you lost track of everything else.

The city, the sun, the song you'd just sung—all of it faded to the background. There was only his mouth on yours, his breath mingling with yours, the steady, solid feel of him under your hands, the way you tilted your head one way and he followed, deepening the kiss like you'd done this a hundred times before...and you had.

You could feel the familiar, dangerous tug of wanting-more pulling at you, the kind that usually ended with the two of you tangled in sheets instead of sunlight.

Maybe that's exactly why he slowed down.

Shawn pulled back gradually, like he was reluctant to let go, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before putting a few inches of space between your faces. His hands stayed where they were, keeping you settled firmly in his lap. His breaths came a little faster now, his chest rising and falling against yours, his lips slightly reddened from your kiss.

He stared at you for a moment, eyes dropping to your mouth again, clearly tempted to go back in—but instead he chuckled under his breath, the sound low and fond.

"If we keep going," he murmured, voice a little rougher than before, "we're not leaving this couch for a long time."

You raised a brow, trying not to look as breathless as you felt. "And that's a problem because...?"

He huffed a laugh, the corner of his mouth curving up. "Because," he said, brushing his thumb gently along your hip, "you haven't eaten yet. And I'm not about to be responsible for you passing out on me mid–make out."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

His expression softened as he watched you, and then he nodded slightly, decision made.

"Come on," he said, his tone sliding back into that easy, familiar warmth. "Let's order some breakfast."

He squeezed your hips gently, still keeping you close. "We can corrupt this couch after we've had pancakes."

The casual way he said it—like kissing you senseless and then planning breakfast was the most normal thing in the world—made something in your chest unclench. You let your forehead rest briefly against his, breathing him in, your lips still tingling from his.

"Fine," you muttered, teasing. "But I'm picking the place."

Shawn smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners as he nodded. "Deal," he said softly. "As long as you stay right here while we decide."

His grip didn't loosen.

Consciousness returned as a slow tide lapping at the shores of your mind. The first sensation was the weightlessness of the large bed, its ancient down mattress swallowing your form. Then came that dull, familiar pressure inside your mouth from the sharp, unnatural points of your fangs pressing against the soft, yielding flesh of your cheeks.

A metallic taste of old blood perpetually lingering on your tongue. There was no need to sleep; your body, remade months ago, had no such mortal requirements.

This forced slumber he caused was his way of tucking his prized possession away in a secluded box while he went out to hunt and stalk the night for the warm, pulsing sustenance he would sometimes deign to share.

To keep ye safe, all fer myself.

The room was vast, moonlight strained through a single, enormous leaded glass window, illuminating motes of dust, air thick with the scent of aged wood, damp stone and the faint, cloying perfume of decayed roses from all that vegetation outside.

Both a sanctuary and a prison, this abandoned castle perched high on a mountain's jagged spine, a fortress he had claimed for the two of you.

Your thoughts drifted back to the day you found it, the memory surfacing with the clarity of a recent dream. The rain that day had turned the skin grey hiding the sun, a temporary blessing that felt more like a taunt. You remembered the icy cold, a deep, bone-aching chill that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the fundamental wrongness of your new existence.

Shivers, violent and uncontrollable, had racked your frame, teeth chattering despite the iron band of Remmick’s arm locked around your waist.

He, of course, was unbothered. Soaked to the skin, dark locks plastered to his forehead and dripping a steady, cold rhythm onto your chest where he held you tight against him.

Mouth sealed to the side of your neck, clothes heavy with water, but his body radiated a strange, dead warmth. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your back, that possessive curl of his fingers splayed across your stomach, holding you tight.

Languid, lazy presses of his cold lips against your rain-slicked skin, moving from your shoulder up the column of your throat, absent-minded and almost devotional, until the sharp, warning scratch of a fang would break the skin, a tiny sting of pain that was instantly soothed by the broad, wet stroke of his tongue.

He’d lap at the minute rivulets of blood, the coppery tang mixing uniquely with the pure taste of rain.

Eyes of your own, which now glowed with a sickly, phosphorescent yellow in the dark, had scanned the bleak landscape, seeing nothing but sheets of water and outlines of trees until a silhouette of towers stood up in the dark.

The thought had barely formed, a spark of desperate hope, when he reacted.

Muttering against your neck, voice a low vibration you felt more than heard. "Well now, look at tha'. Shouldn't be too hard t' get an invite wi' this weather, eh? Who'd leave such a lovely thin' like ye soakin' an' shiverin' out 'ere?" A plan already forming to convince whoever lived in tha’ place t’ invite you in. Two vampires would have never get inside, but a desperate, injured man and his devoted husband?

That was a different story that would work.

A hotter, more visceral memory surged forth, summoned by his perception rifling through your mind.

His favorite tactic to convince folks at inviting you and him.

He would feast not for sustenance, but for theater, bite deep into the meat of your thigh or the soft part of your arm, drinking just enough to make the blood flow freely and spectacularly. He’d mark your throat with bruising kisses that looked like the aftermath of a struggle, tear your clothes to suggest violence.

Then he’d carry you, in a picture of pathetic distress, to some lonely farmhouse or a traveler’s cottage, face a mask of frantic concern while playing the part of the loving, distraught husband so perfectly, that brutal anguish so convincing that it never failed to swing open the door to compassion and ultimately, to slaughter.

The strange, twisted part was… the whole process never truly caused you pain. The initial bite would be sharp and bright shock, but it’d quickly subsumed by a wave of intense and overwhelming emotion.

A dizzying cocktail of devotion, euphoria and need to please him. You could never be sure if those feelings bloomed from the core of who you were now, a genuine love for the dark pageantry of your existence, or if they were simply another facet of the psychic leash he had on you from the moment his venom had burned through your veins that first night.

A low, pleased purr rumbled from his chest, vibrating through your neck where you were still pressed against him in the rain.

He’d picked up the thread of your recollection with that mind twined with yours. "Aye," he murmured, lips tracing the shell of your ear. "A fine technique, works like a charm on the fools, don't it?" His hand slid possessively lower on your back. "But I prefer wha' comes after. When the rest’s all quiet an' the room is painted proper red. An' yer there, me beautiful lad, covered head t' toe in it. All that warm life, coolin' on yer skin."

Voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper, full of dark promise. "Love takin' me time then, layin' ye down on their own floor, amidst the mess we made. Fuckin' ye slow while I lick ye clean, gettin' the taste o' them off ye an’ make ye mine again."

You remembered your body reacting before your mind could even process the horrifying, erotic imagery.

A full-body shudder wracked you in part revulsion and part overwhelming arousal, impossible to tell where his will ended and yours began.

Soon a low, pleasant sound, almost a hum, rumbled unbidden from your own chest, a physical echo of the satisfaction thrumming through him.

A sigh, heavy with the weight of a thousand such wakings, ghosted from your lips as you pushed yourself up from the bed once those memories stopped re-emerging, body feeling both impossibly strong and achingly used.

Separation from the mattress was a small tragedy; those sheets, once a pristine white and dusty when ye arrived, were now permanently stained in a multitude of reddish-brown tones from those intimate mornings moments with him whenever you needed to hide from the sun.

Your hands rose, fingers pressing into the flesh of your arms and torso, beginning a slow, self-soothing massage. These marks he left were a map of his hunger and possession. Bruises, deep and purple, already half healed that bloomed like flowers around your hips, clear imprint of his fingers where he had held you down or pulled closer.

Some scratches along your thighs from those long claws he had used to hold you in moments of passion, others from the careless drag of his fangs as he fed. A particularly vivid bite mark adorned the junction of your neck and shoulder.

A brutal claim that had been repeated so often it had twisted into a dark, cherished intimacy.

If you were awake, it could only mean that he was near and back from his hunt of nightly foray to gather "snacks," as he so casually called the warm-blooded humans he'd drag in to drain together and then discard.

As if pulled by a string, your hands flew to your neck not to the fresh wound, but higher where the skin was marred by a lighter, fainter scar, a silvery patch that never quite lost its texture despite all the time to heal.

The origin of everything.

Memories surfaced with the hazy, dreamlike quality of a life lived by another person, remembering first the thrumming roar of music and shouted conversations that vibrated through the soles of your shoes.

The bar, a place you and your mates had poured every penny and ounce of hope into, was swarming for its grand opening, meant to be the start of it all, a venture that would make you rich and, in your youthful arrogance, happily hated by every other establishment in the city.

The success was immediate and overwhelming. While your mates thrived in the chaos, you found the least of it behind the polished mahogany counter, focusing on the precise alchemy of cocktails.

When one of your buddies, flushed and shouting over the din, asked if you could run to the back for more gin and lemons, you nearly wept with relief.

Pushing through the crowd was an ordeal of unwanted contact, the bodies were so warm and sticky even outside, where the collective body heat felt oppressive.

A hand, large and sweaty, clamped down on your shoulder with jarring force, turning to face a man whose features were blurred by drunkness, eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

Remembering that sour and yeasty breath when it hit your face, his gaze dropped to the name tag on your shirt.

"You… you work here," he slurred, grip tightening painfully. "My mates're in there. Lemme back in."

Summoning every ounce of professionalism, your voice strained to remain level. "I'm afraid that's not possible, sir. I need you to let me go, please."

His face morphed from pathetic pleading to a sudden, ugly snarl. "You little shit—" The newborn insult was killed short by another hand.

This one was cool and dry as it clamped over the drunk's wrist with an unshakeable authority. To both your astonishment and the drunk's, the new arrival peeled the meaty fingers from your arm. Not a hulking brute, but lean and wiry, but surprising efficiency in his movement.

Once your arm was free, he gave the drunk a single, contemptuous shove and the man stumbled back as if hit by a car, colliding violently with a group of people behind him who erupted in a chorus of angry shouts.

Your eyes lifted to your rescuer and heat flooded your veins in a mix of profound gratitude and an immediate, visceral attraction that felt dangerous. His shirt was a rumpled, faint blue, looking as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry. The fabric strained over his shoulders and a pair of suspenders crossed a sharp, defined chest, leading down to a brass buckle at his waist that glinted in the moonlight.

His face was all sharp angles and handsome devilry, shadowed by a slight, dark stubble. Those piercing, impossible blue eyes were fixed on your face with intensity.

"Everythin' alrigh' here?" he had asked that night, voice a low, gravelly rasp that was pure, undiluted Northern Irish. He didn't even glance at the recovering drunk. "Or is this shite-bird botherin' ye more than 'e's worth?"

Caught off guard, you stammered something about being fine, then quickly added, "Thanks… for the help."

"Wasn't a problem," he replied, gaze doing a slow, deliberate sweep from your eyes to your mouth, then back up in a not so subtle gesture.

A blatant, clear signal of an hungry appraisal of his intentions that the foolish old you wasn't repelled from, but drawn in like a moth mesmerized by the lethal beauty of a flame.

Your gaze flickered back to that drunk man now glaring pure hatred, more at your savior than at you. A spike of fear for this stranger's safety made you speak without thinking, a decision you would come to regret for an eternity. "I'm… I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?" asking while offering your hand in a polite handshake.

He looked at your outstretched hand when a slow, sharp grin spreading across his face. His cool fingers enveloping yours as he brought the back of your knuckles to his lips.

The contact was a jolt of electricity, lips soft with a firm press as he left a peck. Blood rushed everywhere in your body, a hot, embarrassing tide that pooled low in your belly and made your trousers feel suddenly, unmistakably tight.

You managed a flustered, breathy laugh and his grin widened, delighted by the reaction he'd so easily elicited. "Remmick," he said, voice a purr against your skin before he released your hand.

Offering in return your own name before speaking something again. "I, uh… I was just going to grab some supplies from the back. Could you… maybe give me a hand?"

He nodded instantly and soon led him around to the rear of the building to a stack of neat cardboard boxes. You bent to pick one up, but his hands were there first, taking the entire stack from you with an easy strength that shouldn't have been possible.

"I got it," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

A nervous, thrilled sound came as you laughed. "I can manage, you know. I was ready to punch that drunk bloke in the face before you showed up."

He shifted the column of boxes, sticking his head around the side to look at you, blue eyes glinting with amusement and something else. "Aye, I saw tha'. But I wouldn't let ye waste yer pretty hands on a useless cunt like 'im." He got closer slightly, giving you a better chance to see the cords in his hands as he held the boxes. "Besides, 'e'd already lost 'is chance t' speak wi' ye. I hadn't."

Heart hammering against your ribs while smiling at his words, you pushed open the back door, holding it for him. "Come on in."

He stopped dead at the very threshold, boots on the concrete outside not crossing the line onto the linoleum within, a clear clue you should have paid more attention to. "Ye sure it's alrigh' me comin' in? Don't work 'ere, after all." He asked, gaze intense. "

"It's no problem with me," you said, trying to ease what you thought was politeness and slight nervousness. "Come on in. If anyone says anything, I'll just tell them you're with me."

His grin at your words was devastatingly handsome and utterly predatory. He stepped inside and followed you through the bustling kitchen to the main bar, where you kindly asked him to set the boxes down. Your friends shot curious glances but were too swamped to interrogate the stranger you'd brought behind the counter.

Remmick took a seat on a stool directly in front of your workstation then, watching you unpack with unnerving focus. "So," you said, feeling his heavy gaze. "What can I get f’ ya?"

He leaned forward on the stool, elbows on the bar, closing the distance between you. "I'd enjoy spendin' some time wi' ye," he said, voice low and intimate. "Alone. An' if ye decided t' stay wi' me fer the whole night, I'd not mind a’ all."

Flustered and turned on beyond human limits, you tried to hide it, looking down at the bottles as you muttered with a shaky smile, "I've got to work, I'm afraid. Can't leave my friends with all this."

He simply nodded, intense eyes never leaving your face. "I'll wait, then."

A thrill shot through your heart at his stubborn certainty. "Well, while you're waiting," you said, gaining a little confidence, "what would you like? On the house." You dared a wink in his direction.

What you got back was a slow and appreciative smile that didn't quite reach his hungry eyes. "Honestly," he said, his gaze flickering to the pulse beating rapidly in your throat, "I don't have much of a preference. I'll take whatever ye prefer t' do."

Inspired and guessing from his accent, you began working on some poitín, hoping he might appreciate a taste of home. Using the precious resources in the boxes since some were imported directly from Ireland.

When you slid the clear, potent spirit towards him, his reaction was not what you expected.

A genuine, surprised smile broke across his face, transforming him into something boyish and proud. "Uisce beatha," he breathed, reverence in his tone.

Curious and deeply relieved, you asked, "What does that mean?"

"'the water of life'," he breathed and it was like you'd unlocked a floodgate.

He gushed with that accent, now thickening with passion, to inform you of all the things from his place and land.

He enjoyed the amusement in your face when he explained to you how this beverage was actually illegal in his place but well beloved, a symbol of rebellion and identity. That subtle intensity in his gaze was replaced, for a beautiful and fleeting moment, by a joyful, earnest pride as he chatted wholeheartedly and you remembered how it made you felt special and chosen, the sole recipient of this hidden part of him.

The rest of that night became a blur of work and exhaustion but finally, near 4 a.m., the last patron was shoved out the door.

When you moved through the wreckage of the bar to check tables, you’ve found him in the corner exactly where he'd said he'd be.

"You actually waited all this time," you had said, smile tugging at your lips in a tired and small gesture.

He nodded slowly. "Nothin' else I had t' do tonight," he said, his eyes darkening. "'Side from seein' ye again. Ye must be tired."

"God, you have no idea." You puffed air from your chest, crossing your arms.

"I could help ye out… relax a bit."

A low hum in your throat, staring down at where he sat, followed by a foolish, flirtatious smile on your face for him. "And what are you thinking about, Remmick?"

In one fluid, shockingly fast motion, he pulled himself and the chair back from the table. His hands shot out, grabbing your waist and he hauled you down into his lap, making a surprised gasp getting caught in your throat.

His strong arms tightened around you like steel bands, crushing you against the hard wall of his chest while his mouth left quick and messy kisses scattered over your jaw and cheeks. The rough scrape of his stubble against your skin was a strangely pleasant friction.

One of your hands flew to his broad shoulder for balance, the other cradling the sharp line of his jaw. A slight laugh mixed with a sigh of pure, unadulterated pleasure escaped.

Then his mouth settled on your neck, the kisses taking a deeper and slower pace, tongue lapping at the skin hungrily as a low, rumbling purr vibrated against your throat, sound muffled by the flesh he seemed to enjoy tasting.

A sliver of anxiety had prickled at the edge of your consciousness, but it was drowned out by the heat he kept stoking in you.

"We… there's a room in the back," you whispered, voice gone husky but mind still not completely overwhelmed by dopamine like he had appeared to be.

He answered with a guttural groan against your skin, kisses becoming more insistent and frantic as his hands slid from your waist down to squeeze your ass, pulling you harder against him. The thick, hard ridge of his erection pressed against your own through the layers of clothing, sent more electric waves to your brains.

Deciding to take charge, you pushed lightly on his shoulder to get up and once you were on your feet, he rose as well, immediately attaching himself to your back, cold hands roaming, mouth finding your neck again.

“Remmick…” you remembered whispering his name with a quiet laugh, tried to walk and lead him to the back room. But he held you fast, rooted to the spot, one cold hand cradling your cheek and turned your face to his, keeping you pressed against him.

All at once the playfulness of the moment evaporated, replaced by a sudden, chilling stillness as a flicker of genuine anxiety ignited in your chest.

With terrifying strength, he maneuvered you backwards, pressing you down until the edge of a table hit the backs of your thighs. Once you sat heavily, he immediately slotted himself between your spread legs, the prominent bulge in his pants pressing insistently against your own.

"Remmick," you whispered again, but this time his name was laced in equal measures in anxiety and desire, the latter descending in volume.

A sharp, excruciating pain exploded in your neck with white-hot agony as fangs punched deep into your flesh. Your hands flew to his shoulders, pushing and clawing, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

One hand clamped on your left thigh, holding your leg wide open and still while the other pressed down on your shoulder, arching your back flush against the cold tabletop. He grunted against the now open wound, a savage, animal sound of satisfaction as he sucked greedily at the red liquid he had drawn.

The coppery scent had filled the air as the hot, sticky flow of it had cascaded down your neck, soaking your collar and pooling on the table beneath. It took maybe a minute before your vision swam while he made you his.

The memory of that first pain in your neck shattered like glass from the violent groaning shudder of the castle’s doors being thrown open far below, pulling you from the past.

Come here, me darlin’. Brought somethin’ fer ye.

Words bloomed directly inside your skull, a rewriting of reality as your muscles tensed. A shiver traced your spine, yet your body was already moving, stepping away from the bed with fluid grace.

Feet carrying you across the room, out the large bedroom door framed by the creeping, pale-green weeds and long, ghostly vines that had claimed the castle's interior, leaves brushing against your legs.

Moving through the abandoned halls over archways where tapestries hung in rotten tatters and faded ghosts of color. Suits of armor stood sentinel in niches, polished steel long since devoured by rust and hollow visors watching your progress with empty-eyed judgment.

Moonlight streamed through great, broken rose windows, casting fractured patterns of sapphire and crimson on the dust and plant-covered floor.

As you entered the grand hall, for sure the double-height space was once majestic but now suffered the weight of centuries without witness.

Dust clung in thick folds to the carved balustrades of a twin staircase that swept upwards in a graceful curve, same for the massive chandelier that hung crookedly from the ceiling.

The marble floor below was veiled by ash-gray dust, patterned only by the overlapping traces of your and Remmick's footprints.

You were standing on the balcony the stairs led to, looking down where he was, drenched in a fresh, glistening coat of blood. His red eyes were like two burning sparkles in the dark, fixed avidly on you with a sharp grin splitting his features.

Long fangs, dangerous and slick with red, now fully exposed with that handsome grin. He was hunched slightly, one of his clawed hands gripping the posterior paw of a rather massive wolf. The animal lay on its side, panting weakly, its dark fur matted and stained with blood. Low, piteous sounds of pain emanated from its throat and you could see one of its back legs bent at a sickening angle.

He released the wolf's paw and rose to his full height. The wolf merely lay there, too injured or too terrified to move, its flanks heaving as it made a futile attempt to drag itself away.

"Ah, me beautiful lad," Remmick's voice was a rough caress, dripping with a devotion that was as chilling as it was absolute. "M’ sorry fer the lack of a proper meal fer ye. I swear, I had a man tha’ I found alone, strayin' from tha' village nearby I told ye about. Dragged 'im through the whole woods, but the fool kept thrashin' an’ screamin'… attracted a whole pack. A real pain in my arse." He gestured vaguely, his bloody claws catching the light. "By the time I scared the mangy beasts off, they'd mauled 'im somethin' awful. Would've felt like shite t' bring me lovely groom such an… chewed-up supper." A flick of his wrist, a gesture of invitation. "Come down t' me."

"Why did you go back to that village?" you heard yourself ask, the words feeling distant, body obeying his request as your feet carried you down the sweeping staircase. "You said it was getting dangerous."

His grin widened, a flash of sharp white in the bloody mask of his face and a hot, confusing surge of desire twisted in your gut, impossible to tell if it was your own treacherous body responding to the same charisma you’ve fallen victim of, or another subtle push from the tether that bound your mind to his.

"Listen t' ye," he mumbled, his voice thick with affection. "Soundin' so sweet when yer worried fer me."

Once you’ve reached him, your gaze was inevitably drawn back to the suffering wolf.

Look at me.

The command was a gentle but unbreakable pressure behind your eyes, physically turning your head and forcing your gaze to lock with his. His clawed hand, sticky with drying blood, shot up to cradle your cheek in a touch terrifyingly gentle despite the lethal points of his nails. His other arm snaked around your lower back, pulling you flush against his cold, hard body and next, his mouth was on yours.

His usual taste was now mixed with iron, lips demanding and tongue plunging into your mouth with a possessive hunger. The sharp points of his fangs scratched the soft inner flesh of your cheeks and lips, a stinging pain instantly followed by the soothing, lapping stroke of his tongue, seeking out the tiny beads of blood he'd drawn.

He was drinking you in as low, guttural groans vibrated from his chest into your open mouth. "Missed me?" he growled against your lips, hips rutting forward, pressing the hard ridge of his bulge against your own. The friction made you hiss through your teeth, back arching and head falling back as he chased your mouth, chuckling breathlessly, lost in the lust himself. Your own tongue moved, seemingly of its own accord, licking the taste of blood from his lips and teeth, cleaning the metallic tang from his mouth as if it were the most natural thing in a relationship.

He pulled back, tongue darting out to lick a stray trail of red from your bottom lip. Then he motioned to the dying wolf. "Feed, me heart. Left it warm an' alive fer ye."

You hesitated. The animal's pained, ragged breaths were oppressive, the hunger deep inside your chest warred with a lingering shred of humanity. "Can't… can't you just take it outside? Set it free?"

For a fraction of a second, the clawed hand on your lower back stiffened, grip tightening almost imperceptibly. He turned his blood-caked face to look at you and for a fleeting moment, you thought, and hoped, he might consider it.

Ye need t’ feed. Come on, it’s sufferin’. Don’t ye sant it t’ be a’ peace?

The compulsion was a wave of soothing, irresistible logic that washed over your own doubts. Of course. To end its suffering was a mercy. Your body moved, kneeling on the dusty marble beside him, next to the trembling animal.

The hand previously resting on his chest tentatively reached out and stroked the wolf's fur, coarse and sticky with blood. Remmick moved his own hand, brushing aside the matted hair to reveal a pulsing wound on its flank.

Together as one, you lowered your heads, fangs sinking deep into the warm, living flesh in unison. The blood that flooded your mouth was utterly delicious as you consumed together in an intimate act of predation until the weak, frantic heartbeat beneath your lips faltered and ceased.

The moment the life left the creature, his lips were on your cheek, hot and demanding with that tongue back at lapping the rivers of blood that had messily smeared your skin, groaning against you as his kisses grew more voracious and claiming.

Feel wha’ ye do t’ me.

Your hand moved down his body, sliding over the rough, blood-stained fabric of the pants he had on without till the thick, hard length of him was enveloped by your palm. His head tilted to the side, kisses and work of tongue growing messier. His mouth softened, pressing into yours in a gentle, almost tender kiss that was a stark contrast to the violence of moments before.

The clawed hand not buried in your hair gripped your waist with a terrifying softness as you reciprocated the kiss, your own mouth moving against his. Was this your genuine, twisted passion born of months in his clutches, making you a perfect, pliant pet of his own needs?

All you were sure of was the rock-hard ache of your own erection, pressing against the bloody bulge of his pants and sending shuddering waves of electric pleasure through your body.

Hold on tight, sweetheart

His arms wrapped around your waist and with a sensation of weightlessness that still stole your breath, you were both levitating into the air, moving with an impossible silent grace, landing effortlessly on the balcony of the upper floor.

He grinned sharply and pulled you with him through the labyrinth of abandoned hallways and a small, helpless grin found its way onto your own face as you moved with him through the ruins of your secured sanctuary, this gilded cage he declared as for your protection.

He never detached from you, even as he forced open the first door you came upon, the old wood splintering around the lock with a sound of protest. He hauled you inside, your arms instinctively sneaking around his neck. He walked you backwards, knees buckling as they hit the edge of another large, dusty bed. Both your hands held onto his broad, powerful back as the mess of your tangled bodies collapsed onto the mattress in a heap.

Be a good lad fer me.

Your legs fell open for him of their own accord, in a seamless, willing surrender. His body slotted perfectly into the space between your thighs and you could feel the thick, insistent tent he had nudging against your clothed entrance. You were still loose and slick from the night before, body already clenching in anticipation around a phantom memory of his girth.

Your mouths never parted in the intensely intimate make-out session that ensued, hands working frantically at his belt, the buckle clinking, zipper grating down. Your hand slipped inside, wrapping tightly around his aching, silken-steel cock.

He groaned into your open mouth in a desperate sound as your fist began to move, tongue tangling fiercely with your own. A languid and filthy dance of lips, tongue, and teeth. Your hand worked his length in a steady, knowing rhythm, thumb swiping over the leaking head, spreading the precome, making him grunt and buck into your grip.

Your back arched off the dusty mattress, seeking more of the pressure and delicious friction while he chased your lips, chuckling breathlessly against them, his own control fraying at the edges, lost in the overwhelming lust that was a feedback loop between you both.

This gave him the space to lean down further, body a cage of cool muscle over yours. His tongue, rough and insistent, licked its way between your open lips again, plunging deep, claiming your mouth as his own engulfed yours in the continuation of that sinful, bloody kiss.

His hips drove forward again and again, each thrust a jolting, electric shock that forced a gasped moan from your throat directly into his. The sounds you made were muffled, swallowed by his hunger and becoming a part of the wet, messy symphony of your joining.

Long, clawed hands moved from your back to grip your thighs, points of his nails pricked your skin and you moaned deep in bis open mouth, one of your hands now tangled in the hair at the back of his head to keep him close.

His clawed hands ripped open your trousers apart from waist to knee, the fabric yielding like tissue paper. The cold air of the room hit your exposed lower half, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. completely bare now, your erect cock, flushed and leaking, now fully exposed to his burning red eyes.

"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a threat.

He shifted above you, his own ruined pants pushed down just enough. The fat, plum-shaped head of his cock, slick with his own precome and the blood still smeared on his skin, nudged against your rim. Your head fell backward against the wooden headboard with a dull thud, your eyes squeezing shut. He followed the motion, mouth leaving your lips to trail a path of long and lustful open-mouthed pecks down the column of your throat. Each one smears your skin with a mixture of rusty, dried blood and warm drool.

Then, with a single and perfectly aimed thrust, he was inside, head of that thick cock popping past your tight ring of muscle, the slick help of blood and last night's lingering spend making the invasion exquisitely smooth and pleasant.

As if the penetration below was a trigger, his fangs punched deep into your neck, sealing over the old, scarred bite mark in a dual violation merging seamlessly with the overwhelming sensation of being filled, stretched and utterly possessed from below.

Feels good, doesn’t it?

God, it did. It felt too good.

An overwhelming, terrifying avalanche of emotions crashed over. Shame, at the sheer, wanton pleasure of it; fear at the absolute loss of control; A dizzying devotion at the masculine force that was pounding into you.

He began to move and all coherent thought shattered.

Hips pistoning against your ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the dusty room. The wood of the large, ancient bed began to protest, splintering crack accompanying each powerful thrust as he let go of any last vestige of humanity.

A beast of a vampire lost in the primal, overwhelming goodness of your body, so tight and hot around him. His fangs remained buried deep in your neck and you could feel the greedy pulls from you even as he took his pleasure from your body.

"Remmick… God… please… don't stop…" your legs hooked around his waist, pulling him deeper, nails scratching down his back, drawing faint lines of blood that healed almost instantly.

He was grunting with every thrust, beastly sounds torn from the depths of his being. "So good fer me… Yer everythin'… me perfect, willin' lad…" voice a ragged, Northern Irish growl, accent thickening even more with his passion.

The breaking of the bed frame grew louder, a percussive accompaniment to your ragged cries. He drank harder, the suction at your neck becoming a dizzying vortex, pulling you toward the edge.

"Gonna fill ye up," he snarled against your throat, his thrusts becoming erratic, frantic, losing their rhythm for pure, driving need. "Make sure everyone knows who ye belong to…"

That was all it took. The combination of his words, those fangs buried deep, the brutal, perfect friction of his cock hitting that spot deep inside sent you over the edge. Your release erupted from you, a hot, spurting rush from your dick that painted his stomach and ruined clothes, body seizing around his in violent, clenching waves.

The sensation of your tight channel milking him was his undoing. With a final, ground-shaking thrust that sounded like the bedpost snapping, he buried himself to the hilt, growling into your neck as his own climax surged in a hot, seemingly endless flood, filling and claiming you. He held himself there, pulsing inside you, fangs still locked in your flesh, drinking the few drops as your bodies shuddered together in the aftermath.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the slow drip of blood. Then, with a wet, soft sound, he retracted his fangs from your neck, licking the wound closed with a tenderness that was more frightening than his violence had been.

He collapsed atop you, face buried in your hair. "Yer gonna be the death o' me, my love." He breathed in a hoarse voice.

The world swam back into a painful, granular focus, staring up at the ceiling, vision blurry and body a map of fresh and fading aches. The canopy above was a web of rotting velvet, once a probably deep royal blue, now faded to the color of a months-old bruise. A large, dark water stain spread from one corner, edges blurred by time in a beautiful, decaying ruin.

His weight was a comfortable, familiar anchor. Remmick’s hot, iron-tinged breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your neck and cheek until the warmth shifted. 

He lifted his head slightly, the movement fluid and silent and in one smooth, powerful motion, he was on his knees, still sunk deep into the ruined mattress, back straightening as his gaze was fixed on the splintered doorway he had busted open mere minutes ago.

Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you strained to listen. At first, there was only the sigh of the wind through broken panes and the settling groan of ancient stones. Then, a faint but rapid skittering on the dusty marble of the hallway outside.

The sound of paws moving with a speed that was neither cautious nor furtive. A dry, panting breath accompanied the rhythm, growing louder and stronger, gaining speed and heading directly for your room.

"We've got company, me heart," Remmick said, voice a low, calm rumble. There was no alarm in it, only amusement.

His large hand, previously equipped with terrifying claws now retracted and leaving behind the elegant, strong fingers of a gentleman, came to rest on your bare arm. The touch was startlingly gentle, a brief, grounding stroke before you moved, pushing yourself fully into a seated position.

A wave of dizziness washed over your frame from spent passion. Your hands fumbled automatically for the torn, dusty sheet tossed to the side, pulling it up to cover your lower half, a flimsy and pointless gesture of modesty in the face of such utter exposure.

Your thoughts, sluggish and thick, jumped to the wolf. The massive, dark-furred creature you had both fed from, whose life you had felt extinguished under your fangs.

The body… Remmick hadn't disposed of it.

He always dragged the human remains away t’ end any chance o’ comin’ back, still t’ this day ye were unaware why he’d drag them away to do such thin’ since ye could just look at his memories while he performed this grisly chore without complaint.

The running became a thunderous clatter just outside the door, then it burst through.

Its fur was still matted and dark with its own dried blood, the wound on its flank nothing more than a puckered, blackened scar. But its eyes were no longer the pained, fearful amber of a wild animal.

They glowed with an unnatural, sulphurous yellow light, intelligent and fixed directly on you. Its tongue lolled from its open muzzle, not in exhaustion but in what looked like eager panting. It moved with an uncanny, fluid grace, its broken leg seemingly healed, power restored tenfold.

Without a moment's hesitation, it launched itself onto the bed. The ruined frame groaned in protest. Its heavy paws landed squarely on your covered abdomen as it lowered its massive head and that cold, wet nose nudged your cheek before it began to nuzzle your face with a frightening familiarity.

The fur was coarse and warm with still carried the metallic scent of its death, but the skin beneath, where your fingers tentatively touched its neck, was cold.

Your gaze flickered to Remmick. He was observing the entire scene, head tilted and a big grin spreading across his face of unadulterated satisfaction.

There was a subtle, unnerving light in his now blue eyes, a flicker of concentration that made it impossible to tell if the wolf's affectionate behavior was a natural result of its new, cursed state, or if Remmick was puppeteering its every move.

"Ye can keep 'im," Remmick said, voice soft, almost tender. The Northern Irish lilt wrapped around the words, making them sound like a love poem. "A companion fer ye, when I'm away. Hopin' it makes ye happy, darlin’."

One of your hands, almost of its own volition, came up to cradle the beast's head, fingers sinking into the strangely warm fur over the unnervingly cold skin. The wolf leaned into the touch, a low, rumbling sound vibrating in its chest in a contented purr.

"…Really?" You mumbled the word, voice hoarse and low, barely a whisper.

He hummed in response, a deep, resonant sound. He crawled closer to you across the mattress until he was sitting right beside you, hip pressed against yours. His grin was crooked, fangs still faintly stained with your blood and his expression was a disorienting mix of raw hunger and the slightest, most terrifying hint of pure adoration and devotion as he watched you pet the undead creature.

"S'long as ye love me more than the mangy mutt," he said, words a playful rumble.

For once, the first time in what felt like an eternity, a slight, genuine smile broke through on your face, a small, weary but real thing. Your hand continued to scratch behind the wolf's ear and it reacted delightfully, pressing its head harder against your palm, its glowing yellow eyes closing in bliss.

Without him asking, your own head tilted, tentatively landing on his bare shoulder and letting out a light sigh, the tension of the night finally bleeding away into a strange, unsettling sense of peace. You relaxed against him, feeling the solid, unyielding strength of his frame.

Immediately, his arm snaked around your shoulders, pulling you tighter against his side. His hand, the one that had hours ago ripped your clothes and gripped your throat with lethal intent, now rested with a shocking gentleness on your upper arm, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles. The wolf settled its head on your thighs with a contented huff.

The predator you feared was your protector, beast previously killed now your companion and the love that bound you to him, was the only truth you had left.