#vampire!au

Vervain.

It's the most beautiful thing that doesn't glisten, in your opinion.

It's rare — nowhere to be found — in East Highland (Not West Highland, though, you've heard. It's odd, you need to look into it), it's absolutely delightful to look at, like the prodigal lovechild of lilac and lavender plants, and the smell. Good god, it's exactly what you'd use to describe "youth", or "spring", or any other sort of fresh joviality you'd want to demonstrate.

You used to travel all the way into the city to procure some of it for your vase at home, and for your grandmother's teas. But now that your parents have suddenly decided to rejuvenate the lineup of bouquets that you sell, you've had to come up with dozens of new ones.

And because you were allowed the freedom of artistic and aesthetic liberty, they mostly included vervain. So sue you, you were slightly self-indulgent. Plus, you'd found a supplier willing to make that long trip for a reasonable amount. So. No harm, no foul, right?

You thought you were an idiot, honestly. It's almost like something drew you to this plant, something visceral, something almost otherworldly. And you'd thought you were the only one with these oddly niche interests. Wood, wolfsbane, vervain. Weird, right?

Right.

Until you'd found someone else very interested in vervain, especially your procurement of it. A kid called Nate Jacobs. Now, you'd heard of him, of course you have. He's everything — an all-rounder, something your parents would want you to aspire to. He's a senior, of course, so you'd never actually spoken with him, not really.

So it's hard to explain the sudden onslaught of events — that included more than talking — that led you here, to the parking lot outside the local 7/11, with the two of you leaning against the trunk of his car.

"Who's gotten into your head, sweetheart?"

There's a moment of pause from the universe, as if to celebrate the first time Nate's ever called you that, and then the horns in the street and birds in the trees begin again.

"No one. You can't get into someone's head."

Nate seems to snort a bit at that, as if that statement's just lack of information on your part, but he lets you continue.

"I just think she had a point."

"Come on. Rue Bennett? She's not exactly...", he pauses, gesturing at his temple, "...right in the head. You think murder is something she's gonna be normal about?"

"Okay, fine. Let's ignore the fact that all the animal maulings are next to your Dad's new property and you're not mentioning it to him so that they can inform the authorities, for a minute.", you say, crossing your arms. "Let's talk about the bouquets, because when I agreed to teach you how to make them, I—"

"What? Assumed they were for Maddy? And now that Rue's telling you we've been broken up for months, you're wondering who it's for?"

You shrug, shaking your head. "Maybe? I— I don't know, alright? Just... a thought."

Nate sighs magnanimously, hands planting themselves on your shoulders. "Remember how we met? Hm?"

Vividly.

One night, after a particularly shitty outing, you were on your way out of the local bar, purse in hand, and you were stopped.

And that's where you'd first met Nate.

You don't remember much else from that night, not really. All you remember is that he was slightly awkward with how he spoke to you. Like he was sure you'd comply. He'd smiled when he first saw you, like "oh, yeah, her". As if he'd been looking for someone like you. He'd gently grabbed the back of your hair, and looked into your eyes.

"Don't be scared, come with me."

The last thing you'd expected was for Nate Jacobs, East Highland QB and the sparkling gem of the town to be into you.

"I think you've got me confused with someone else."

After a moment of confused head-tilting, he'd nodded, as if understanding something hidden in your eyes. And he'd muttered under his breath. "Vervain."

"Yeah.", you'd said, smile growing slowly but surely. "Yeah, you can smell it? No one else even knows that's a thing."

Yeah, Nate knew about vervain. It was a fanger's Kryptonite, and he realized it as soon as he got a whiff of your hair after his attempted compulsion. Was it your perfume? Was it your shampoo? Soap? It was somewhere in or around you, and that set his teeth on edge, because it meant it was in your bloodstream as well.

"Yeah, it doesn't... grow in this part of town, I heard. How'd you have it?"

You'd shrugged. "I own a bouquet store. We've got absolutely anything you can think of. Vervain included."

"Mm.", he'd hummed, offering you a tight-lipped smile after this revelation.

Only one of you knew that he had attempted to compel you that night, and from then on, he was hooked.

He really, really didn't know whether you were a believer, protecting yourself from vampires and secretly growing vervain, or if you were just a pretty, dumb girl who was stupid enough to walk around at night in the wrong parts of town with shitty friends waiting for you in the car, and talk sweetly to people who'd grabbed you in the dark.

"You should stop by, sometime. Get your girl some flowers. Friends and family discount."

He'd replied with an offhanded 'will-do', and then watched as you got into the car, with about three other, extremely drunk girls in the back.

He had been hoping for a quick fuck and suck (not necessarily in that order), but he'd got something infinitely better (or worse, depended on who you asked) : a fascination.

This intrigue didn't come slowly, like most obsessions do. No, it had kicked him in the stomach and shoved him to your door.

It can't have been the tantalizing threat of being killed by your lifestyle choice alone, or he'd have sucked you dry and died a satisfied, vervain-induced death that very night.

Maybe it was the surprise. Surprise that you offered both a friends-and-family-discount as well as a ride home. Surprise that you didn't know each other, but once he'd said vervain, you'd lit up like the fourth of July.

Surprise that his veins were bubbling now, for a go at you. Even though it could fucking kill him, immolate his veins from the inside.

Forbidden fruit. That's what you were. Like drinking a margarita with a touch of arsenic in it. He just... loved toying with the idea of it.

Plus, you were hot. It's like you were checking off his list.

Bringing him to now. It's a flimsy excuse, honestly, and he's borderline surprised it's even gone on for this long, but maybe you're just gullible enough to think straight men with a niche interest in herbs and bouquet-making existed, in real life.

And Rue Bennett, aka, kooky-witch-bitch who has a penchant for hating Nate even without knowing about his vampirism (though, he's sure she might. Witches have a talent for that sort of thing) has gotten into your head so much that you're now doubting Nate.

Which, you should. It just wouldn't help him out.

"Vervain.", you reply. "We met talking about vervain."

"And bouquets. You said friends-and-family discount. So I'm at least one of those things, right?"

"Yeah, the first."

"Ouch. But okay.", he grins, flicking at your temple. "So what if I'm not making the bouquets for Maddy? You think a guy can't go all-out for Mother's Day?"

"That's in May, Nate."

"To me, every day is Mother's Day.", he retorts, jutting his chin toward the door. "C'mon, let's go get some contraband."

The last thing he'd expected was for your 'supplier' of vervain being some middle-aged lady with an unnerving monotone and severely dead eyes. In fact, he remembers her coming into his school to apply for a teaching position once, he's sure. But that was years ago.

"Sorry for coming on such short notice, Laurie, we've got a sudden surge of orders because our school's Winter Formal's been preponed."

The woman in the freakishly musty armchair nods, and one of her cronies lifts a black suitcase up onto the table in front of you. It opens, and Nate nearly gags. So. Much. Vervain.

You hand over an envelope full of money, the crony examines it, then gives you a nod. Nate tries not to think too hard on the fact that Laurie's sharpening a wooden stake in the armchair like she's filing her nails.

The walk back to the car's silent, but it's only because Nate's speechless and you're beaming.

"Did I see white packets in the back?"

"Yeah, she's a drug dealer, but recently she's expanded to exotic herbs."

"Uh-huh. And... how'd you get to make her acquaintance?"

"Oh, Rue told me about her."

Of course she did. "Right. And, that didn't... throw you off at all? That this is her dealer? You're a trusting one, aren't you, baby?"

"I've known her since we were five. Rue, not Laurie. And plus. Vervain's not technically even illegal, just... rare, and extremely invasive. It's good I'm not planning to fucking grow any."

Yeah, he knows. He knows everything about vervain. The wooden stake thing did give him a little bit of a warning about Laurie's tolerance for his kind, though.

He starts his car after you settle in and place the suitcase in the back, pulling out of the parking lot. "You got your work cut out for you, huh? With all the Winter Formal bouquets?", he muses, adjusting his rearview.

You nod, clicking your seatbelt on. Adorable. "Yeah. All these couples that'll break up before they graduate. Can't complain, though. Easy money. Hey, wanna help me?"

Uh... no. He'd pretended to care about bouquet-making because you had been in a vervain-drought and he wanted to discern whether your love for it was protective or passionate. But that was when you didn't have any vervain in your bouquets. He can't be near that much vervain without it scorching his fucking hand off.

"I wish I could, but uh, this next week's packed, I mean, we've got scrimmage on scrimmage and... it's just a mess."

You look at him for a moment — just one — and then nod, quickly. "Right."

Fuck. You thought he was making excuses because he didn't like you, not because your date idea, cute as it may be, involved constant contact with a noxious herb that would kill him, but because you thought he wasn't attracted to you.

"But listen, okay? We'll— let me take you out tonight, okay?"

"I can't tonight. I gotta start on the bouquets."

Nate shakes his head. You're gonna have to stop being so reasonable. He knows he can't compel you, but it's worth a try. "Listen, are you— did you drink any of your Grandma's tea, or is it a total vervain-drought at home?"

"No, we have none. Hence, the meet-up with Laurie.", you reply, like he's a child who's gotten the ABC's wrong ten times already.

"Wait, like, at all? For how long?"

"Like a week."

A week?! It takes vervain a maximum of two days — 48 hours — to get out of your system, meaning he's been able to compel you for five fucking days?!

"Huh."

"What do you mean 'huh'?"

He leans over, unclicking your seatbelt for you, to which you respond by attempting to click it back in. "Come on, Nate, it's not funny. We're almost at the highway."

He looks into your eyes. He's done this a lot before. It's like all your ex boyfriends had, initially. He's looked at you like he wants you all to himself, before, and you've kinda got used to it. But this look? It's intense, it's like he's trying to seep into your mind and grab hold of your thoughts, and then manipulate them. "I need you to trust me."

So, you do. You slowly trail your fingers off the seatbelt and onto your lap, to which he gives a little quirk of his brow. You almost say 'don't make me regret it', but you feel like that'll ruin the mood.

"Do you?"

"Trust you? Yeah."

It's definitely come as a surprise, for someone like you who doesn't give it out so freely, you're definitely serving it to him on a silver platter, but it's pretty adorable how he seems... giddy, about it.

"Yeah? Then lift up your arms."

You do. He grins. "Knock on the roof of the car."

You do. Slightly amused by how fucking childish this is, but you do.

"Look out the window."

You do.

"What do you see?"

"Cars. Road. Lights."

"Look back here. At me. What do you see?"

"You."

"No, no, no, you see your boyfriend. I'm your boyfriend and you're in love with me. I haven't always been, and you haven't always been, but that's how it's going to be. Okay?"

Nate almost feels guilty. Key word : almost. Listen, okay? He's been... fucking on one, recently. He's not that good with where to direct his urges and obsessions now that he doesn't have Maddy anymore to give him her blood voluntarily when he needs it, and he's had to resort to feeding on pathetic girls with booze-filled blood. That's who he'd thought you were, initially. But then you'd been chock-full of vervain, with a mad-botanist's glint in your eye, and he'd thought you were a little more interesting.

And then began the thing Nate's not so proud of. The stalking.

He's not one to call what he does hunting, because it makes it sound natural. Like he's a predatory species and you're prey. He knows there's nothing natural about what he does, and what he is. It's more than natural. It's well-crafted, it's meticulous. It's art. The blood — your blood — curtaining his teeth will be art. The drops leaking down his chin will be art. The murder bubbling through his veins? A fucking Picasso.

And now, you're here. Vervainless. Compellable. Fucking sexy. Perfect.

You, meanwhile, are slightly confused. He's looking a little crazed, you think, but maybe it's that he's still on the high of a love confession that you didn't reject. And it's a very... unique one, at that, the way he just declared that he's your boyfriend and that's it. It's cute, almost, in a okay-this-guy-is-sorta-suspicious-but-let's-live-for-the-moment kinda way. And yeah, you've never done anything this reckless, really. Maybe you're still on the high of buying from a fucking drug dealer. Maybe this is what it meant to "suck the marrow out of life".

So, you did what he told you to. Who knew this would make him think you were being compelled? Definitely not you.

Which is how you end up at a motel in the middle of nowhere with a fucking rainstorm rattling the already-rickety windows of the place.

You let Nate text your family the location of the motel through your phone so they don't get worried sick — considerate, okay, he's really leaning into the whole boyfriend thing there — and flop onto the motel bed. It's musty and creaky and you've never felt more thrilled.

"I've never done this before."

You're not sure who you're talking to.

"Yeah? Which part?"

"Motel. Drug-deals. Spontaneity when it's dangerous. Take your pick."

"What about cruisin' around with a vampire?"

You snort. "I'm sure that's on the bucket list, too."

"Yeah? Sit up."

You do, shuffling to lean against the headboard to see what this guy has to say about the hypothetical supernatural.

"Do you like me? Like, actually?"

He keeps doing this intense-eye-contact thing, and you're not sure whether it's rude to tell him it gives you the shivers (or at least, the ick).

"Yeah, for a while."

"How long?"

You don't wanna tell him, but you figure he's been really vocal about his feelings so far. "Since sophomore year."

"Oh, shit.", he exclaims, eyes wide as he chuckles. He moves closer to you, flicking at your nose. "Good to know."

"Shut up."

He grins. "So. Cruisin' around with a vampire. It's on your bucket list?"

"Sure, Robert Pattinson's hot."

"What, and I'm not?"

"You are, but... I mean... there's Robert Pattinson...", you tease, one hand shooting up, while the other stays down at abdomen-level. "...And there's you."

"Maybe I should've compelled some manners into you, Jesus, I book you a motel, act like a perfect gentleman, I haven't bled you dry yet, and you're calling me mid!", he says, enveloping any retort you could've had to that by kissing you so hard that all you feel is teeth, initially.

You can't help it. Your hands fly up to his hair, and you easily let him position you where he wants to (on his lap) and even move your hair and coat where he likes (off your shoulder and off your body, respectively). His hand's already working on the buttons of your jeans.

Feminine intuition. That's what you think it's called. There's... this dull little flickering cautionary bulb somewhere inside your head, that causes you to pull away from the kiss, although it doesn't do much, seeing as your face is still practically smushed in his hands. You're not sure how to go about this, so you laugh as a cop-out. For whom, you don't know, but you're not sure this may go down well, this next question. "Did you just say you wanna bleed me dry?"

"It's an expression, baby, c'mon, don't worry about it.", he snickers, like it's making him giggly, just knowing you're thinking about it.

"Who even says that?" You're still pretending to laugh, to soften the blow, for some reason.

He does the intense eye-thing again — it's really starting to freak you out — before he murmurs against your lips. "I said don't worry about it. Come on. Make sophomore-you proud."

And he's back to kissing you.

You try not to think about the fact that he's technically not answered the question, nor denied that he may have the intentions to "bleed you dry", but it's getting harder and harder as you open your eyes mid-makeout and look around the room, examining the facts. Nate Jacobs. All-rounder. QB. Senior. Known about him for three years, known him for three months. Motel. Storm. Declared he's your boyfriend. ...Alone. ...Trapped. You actually don't know anything else about him. Oh, my god, this went from slightly goofily romantic to gothic horror, because now he's talking about vampires and bleeding you dry?

It's almost like he can feel your pulse quicken, because it's gentle, like a breeze flitting through a tree, when he pushes all of your hair off your neck to press his lips there. His lips on your neck — it's hell. It sends sparks through you, not in the way where you think he's made for you and you'll live happily ever after with him, but the kind where you think you're made for him, and you're not going to live at all.

"You've taken psychology, right?", he murmurs, the words landing straight onto your carotid, where his upper lip is currently settled.

"Yeah?", you ask, staring at the wall and trying to figure out how the hell you're going to get out of this. The door's locked. The key's on the dresser, that's on the opposite side of the room from the bed the two of you are on. You glare at your reflection in the mirror, pressed up against what's possibly a psychopath.

"What do you think the psychology is behind cravings?"

"Like... for food?"

He nods, his breathing getting heavier as he inhales what you are hoping is your perfume and not the blood he claims to want to drain out of you. "Sm'n like that."

"Uh... reward centres, and— and... dopamine and—"

"Right, right. Listen, uh...", he begins, clearing his throat before pulling away from you, holding your face to his so he can look into your eyes. You finally see his, and it's all you can do to not scream. His eyes have gone entirely red, bloodshot (pun not intended), but the real kicker is under his eyes, because there's these... vine-like black veins bubbling that you're not sure are even from this world. "Hey, hey, shh-shh, you're good, it's fine, I'm fine, it doesn't hurt."

He's fine?! So fucking what, you're more worried about you!

"Listen, hey, look at me. Eyes on me, c'mon, I'm trying to do this with as little compulsion as possible, but you're freakin' out on me, and I don't wanna have to kill room service. Wait, do motels even have room service?"

You don't wanna look into this psycho's eyes! He's here categorizing what constitutes a hotel and a motel while his eyebags are, what, exploding? Erupting? But he makes sure you are looking into his eyes, and he does that godforsaken intense-eye-contact shit again.

"Hey. Calm down. It's only gonna hurt if you scream and freak out about it. Okay?" He says, placing a tiny kiss on your forehead before he moves to his backpack. "Snacks?"

Okay, you're getting the feeling this intense-eye-contact thing means something. Maybe he's not just a very serious guy, maybe he thinks that his eye contact has some kind of calming quality to it. Maybe— wait. No, it's stupid, this notion, you know that, but maybe he's... being deadass when he uses the word '"compulsion". He thinks his words are so soothing, you'll just be coerced into letting him live out whatever sick blood fantasies he has? Why else would he just walk away from you, like the problem's already solved itself?

"Soda?", is his next question.

You'll need a helluva lot more than soda.

"You calm?" That question's the nail in the coffin, actually, because you're two seconds away from decking him. But you're not sure what weapons he's got in that backpack, and he may just make good on his promise of bleeding you dry.

You nod, wordlessly. Okay. You'll just... fake it till you make it. Do the equivalent of lying down and playing dead during a grizzly attack.

"Okay, good. So... you're sorting out your thoughts? You know what I am?"

Insane?

You shake your head.

He smiles, tilting his head down at you. "I'm a vampire. Hotter than Edward Cullen, who's, by the way, not real. And I have been for a year or so, now. It's been pretty chill. Kinda cool. Don't worry, I don't use my vamp-powers to cheat at football. That's still all me."

He thought that's what you're worried about? Athletic integrity?

"A vampire."

"Yeah. But as you can see, we're not pale weirdos who wear cloaks and turn into bats. Or... shine in the sunlight. We're just... your average Joes with a more... demanding diet."

"Are you gonna kill me?"

You don't need to muster up any acting chops for you to do your scared-victim-bit. Just at the revelation that this guy's a delusional raging homicidal maniac who thinks he's a "vampire", you're giving Oscar winners a run for their money.

"What?", he asks, trying his best to look as deeply hurt by that question as possible. "No, baby, I'm just gonna take a little sip, c'mon."

Huh.

"This isn't going to hurt."

Then, you're facing your trembling self in the mirror again, because he's disappeared out of your direct line of sight, back to your neck.

Then comes the pain.

At first, you're more preoccupied with where his hands are. They move from your shoulders to your chest, squeezing momentarily before strolling down again to your waist, and you mentally track this movement, to see if he's just a perv with a weird kink or if he's got a knife in his pocket or something.

But your attention's ripped away from his hands as soon as you feel the breaking of skin into your carotid, an all-consuming agony, from impalement. He's pricked something into you, stuck you with a fork, maybe? But— but no, both his hands are at your hips, so—

Your reflection answers your question.

He's... he's got fangs. Sprouting from his fucking gums. They can't be prosthetics, or you'd have seen them before, so now, suddenly, the least logical explanation to your predicament is the only rational one.

Nate Jacobs is a vampire.

You've read about them in folklore, of course you have. It's not possible to get nerdily into verbena without ending up seeing a crossover into mythology, where vervain is apparently toxic to them, and can prevent them from being able to mind control or... no. Compel. That explains the eye-contact. He'd thought he was compelling you instead of giving you the creeps. Great. Now you had a quantitative number of times that Nate Jacobs had attempted to mind-control you.

Is that why he'd asked you about your grandma's teas? Whether you had any vervain in you, so he wouldn't choke and die if he fed on you? It's a good thing you'd had trace amounts of vervain in your T-shirt pocket for safekeeping in case Laurie had duped you, or god knows what he'd have made you do.

Fed on you. What a fucking horrifying thought.

But it's happening, and your fingers clutch and claw at the bedsheets as you feel this odd sense of slowly increasing lightness, like parts of you — important parts — are being vacuumed out. You wish you could scream, but somewhere between the fight or flight and the lightheadedness due to blood loss, you still manage to keep your head about you, and you remember that you're desperately pretending to be compelled. So, you don't scream, just grimace in pain and silence, clutching onto his shoulders.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glistening with what could be described as angelic luminance, but should be described as visceral bloodlust. His lips are smeared with blood — your blood — and his breathing's more ragged than it would've been if you'd actually fucked. And, to top it all off? He's smirking, like you're a particularly hard level he's beaten on his Switch, enough to show that his usually pearly white teeth are now painted with more red — your red.

"What the fuck?"

It's not you who asks this. It's him. It's in pleasant surprise, quiet mesmerised astonishment, like you're either the love of his life or about to push him into an early grave, but you're so invigoratingly sexy that he can't be mad about either.

"I mean, there's... there's blood and then there's that. There's blood and then there's, fuckin'... ambrosia. Uh-huh, that's right, baby. You're— fuck, you're gonna get me in trouble, make me a god, and then... fuck, what are we gonna tell the Church?", he laughs, breathily, and halfheartedly. He looks genuinely bewildered, and you're not sure if that's a good thing. "Jesus, what am I gonna do about you?", he asks, collapsing his forehead onto your chest. Then, suddenly, he shoots up. "I'll get you some tissues for that."

You're pretty sure this is your chance to run, but you're not sure how to go about it, I mean, there's a door and windows out here, but he's too close to them. There's... a window in the bathroom, and you figure that's your best shot. "I'll... go wash it off."

He nods, not looking up as he forages through the cupboards of the motel for tissue.

You lock the bathroom door shut.

The mirror in here's closer than the one outside. On the side of your neck, there lay two puncture wounds : angry, fleshy, burning and vermillion.

"Hey, on second thought, we don't know if the water here's alright, especially with the storm outside, don't risk an infection.", calls Nate. "Come out. Now!"

Oh, thanks, man. An infection's what you're most worried about right now.

You can't escape right now, anyway, you figure. There's no way. If you take even one more second in there, he'll figure out what's up.

So, begrudgingly, you unlock the door, moving back out to let him clean up the wound he's caused.

"You'll be fine.", he assures, oddly kind for someone who'd clearly been planning to mind control you and feast on your blood a lot longer than just tonight, or even yesterday. No, this is premeditated.

You let him gently lean you down onto the bed, onto white pillows that will now be stained a debilitating scarlet, you'd assume. But you can't focus on that. You're more focused on his awestruck gaze, the way his blood-stained lips part in quiet disbelief. He looks up and down your neck. "Fuck. I almost couldn't stop, y'know? That's dangerous."

You nod.

"And plus, I like you. Like, actually."

You're not sure why he keeps saying that and then doing the intense-eye-contact thing at the same time. Does he desperately need you to believe he liked you? Or does he need to convince you he's not an absolute psycho murder-vamp? Or... worst of all... is it not you who needs that convincing at all?

"I mean, there's hot, and then there's... gorgeous, y'know?", he asks, bracketing your hair before he frowns, tilting his head to the side as he reaches into your pocket to pull out some strands that'd elegantly creeped down there like vines. You hear a tiny sizzle. "The hell is— fuck!", he hisses, yanking his hand away like something had burned him.

Shitshitshitshit. Your survival instincts finally get the hint, and before you know it, you've leaped off the bed, and locked yourself into the bathroom, trying desperately to unjam the window, screaming for the neighbours, the fire department, gods, anyone, who could help you.

There's an eerie silence coming from outside, and you know it's not because your tiny tuft of vervain has killed him. Maybe he's left in order to lock you in, so you can chill out (and refill on blood) until he's back. Maybe he's just going to skip town, now that his secret's out.

Fuck, you should've brought your phone in here. You bang on the window, trying to shimmy it out of its lock, but no, it stays, stubbornly.

Then, in one fell swoop, the bathroom door's chain lock snaps open like it's not super strong metal, but is a piece of dental floss.

Nate Jacobs steps in, mouth still slightly stained with your blood, and looking hella calm for someone you'd expect would be summoning all of his masculine and vampirical rage right about now.

He frowns, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "So. I'm guessing none of my compulsion worked. "

You stare back at him like he's just spoken to you in Latin.

"Why don't you come with me? The storm's over. I'll drive you home, and we can talk about this on the way."

Oh, he's gonna murder you and bury you, isn't he?

You shake your head.

"Scout's honour, I'm not gonna hurt you. Here, I'll—", he offers, biting into his own wrist, like a fucking weirdo, and offering it to you. "Vampire blood will heal you."

What the fuck? "I'm not drinking that."

"Alright, fine. Traditional, human treatment, it is, then. I'll let you drive. Do you know how to drive stick? No, y'know, I don't let just anyone drive my car, I mean, last time Maddy tried driving, scratched it, and my Dad lost his shit, so, y'know.", he rambles, rubbing at the back of his neck like this was some kind of sitcom episode. "But I'll take you to the hospital, then home. And on the way, we'll... talk about this."

Talk about this? Talk about how he's a FUCKING VAMPIRE and he'd just fed on you, and planned to make you mindlessly let him?

You almost scoffed. But you're sure Uber's not gonna work after the storm.

And you need to get home.

"Ah-ah. Holdin' onto that. And you're not sitting in the back. Can't have you like, gesturing to others that I'm a kidnapper.", he warns, shoving your phone into his pocket.

You sit. You look out the window. You click your seatbelt on. A pathetic substitute for safety.

He doesn't comment, and instead, pulls out of the slippery, broken-branch-laden parking lot of the motel. Once you're on the highway, he clears his throat, with a little charming chuckle.

"Ask away. I know it's been eating at you. Uh, no pun intended."

What did he think this was, some vamp-Q&A? "What?"

"What I would've done if I didn't find the vervain."

"What would you have done?"

"I'd have taken care of you — same way as I'm doing now — but just... a little less impressed, and a little more amused." Impressed? Why, 'cause you got away with it for so long?

"Thanks, that makes me feel A-okay again.", you mumble, turning up the radio.

He snorts, turning it off. "You've known me since I was a human. Right?"

You nod.

"And when have I ever chased a bitch? Huh? But I'm chasin' you, alright? I could've killed you in there. I've done it before, I'll be honest. 'Wild animal attacks' and shit on the news? That's me. But I'm not, because I actually fuckin' like you."

Your friend Kat's little brother was mauled by one of these 'animal attacks' a little while back, so him joking about — or, admitting to — this feels like a sick joke designed to make you throw up instantaneously.

"Listen, c'mon, I tried compelling you to not feel pain, didn't I?"

Yeah, so?

"And I made sure you didn't kiss me under compulsion — and you didn't, did you? You were into it. The whole time, you were into it, even when I called myself your boyfriend, you were into it, so I don't know why this is such—"

You're gonna have to stop him right there. "You murder people, Nate."

"I have no choice. What am I, supposed to starve for the greater good? Who do you think I am? Mother Teresa? Gandhi? Hey, listen, I have no intention to hurt people. You gotta believe me. I like you, like a lot, hell, I'd say I love you, but you'll blow that outta proportion and say I'm fuckin' with you or sm'n, I don't know!", he cries, trying his hardest to emulate exasperation and, more importantly, desperation. He's good at it, and he knows this because you haven't pushed his hand off your headrest as of yet.

It feels like he is compelling you, because you're sitting in a car, driven by a (quite literally) cold-blooded murderer and you feel... safe, for the most part. Sure, he could probably just suck the rest of your blood dry and then dump you in a ditch for East Highland to add you to the animal attack statistics, but for some reason... you kinda get the gut feeling he won't do it.

And that's the kind of demented I-can-fix-him mindset that gets dumbass girls killed.

"You sucked my blood out of my body, what part of that do you think I'm supposed to be attracted to?"

"I love that that's where your head's at. Like, it doesn't matter if you're okay with the actual bleeding or not, but what matters is that you're not entirely attracted to it. Yet.", he teases, pinching your cheeks with too much force to be cute aggression.

You don't respond to it the way he wants you to, so he unbuckles your seatbelt and comes to a perilous speed. "A road accident could kill you.", he informs you, like you didn't fucking know that, already.

He reaches into his pocket, and for some reason, you kinda know it's not another cheap vending machine snack to win your favour and forgiveness. But you didn't expect a fucking revolver pressed up against your head. Cocked. "A gun could kill you.", he tells you, while fiddling around under his dashboard with one hand, while the other holds the gun to your head. Meaning no one is manning the fucking car.

"Nate—"

"And, like, I think if you trust me enough to book you a motel — and you know what happens in those things — then you can trust me not to drain you of your ambrosia-ass blood, huh?", he muses, still preoccupied with the glove compartment.

You stay as still as you possibly can with imminent death facing you and fever-dream visions of the Grim Reaper reflecting in the side-view mirror.

"Where's that girl? Hm? I kinda have a thing for her.", he murmurs, his gun slowly snaking down next to your temple, his thumb and forefinger absentmindedly playing with tufts of your hair.

There's a gun pointed at you. You're in a car going 120. There's a fang-wound in your neck, put there by a vampire. There's a giant fallen tr— fuck! "Nate! There's a fallen tree!"

His speed's unnatural as he veers away, possibly leaving skid marks. Well, if the blood sucking and lock-breaking weren't enough, here's even more proof he's a fucking folklore nightmare.

"I can see how that speed's a tactical advantage." Wow. Great. Imminent death makes you dumb and unfunny, apparently. However, he's not a tough crowd at all, because he starts chortling at your comment. Oh, no, wait, it's because he's got what looks to be one of those devil mini-bottle of tequila.

"Bottoms up.", he grins, and just when you think this fuckass is going to add drinking and driving to his list of ways to kill you, he forces the bottle to your mouth so hard you're sure he's cut your lip or something.

You gulp it because you can't do anything else.

"You could die of intoxication.", he tells you, before gently prodding at you with the gun to bring your notice to the essentially illegal amounts of those same bottles that he's got in there. "Or at least a really shitty hangover."

"Nate—"

"So, my point is. There's lotta things that could kill you, baby.", he declares, matter-of-factly. "But I'm not one of them."

And fuck you, but you actually do, in some weird way, know that that's truth. Okay — "know" is a strong word, maybe more... strongly feel.

"I suppose you'll destroy my vervain."

"What? No. The fuck? You need that shit for your bouquets. Winter Formal and all that."

You can't help it. You burst into laughter. Fear-stricken, pathetic laughter. He's concerned for your family's stupid fucking flower business. All-rounder, rich, QB with a blindingly bright future, jock, vampire Nate Jacobs is concerned that the loss of your Winter Formal bouquet orders will bankrupt you, or something. You're gonna lose it, you're gonna go insane, right in this very car, you're sure of it.

"You won't be able to feed on most people at the Formal, though. Or... compel, for that matter."

Great, vampire-social-service-worker-of-the-year award goes to you. That's your big takeaway.

"That's my lookout. I'm a good boyfriend, and I'll do what I can to take care of my needs elsewhere."

"Jesus Christ, Nate, you are not my boyfriend!"

"No? Then why are we going to the Winter Formal together?", he asks, a look of mock question on his face.

"We're not."

"No?" He rubs jaw, before the gun that you'd almost stopped feeling for a moment is taken off your skin. "I thought we were."

Then, the gun's under his jaw, and you're not sure how much more psychotic a person can get. "Nate—"

"No, it's okay, I'm immortal, see? I can't be killed. Of course, I've heard that the right angle could just get me somewhere I don't wanna go, but that's just conjecture, huh? I call bullshit, whaddayasay?"

"Are you threatening to kill yourself if I don't date you?"

"What? That's something a psycho would do. And I'm just a loving boyfriend." There's a miniscule adjustment of the round on the revolver before it travels lower, down to his heart — or where one should be — as he stares straight ahead and drives like he's some workaday bloke back from his ho-hum job. "I'm just thinking, we can test the whole immortality thing. I haven't really died yet. I wanna see if there really are gates or if it's some kind of more secure, ironclad system."

You nearly scoff and make him shoot himself out of spite, though thankfully you don't. HE thinks he's getting into heaven?

"Nate, stop being like this."

"So date me and I'll never try to kill myself."

"You can't die."

"So I'll kill myself. Or become brain dead for all eternity."

"That makes no sense."

"Neither does you having nectar-blood that's perfectly made for me, but here we are."

He says it like he's saying a leaf's a part of a tree. Undeniable. Universal. Factual. Then, the gun gently goes into the glove compartment, with a harsher clatter than necessary. You suppose that's a cue for : he's pissed because reality's coming crashing down on him as you re-enter familiar roads.

The roads are starting to fit together in your lightheaded, traumatized, slightly tipsy mind — god, how many criminal offences is that? At least three? — and you suppose that's just winding Nate up more, because not only are you reaching known territory, your brain's catching up, which isn't good for him.

"Hey. Look at me.", he orders, fingers gently slapping at one side of your face to get your head to turn to him. "You can keep a secret, can't you, baby? I know you can."

If you don't, you won't have to worry about a gun or a car or alcohol killing you. He'll finish the job himself. He pulls up in front of the hospital.

"Who'd believe me?", you mutter, dry and basically trying to keep from screaming or crying or both.

"Another great point, yes. And plus, uh, you're basically a hero to the community, right?"

He looks at you so earnestly you could punch him. Is this a vampire thing or a Nate Jacobs thing? "What?"

"Y'know, since you're gonna let me feed off you when I need to."

He smiles, charming, effortless, sinister, as he reaches his thumb to your bottom lip, where he'd caused a cut thanks to the aggressive handling of the tequila. He runs his thumb over your lip, before he brings it to his own tongue, letting you watch your own scarlet paint his tongue, before sucking on it.

But you have had it up to here with him.

"Oh, yeah? Did I sign somethin' to agree to that? Fuck off, Nate."

He lets you open the door — though he considers locking all of them and knocking you unconscious until the vervain's out of your system — and scramble out, grabbing your things, but he does lean over. "I'd hurt fewer other people, in the process.", he suggests. Fuck.

You pop your head back through the open door. "Fuck off."

He throws his hand up. "Just don't put vervain in my bouquet order for you for the Formal. Or the corsage. Could put a damper on the night."

Nate smiles as you slam the door.

Hey, he's got an ambrosia-blooded bitch who's all but agreed to keep his secret and be his beautiful girlfriend, not to mention blood-bag, and he'd done it all with no compulsion. No compulsion, just charm and good-old fashioned gaslighting, plus traumatic manipulation.

Hell of a rebound, and definitely something he can see lasting him a good while.

He's still got it.