#vampire smut

Your mama had told you to fill a pitcher of water from the well that you had on your property, and you, being the good girl you were, obeyed without more than a ‘yes, ma’am.’

Your life hadn’t been anything fancy—You lived in the same house your entire life. You’d never gone farther south than Jackson and never been farther north than Memphis. Your daddy was a preacher; your mama was a devoted wife. You had lived in the same bedroom your entire life, tracing the same cracks in your walls since you were little. 

The depression had hit your little town as hard as it had hit the rest of the country, but when people got desperate and scared, they turned to the lord. While everyone else was worried where their next meal was coming from, your daddy had become the most popular man in town. 

Being the preachers’ daughter, you hadn’t made many friends— other girls didn’t think you’d make a particularly reliable presence in their mischief. And when you were younger, you didn’t mind so much—there had been plenty of chores for you to do. Even as you got older, you didn’t necessarily mind your quiet social life. You found comfort in the few books you could get your hands on, reading anything and everything you could find. 

Your folks didn’t care for that—blaming your wandering eye for knowledge on temptation, telling you that if you wanted to read, you should invest more time in the ‘good book’, and you had nodded and agreed at the time, not bothering to tell them that the good book wasn’t as good as the adventure stories you kept under your bed. 

Even that day your mama had sent you to the well, your mind was somewhere else. It had been a habit of yours, to stare off into space, to the edge of the property line, and just go. Anywhere you wanted. In your head, you were not barely beating the mid-summer heat, a pitcher leaning on your hip—you were in some far-off metropolis, dancing and drinking and learning—

When you glanced towards the edge of the property line, ready to mumble out some dramatic line you had read from one of your books when your eyes met his. He was just standing there. Like you were a play he had been watching for a long time. 

From that far, you couldn’t make out many of his features, and somehow, it made him even scarier. Something about him filled you with dread as you looked at him, and you found yourself not wanting to turn your back on him even as you walked back to your house. But you heard your mama call for you from the porch and knew you couldn’t walk backwards—you’d be accused of demonic possession and scheduled for an exorcism by sunrise. 

So, you made your first in a long list of vampire-related mistakes. 

You turned your back to him and ignored your gut telling you to drop your water pitcher and run back to the house. 

When you got to the porch, your mama had this look on her face. 

“You alright? You’re lookin’ pale,” She said, worry seeping through her words. You pushed out an airy laugh, shaking your head.

“I’m okay, you know how I get when it’s hot like this,” You lied like it was natural—and at this point, you felt like it was. When you had a reputation for being a good girl, no one ever suspected that the words that left your mouth easily were far from the truth.

“Well, alright, hurry up and wash up for bed.” She ordered, before taking the water pitcher from your hands. You were quick to follow, but glanced back to the edge of the property line and—

Mistake number two. 

He was closer now, leaning against the well you were just using, and you could see his features more clearly now. Mostly, you saw that he had dark hair, that an instrument was wrapped around him, and that he reminded you of something dark; something unnatural. 

And there was something about him that made you dizzy, and you wondered what he sounded like when he spoke. You’d get your answer two whole weeks later.

But for those two weeks, you were haunted. It was like he was your ghost, but what had you done to deserve insomnia, stitched between nightmares, and paranoia? You felt like you were being watched. You dreaded the sunset, because you’d see him in the corner of your eye, like a shadow. You’d dream of red irises in black voids—you hadn’t even noticed red eyes, had you? 

It was starting to affect everything. Church was first—a week after this haunting began, you were sitting in church, at the 9:00 a.m. service. You had spent the entire night awake with a pillow over your head trying to escape, go to whatever daydream could break this spell. Then, you were snapped out of it at dawn with a sharp knock at your bedroom door, to get ready for the service, always having errands to run; cookies to bake, people to meet, and church services to participate in. 

But then, while your daddy was doing his sermon, you felt the warm morning sun on your face, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes flutter closed.. And you began to daydream. Drift off, just.. let go. 

He never watched you while the sun was out, he never lingered past sunrise. You were safe.

Nothing could hurt you in the house of the—

Slam!

A smack of a book to your hand jerked you awake, a stinging sensation shooting across the back of your hand, as you looked up, your eyes meeting your fathers. And without another word, he went back to his sermon. 

Shit.

And for the next week, you started to crumble further. You’re jumpy, scared and worst of all—you’re always on the verge of tears. On Monday, a shopping trip with your mama turns into a lecture about respect for her words. By Wednesday, you don’t even want to eat you’re so tired. Friday into Saturday, you think you can hear whispering and it doesn’t stop, causing you to let out soft whimpers as tears stream down your face—you just want to be left alone.

So, Sunday morning, you planted the seeds of ‘I’m not feeling too good’, needing a night to just sleep. To rest. 

Your folks bought it—well, maybe they just saw how badly you wanted to stay home, but with your luck, they would’ve reminded you that the lord heals— But they didn’t. Instead, they told you to get some rest and that you could have some supper left over from the night before.  

As soon as they left for the evening service, you went up to your room and collapsed on your bed. It was a cooler night than it had been in weeks, a rare break from the soldering heat you were used to. You didn’t need to open your windows for it to be cool enough to sleep and that was a blessing. You fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. As if someone had snapped their fingers. 

And you weren’t sure how long you slept. But it was a wonderful reprieve from—

Tap, tap, tap!

Your eyes shot open. Someone was at the front door. 

And you knew who it was. 

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. You took a deep breath. And you made mistake number three. You got up from bed, pulled on your robe, and went to the front door. You took a deep breath. Now or never. You just wanted him to let you sleep. 

You were so tired.

So, you opened the door and got your first good look at your ghost. 

He had dark hair, and had dark edges, as you had remembered—but he had no instrument wrapped around him. And his face was more.. boyish than you would’ve thought yet complimented by smile lines and crows feet. He had a smile that made your stomach turn.

“Good evenin’,” His voice takes you back—for the most part, he had a southern drawl, but there was something else about it—something foreign. Unfamiliar. Ancient. “Hope I didn’t wake ya.”

And that strikes a chord—because you know it’s him that has been keeping you up, so you’re already feeling defensive. 

“Can I help you with somethin’?” 

This causes him to laugh a bit, and you just stare at him. 

“Would you mind if I came in for a minute? I been walkin’ ‘round all day and just need to rest my feet.” He says, and his words are so.. innocent. But he stares at you like you’re prey. 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” You say softly, and he tilts his head, leaning in a bit, his eyes burning into your skin as they wander your nightgown. You pull your robe tighter. 

“How come? You all alone in there?” His voice drops a bit, and there’s something much more sinister behind his words. When you don’t respond, he continues, “Say, you wouldn’t be the daughter of that preacher I saw givin’ his sermon earlier, would you?” He asks, and you’re not sure how he knows about your daddy’s preaching considering you never feel him watching you during the day—but you don’t care. Every inch of you is screaming to run away. To slam the door shut and hide in your closet until your parents get home. Maybe you should’ve grabbed your Pa’s gun before answering the door.

“Can I help you?” You repeat your question, your grip on the door tightening. 

“Didn’t your mama ever teach you manners?”

“She taught me to not talk to strangers.” 

That makes him scoff. 

“Well, my name’s Remmick. What’s yours?” He asks, and you decide to add a tick on the list of mistakes—and you give him your name. Remmick doesn’t seem surprised, like this isn’t new information in the slightest. “Well, we ain’t strangers anymore-- your daddy’s the preacher, right?”

“Yes. He’s preachin’ now, right in town. You should go and check it out.” You’re trying to get him out of here, off your front porch and out of your life. But his feet do not move. It seems as if he’s exactly where he wants to be—well, almost. 

“Now why would I do that when I can talk to his pretty lost lamb?” You almost take a step back at that. 

Pretty? Lost?

“Ain’t no one lost here, except maybe you.” You remind, and he shakes his head,

“Nah, see, now I just don’t think that’s true. You wanna know what I really think, sugar?” He doesn’t give you an answer before he continues, “I think you’ve been lost for a long time. I think you’ve had your head in the clouds, dreamin’ ‘bout somewhere you ain’t never been. And I think you’ve been waitin’ for me to take you there.” 

His words aren’t accusatory, they’re knowing. 

And deep down, you know they’re right. That you have been waiting for something to change for years. But why would you let him believe he’s right?

“Well, I don’t think anyone pays you to do much thinkin’, so I don’t buy whatever it is you’re sellin’.” 

It makes him laugh. 

“No, you don’t yet. But you will.” He says, “Don’t matter how long it takes, one day.. you’re gonna let me in.”

You scoff as you go to close the door. 

“You’ll be waitin’ a long time.”

His words hit you just as you close the door—

“That’s alright, lass. I’m patient.” 

-

You start recalling memories that aren’t yours. Glimpses. 

A soft touch, a flicker of a white dress, and then a whisp of fire. 

Remmick ruins the dream every time. He shows up, and the dream ends, disappearing into clouds of smoke, but when you wake, you could swear you’ve lived hundreds of years. Tuesday night, you bid your folks goodnight, promising to help your mother with cleaning in the morning, 

Then, you wait. 

You wait for a long time. You sit on your bed, and you’re not sure when you start to fall asleep. But before you know it, you’re dreaming again, and this time the dream has a different sort of fuzziness, like film, just like the movies they showed in town (you’d made a habit of sneaking into the theatre while on errands in town.) And this time, the dream isn’t filled with dread. 

But every bit of it feels real. 

The dream starts with you in a bedroom, and someone throwing stones against the glass of your window. It’s as if you’re watching yourself open the window and help someone inside—but you feel the warmth of his hand spread up your arm as you pull him inside, the laugh that escapes him also escapes you, and before you can do much else, his lips are on yours. And it feels real, like you know the feeling well. 

Remmick looks younger. Younger than you’ve ever seen him. His crows feet and smile lines are far less pronounced, and his hair is much lighter than you recall, even with a bit of scruff. And he’s happy. The way he smiles spreads a warmth across your chest, as if you are the one he’s pressing against the bed, whispering about—

Well, he’s whispering in choppy, broken words, his accent thick and foreign. And yet, as if you know him like you know yourself, despite having had one, brief conversation with him, you understand him despite his unfamiliar accent—

“You’re so pretty,” he starts, and you can feel the heat at your core, his fingers finding slick folds as he stretches you out for his cock with his fingers. You’ve never been touched like this before outside of these dream-memories, but it’s like he’s fucking you with his fingers, and you’re letting him—hell, you’re enjoying it, “Letting me fill you up like this, bein’ such a good girl for your—"

You wake up before he can finish his sentence, waking up with a start, blinking as you looked around your now dark bedroom. You rub your eyes, feeling sweat drip down your forehead as you wipe the hair from your face. Your chest is heaving up and down as you attempt to ground yourself; You’re safe, you think, nothing is wrong, and—

Your thighs are coated with a silky wetness, because that dream—or maybe it was a memory—felt so real. You’re waiting for your brain to catch up to the way your body is buzzing for more, chasing an unfamiliar touch that you have always known. You try to reason with yourself. 

You’re being difficult, you think.

How could you possibly have been that close to him, he didn’t even come inside on Sunday, you remind. 

What would he have finished that sentence with?, you wonder, before shaking your head and leaning over to your bedside table to find your crucifix, but you’re interrupted just as your hand finds the chain with a tap, tap, tap!—

Your eyes drift to the window, covered by a thin white curtain, but you can see his silhouette through it, and just the thought of him makes you nauseous—and maybe something else, a little more sinister, a little less than holy. 

But you were waiting for him, not that you’d ever admit it, especially not to him, so you clutch the crucifix in your hand, the metal of the cross digging into your palm, before going over to the window and opening the curtain, like ripping off a bandage with bated breath—

And you let out a soft exhale of relief (with a dash of disappointment) when you find no one standing in front of the window. You blink, and when you open your eyes, suddenly there he is, his eyes burning holes into your skin. The sudden appearance makes you jump (you feel like your soul’s left your body, but you’re not that lucky), which causes Remmick to start laughing at your fear.

Over two weeks of sleep deprivation, nightmares, downright torture, has worn you down. Tears fill your eyes, angry tears that threaten to run down your face, but you just blink them back, and when your eyes open again, they harden into a glare at the man through the glass. Your hands are moving before you can stop yourself, opening the window and telling him—

“If you’re looking to kill me, stop being a pussy and get it over with.” Your voice is sharp, and it makes him laugh again. He’s looking at you like he’s already won. You quietly wonder how long it will take you to understand whatever game he’s playing with you. 

“I don’t wanna kill yer, sugar.” He answers, and you think about the dream you had. Were those really his hands? But why did it feel like it was you he was touching?

“Then, what do you want?” You wonder, and he shrugs. 

“I want you to invite me inside.” It clicks then, that in the dream, there was no invitation, he had just climbed through the window. The gears in your mind begin to move, and your eyes flicker down to his neck, where two small puncture wounds sit as if he had been—

You take a step forward to look at the teeth that he bears, and Remmick humors you, a sickening grin spreading over his face as you peer—and then you step back as if you were worried he’d lunge and bite you (and he would).

“Clever girl,” he praises, and you can feel a shiver of something unfamiliar run down your spine. 

“Vampires aren’t real,” You say, and he gives you this look. You’re moving around your room, turning your back to him (idiot), and digging around for your copy of Dracula. You had to keep it hidden from your parents, not wanting them to accuse you of being persuaded by the devil (Ha.) You glance back at Remmick, who’s just looking at you and smiling, and wonder if maybe you are. You step back towards him to continue your thought, “So all I have to do to get rid of you is stake you through the heart?” You wonder, and he puts a hand right over where his heart should be. 

“Ya could just ask me to leave instead of snappin’ at me, lass.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, and it makes him smile again. 

“Y’know, that Stoker guy, he gives men like me a bad name,” he starts, “That whole ‘we can’t rest on foreign soil’ thang is a load of shit,” he informs, a smirk on his face. “I can rest anywhere, so long that there’s a pretty girl layin’ there with me.”

The comment goes over your head, because you’re too busy putting the pieces together to acknowledge the way he flirts with you. 

“But I bet he got the other stuff right,” You say, “I never see you in the sun, only ever at night, and you can’t come inside without invitation.” 

Remmick’s fingers curl around your windowsill as he stares at you, as if he’s finding some self-control before he talks again, 

“Yer a smart one, I’ll give ya that.” He hums, “Did I wake you?” 

You look at him with a snap. Something about the way he says it makes you realize he knows exactly what kind of dream you were having. 

“How did you do that? Get inside my head like that?” You question, and Remmick shakes his head. 

“That ain’t me.” He says. 

“Looked a whole damn lot like you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“I didn’t put that in ya head,” He promises, “You did that all by yerself.”

Your hands come up to rub your eyes, and when you stop, you look up to Remmick again, and he’s looking at you. For a long time. But his gaze isn’t predatory, it’s almost.. yearning. Like he knows something you don’t—or at least, something you haven’t accepted yet. 

“If I let you in,” You start, and when Remmick smiles, his teeth look sharper, “What will you do?” You wonder, recalling that vampires weren’t exactly known for their kindness, their softness.

Remmick tries something he hasn’t in a long time, but, he’d admit to himself later, you always knew how to make him a better man, so he tells you the truth;

“Well, first I’d really like to kiss ya.” He starts, and he tilts his head like a loyal dog, looking at you. “Then, I think I’ll fuck you, nice and slow, that way you really feel every inch of me buried inside of ya,” His vulgar words make you blush, and he seems to like the way you’re frozen in place, “and I’ll be really sweet about it too, don’t you worry, baby, I’ll make you cum over and over again—and I won’t stop kissin’ you neither. And when I’m sure you’re fucked out, curling against me, I’ll ask you if I can bite ya.” He says, “It’ll be up to you. I already told you, I am a patient man.” He leans forward, his fingers curling around the windowsill, and before you know it, you’re moving to slam the window shut, thankful that Remmick pulls his fingers away quick enough to not get his fingers crushed. 

He laughs as he steps back, clearly enjoying your reaction. You glare at him, and it doesn’t seem to shake him at all. 

“I can’t stand you,” You huff, and it only eggs him on. You close the curtain as drool drips down his chin. 

-

You give in on a Thursday. 

Well, you don’t fully give in. 

But you do let him fuck you. 

Alright, yeah, it’s not your brightest idea, but you’re running on empty when it happens. You haven’t slept through the night in weeks, and you keep having these dreams about all the ways he can touch you. 

And maybe, you reason, if you get a fix of him, you could focus. Figure out what it is about him that tortures you, figure out why you have memories you don’t remember living. That night, when he shows up, you’re lingering in your doorway, and he smiles like he knows. Maybe he does. 

You feel crazy. You’d venture to guess you are crazy. 

And maybe that’s why, when he sees you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the edge of the door, just beyond his reach, his face forms into something kind of soft, and without a word, he sits in front of you, mirroring your position. Except, you’re sitting with your posture rigid, and Remmick leans back on palms spread across the wood of your porch.

You keep the gun you should’ve pointed at him the first night you met right out of view, but within reach. Just in case. 

“Why, Hi there, sugar.” His voice does not seem to be letting up on any teasing, despite the look of fondness on his face. 

You look at him for a long, quiet moment. You have a million questions, but finally decide on,

“Why won’t you let me sleep?” You continue when he goes to open his mouth, “And don’t tell me you want me to let you in. I won’t. You know I’m not gonna, so why not just let me sleep through the night? Why torture me, wondering if those dreams are memories or not? Why not spare me the filth, the sin?” 

Remmick smiles at this. He shifts so he’s leaning forward now.

“I’ll cut ya a deal.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You let me in, and you never have to worry about sleep again.”

You’re not a perfect person. You consider it for a second. But you’re also not stupid, understanding it’s exactly what he wants. 

“Counteroffer,” You start, and Remmick looks amused. You’re glad (Kind of, not really) that at least one of you finds this funny. “You take a hike for the night and let me catch up on a few hours, without any implanted memories either.”

“How ‘bout you consider my offer again?” He hums, and you shrug. 

“Then I guess we have nothing to talk about.” You say, “Goodnight Remmick,” you hum, before standing up, turning away from him and moving to close the screen door when you hear—

“Wait—Just, wait a minute, baby, let’s talk about this.” You can’t help the smirk on your face, wiping it off quick before sitting back down in front of him. He lets out a huff before telling you, “Alright, how about.. You come outside,” he starts, holding a finger up when you open your mouth to counter, “I won’t bite you, but you let me show you how real those memories can be.” His tone is rich, starving for something. Your finger twitches at the idea.

This moment is probably the worst of your vampire related mistakes. 

“And then, when you’re done, you’ll let me sleep.” You say, and he smiles. 

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for you to shake. 

“Deal—Woah!” As soon as your hand grasps his, he’s pulling you past the doorway and onto the porch, right on top of him. His laugh pierces your ears as cold hands spread across your sides.

“You’re a naïve thing.” His tone is too sweet, and your face is too red. 

“You’re a dick.” You grumble back, and he squeezes your sides, 

“You have a dirty mouth for a church girl.” He accuses, his hands beginning to roam. Your face is flush with embarrassment, but you can’t stop thinking about how cold he is, like a body that’s lost it’s heat. It’s really unsettling, but you’d be lying if it didn’t make you want him worse. Something about his non-human qualities draws you in. 

“We can’t do this here,” you remind.

“Why not?” 

 “Besides my folks sleepin’ bout ten feet from us?” You ask rhetorically and Remmick lets out a huff. It almost makes you smile. 

“Fine, we’ll go somewhere more private, just give me a kiss,” He grins, and it’s your turn to scoff. 

“You’re insatiable.” You accuse, “Say please.” 

 Remmick looks at you for a long time. 

“Please.” He finally answers, and you reward him by pressing your lips to his. He eagerly leans into it, tilting his head a bit, giving your lips a better angle to melt into his. He adjusts in one fluid motion, sitting up with you in his lap now. His kiss is desperate, needy. His hands move up to cradle your face.

He kisses you slowly, wanting to really take his time with you, proving to you just how patient he’ll be for you. He can be good, he wants to say, he can be so good for you. 

His tongue lips your lips before he’s pulling away to whisper, “How ‘bout I fuck you in the field behind your house?” he wonders, “Would ye like that, lass?” He asks, and before you can answer, his hand moves up your skirt and between your thighs, his fingers finding your damp underwear. You gasp at the feeling, and he smiles. “Yeah, I recon you would.” 

His lips find yours again, and he’s wrapping his arms around you and hoisting you up, carrying you towards the back of the house as you cling onto him, giggling against his lips as he kisses you, over and over again. 

When you’re in the field, Remmick pauses, not wanting to put you down, but needing to take off the shirt he’s wearing so he can fuck you on the grass. He sighs, before setting you down so you can stand. 

“Don’t you go nowhere,” He advises,  and there’s no room for argument in his words. You happily watch him unbutton his shirt, before laying it on the grass. He sits down on the shirt and lays back, holding his hands out to him. “C’mere,” he requests, and he holds your hands to steady as you position yourself ontop of him, your knees resting on his shirt. 

You admire his torso. He’s pale, but he looks strong. Rough hands come up to brush hair out of your face before he grips your hips, pulling you down so your clothed cunt is pressing on his growing erection. You groan softly, as Remmick’s mouth meets yours, pulling you in for a kiss. 

His fingers find your panties as you kiss, and the way your hips roll against his hard on does not go unnoticed by him. His fingers travel further, beginning to tease your folds as you moan into his mouth. His tongue explores your mouth, like he’s trying to suck your face off. 

There’s no fanfare as Remmick’s fingers slip inside of you, except for you letting out a whine as you adjust to the feeling. You wiggle your hips, as if you’re trying to move away from him, 

“No, Shh, C’mon, Lass,” He hums, catching your mouth with his lips, silencing the way you whine and moan, “It’s okay, I’ve got ya, just relax for me, yeah?” He says softly, beginning to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. You hum, inhaling sharply. 

You can do this, you think. You want this so bad. You move your hips towards him instead of away, and let out a sharp gasp as he moves his fingers,

“That’s it, that’s my clever girl,” he mumbles softly, “You know how to ride my fingers just perfectly, don’t you? You sure this is yer first time?” He mumbles, whispering into your ear, licking sweat off the skin of your cheek. He moves his fingers faster now, edging you on to ride his fingers.

You let out an annoyed huff when he asks that, only to be cut off with a soft whine when he moves his fingers faster. 

“You know it’s my first time.” You mumble, and he smirks. 

“Well, it ain’t mine.” 

Yeah, you had a feeling. 

“Whatever,” You whine, continuing to ride his fingers. 

“Just let me stretch you out,” he grumbles, “I’ll make you feel so good. C’mon, baby, let me make you feel so good,” His teeth graze your neck, but Remmick takes only a nibble, just to hear you gasp as he bites, before moving his fingers faster, making sure to hit just the right spot to make you see stars. 

“Oh, god,” You whine, “Rem, I’m close,” He shushes you softly, guiding your hips to ride his fingers. 

“There you go, look at you.. that’s it..” He coos softly, “Let go for me, all over my fingers,” He praises, biting the shell of your ear when you let out a sharp moan, biting your lip hard, enough to draw blood, even just a bit. His tongue is immediately on your lips as you ride your high, panting softly against his lisp. You give him this look and he shrugs. “Can’t blame a man for takin’ a taste.” He grins, before kissing you again, oh so slowly slipping his fingers out of you before he’s pulling away.

Then, he brings his hand up to his lips and licks one of the fingers you just came on, letting out a soft ‘mmm’, before holding the other two to your lips, wanting you to open your mouth. You’re both a little shocked at how easily you comply. You lick his fingers clean, and he’s drooling by the time you’re done. 

“I need to be inside of you,” he grumbles, beginning to unlatch his belt, before opening his pants, and pulling them down just a bit to pull out his cock. Then, his fingers move up to your thighs, pulling your panties down. 

He rolls them right off your legs, before having you sit back on his lap. He kisses you and stuffs your panties in his pocket while you’re distracted. Then, he’s guiding the tip of his cock towards your slits, teasing your wet, leaking folds. You gasp at that feeling, before rolling your hips forward. He huffs softly, before grabbing your hip with one hand, slowly pushing inside you, groaning softly at the feeling, before kissing you—

He doesn’t want you waking anyone nearby up. Then you might have to stop and Remmick might snap. He slowly pushes you to sit on his cock, and when you’re finally full of him, he gives you a moment to adjust. He keeps kissing you. Then, he feels you begin to roll your hips and clench around him. He begins to thrust into you, grabbing your hips so he can set the pace. 

You begin to melt, your hands resting on Remmick’s bare chest, stabilizing yourself as he fucks up into you, your hips beginning to shake as you get close. 

“Remmick,” You whimper, and he hums and kisses your head. 

Something strange happens as you he fucks you. Suddenly, you have déjà vu, remembering a filmy memory, just like that dreams you’ve been happening. Except in this memory, Remmick and you are in this exact position, his hips thrusting against yours—but you’re in a bed. It’s early morning, and in the memory, you go to look at his face, but he’s flipping you over suddenly, quickening his pace and using his free hand that isn’t on your hips to force your back down, as you moan into the pillows. 

When you open your eyes, Remmick is still making you ride him in the field behind your house. The memory was brief, only a flash—but it shakes you to your core, until you realize how close you are. 

“Oh, my god,” You whine softly, “Rem, ‘m close, honey,” he moans when you call him that, not stopping his pace as he fucks hard into you, feeling your legs spasm as you cum, moaning into his mouth. He keeps fucking you, and then you begin to pull away, but Remmick grabs your hips and pulls you back towards him, reveling in the way you clench around him.

He cums with a moan silenced by your mouth, but you wrap your arms around his neck, hands playing with his hair as he lays back, the two of you panting as he rubs up and down your sides. He listens to your heartbeat, loud in his ears, while looking at the stars. 

Neither of you talk for a long while. You take a break, just laying with one another, appreciating the moment. 

As you lay against him, warm cock still stuffed deep inside of you, filling you up perfectly, Remmick whispers in your ear, 

“Lass?” His voice is rough, and he’s panting gently. “Will you let me bite you?” He asks, and you know what this is. If you say no, and Remmick bites you anyways, you will die still leaking with his cum. 

You hesitate. 

He notices.

But he feels the way you clench around him when he asks.

“Not tonight, Rem.” You say, your tone a little too affectionate as you kiss him softly. He lets out a soft noise into the kiss, and he’s grateful for it, because it gives him time to find his patience. You just smell so god damn good.

“’mkay, sugar” he mumbles against your lips. “That’s alrght. I meant what I said, I won’t bite you until you let me.” He offers softly. 

“You promise?” You wonder. Remmick kisses your cheek. 

“I promise.” 

A long moment pauses. 

“You know I gotta go back inside,” You mumble against his lips, and Remmick groans, his head falling back against the grass. 

“Why you always gotta ruin my fun?” He wonders out loud, and you smile a bit. 

“Just lucky, I guess.” You tease as you sit up, starting to fix your hair and your top. “Hey, where the hell are my panties?” 

Remmick smiles a bit. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He offers, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that, Remmick?” You ask. Remmick smiles and looks at you for a long time. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” His words are honest, as honest as he can be. You just smile at him and press a kiss to the space between his eyes. 

“Well, being apart only makes the reunion sweeter.” You remind, and Remmick almost rolls his eyes. He just shakes his head. 

“But I hate to be apart from you,” and based on the way he made your thighs shake, you’re inclined to believe him.

“I know,” You hum, leaning in to kiss him again. He loves this playful, affectionate side of you. “But you told me you were a patient man. Besides, you owe me a good night’s sleep.” You recall, and he nods. 

“I did. And I am a man of my word, so,” he leans in and plans one long, warm kiss right to your lips, his tongue barely breaching your parted lips. Then he pulls away to say, “Off ye go, lass. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He promises, tapping your thigh over your dress and helping you up. He stands, plucking his shirt off the ground. You linger for a moment. 

“You don’t want to walk me home?” You wonder, and Remmick begins to button up his shirt with a soft exhale. 

“Yer pa’s awake,” He grumbles, “Plus.. I gotta eat.” He confesses. You notice, then, the way he moves with a subtle fatigue. He must be hungry. He must’ve thought there was a chance you said yes to being bitten tonight, wanting to really savor the meal he’d been dreaming of for over centuries.

Something about that makes your stomach turn. 

“Okay,” you oblige, because hey... he held up his end of the bargain. He isn’t biting you, and you’ll get a few hours. You just wonder what hunger must feel like to him, since the craving for human blood must be vastly different than the hunger you experienced, especially considering his life span. 

He could go a few weeks without eating before hunger hit him. 

But before you can walk away, he grabs your hand, before bringing it up to his lips, inhaling your scent sharply before dropping your hand. 

“Goodnight, lass.” He says softly, and you smile to him. 

“Goodnight, Remmick.” You say back, walking a couple steps forward before looking back to him, maybe just to see him one last time before he goes out in search of food. He’s standing there, shirt messily buttoned and wrinkled, covered in grass and dirt. He doesn’t mind. His eyes are fixed on you, just watching. 

You keep walking. When you get up to your porch, your face a bit warm, and your hair kind of sweaty, which you’d blame on the humidity, you remember what he said about your father, so you enter after taking a deep breath. 

And there he is, your father, having a cup of something that you doubt is water, while sitting at the table. You smile to him, going towards the cabinet to get a cup for water. 

“Where’d you get off to?” He wonders, and you shrug. 

“I couldn’t sleep. Figured a walk might be nice.” You say, and your father nods. 

“Is it a boy?” He asks, and you just smile again. Remmick isn’t a ‘boy’, he’s—well, he’s not like any man that you’ve ever known. 

“What?”

“Is it a boy that’s been keeping you up at night?” He asks, and you shake your head, 

“No, pa. Told you, I don’t sleep well in this heat.” You take a sip of your water. 

“Right.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to bed.” You yawn, “Night, pa.” You hum, and you don’t even hear him as he bids you goodnight, too busy imagining the night’s sleep you have ahead of you. You close the door behind you and flick your leg to kick your shoe off and doing the same thing with your other leg. 

You put on a thin silk thing to sleep in before glancing out your window. You can see the field where the two of you just were from here, and you see no sign of Remmick. Poor boy, you think, he must be starving. You hope whoever it is that feasts his hunger is good enough until you can figure out what to do about him. If maybe you should let him bite you. 

You fall right asleep as you soon as your head hits the pillow. You’re so tired. And, as foolish as it might be... You trust Remmick to let you sleep.

You sleep soundly that night, completely dreamless—The bright morning sun is shining through your windows, waking you up far too early. But that’s okay. 

You feel refreshed, and quite honestly, looking forward to the next time you’d see him. You spend all day thinking about him, wondering what he looks like when he’s sleeping.

-

By the time you wake up to Remmick’s game, it’s almost too late. 

He’s turned you into something you don’t recognize, and he hasn’t even sunk his teeth into you. You find yourself not caring for other people, busy thinking about your sharp toothed lover. Well, not that you ever cared for other people—but even little things like going to the shops and running errands go from mundane to agitating. All you want to do is wait around for the sun to set so you can sit on your porch and make out with him, ride his fingers, and play with his hair. 

Sometimes you read to him, other times he fiddles with a smaller four string guitar and plays music. You watch his face as he plays, sometimes humming a tune that sounds familiar and foreign at the same time. 

You don’t really sleep. Sure, the sleep deprivation makes you agitated and cranky, but something about Remmick soothes you out of those moods (So it’s torture when he’s not around. You think, in the back of your mind, that this is on purpose. You don’t mind as much as you used to.) And when you do, your dreams are full of those memories that aren’t yours.

Except, they are yours. 

There are glimpses of you in a mirror, and you’re met with your reflection as you know it. Sometimes the mirror is a small thing in that wood house where you pulled Remmick in through the window. Sometimes, the memories take place in a grand hall, with lots of candlelight, elegant music, and silk gloves. In those memories, Remmick stalks you, eyes full of adoration as a suitor spins you—mostly, you get glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye in those dreams. Sometimes, the dreams take place in a cramped apartment, where Remmick wipes soot off your face with a rag and a gentle touch. 

But there are other dreams too. 

Sometimes, you dream of that wood house burning to the ground, and it’s like you’re burning too. Sometimes, you dream of sharp claws cutting across your stomach, ruining a pretty silk gown. Sometimes, you dream of a mean laugh as your hand is crushed in a big power loom, your screams drowned out by the machine’s loud mechanical whirring.

A Saturday deep in the dog days of summer is when everything changes. Well, it started as Saturday, but when it happens, you’re pretty sure it’s early in the morning on Sunday. 

The night had started the same as it usually did. With you staying up, and stepping outside, taking his hand when he offered it to you. You had bit his shoulder trying to stay quiet, and your mouth had filed with a bitter, nasty bile, which caused you to pull away, right as you were riding him on the steps to your porch, and he had begged so sweetly, “C’mon, baby, don’t stop, you’re so tight around me”, and you appreciated the dirty talk, really, you do, but the taste of his.. blood(?) on your lips, in your mouth, on your tongue, causes you to mumble out a soft “Is that your blood? Does it even count as blood?” but Remmick didn’t really care about the question, thick drool dribbling down his chin at the sight of your face bloody, but not hurting, deciding instead to catch your lips in his to kiss you. 

When you had pulled your panties back on, and he had buttoned his pants, you found yourself leaning against the railings of the porch, your legs extended over his lap as he holds his guitar. As he tunes the strings, his hand rubs up and down your leg, a mindless action full of love. 

You had wiped his blood and his drool from your mouth, but the bitter taste lingered. You’d have gone inside to get a drink if you weren’t so infatuated with him. 

“Will you sing me something?” You finally ask, your voice cutting through the sounds of late summer, cicadas humming, frogs singing, crickets strumming. The perfect ensemble to accompany his voice. 

Remmick, for all his talk, all his humming, all his strumming, hesitates. And he finds himself asking why—why is he hesitating to sing you a song? Probably because his first instinct is to sing a song you know—well, a song a version of you knew, a long time ago. 

He looks at you and then smiles. 

“’Course, darlin’.” He hums. He puts his guitar to the side, causing you to sit up a little straighter, intrigued. He starts to utter soft words in a foreign tongue, a language you don’t know, a tune you can’t follow, and your hand finds his, your fingers curling around a gold band. You stand, and he keeps singing but his eyes follow you as you readjust, sitting right on his lap. A smile pierces through his voice as his other arm wraps around you. Your forehead rests against his, and his eyes close, then his voice becomes quieter as he gets to a familiar chorus.

A familiar chorus? 

Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers mess with his ring, and suddenly you’re not on the front porch of your folks’ shack, you’re somewhere else.

 You’re in that wooden house, and Remmick is singing this song as you sit in his lap. You’re wearing a pretty white dress, and when you look down to your hands wrapped around his, you’re taken back by the sight of your hand, a wedding band on your ring finger. You look back at Remmick’s face in the memory, and he opens his eyes, pausing his singing. 

“Mo ghrá thú,” and you aren’t sure what unsettles you more—the fact that you know exactly what that means, or the fact that your instinct is to say it back. 

Actually, you know exactly what takes the cake for ‘most unsettling’. It’s the fact that Remmick’s eyes are not the dark, sometimes red eyes that you’ve gotten used to. In this memory, fuzzy and filmy, Remmick’s eyes are a soft blue that take your breath away. 

Then, you open your eyes, scared. More scared than you had been in weeks. Scared of dying. Scared of Remmick. And honestly, you have every right to be, because Remmick is not only drooling like a dog, his teeth are big, sharp, and his mouth is open, hovering over your shoulder, jaw wide like he’s about to take a bite out of you. 

“What the fuck,” You spit, as you push him off you, taking a few paces back (adding another tick to the list of Vampire related mistakes, you’re supposed to be running towards the house, not away!). Your hand comes up to wipe blood dripping from your nose. Why your nose is bleeding, you don’t know, and honestly, you have bigger problems to deal with right now.

Remmick looks regretful. And you’re not particularly sure why, but you can tell that he doesn’t feel bad about almost biting you, he feels bad that he got caught before he could sink his teeth into your skin. 

“Lass—”

“You told me,” you recalled, and he wants to curse at you for being so damn smart, so damn hot, for making him want you so damn bad. “You told me that if you bit me, it would be up to me!” You’re angry. Hundreds of years of anger and fear has built up and is now oozing out of every pore. 

Remmick knew it couldn’t last forever. That eventually you’d figure it out, that he would push you too far. If he was human, it might make his heart ache. 

"I got caught up in the moment," Remmick sighs, “C’mere, sugar, come—”

“Let me see your ring.” You demand. 

He lets out a condescending chuckle, that comes across as disbelieving. But you’ve woken up to his tricks. 

“My ring?” He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous, now, baby, it’s just a—”

You extend your palm from where you are, a few steps back from him. Remmick wants to grab you, to finish this once and for all.. His eyes burn into yours as he pulls his golden band off, before tossing it to you. 

You catch it, your eyes never leaving his. You look down, bringing the ring up to your face, taking a long look at it. Your breath catches. Your name is etched onto the inscription, and you suspect that somewhere, a ring just like you saw on your own hand in that memory is inscribed with his name, buried somewhere long forgotten. 

You finally look up at him, after what feels like an eternity (Remmick would laugh at that. You have no idea what it is to wait.).

“So,” You inhale, “When were you gonna tell me that when you were human, you were married to me? Well, a version of me, at least.” Remmick doesn’t respond. Not for a long moment. He’s just starring at you, like he’s trying to decide on something. You keep going, “And when were you goin’ to tell me that you’ve found me, time after time, and killed me, over and over again?” Your voice is shaky, uneven, and full of fear. 

If he wasn’t so mad at that accusation, your fear might make him hard. 

“Nah, now,” he laughs bitterly with a scoff, “that ain’t fair. You know that ain’t fair, because it ain’t true.” 

“Which part?”

“Which part?” He echoes, and you nod.

“Yeah, which damn part? Because I know the marriage part is true, I got memories that ain’t mine, memories of your eyes and they’re blue. And I keep getting glimpses of you killing me, so what the hell part of it ain’t true?” 

Remmick’s eyes burn a bright red. 

“You have no idea how long I have been—”

“Oh, spare me,” You laugh, “I can’t believe you.” You spit, and in one movement, you throw the ring by his feet and start to make your way back up the porch steps, but Remmick is quicker than you, one hand reaching to grab the ring, slipping it back on his hand before he’s kneeling on the step he was just sitting on, and grabbing your leg as you attempt to walk away. 

“Don’t,” he says, and you will yourself not to look at him, to not let him trick you into staying, “Come on, Lass,” he leans in and presses soft kisses up your calf, his hand rubbing up and down, “You’re tellin’ me, you can’t feel it? That pull that keeps me around, that helps me to find you, any place, any time?” 

You look back at him, because you love him. 

And it doesn’t hurt that he looks awful good on his knees. His face is desperate, begging. 

You almost give in. Then you think of the memory in the factory, with your hand crushed in that machine. Remmick did that. He’s the one that caused you all that pain, all of this fear. You look back at him and shake your head. 

“I’m done, Rem.” You turn and go to walk inside.

Another mistake. 

Remmick’s grip hardens, and you attempt to tear your leg from his grip, because it’s going to start bruise if you don’t get away, but as you try and step away, Remmick tugs, knocking you straight to the ground, on your stomach, bruising your knee, hip and arm. You let out a soft groan, glancing back at Remmick, still gripping your ankle. 

“I ain’t lettin’ you go that easy,” And Remmick would’ve finished with ‘not this time’, but you kick him in the face before he can respond. He lets go of you with a groan, that dissolves into a laugh, his hand comes up to simply set his nose back into place with a sickening crack!, and you’re already on your feet when he rises from his knees, taking another step towards you. “I tried really hard, baby, I did—”

“Oh, cry me a river.” You spit, already stepping back from him, almost like a dance. You take a step back, and he steps forward. 

“Ah, ah—Do not interrupt me, lass,” he laughs, “See, I’ve been a patient man, ya know that, I have been patient for centuries. And every time, yer slip through my fingers like sand, no—not sand. Sugar.” He looks like he’s plotting how he’s going to make you scream, and oh, he is, “And I love when ye make me chase ye, I do, but I do not take kindly to spoiled little brats who can’t appreciate when good is good,” He takes another step forward to you, “So next time I get my hands on you, I’m gonna bite ya. I am goin’ to make you mine, and this time, I will keep you mine. I wanna see you kill your mama and pa too, you’ll do it with a smile, and you and I will be together for eternity, you won’t hardly remember denying me,” Remmick promises, then he moves forward to grab you, to pull you close to him, sink his teeth into that pretty neck of yours, but you step back quickly, and he’s stopped by the invisible shield that prevents him from entering your house uninvited. Remmick laughs bitterly. “that’s a cruel trick, clever girl.” 

You smile, but it’s not kind, and it’s not easy. 

You can do that too. Make threatening promises. 

“I’m gonna kill you.” 

Remmick looks at you. 

“What?”

“I am goin’ to kill you.” You reiterate, “And I’ll keep trying to until the day I die. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be someone who looks an awful lot like me.” 

He lets out a snarl—hundreds of years of anger and shame and waiting has made turned him into something unrecognizable. Something evil. 

“I’m patient.” He tells you with a glare. 

“Not patient enough.” You glare right back. 

A match made in hell, the two of you. 

You turn, ready for this to be over.

“Well, sweet dreams, and good luck sleepin’, lass.” Remmick says, just as the door closes behind you. 

You don’t dignify him (or humiliate yourself) by looking back this time. 

-

You fall asleep angry. You fall asleep planning. 

You get an hour or two before you’re woken up by a nightmare you can’t remember when you wake up. You peer out your curtains, met with blinding sun of a brand-new day. You spend twenty minutes getting ready, scrounging up every cent you can—a birthday card here, a penny there, and a small bundle of savings you kept in a metal box between books under your bed. 

You count every dollar. It’s not enough, but it will have to do. You pull a knit bag over your shoulder, and stuff your copy of Dracula inside. You tear out the mostly blank dedication page and begin to scribble a list of things you’ll be needing. Your money and list are stuffed into your pocket. When you’re finished getting ready, you pull your bedroom door open only to be met with the sight of your parents, ready for church. 

You must be a sight for sore eyes—apart from the bags under your eyes and the one thrown over your shoulder, you have fresh bruises on your face, your clothes are wrinkled and ragged, and you hold a pair of flats in your hands that are coated with dirt. 

“You can’t go to church like that,” are the first words out of your father’s mouth. 

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to church,” you respond, moving past them to the kitchen. You search the cabinets for a minute, finding an empty flask and putting that in your bag, too. Then, you begin to scoop breakfast onto a plate without permission. You’re going to have a long day and an even longer night, so you should really eat while you can. 

Your folks are looking at you like you have two heads. 

“What do you mean you ain’t goin’ to church?” Your ma scoffs, “’Course you’re goin’ to church, it’s Sunday.”

You wonder if they’ll do this the easy way. 

“I can’t today, I gotta..” you pause, not knowing how to explain what you need to get ready for. “I got errands to run. I’ll make it up to you guys, I promise,” and your parents share an uneasy look, because they might be two of God’s most loyal lambs, but they aren’t stupid. Their little girl hasn’t been sleeping, and they’re watching you eat like it’s your last meal (and you quietly hope it’s not). 

Your father says your full name in a stern tone, the type that men take on when they want you to listen to them, before continuing, “If you’re sayin’ you got better places to be than the house of the lord on his day of rest—”

You slam both hands down on the table. Okay, the hard way it is, you think. 

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t the two of you just trust me for once? I will go to church tomorrow, Bible study the day after that, hell, I will join a damn convent by the end of the week, but today, I got things to do that ain’t have nothin’ to do with the two of you or God, so either I can catch a ride to town with you, or I can walk there, which is just gonna slow me down.” You snap, years of pent-up frustration spilling out in your words, brought to a head by two months of barely sleeping, memories that you don’t remember making, and a tormenting, cruel man who wants to kill not only you, but your folks too. 

Needless to say, it’s a real quiet drive to town. 

You buy ammunition for your pa’s gun, hoping that long forgotten days of watching your dad and uncle shoot the thing would come back to you after ten years. You’re not entirely sure that will kill Remmick, but it’s the best you have for now. You stop at the general store, and you buy two jars of pickled garlic, a spool of string, bandages, and a pack of cigarettes. You do stop by your father’s church in between services, avoiding his questions, only filling the flask you found with holy water. 

You walk right past your ma, in the pews, praying for you. You’ll apologize tomorrow, you hope.

You wander off the beaten path afterwards, finding the house of a woman you’ve heard is much more familiar with the supernatural than you are. You’re honest with her, too. You hand her the rest of your money and beg the woman to tell you how to kill a vampire.

And that’s how you spend the better part of your afternoon pulling legs off chairs in your house, then filing them down with a knife. You manage to cut your fingers a few times, thankful that they’d clot before nightfall. You don’t need to give him any advantages. You wrap bandages around your fingers before you hide a few of the stakes here and there, hoping your parents will be home long after this is done. You set one jar of garlic in a trap, using the string to set it up. You turn your small shack into a Remmick mouse trap, planning exactly how you’ll do it. Your final touch is wrapping the rosary around your shotgun, letting the cross hang off the barrel. 

Then you wait. You wait for a long time. You bounce between chewing on pickled gloves of garlic and smoking cigarettes. It’s not much of a dinner, but it’s all you can do.

You even doze off a bit, waking up with a start when you hear singing. 

Singing?

It’s dark now, darker than it had been when you fell asleep. You peer out one of the windows in the house, and in the distance, you see Remmick leaning against the well where you first saw him, from a time that seems so damn long ago now. 

He’s singing the song he sang to you last night, and the one he sang to you on your wedding night, hundreds of years ago. 

Motherfucker. You glare at him, flip him off, and then move around the kitchen to make sure everything is ready. You tuck your knife into your pocket, right besides your small flask of holy water. You pop another piece of garlic into your mouth, beginning to chew it as you aim your gun at the screen door.  You watch Remmick come closer, making his way up to your doorway. He stares at you, before his fingers become long claws, slicing through the screen door with an unmatched rage- well, unmatched by anyone except you. 

His sudden destruction makes you falter, only for a moment, taking a half a step back, as a memory flashes into your mind—of his claws cutting across your stomach, adorned in a pretty silk dress, in a past life. You blink the memory away, before inhaling deeply.

“I’ll give you one more chance to leave.” You call to him. He glares. Instead of responding, he lets out a growl, something animalistic. He’s staring holes into your skin, and drool drips from his chin like he can’t help it. And you suspect he can’t. “Fine.” You snap, cocking the gun. “Come in, asshole.” 

Remmick doesn’t hesitate. He slams open the screen door, stepping inside, ignoring the way the screen rattles against the main door. You don’t even pull the string to the garlic jar, just watch as Remmick’s violent opening of the screen causes the jar of pickled garlic resting on the top of the door toppling over and smashing right on top of his head, shattered glass falling all around him. But the best part is the way he yells, the way he curses as the garlic burns him with a violent hiss!, as steam rises off his melting skin. 

Remmick is far less pretty like this. 

“Son of a—” He curses his hands coming up to his face as he wipes off extra garlic juice from his eyes and hair, skin still steaming—but you see the way that certain parts of his skin are already healing. He snarls at you. “Ye know, Lass, I think this time, I’m really gonna enjoy killin’ yer.” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “I figured. Feelin’s mutual, sugar.” You spit, aiming the gun right at him. You watch as melted, goopy skin that hangs off his skin begins to inch back his face, his hair regrowing in the spots it was singed off, as if someone is waving a magic wand over his wounds, fixing it. 

“A gun? What, you’re gonna shoot me?” He asks, looking at your gun. He takes a step towards you, but your feet are firmly planted. “Nah, I don’t think so. Little girl like you, probably don’t even know to turn the safety off.. ye ain’t gonna shoot me.”

You click the safety off, voice steady. 

“Wanna bet?” 

“Yeah.” He huffs, chest to your gun now. He’s close enough to grab you, but you can see he’s having fun; And you, in the deepest part of your soul, are still his wife, and want him to enjoy this last bit of fun. “I think yer all bark, no—”

BANG!

Remmick hits the wall before the pain hits him, now leaning against the wall, flat on his ass. He screams as he’s shot back, cursing at you with a hole in his chest.

“You fucking shot me! I can’t believe you—” You reload the gun and shoot again. “Fuck! Stop fuckin’ shootin’ me, you little—” he cuts himself off with a curse, whimpering a soft ‘oooo’, as he sharply inhales. Black blood like bile seeps into his shirt, a hand over the wound on his shoulder. As he licks his wounds, you reach to where you’ve stored the other ammunition, reloading the gun as he’s distracted.

“You’re in trouble. So much trouble, I’m gonna have to fuck that attitude outta ya before I kill ya,” He snarls, and before you can react, he’s up and moving again, except instead of coming right at you, he grabs the glass vase of wild flowers that sits next to the pitcher you were filling when you first saw him. And then he takes that vase and throws it at you. 

He takes advantage of you putting your arms up to block it, shattered glass cutting your cheek, but you’re in better shape than Remmick when he tackles you, bodyweight pressed against you as the gun goes flying across the room. You begin to panic, squirming beneath him, when you feel his one claw digging into your side, the other digging into your thigh, both ripping your clothes and drawing a bit of blood, as his tongue licks the blood from your cheek, dripping out of your fresh cut. 

“I really do hate to kill ye,” he starts, “But I always did love the taste of yer blood.. always tastes like lust, and fear.. Desperation and love.” He smirks, and before you could stop him, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a deep kiss. You appreciate the way it grounds you back to reality, and while you have your mouth on his, one knee comes up to rub against Remmick’s half hard cock. Remmick groans into the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, only to pull away and spit to the side. “Chewin’ garlic? Clever girl.” He scoffs, and you move one hand to curl into his hair, your touch warm and soft, despite the moment. He lets out a groan, “Clever, mean, insufferable girl..” 

Your other hand reaches to your pocket, and Remmick’s claws pull out of your thigh to grab your wrist, claws digging into the skin around your hand. You inhale sharply, 

“I have a flask! In my pocket—let me get the garlic tatste outta my mouth, then you can kiss me all you want, Rem.” He lets out a sharp exhale. 

“Fine.”

Fucking Idiot, You want to say, You’re playing my game now. Learn the rules. 

You grab the flask, pull it out, not breaking eye contact despite your shaky hands, bringing it to your lips and untwisting the cap with your teeth. Then you pour a mouthful into your mouth, closing and swishing it around so it coats your mouth. Then, you smile to Remmick, before spitting the holy water at his skin, burning his pretty face again. You kick him right where the sun does not shine, and he groans, rolling off you. 

Sharp pain shoots up his groin. He was going to make you cum, too. 

“Mother—” You scramble for the gun, ignoring the sound of him groaning in pain. You grab the gun off the ground, pointing it right at him. “Sugar, don’t you shoot—” 

BANG!

You cock the gun again, knowing you need to make the most of this last bullet (You’re poor, this is 1932, you can only afford so many bullets). You look at your (kind of) husband, panting softly as he whines and writhers on the ground, holding a new wound in his leg. It doesn’t turn you on like it usually would, well not as much, but it gives your gun a great angle, to aim right for his hard-on, and—

BANG!

Remmick really screams this time, and his blood is everywhere. He’s holding his crotch now, and he’s panting heavily. You’d feel bad if you didn’t know it would take him only a few minutes to heal enough to get you back. Or that he wants to kill you. 

“You little bitch,” he spits, “I’m gonna fuckin gut ya—” 

You smirk, running to the door of your bedroom before asking, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

You slam the door shut as Remmick’s cursing becomes louder, more frantic. It takes him a few minutes to get on his feet again, and another few to find his strength to stumble to your door. 

“You have no idea what we were.” He speaks through the door. He turns the knob, and, of course, you’ve locked it behind you. He can hear you moving around, and he takes a moment to imagine you gurgling on your own blood before he begins to jiggle the handle, “I loved you—I have always loved you, everything I have done, I have done because I love you,” he starts to slam his body into your bedroom door, inhumane strength literally curving the wood, on the verge of knocking it down. “And all you have done since that first time you died, is run.” His voice breaks as he slams his body against the door again, “You run, given me a taste at who I was, and die, over and over,” Thud! “and over,” Thud! “and over!” 

The door cracks off the hinges and falls to the ground with a thunk! And Remmick stumbles into the room, looking around, and getting his bearings. He’s hurt, even if the wounds heal, the pain lingers—and any humanity left in him is fighting, screaming to stop. To let you go, to walk right outside when the sun comes up, finally putting an end to his own misery—and yours. That piece screams, hasn’t she suffered enough? Is this what love is? Would this really make either of you happy?

But time and time again, that thing he calls his conscious, the thing only you can pull out of him, is drowned out by the sound of the horrible, gnawing, crushing craving for power. This power to know your every thought, to literally suck the life out of you, to feel the warmth leave your body—and then come back, just as hungry as he is. 

It’s not a craving that is unique to you—he feels that craving for all people to some degree, but with you, he might as well be sunbathing, that’s how the craving burns. It drowns out everything else within him, even the part of him that wanted to be a better man for you.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a whiff of—

Despite his pain, he smirks. His eyes lock onto your closet. He creeps up. He wonders if you know he’s creeping up, if you’re scared. Of course you’re scared. You’re always so scared in the end. He moves suddenly then, ripping your closet door off it’s hinge and—you’re not there. The only thing he sees when he looks down where you should be cowering in fear, or at least about to lunge at him with a hidden knife or something, is a pair of panties. He laughs then, like, really gets a kick out of this. 

“Dirty girl.” He thinks back to what he called you earlier—“Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty girl..” He scoffs, “Too many words.. I’ll write ya a list.” He grumbles, saying it in the soft whisper that echoes in every corner of your house, trying to focus on that thing that pulls him to you, that thing that tugs no matter how far he wanders. 

Then, he starts to sing you your wedding song, the type of love song that could make any lass swoon, but Remmick only wants you. 

Then his nose picks up on a different smell, and he smirks. Your nose is bleeding, and he knows it’s because that song always brings back a memory, and your nose always bleeds when he does it. He keeps singing as he approaches the window, a smirk on his face. 

He’ll have to add clever to the list twice. 

Suddenly, your eyes snap open, and you’re running before you really know what you’re doing, running towards the fields that surround the back of your house, right to the edge, where you’ve hidden a stake you want to drive through his heart, as Remmick opens the window, intending to climb out the window after you, when he stops, another sound catching his attention. 

The sound of a car pulling up to the front of your house. Your mama and pa are home. 

Remmick knows just how to break you. What better way to get you to spend eternity with him, then throwing in eternity with your folks too? Only, the nicest version of them? At the very least, it might make you do something stupid. 

And you do. 

Your heart is racing as you watch him smile wickedly at you, before turning to go meet your folks at the door. You quickly run through all the ways you could get his attention back on you, and you unthinkingly take your knife out of your pocket, before looking down at your wrists. Then, back to Remmick. Then, you take your knife and make long, deep cuts into your wrists, down to your forearm—The kind of injury Remmick cannot ignore. Not if he wants to turn you before you die. 

You let out an inhuman noise, like an animal stuck in a bear trap. Your hands shake as you make cuts into your other wrist. You can’t breathe. Your vision grows fuzzy as you watch him stumble out of the window, running right towards you. He doesn’t want you to die. He wants you to live forever, and the scent of your blood is making him woozy too. 

You fall to the ground just in time for Remmick to catch you, and the part of you in the back of your mind, who knows this is how the story is always meant to end, kind of enjoys the idea of dying in Remmick’s arms. On the one hand, you love him. On the other hand, you know this moment will haunt him for a long time. 

Your body is shaking, and there is blood everywhere. Remmick cradles you against him, hands smearing your blood as if he could push it back inside of you. 

“No, no, C’mere, I got you,” He has an idea. He leans into your neck and tugs you close to him. His claws, covered in blood, cradle you, as he opens his jaw wide, before sinking his teeth deep into the skin of your collarbone, drinking the sweet taste of you. He drinks, and drinks, and for a moment, he forgets that you’re dying, but he eventually comes up for air, beginning to pet your hair. “All gonna be okay, we’re gonna be together for a long, long time,” he rambles.

You don’t want to die. But you’d rather die than give him what he wants. But it’s more than just the way he’s tortured you for the past two month—although, it does feed into your anger. No, If you turn, it means he won. It means that he gets away with killing all those different versions of you, and still gets to be with you. Still gets to invade your thoughts, still gets to spend eternity with you—after doing nothing but hurt you (and, occasionally, fuck you).

Your hand searches until your fingers wrap around something grainy and wooden. You’re not sure you have the strength to stab Remmick with the stake, but you wonder if you could bide your time until the sun comes up. You pull him in for a kiss, right against your lips, and then stab yourself the best you can with the wooden stake. 

You can taste blood now, and you wonder if Remmick is as overwhelmed by it as you are, how it coats everything around you. Him, the grass, your clothes. Your ears are ringing, the noises of the world far away, muffled by the fuzziness that overtakes you from your wounds. Your vision begins to fade, and the last thing you see before everything turns white is Remmick leaning down to kiss your head, before getting up, setting you down gently, and going to kill your parents. 

Son of a bitch, You think, laying in a pool of Remmick’s and your own tears, and your blood (mostly), I’ll get you in the next life, husband.

-

Ireland, 1652

The first thing you noticed about Remmick was his eyes. A beautiful bright blue. Like a clear creek on a summer’s day. He took you somewhere like that once. Right before he asked you to marry him.

You had met him when he was just a travelling musician, penniless and preforming songs for lodgings. You were working as a governess to a rich British family who had been given the land on account of the patriarch being a clergyman. Remmick had known the family who used to own the land. He hated the people you worked for, the way they took mercilessly.

You thought the kids were nice enough, if not a little snotty. But they were comfortable. They didn’t have to worry about the fact that the people who used to live there often had to choose between food and firewood. 

The two of you fell in love, as deep as any two people could. You fell in love over ale in a pub loud with music, over quiet mornings spent tracing the lines of Remmick’s face, and in between grueling, exhausting day of work. Remmick took your breath away, and Remmick couldn’t go for more than a few hours before itching to see you again. He asked you to marry him and on a warm spring morning, right as the sun rose, you promised to be his forever. 

To your credit, the two of you got a wonderful few months before things went wrong.

Remmick never should’ve went out. He never went out on Sundays, preferring to spend his day off kneeling between your legs, eating you out like a starved man. Sundays were for two things—Rest and keeping his wife happy. He tended to get more gigs on the weekend and often picked up shifts at the pub to pay your bills. So, Sunday was his day off. But you requested, oh so sweetly, for him to pick up honey for your evening tea, and he wanted to pick you a bundle of wildflowers, just to show you that he loved you. After all—Sundays were for keeping his wife happy.

He left right after lunch, but didn’t get back until the early evening, just as the sun set.

Remmick would play that night over and over again in his head.

He’d wonder about whether things would’ve been different. If he had left earlier. If he had never went out in the first place, if he had just spent the morning between your legs like he wanted to, if he had done anything differently. 

But maybe things were always going to end that way, maybe there was nothing he could’ve done. 

 With a fistful of white daffodils, Remmick started to whistle your song as he traversed the path towards your wooden house, the one on the property of the family you worked for.

He heard your screams before he saw the flames. 

He broke out into a sprint, dropping the jar of honey and your flowers as he dashed towards his wife, hoping against hope that you’d be okay. He was just in time to see the men who set the fire ride off on horses, half drunk and laughing—laughing that the woman he loved was burning alive, laughing that the people they deemed below them were suffering. 

You were warm. You were kind, and soft. The hardened edges you did have only emphasized your softness, the way you always gave whoever you were talking to your full attention, the way your hands felt running along his skin. 

He knew he couldn’t save you, not without killing himself, and looking back, that’s exactly what he should’ve done. But before he could, as he sat there, sobbing for his wife—someone creeped out of the shadows. 

“You’re hurting, lad,” They had said, in his native tongue. But his accent was british. Remmick hated that posh accent.  “I can make that pain go away.. Fellowship and love is all you need, but..” They bared their sharp teeth at him, “all you gotta do is let me see that pretty neck of yours, and you’ll have the power to get revenge. Wouldn’t you like that? To kill the men who murdered your pretty little wife?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember saying yes. 

All he does remember is how much pain he was in, how drinking the blood of those men made him feel better, how he missed you horribly—more than the sun.

This is the truth. Remmick really did love you, and he really didn’t understand what he was getting into—it’s true. It really happened. 

But so did everything that came after.

-

London, 1812

He stood outside Lady Arlington’s grand masquerade ball, waiting, watching. His suit was out of style, stolen from an old bachelor he had bitten last week, but at least he was in a suit. Besides, everyone would assume it to be a costume. He looked nice—or he assumed he did. Damn mirrors. 

His mask was fastened onto his face, and he was sure he could convince at least half the people here that his red eyes and sharp teeth were part of the costume. He wasn’t even sure why he was here. He hated London, had specifically avoided Britian in the past two hundred years. 

But something ate away at him. It gnawed at him, told him to come here. Something about this damn masquerade is pulling him in, and It’s too loud to ignore. So, he’s happy when the man at the door graciously accepts the invitation he stole, inviting him in with a posh, “Good evening, Sir, right this way.” 

Remmick sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, watching as men twirled women, listening to the sound of a string quartet, and he finds himself sipping wine that he doesn’t even like. So why is he here? He searches the room, looking for—

And then, his breath catches as he catches sight of a familiar lock of hair. He blinks, his eyes following the glimpse. He watches as familiar woman dance with a man, and then he realizes why she’s so familiar.

But how are you here?

You died. You died, and Remmick turned into this monster. 

But when he hears you laugh, he knows it’s you. He could never forget your laugh, you’re his wife. 

His feet begin to move across the room as the music finishes and you curtsey to your dance partner, making your way towards the refreshment table. He says your name to stop himself from grabbing you in the middle of this crowded room. 

No one ever called you by your first name at a ball, it was always ‘Miss’ followed by your first name or your last name. You knew you’d need to be married eventually, but you always found these dances boring—although you did enjoy a masquerade.

You turned and blinked. Even though he was wearing a mask, there was something... familiar about the man. And his red eyes don’t scare you. They lure you in. 

“Oh, good evening, may I help you?” You ask, and Remmick almost recoils at the sound of your voice. Your familiar, soft cadence is replaced by that posh British accent he hates. 

“I just..” For two hundred years, Remmick has longed to see you again. He’s spent hours mulling it over in his head, coming up with a million different things he would say to you if he could tell you anything. All that comes out is, “Yer beautiful.”

Your face flushes. 

“Oh,” You giggle a bit. “Why, thank you, I—Oh dear,” a gloved hand comes up to cover your gasp, “You seem to have a bit of,” you motion towards your lip, and Remmick feels drool dribbling down his chin. His hand comes up to wipe it away, but you hand him a handkerchief. He mumbles out a thank you, before taking it and wiping his mouth.  

“Thank ye,” he hums, and your head twitches. His accent is rare in a crowd like this, but it pulls your lips up into a smile. 

“It’s a lovely night for a walk. Would you accompany me?”

Technically, you’re not supposed to be unchaperoned and alone with a bachelor. But you have a feeling that this particular bachelor is not the man your mother and father had in mind to be your husband. So, if you don’t get caught, you don’t see the harm. At the very least, it’s not a particularly horrible way to kill time. 

“Of course,” is his answer, offering you his arm, eyes glued on you as you lead him to the nearest door. 

“I never got your name,” you say politely, because it seems he already knows yours, which makes sense—your family is quite popular within ‘society’. Not that you even really believe in that.

“Remmick,” he answers, and you nod. 

“Right, and your last name?”

He scoffs quietly. 

“Just Remmick.” Telling you his last name seems pointless. He’ll just be Remmick. At least in this lifetime. 

“Okay, Just Remmick. Tell me, where does a gentleman such as you find himself when he’s not attending masquerades?” He can tell you know this isn’t really his scene from that question alone—It may not seem like much, but it’s as if he’d forgotten just how clever you were. His clever girl. 

And more selfishly, Remmick misses being known. Being known by you. He feeds minimally, and mostly on animals or small critters. His fingers twitch for more, for blood and destruction, but he just couldn’t. His humanity was louder for a long time. But don’t worry, he’ll get it soon, tonight, in fact. 

“I play music.” He says honestly, “I’m what ye ma would call a, er, ‘penniless musician.’” 

You smile at him. 

“I enjoy music,” You tell him, “I think music is a beautiful thing that transcends time and memory. Don’t you?”

His heart would be beating out of his chest if he still had one. He brings your handkerchief to his chin and wipes drool. He’d make something up, tell you he had something wrong with his mouth, or something. He’d figure it out when you asked about it.

“I do,” he nods, but he’s not fully paying attention, if he’s honest. He’s listening to the living, breathing heartbeat that thumps in your chest, quicker when you make eye contact with him. He wonders if you’re wet, but he doubts that your mind is as dirty or depraved as his. 

“Well, would you play me something sometime?” You ask, and Remmick smiles a bit, pats your arm in an affectionate matter—he’s suddenly back in the meadow just south of your wooden house, watching the way you shone in the sunlight, like it hasn’t been two hundred years since he’s last seen you. 

“Anything ye want, lass.” He promises, and he means it so genuinely that your heart nearly stops. He wipes his chin again. 

“What are you doing here, then?” You ask softly. “I don’t mean any offense, but there are so few people who share your accent, I cannot help my curiosity, though I hold no judgement.” Remmick tries not to scoff at how much he likes you, even his disdain for British accents can’t stop the fact that he loves that even now, two hundred years later, you’re still giving your full attention to every conversation. 

He’s been in love with you for long enough to know your question comes from nothing except genuine curiosity. So, he doesn’t laugh when you ask him that, but he does think about it. 

“Well, ye see, somethin’s been... pulling me, tugging me towards Britian at first,” he starts, “Then to London, and now to this... palace,” he huffs, a part of him a little bitter that he found you in the type of place he couldn’t fit in well, no matter how charismatic. “And I didn’t know what it was pullin’ me towards, but—” he looks at you again. “I think I know what it was pullin’ me towards now..” 

You smile. 

“And what would that be, Mr. Re—” Someone calls your name as footsteps approach, and you turn to look at the source, only to find your mother approaching, guiding a gentleman only a few years older than you towards you.

“Whatever are you doing out here alone, dear?” Your mother asks, and you turn back to introduce Remmick to your mother, but he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. You blink, confused. Where had he gone?

“Just taking a break from all the excitement, mother.” The lie slips off your tongue easily enough, and it’s all your mother needs before she’s introducing you to a young blonde gentleman, and you intend to give him your fullest attention, but you suspect it will be difficult on account of your mysterious penniless musician. 

Remmick watches from the shadows, lingering. He can’t stop glaring at the young eligible bachelor who holds your arm, who’s looking at you like you’re a prize. He waits and waits—until the bachelor closes the door behind you when he leads you into the library of the manor. He tries to reason with himself. 

You’re a very pretty girl. The light blue silk of your dress, your posh accent, your skilled dance moves—you obviously come from money. And he knows you’re clever. He looks around and realizes any bachelor at this stupid party would be lucky to have you. 

He breaks the door handle before he knows what he’s doing, quickly opening the door and this is what he sees:

You, leaning against the far wall of the library, squirming. Your eligible bachelor with his hands on your sides, bunching up the fabric of your dress, with his mouth on your neck. You’re trying to push him away.

Remmick grabs him by the shoulder before he even realizes he’s stepped towards the two of you, and then he’s swinging at him with a clenched fist. It causes you to gasp, and before you know it, blonde bachelor’s nose is bleeding and he’s shoving Remmick back against another bookshelf. Books fall around him, and he glances down and sees one on Irish folklore and mythology—

Open to the section on the Gancanagh—a male fae known for his ability to enchant and kill young women, often through powerful seduction. The legend of the Gancanagh dictates that he cannot enter a home unless invited. Remmick rolls his eyes and is on his feet again, going after blonde bachelor. 

He lunges at him, claws drawn, and then he’s swiping at him, but blonde bachelor, to his credit, isn’t entirely stupid. He grabs you and uses you as a shield—and suddenly there are five distinct, large slashes across the front of your dress. Then, you start to bleed, and Remmick catches you as you fall, blood pooling in your abdomen and soaking his stolen suit.

He sets you down gently, and he goes to move away from you, to fucking kill this blonde asshole, but you grip his arm, pulling him back. 

“Don’t,” You let out a soft whimper of pain, gripping his arm, not wanting him to leave. He leans in and kisses your forehead, 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back, Lass,” he promises, before moving away from you, your weak protests drowned out by how badly Remmick wants this man dead. How badly he wants to drink his blood. 

He grabs the man just as he reaches the door, covering his mouth with his large, now bloodstained claw, and uses that hand to tilt his head, before Remmick sinks his teeth into the flesh of the man who wanted to take you from him. Who kissed you without asking. 

And he tastes delicious. Remmick almost moans—it’s like eating a well-seasoned steak after two hundred years of bone broth. He sucks and sucks, draining the man of every ounce of blood. Then he drops his corpse, using your handkerchief to wipe his chin of any excess blood.

He stands, and glances to the corpse on the ground. Whatever. He’ll wake up in a little bit, but Remmick does not give a single fuck what happens to the poor fool. Remmick, on the other hand, feels phenomenal. He feels like he’s strong enough to hold the sky up, and he starts to smile when he remembers you. 

“Sorry ye had to see that, lass, but yer friend won’t be—” he turns to you and realizes you’re not moving. He’s by your side in a flash. “No, no, c’mon, lass, wake up,” He listens for the sound of your heartbeat, but he doesn’t hear one. He had let you die. Again. And this time, it had been his fault. Not indirectly, either. He should’ve bitten you when he had the chance. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, lass,” he begins to cry, and that feels stupid, so he leans down to try and bite you, maybe he can still bring you back—but his teeth get about an inch to your skin, and it’s like something’s stopping him from sinking in the rest of the way—his eyes flicker down to the cross that hangs from your pretty dead neck. 

Remmick takes only a few more minutes to kiss you, to whisper his apologies before he slips out of the window, deciding to take out his heartbreak and his anger out on anything else with a pulse that comes his way. 

You came back once, he reasons eventually, right before the sun rises the next morning, as he stares at your handkerchief, covered in blood now, since he used it to wipe his mouth four times as he’s drunk the bodies of three different drunk idiots outside a gentleman’s club. He’s sure you’ll come back again. He’ll wait. He has all the time in the world. 

He’ll just have to be patient. 

-

New York, 1892

Fucking Sundays. You always die on a Sunday. 

You and Remmick have been going out for six months. Remmick lays awake at night, thinking about how this is the longest he’s ever gotten with you, at least since you were married. This is try number six. 

Why do you keep dying? 

It frustrates him, like an itch he just can’t get to go away. It’s one of the many things he hates about living forever. Another thing he hates is innovation. He’s watched the Industrial revolution happen slowly at first, and then, all at once. He hates it for all the reasons you can imagine, but part of the things he really hates is how it dulls you. You work hours that are too long. You work a job that’s too harsh. 

You work in a weaving factory. You spend your precious life in a factory without proper ventilation, often working with dangerous equipment and conditions. You’re so tired when you come home. Remmick just wants you to be safe, just wants you nearby, Is that so terrible? 

Or at least, that’s how he had said it when you told him you couldn’t quit your job and stay in the apartment with him forever, like he had asked you to. Remmick figured, what the hell, worst you could do is say no. You had handled him being a vampire so well. 

But nothing could ever go the way he wanted it to. Not in any of your lifetimes so far. He just wanted you close so bad, that the thought of you not being with him, it drives him a little insane. To the point of violence. So, he dug his claws into your ankle, threatening to snap the bone as he offered a game—

“Shh, Shh,” he said, a sinister smile adorning his lips, “Wanna play a game, baby?”

“No, you fucking— ow!” You yelped as he tightened his grip, threating to rip his claws up the skin of your calf, “Ow, ow—Fuck, okay, fine! Yes, What game?” You sob, and Remmick’s grip loosened only slightly. 

“Hide and seek.”

He was stalking you through the factory, where you worked. No one was here now; it had been too late. But you turned on all the big machines, hoping to throw off his hearing. That was the worst part about being with you for longer. You had more time to know his weaknesses. To hate him. 

But he was close. He could smell you. The sweat that beaded down your forehead, the heat between your thighs, and the smell of your blood as it dripped from your ankle. You were hiding, knelt under one of those big machines. Your heart is racing, and your ankle really fucking aches. You creep around the machine to see where he was, when he grabs you from behind. 

You struggle against him, yelling, but neither of you can hear each other over the loud industrial machinery. He grabs your arm, before sticking it in the machine, focusing on the sound of your screams—he thinks he even laughs. 

He can’t remember killing you. 

He just wakes up a few hours later, laying in a pool of your blood, right before the factory opens. He needs to go. 

He spends as much time as he can apologizing over your body, as he always does. He was sloppy this time. Sloppier than he had been. He had let any urge he felt win, but he was sure if he could keep his wits about you, and strike when he needed to, and he would finally get to keep you. 

He’d just need to be smarter about it. Next time, he decides right then and there, as he limps away from the factory and towards the nearest port, needing to kill a few decades, will be different. 

Next time, the story will end a different way. 

-

Indiana, 1982

You twisted your key in the door of the family video, shivering a bit. You hated working the night shift. You rarely ever did. You pulled your jacket close, before fishing into your bag, pulling out your Walkman and unwrapping the cord of your headphones, walking down the sidewalk, towards the path you’ll take to get home. 

Your thumb begins to press down to begin your tape, when you hear the vroom, vroom from a motorcycle fit for a man who might be a little butthurt that the last time you saw him, you shot him in the dick, among other places. 

But when your head picks up to look at the motorcycle, you pause, because you suddenly realize you’ve never seen this man before in your life. And yet, there’s a familiarity about him. He’s leaning against his motorcycle now, having turned it off and parked it. 

“Hey there, Sugar,” he says, maybe a little too sweetly. He doesn’t hide the way he looks you up and down. You don’t hate it. You’re currently taking the summer to enjoy your hometown before you go away to school. So, if a handsome man with a hot motorcycle wants to take you home, who are you to deny him? (No survival instinct, but you’ll catch on quick.)

“Hi. Cool bike.” You say, pulling your jacket closer to your body. 

“Why, thank you.” You can’t place his accent. “Wanna ride?” He asks, and you roll your eyes but are thankful it’s too dark for him to see your red cheeks. 

“On the bike you mean?” You question, and Remmick offers you the helmet he holds. 

“For now.” He shrugs, and you take it, resting it on your hip.

“Well, where are we gonna go?” You wonder, “I know what you’re after, and I expect a nice date before I even think about something like that,” You smile, and Remmick scoffs.

“You have no idea what I’m after,” He starts, before reaching to his mostly non-existent soft side and rephrasing, “How ‘bout you and I go for a drink?” He offers, and you let out a nervous laugh. 

“I was just gonna go home and watch a movie,” you tell him, and he tilts his head.

“Oh yeah? What movie?” Remmick won’t admit it, but he’s watched as movies have gone from an expensive, once in a while treat, to something most families pick three of on a Friday and return them the next Friday, and... he thinks that is one small silver lining to this horrible, never-ending existence. 

You dig into your bag and pull out a VHS Tape, labeled Dracula, a movie that came out in 1979. You don’t love it as an adaptation of your favorite book, but for what it is, you enjoy it. Remmick laughs. 

“What? Not a vampire guy?” 

Remmick doesn’t remember it being laid on this thick the last time. 

He shrugs. 

“I just think that bein’ a vampire,” he shakes his head. “it ain’t all it’s made out to be.” 

You shrug. 

“I think it’s sexy.” 

Remmick’s head picks up at that, a smirk forming on his face. 

“Yeah?”

You smile. He’s funny. Too cool, too flirty, and just desperate enough for you to see through his charade. You’re not sure why, but you get the idea that his desperation goes deeper than just looking for a fuck—

“Yeah. A mysterious, handsome stranger, biting my neck and promising me forever?” You wonder out loud, taking a few steps towards him. “What kind of girl wouldn’t think that’s romantic?” 

Remmick would laugh if he hadn’t spent the last two centuries figuring out that you are exactly the kind of girl who doesn’t think that’s romantic. Well, maybe he would laugh if he also wasn’t really fucking bitter about it. 

He offers you his hand. 

“Let’s find out. I got popcorn back at mine.” Remmick doesn’t really eat, but movies have become synonymous with popcorn, and he’s just desperate to get you alone, to get his teeth in your neck. He won’t fail again. He can’t—he doesn’t know if he has it in him. As it is, ever since you slit your wrists, you’re significantly angrier at him by the end. 

The last time the two of you met, he had these horrific 60’s style sideburns, and you stabbed him in the eye with a mirror shard from a disco ball and had gotten blood all over what you had described as your ‘dancing boots’. 

“Hmm.. I dunno.” You shrug. “I’m not in the habit of going home with a stranger.” You tease, and he scoffs. This again?

“Well, my name’s Remmick. And yours,” he says your name, and a shiver runs down your spine. 

“I didn’t tell you that.” 

He taps the top left of his chest with the pointer finger of his right hand. 

“Yer name tag.” 

You let out a laugh.

“Oh, right. Sorry, that was silly of me.” 

“Silly girl.” He teases. Clever, mean, insufferable, dirty, silly girl. “So, what do you say?” he extends his hand again. You think about it for a long minute. A really long moment. Remmick holds his breath. C’mon, lass, He thinks, take the god damn bait before I grab you right here.

You sigh, put on his helmet, and take his hand. 

“There are worse ways to spend a Sunday night,” you shrug as you climb onto the back of his motorcycle. 

The slap made your head whip to the side, white spots exploding behind your eyes. The taste of blood bloomed in your mouth immediately. You closed your eyes, a silent, desperate prayer for a quick end dancing on your tongue.

The tall one loomed over you, the metallic clink-clink of his belt being unlooped from his trousers sounding like a death knell in the silence of the swamp. You scrambled back on your elbows, your nails clawing into the mud, but another man pinned your wrists to the ground, his weight crushing your chest.​

Then, the world shifted.​

It wasn't a human sound that changed things.​ It started with a pressure—an unnatural chill swept through the humid air, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The man over you froze, his hand still on his buckle.​​

Suddenly, a blur of movement—something darker than the night itself—hit the man standing guard at the rear of the car. There was no struggle. Just a wet, terrifying crunch, followed by a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.

A scream ripped through the air—"AHHGLUR!"—not a shout for help, but a high-pitched, gargling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. On the other side of the Ford, you heard the sound of heavy metal being crumpled like tissue paper, and then the petrifying sound of something being systematically dismantled.​

Rrip. Rrip. Snap.​

The three men standing over you scrambled back, their bravado evaporating into the thick air like mist. They stared into the dark behind the car, their faces turning as white as ghosts (if at all possible). The leader pulled a small revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking so violently the barrel rattled against his knuckles with a click-click-click.

​"Go see what that is," the leader hissed at one of the men.​

The man looked hesitant, his eyes wide and bulging with fear, but he stumbled toward the back of the car, his boots dragging in the gravel. Silence for two long heartbeats. Then, a sharp yell that was cut off by a wet crunch—the sound of a ripe melon being dropped from a great height, or a dry branch snapping while wrapped in raw meat.

​A thick, dark liquid began to pool from under the car, snaking through the gravel like an oil slick. It was too dark to be water. It was viscous, steaming slightly in the cool night air, the copper smell of it overwhelming the swamp rot. Then, a heavy thud—the sound of a body being dropped like a sack of grain, followed by the wet sliding sound of intestines hitting the mud.​

You scrambled to find your footing, desperate to run, but the leader’s hand clamped onto your hair, yanking you back with a force that nearly tore your scalp. "S-stay put!" he barked, his voice cracking with a fear he couldn't hide.​

"You stupid son of a bitch! We need to run!" you croaked, your voice trembling.​

From the shadows behind the car, a figure emerged.​

He was tall, lean, and drenched in a dark, glistening crimson that coated his white shirt until it clung to his frame like a second skin, mapped out in horrific detail. He stepped into the faint spill of yellow light. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace. Too smooth, too silent. His skin was a pale tan, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hands... his fingers were tipped and dripping with fresh, steaming blood.​

"W-what the hell are you?" the leader screamed, cocking the pistol.​Bang. The shot echoed off the store walls like a cannon blast. You saw the bullet hit Bo’s upper arm, tearing through the fabric and the flesh beneath. Bo let out a low groan—not of pain, but of irritation, like a man being stung by a common bee.​

Before the leader could even think of cocking the hammer again, Bo was gone. He didn't run; he blurred. One second he was feet away, and the next, he was a solid shadow standing directly behind the leader. A large, blood-slicked hand reached around, catching the leader’s throat. There was a brief, desperate struggle, the leader's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and then the sound of windpipes collapsing—a dry, crushed whistle—as Bo squeezed until the man’s head lolled at a sharp, unnatural angle.​

The fourth man turned to run, his boots slipping and sliding in the mud. He didn't get three steps. Bo reached out, his hand moving like a whip. There was a flash of something sharp, a wet shluck sound, and then the man’s head was simply... gone.

It didn't just fall; it was taken off with such surgical, violent force that the headless body kept running for a split second, blood geysering from the neck, before collapsing into a heap of spasming nerves.​

The shock had your eyes wide, your body trembling so hard you could hear your teeth chattering against each other. The rumors you’d heard about the juke—the whispered stories about the "man" who haunted the outskirts, the one who didn't fear the lynch mobs because he was the one who hunted the hunters—they were all true.

Every terrifying word.

​The gravel crunched. You looked up, paralyzed with a different kind of fear, as he walked back toward you. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at your broken groceries and the blood smeared on your lip. He reached out a hand—the one not covered in the men's blood—and offered it to you.​

"They're gone, little bird," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, carrying a soft, melodic lilt that felt entirely out of place amidst the carnage and the smell of death behind him. "It's not safe. You should get home."

His eyes, dark and ancient, trailed over your body with a slow, heavy pressure that felt like it was peeling back your skin. He lifted his other hand, the fingers still slick and dripping with the life of the men he’d just dismantled, and slowly licked a smear of blood from his knuckles. He did it with a focused, animalistic intensity, his tongue rasping against his skin. You stared, paralyzed by a nauseating mixture of terror and intrigue, as the faint yellow light from the store caught the unmistakable glint of his fangs. Long, needle-sharp, and so real.​

You noted then, through the haze of your panic, that he was Chinese. His features were sharp and elegant, carved with a precision that seemed out of place beneath the splattered gore. But your eyes quickly dropped to his arm. A steady stream of dark blood was pulsing from the bullet hole in his tricep, dripping onto the gravel with a heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking clock in the silence of the night.​

"You're hurt," you whispered, your voice a ghost of itself, thin and reed-like. "You’re bleedin' bad."​

Bo looked down at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was even attached to his body. He watched the blood flow for a moment, his expression unreadable, almost bored.​

"I don't feel it," he said flatly.​

You didn't believe him.

You couldn't.

The wound was deep, the flesh jagged and torn where the lead had bitten through, and even in the dark, the sheer volume of blood he was losing was enough to kill a normal man three times over. But as he looked back at you, the darkness in his eyes seemed to expand, swallowing what little light was left in the world. You stood there, your knees knocking together so hard it was audible, looking at that dark hole in his arm. The blood wasn't slowing; it was a pulsing, red leak.​

“You need to let me bandage that,” you said, your voice finally finding a shred of its footing, though your hands were still shaking. “Before you bleed out right here in the mud.”​

Bo looked at the wound, then back at you, his face a mask of elegant stone. “I’ll be alright. It’ll stop.”​

“Until the sun is up?” you countered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by the folk stories and the sheer wrongness of the man standing before you.​

Bo stilled. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—one that showed just a hint of the ivory points behind his teeth. It wasn't a friendly look; it was the look of a predator realizing his prey had been paying closer attention than he thought. “And what do you know about the sun, girl?”​

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped, dying moth. “I hear things. R-rumors from a few towns over... about what happened at that juke joint. They said dead people came through and left nothin’ but death. No, they didn't say people. They said haints... demons.”​

Bo’s brown eyes searched yours, heavy and unblinking. The silence between you was taut as a wire about to snap. “Still gonna patch up a haint?” he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Or do you not like my kind?”​

You took a shaky breath, looking past him at the carnage—the splats of bloodied blonde hair on the gravel, the detached limbs, the torn skin of the men who would have done far worse to you if he hadn’t intervened. The horror of what he was balanced by the horror of what those men were.

​“I’ll help you,” you whispered, the fear thick in your throat. “As long as you don't hurt me. You gotta promise.”​

You held out your pinky, a childish gesture that felt absurd in the face of such violence. Bo looked at your small, trembling finger for a long moment. Then, he reached out. His skin was unnaturally cool, sending a jolt through your system. He didn't just hook his finger into yours; he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss to the knuckle of your pinky.

​Your breath hitched.​

“Make the promise official,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Kiss the promise.”​

You hesitated, then pressed your own lips to the spot he’d just kissed. As you pulled your hand away, you felt the tacky, drying blood from his face stick to your skin for a split second before parting with a faint, wet sound. The bond felt heavy. Visceral. Like you’d just signed a contract in salt and iron.

ᦏ᪔

​The ride back to your place was an unsettling stretch of silence. The Ford’s engine groaned as it cut through the darkness, the headlights barely carving a path through the hanging moss that looked like drowned hair. Bo sat in the passenger seat, his frame dwarfing the interior, making the car feel like a coffin. He didn't move, didn't talk, just stared out into the blackness of the cotton fields. The scent of him—ancient earth, cold metal, and the sharp, copper sting of fresh blood—filled the cab until you felt lightheaded and dizzy.​

When you pulled up to your small, weathered house, you hurried out, your heels clicking on the packed dirt as you fled the confines of the car. You unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, clicking on the warm, orange kitchen light. When you turned back, Bo was still standing on the porch, his silhouette tall and imposing against the night, his eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. He was just... waiting.​

Is he slow? you wondered, a flicker of irritation cutting through your mounting dread. “Well? Come on in,” you said, waving him forward.​

A faint, knowing smirk tugged at his mouth—a look that mocked your limited knowledge of the rules he lived by. But as soon as the invitation left your lips, he crossed the threshold.​

The house felt smaller the moment he entered. He took up so much space, his broad shoulders and tall, fit frame making the ceiling feel dangerously low. You weren't a short woman, but standing near him, you felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain held next to a sledgehammer.

​Bo stood in the center of your kitchen, his nostrils flaring.

He was smelling you. Beneath the scent of fear and the iron of the blood on your dress, he caught the deep, intoxicating aroma of your skin—sweetness mixed with a light earthiness. Your blood was still running hot from the adrenaline, pulsing visibly in the hollow of your throat, and to him, you sounded like a drum in the absolute silence of the house.​

“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the sturdy wooden chair at the table.​

He obeyed, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. You turned away, moving toward the cupboard to gather what you needed—the jug of corn liquor for disinfectant, a needle, heavy thread, and clean strips of linen. As you moved, Bo’s eyes never left you. He tracked the line of your back, the curve of your hips, and the way your hands shook as you reached for the supplies. He watched the way your rich, brown skin glowed under the dim bulb. To him, you were a feast he was trying very hard not to devour.​

You walked back to him, the supplies clutched to your chest. Up close, his handsomeness was frightening. His features were sharp, carved with a precision that was almost too perfect. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, slicked back but messy from the fight. You took a moment to give him a once-over, your eyes lingering on the way his white shirt was torn open, revealing the muscle of his chest, and the still-bleeding hole in his arm.

​He was a monster. A haint. A dead man. But as he looked up at you, his gaze heavy and expectant, your stomach did a slow, treacherous roll.​

“Hold still,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap on the liquor. “This is gonna bite.”​

Bo’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated in your own chest. “I told you, little bird... I don't feel a thing.”​

You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath through your nose to hide the way your heart was racing. The corn liquor hit the open wound with an audible hiss, the sharp, medicinal sting of it rising in a cloud that made your own eyes water.​

"Mhm, keep talkin’ that big talk," you muttered, dabbing the blood away with a rag that was quickly turning a sodden crimson. "Don't feel a thing. Like you ain't made of the same meat and bone as everybody else."​

Bo didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even blink.

His skin was slick under the low warmth of the kitchen light, his muscles corded like iron cables. You glanced up at his face and found him just... watching you. Not with the frantic gaze of a man who’d just been shot, but with a deep, unsettling stillness that made your skin hum with a strange, forbidden electricity.​

"What they call you?" you asked, trying to fill the heavy silence.​

"Bo Chow," he said. His voice was so smooth; it seemed to settle into the very floorboards beneath your feet.​

"Bo Chow," you repeated, humming the name under your breath. You kept cleaning the ragged edges of the hole in his arm, noting with a start that his skin didn't feel cold like a corpse's anymore; it felt like a low-burning stove, radiating a heat that began to seep into your own fingers. You couldn't believe you were sitting here—in the same place you’d fried green tomatoes just yesterday—patching up a haint.​

But he looked so... beautiful. In a way that felt like a trap. The blood smeared across his high cheekbones didn't make him look hideous; it made him look like something out of a dream you shouldn't be having.

Is he the type that likes the pain? you wondered, your mind wandering down a lewd, forbidden path as you looked at the raw power of his frame. He looks kind of cute all bloody like that. You caught yourself and shook your head lightly, your face heating up. Lord, girl, stop it. Imagine if this man could read your thoughts.​ LALALALALAH.

You reached for the needle and the heavy black thread, your fingers trembling just enough to make the metal glint. When you looked back down at his face, his eyes caught yours. They looked strange—not just dark, but shimmery, like the surface of the river under a full moon, shifting with a light that didn't come from your kitchen lamp.​

"What's wrong?" he asked.​

"Your eyes," you whispered, leaning in a fraction closer despite the internal alarms screaming in your head. "They look... weird."​

Bo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "That’s because I’m Chinese, little bird."​

Your eyes widened at the dry wit, a small, startled laugh escaping your throat. "I know that. I mean they’re—um... shimmery. Like there’s a fire in ‘em."​

Bo just hummed, a deep sound in his chest. Your gaze dropped from his eyes to his body—the broadness of his chest, the way his shirt clung—and for a second, a thought so filthy it made your ears hot flashed through your mind. You didn't say a word, just bit your lip and threaded the needle with a sharp, decisive tug.​

"If that alcohol didn't hurt," you warned, leaning over him so your breath fanned across the hard line of his shoulder, "this definitely will. Bullet’s out, but I gotta close the door behind it."​

You pushed the needle through the torn skin.​

Suddenly, a large, cool hand clamped onto your inner thigh.​

You froze, the needle halfway through his skin, your breath hitching in your throat. His grip was firm, his palm heavy and certain against the soft skin just above your knee. You could feel the heat radiating from his fingers now, the weight of him anchored to you.​

"It hurts," he rasped, though his face remained a mask of tranquility. "Hurry up."​

You nodded dumbly as wetness began pooling between your legs. His hands were massive, the veins standing out like mountain ridges. He squeezed your thigh—just a little, just enough to make your pulse jump—as you pulled the thread taut.​

He inhaled deeply, a long, dragging breath that made his chest expand. You thought it was the pain, but Bo’s eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flaring. He wasn't bracing for the needle; he was drinking you in. You smelled like the rain coming off the Delta, like the sweet, dusty scent of dried herbs in the rafters, and the intoxicating, metallic spice of your own racing blood. To him, you were a feast.​

You stitched as fast as you could, your fingers flying, trying not to focus on the way his hand was subtly, almost imperceptibly sliding an inch higher on your thigh with every stitch. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but it was being smothered by a want you couldn't name.​

"Okay," you gasped, your voice sounding higher, more breathless than you intended. "Okay. Done." You tied the knot and nipped the thread with your teeth, your face inches from his, the scent of him overwhelming your senses.​

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Y-you're welcome," you stammered, the words tripping over the frantic rhythm of your heart.​

Bo didn't let go. Instead, he reached out with his other hand, large and cooling, and hooked it behind the back of your other thigh. He slid his fingers under the hem of your torn dress and pulled you forward, dragging you between his knees.

He was still sitting, his head level with your chest, looking up at you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping the very marrow from your bones. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the back of your leg—calloused, rough, and stained with the dark, drying iron of the men he’d slaughtered. It sent a shiver up your spine that had nothing to do with the room's humidity and everything to do with the predatory heat radiating from him.

​"You're a kind woman," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register that made your body ache.

"You too," you replied, your brain fumbling for any shred of logic to hold onto. Then the absurdity of the statement hit you. "I mean... obviously you ain't a woman."​

Your eyes trailed down, unbidden. You followed the line of his flat, hard stomach to the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark fabric of his trousers. It was thick, prominent, and pulsed with a life that seemed at odds with the "dead man" stories. Your heart nearly stopped, a cold spike of fear warring with a shameful heat.​

"Oh! Lord—I—I’m sorry," you blurted out, your face hot with embarrassment as you jerked your eyes back up to the ceiling, focusing on a spiderweb in the corner just to keep from looking at the monster’s hunger.​

Bo didn't look offended. He let out an amused, dark laugh—a sound that was rich, deep, and surprisingly warm, like honey poured over gravel. He let go of your thighs, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long, and stood up in one fluid motion.

The transition was so fast it seemed to skip a frame of reality, making the kitchen floorboards groan and creak under the sudden shift of his weight. He loomed over you, his frame completely blotting out the yellow light of the kitchen lamp, casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed you whole.​

"It’s okay," he murmured, that mischievous, knowing smirk returning. It was a look that made your stomach turn—a perfidious mix of horror and a raw, magnetic attraction you couldn't suppress. "I've seen women look at me before. But never one who could sew me up without fainting."​

You cleared your throat, clutching the blood-stained rag so hard your knuckles hurt. "Well, I ain't most women. And you ain't most men."​

"No," he agreed. "I'm not. Now, show me where I can wash this filth off. I can taste the dirt in my pores."​

You nodded, your legs feeling like jelly. You led him out of the kitchen, your back feeling exposed and vulnerable with him walking behind you.​ The floorboards groaned under Bo’s weight as you led him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air in your small house felt different now—charged, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm breaks the heat. His silent, looming presence seemed to swallow the flickering light of the wall-mounted oil lamps.

You stopped at the door to the washroom, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and the heavy scent of lye soap. ​"In here," you said, pointing to the galvanized tub in the center of the floor.

You didn't turn around to face him.

You couldn't.

"I’ll—I’ll get the water hot for the tub," you murmured to the wall. "I reckon I got some of my brother’s old work shirts and trousers in the chest. You can wear 'em while I wash yours."

​​A dark thought flickered in the back of your mind—that a man like him probably didn't need to borrow clothes; he likely just took what he wanted from the bodies he left behind. But you shook it away, choosing to believe in the quiet, euphonious lilt of his voice instead of the carnage you’d seen in the gravel. You wanted him to be a decent man, even if you knew deep down he was something else entirely.

ᦏ᪔

In the small, cramped washroom, you hauled the heavy kettle you’d left on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the metal tub. The steam rose in heavy, humid plumes, turning the small bathroom into a hothouse that smelled of woodsmoke and the iron tang of the well water. You felt the dampness immediately; the fine coils of your hair began to tighten and frizz against your neck, the edges of your kitchen-wrap softening into a halo of wild texture in the heat.​

Bo stood in the doorway, a solid weight against the flickering light. He began to strip with a slow, crude lack of shame. The ruined white shirt made a wet, sticky sound as he peeled it away—a sound that sat heavy in your stomach.​

Your eyes betrayed you, trailing over the map of his back. He was a landscape of fit, scarred muscle, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, tapering down to a waist that looked lean and lethal. The jagged lines of old wars—some silver, some deep and puckered—were smeared now with the fresh, drying blood of the men he’d just finished. It looked like war paint against his skin, dark and drying in the air.

His nostrils flared. He drew a breath so deep his ribs expanded like an animal scenting the wind. His gaze fixed on the back of your neck with a focused hunger. The steam was acting as a messenger, carrying your scent directly to him—the sun-dried cotton of your dress, the earthy sweetness of your skin, and the sharp, copper sting of the blood where the gravel had torn your knees.​

"Wash me," he commanded.​

The words weren't a request. They were a low, alluring rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the soles of your bare feet.​

You gripped the washcloth until your fingers ached, the water dripping hot and stinging against your knuckles. You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to run out the back door and never look back. The air in the room was too thin, too hot.​

"You got two hands, Bo," you said, trying to summon the ghost of your courage. "I already did the hard part with the needle and thread. I ain't your maid."​

"It’s the least you can do," he countered. He took a step into the room, the space shrinking instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, hooded and unblinking. "I took a bullet in my dominant arm for you, sweetheart. Hard to scrub when you're stitched up tight."​

You tried to find your spine, forcing a huff of indignation even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "You’re a monster. I reckon you got enough of that super-human devilry in you to handle a bar of soap without my help."​

The smirk vanished instantly. His face dropped, a glum expression crossed his features, making the room feel even smaller and colder despite the steam. He looked at you with a startling vulnerability that felt more dangerous than his anger. It was the look of a thing that had forgotten it could be perceived as anything other than a threat to be put down.​

"Is that all you see?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a bleak, hollow place. "A monster?"​

A pang of guilt pricked at your chest. You looked at him—really looked, past the blood and the horror. You followed the line of his jaw, the tired curve of his eyes, and the way the blood was matted into his dark hair like a crown of thorns.

He looked exhausted.

He looked lonely.​

"I didn't say that's all," you whispered, the words coming out softer and more regretful than you intended. "But you are what you are, Bo."​

To break the smothering weight of the silence, you reached for the jar of dried lavender and bath salts on the shelf. You threw a handful into the steaming tub, the floral scent blooming instantly in a desperate attempt to mask the smell of the road and the kill.​

"This should take the edge off the pain," you murmured, your hands shaking as you stirred the water. "Help you sleep."​

Bo didn't look away from you. His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. The metallic clink of the fly being undone sent a jolt of white-hot heat straight to your thighs, a pulse that matched the frantic, ragged beat of your heart. You watched, paralyzed, as his stomach muscles raised, the dark hair disappearing into the waistband as he pushed the heavy denim down his hips.

​"I—um—I’m going to get the clean clothes," you blurted out, the panic finally winning. Your pulse was a wild, trapped thing in your throat, and you felt like you were about to drown in the steam. "I’ll leave 'em right outside the door so you can get in the water. And If you really can't do it yourself, I'll help. Promise."​

You scrambled out of the room, your face burning and your skin damp with the ghost of his heat. You instantly regretted the last part of your statement. Why had you even offered? Maybe it was the lingering sting of guilt from your earlier words, a clumsy and impulsive attempt to balance the scales. Maybe it was the heavy silence that followed, making you desperate to fill the air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you.

Those brown eyes held a pull you couldn’t quite name, an unspoken gravity that made you want to do things for him, to be the person who fixed whatever was broken. You didn't have to look back to know his eyes were on your spine, trailing the path of your retreat like a hunter watching a deer vanish into the brush. You stood in the hallway, shivering in the sudden draft, while the scent of lavender and iron lingered in your lungs like a curse.

ᦏ᪔

The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic, wet shuck-shuck of the wooden scrub board. You stood hunched over the bucket, your knuckles raw and stinging from the harsh lye soap. You watched, mesmerized and appalled, as the water turned a deep plum color—the blood of the men Bo had slaughtered bleeding out of the white fabric of his shirt.​

Your mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with images you couldn't unsee. Every time you blinked, you heard it again: the metallic clink-clink of that man’s belt, the weight of him pinning you down, the taste of Mississippi dirt and your own copper blood in your mouth. And then... the shift.​

The sound of Bo’s arrival hadn't been human. It was the sound of a butcher shop at midnight—the wet, splintering crunch of bone, the melon-dropping thud of a head hitting the gravel, and that gargling, truncated scream. You had witnessed four murders. You had seen a man’s head taken off with the casual ease of someone plucking a cotton boll.​

I’m patchin' up a demon, you thought, your rhythm slowing until the scrub board went silent. I’m washin' his sins off his clothes like he’s my own kin. A cold shiver raced down your spine, clashing with the sweltering heat of the stove.

Had you made a terrible mistake?

You had invited a thing into your home that didn't eat, didn't breathe right, and carried the stench of the grave beneath a veil of lavender. You were a lone woman in a sharecropper shack with a monster. If he decided he was still hungry, there wasn't a lock in the Delta that could keep him out.​

But then, you remembered the way he’d gripped your thigh—not with the bruising, entitlement of the men in the lot, but with a anchoring certainty. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear was there, sharp as a razor, but it was being crowded out by a thick, honey-slow heat. You knew that look in his shimmery eyes. He wanted to ruin you, yes—but he wanted to be the only thing that ever touched you again.​

And God help you, you were ready to let him.

The water in the bucket was too foul to continue. You needed to change it and get the rinsing rack you’d left in the washroom. You wiped your damp, soapy hands on your apron, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, and walked down the hall.​

You knocked softly, your heart beginning that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. "Bo?"

​"Come in," his voice drifted through the wood.​

You pushed the door open. The steam hit you first, a thick, comforting fog that smelled of the lavender and salt you’d thrown in. But underneath the flowers was the unmistakable scent of him—rain, cold earth, and a hint of ozone. Bo was submerged in the galvanized tub, his long legs folded uncomfortably against the metal.​

His wet hair was pushed back, revealing the stark, haunting beauty of his face. His tan skin glistened with water and oil, the blood finally gone, leaving him looking like a polished jade statue.​

"I just came for the scrubbing rack," you whispered. You tried to keep your eyes on the wall, but they drifted, fixed on the way the water beaded on his collarbones and the muscles of his chest. "For your clothes."​

Bo didn't move. He just watched you, his eyes shimmery and dark, tracking the rise and fall of your chest. "The clothes can wait, little bird. 'Member what I said?"

​"Oh... yeah," you breathed.

You walked toward him, the floorboards creaking. There was a mesmerizing charm in his gaze that felt like an illusion of safety.

As you reached the edge of the tub, Bo’s hand shot out—the uninjured one—and caught your wrist. His skin was cool, a shocking contrast to the steaming water, and his grip was a firm cuff.​ He guided you down until your knees hit the damp floorboards with a soft thud.​

"You made a promise," he murmured, pressing the hot washcloth into your hand. "Be thorough. I don't want a speck of dirt or blood left on me."​

He leaned back, exposing the wet planes of his stomach and the strong column of his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking and predatory. "Don't let your shyness keep you from seeing where you need to clean," he warned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I want to feel every bit of that kindness you claimed to have."​

You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you pressed the cloth to his shoulder. You began to scrub, tracing the lines of his muscles. Bo watched you with an intense focus. He could smell the way your pulse had spiked, the scent of your arousal blooming like a night-flower in the cramped room.​

He reached out, his large hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. "Look at me while you do it," he commanded softly. "I want to see you realize what you're touchin'."

The steam had become a lavender-scented disinhibitor. As you moved the cloth lower, your knuckles brushed against the solid weight of him, submerged in the soapy water. You felt the thick, hard length of his dick stir beneath the surface, pulsing against your hand.

Bo let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't pull away. He just watched you, his shimmery eyes blown wide. Your lips were parted with a mix of curiosity and a hunger you couldn't hide anymore. You were gentle, your soapy hands sliding over his slick skin, but the more you cleaned, the harder he became.​

Bo’s hand clamped onto your waist. Before you could gasp, he hauled you over the rim.​ The water surged over the sides, splashing onto the floorboards with a heavy thud, as you landed in the tub with him. It was cramped; the metal bit into your hip, and your dress was instantly a heavy, sodden weight clinging to your skin.

Bo’s grip was absolute. He held your waist with one hand, his fingers digging into your flesh, while his other arm draped casually over the edge, his veiny hand twitching.​

You leaned in, your lips trembling as you pressed a tentative kiss to his.​

Bo didn't do tentative. He moaned into your mouth, his hand pulling you flush against his chest. He took over the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate hunger that tasted of ancient promises. You felt his dick pressing between your thighs. You ground down, the wet fabric of your dress providing a friction that made your toes curl into the metal.​

His hand slid beneath the wet hem of your dress, his fingers ghosting over your thighs until they hooked into the waistband of your panties. With one effortless tug, he ripped the fabric. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp snap of finality. He flung the ruined scrap into the corner.​

He pulled back just enough to nip your bottom lip. When you looked down, your heart nearly stopped. His fangs were fully descended—ragged, ivory daggers that looked like fresh bone. They were jagged, lethal, and capable of tearing the life from you in a single heartbeat.​

You felt a spike of pure fear, and Bo felt it too. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "Relax, little bird. I've got you. Don't let the teeth scare you... I'll only bite if you ask me too."​

He licked a slow, hot path across your lip before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned, your head falling back as you grinded onto his dick. It was perfectly positioned, stimulating you until you were seeing sparks.

​"Put it in for me," he rasped.​

He began to kiss a trail down your neck, the points of his fangs dragging across your skin, leaving thin, white lines that stung and burned. You reached down, your fingers fumbling through the soapy water until you found him. He was big—thick and pulsing with a life that didn't belong to a dead man. You lined him up, your breath catching, and slowly, you started to sink down.​

The stretch was deep, a forceful opening that made your vision swim. You felt every ridge, every inch of him as he filled you.​

"Mghn, fuck..." you breathed, your nails carving small crescents into his skin.​

"All the way," Bo commanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Take it all, sweetness. Every bit of it."​

You pushed through the resistance until you bottomed out. He hit a wall with a blunt pressure that made your stomach ache with the sheer fullness. You sat there for a moment, impaled and trembling, while the water lapped at your waists and the steam curled around your heads.​

"There," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your face. "Now you know exactly what a monster feels like inside you." Bo’s damp hand stayed clamped on your face, his thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slick, red inner flesh of your mouth.

He watched the way you trembled, your breath coming in shallow, broken hitches as your body tried—and failed—to accommodate the sheer, unyielding stretch of him.

He shifted his hips, a slow, teasing roll that forced you to feel every ridge and pulsing vein of him. You let out a high, thin whimper, your hands flying to his chest to push him away, to find some air, but his weight was like the Mississippi mud—heavy, ancient, and impossible to move.​

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr that vibrated through your joined heat.

"All that fire in the gravel lot, spittin’ venom at those crackers... and here you are now, shakin’ like a leaf just ‘cause a real man’s fillin’ you up. You’re a pathetic little thing, ain’t you? All mouth and no room for the consequences. You think you’re brave ‘cause you sew up a wound? You’re just a fragile woman who doesn't know how to leave things be."​

The mean edge in his voice made your stomach flip, a toxic cocktail of shame and heat. "Shut—uhn... shut up," you gasped, your head rolling back as he thrust upward—a sharp, blunt jab that hit your g-spot with the force of a hammer, making your vision streak with white light.​

"Make me," he challenged, his eyes shimmering with a wicked, gold-flecked shimmer that made your blood run hotter.​

He didn't give you a chance to answer. He reached for the straps of your dress. He didn't bother being gentle; he ripped the fabric down, the wet slap of the ruined dress hitting the floorboards echoed loud in the cramped room. Your bra followed, snapped and flung aside until you were bare, your skin glistening with sweat and lavender-water in the flickering light.​

Bo’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue rough and scorching as he swirled it around your nipple. He sucked deep, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak just enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a jolt of pain-pleasure that traveled straight to your clit.​

He thrust again, slow and agonizing, his hips grinding into your soft thighs with a crude force. You reached out, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as you found a dulcet rhythm. You began to bounce, the water in the tub sloshing violently over the rim with every downward stroke, soaking the floor.​

Bo threw his head back, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat. He let you ride him, but his hands weren't gentle. They moved to your chest, his palms engulfing your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh with a bruising strength that made you gasp. His thumbs found your nipples, pinching and twisting until you cried out.​

"That's it," he rasped, his fingers digging into your hip bones to anchor you as you hammered yourself down. "Ride it, baby. Show me how much you want it. You like the way I feel, don't you? Like I’m stretchin’ you out so far you’ll never close right again? You’re lucky I found you, or those men would’ve torn you apart... but I’m the one actually doin' it, ain't I?"​

He sped up his own hips, his thrusts turning quick and short, hitting you with a force that made the galvanized tub rattle against the floorboards. You felt his fangs scrape against your shoulder as he leaned in to bite at your skin, not breaking it yet, just marking you with the weight of his hunger.​

"You're so wet," he groaned against your ear, his breath smelling of lavender and the copper of his own blood. "Drippin' all into the water. Shit... I'm gonna make sure you can't walk for a week without—ahh—feelin' me between your legs, remindin' you who you let in."​

You nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice nothing but a broken, humid whisper. "Y-you feel so good, Bo... Lord, you feel so good."​

Bo let out a sound that was half-growl, half-purr, his chest vibrating against yours. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the iron-sweetness of his. His tongue sweeping deep as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion halfway. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed off the damp wooden walls.​

"Mhmm, I bet I do," he mumbled against your lips, his drawl thick and heavy with condescension. "Better than anythin’ you ever imagined in that quiet little life of yours, ain’t it? You spend your days haulin’ water a-and pickin’ okra, never dreamin’ a demon from the dark would come and stretch you out like this, sweet girl."​

You tilted your head, your tongue flicking out to lick across the sharp, jagged ivory of his teeth. The danger of it—the knowledge that he could snap your neck in a second—made your blood sing. "You're a mean one, Bo Chow," you breathed, your eyes fluttering. "But you can be as mean as you w-want, as long as you keep fucking me."​

His eyes flashed, a shimmery darkness. Without a word, he gripped your waist and stood up. The water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floorboards in a heavy torrent. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs dangling for a split second before he flipped you over the cold, narrow edge of the galvanized tub. Your stomach hit the metal, your hands scrambling for purchase on the damp floor as you were forced into a deep arch. Bo was behind you instantly, his shadow swallowing you whole.

He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips—his fingers digging deep—and drove back home in one violent thrust that bottomed out with a wet squelch.​

"Ahhn—!" You cried out, your fingers clawing at the wood.​

He was fucking you like you owed him a debt you could never pay, his movements fast and relentless. It was rough, the friction of the wet skin and the deep, forceful stretch of him making your vision streak with color. He was marking you from the inside out, claiming every inch of your internal space.​

"Look back at me," he ordered, as he reached back and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. One that made your skin tingle and your pussy clench tight around him. "Look at what I'm doin' to you. See how you take it."​

You twisted your neck, looking over your shoulder with blown-out eyes. You watched as his shaft disappeared into you and reappeared, glistening with your combined slickness. You watched your own flesh stretch and yield, your hole squeezing him with every pulse.​

Bo let out a long, ragged moan. "Oh my... look at that. Look at how you're grabbin' me. You're s-so greedy for it. Just a hungry little hole for the haint." He leaned down, his chest pressing into your back, and whispered something dark and filthy in Cantonese—the sounds sharp and ancient against your ear. Then, his voice dropped back into that Delta rasp. "I bet if I sink these teeth into that pretty neck of yours, you'd squeeze me so tight I’d never get out. I could drink you dry while I fill you up.

​He kept pounding into you, his pace turning frantic, his breath hitching. The overstimulation was too much; you reached back, your hand pressing into his lower stomach, trying to find some leverage against the assault.​

"Bo, w-wait... slow down," you sobbed, your eyes teary, your lips pouting in a desperate plea. "Please, it's too much..."​

He paused, but he didn't pull out. He looked down at your face—the tears, the flushed skin, the absolute wreck he’d made of you—and a slow, possessive smirk crossed his lips. He reached out and folded one of your arms behind your back, pinning it there with his large hand, and began to fuck you slow and deep.​

It was worse this way. Every inch of him was felt, every ridge of his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. You watched as your own cream began to coat his skin, dripping down his thighs and into the pink-tinted water on the floor. Bo reached around with his free hand, spreading your cheeks wide, his thumb tracing the seam of your ass with a strange gentleness.​

"You're a mess," he murmured, watching the way you took him. "A beautiful, wet mess. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy later, once I’m done usin’ it. I’m gonna taste every bit of what I put inside you. You’re gonna miss me for days."​

Your hand drifted down to your clit, your fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub and rubbing in frantic circles. The slow, deep thrusts were driving you to the edge of a cliff.​

"Can you take it faster, baby?" Bo rasped, his hand leaving your back to wrap firmly around the base of your neck. "You want me to finish in you? You want the monster to fill you up?"​

"Yes," you gasped, your head falling forward. "Yes, Bo! Please! Just do it!"​

He gripped your neck, anchoring you as he began to pound into you with everything he had. The sounds were wet and violent, the tub rattling against the floor as he reached for his own peak. You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you just as he delivered one last deep thrust that pinned you against the metal.​

You screamed into the empty washroom, your body convulsing as you came in wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure. A second later, Bo let out a low moan, his body locking up as he erupted inside you. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, pulsing ropes of his release filling you to the absolute brim, making you feel like you were overflowing.​

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead resting against your back, both of you panting in the cooling steam. When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. You stayed slumped over the tub, your legs shaking, watching as his thick, white cum began to leak out of you, dripping slowly onto the dark, damp floorboards of your home.​

Bo stood over you, his eyes still shining, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of his seed from your thigh before bringing it to his lips, tasting you one last time.

ᦏ᪔

The scent of lye soap and fresh floor wax had mostly chased away the copper sting of blood and the heavy musk of the night before. Your small house looked right again—quilts snapped straight, the hearth swept clean, and the kitchen table scrubbed down for the arrival of your brother, his wife, and their little ones. But despite the domestic order, the air still felt charged, humming with the ghost of the intimacy that had unfolded in the washroom.​

Bo sat at your small kitchen table, draped in a set of your brother’s old work clothes. The denim was faded and the shirt was tight across his broad, scarred shoulders, but he wore them with a strange, effortless dignity. He looked like any other man from the Delta, save for the stillness in his posture and the way his eyes seemed to swallow the afternoon light.​

You leaned against the counter, smoothing your apron, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly what he was.​

"Everything’s ready," you said, your voice a little raspy. "I reckon you can stay on and rest a bit longer, but you got to be gone before the crickets start their real loud chirpin'. My brother and his kin... they can’t find you here. Especially not lookin’ like you do."

​Bo didn't answer right away. He stood up, his frame making the kitchen feel small again, and crossed the room with that fluid, silent stride. He stepped behind you, wrapping his large, cool arms around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath, cold and smelling faintly of the lavender salts, against your skin.​

"I’ll be gone before the first headlight hits the gravel, little bird," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. He didn't bite, but the threat—the promise—of his fangs was always there. "When can I see you again?"​

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "Whenever you want, Bo. I'm sure you know the way."​

He let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine. He squeezed your waist once, firmly, before letting go. "Thank you again. For the thread. For not callin' the law or the lynch mobs." His eyes drifted to the window, looking out toward the cypress trees. "I’ll pay you back for the trouble. Name your price."​

You didn't hesitate. You knew the value of your silence and your safety in this world. You named a price—a bold amount of silver that would keep your family fed and the taxes paid for a long, long time.​

Bo let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, his shimmery eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a greedy woman," he said, but there was a deep, underlying respect in his tone. He reached out, his thumb dragging across your cheek. "I like that. I used to own a store myself, back before the world got so dark. I know the cost of doin' business. You'll have your silver."​

ᦏ᪔

The house was full of the sounds of family later that night—the high-pitched giggles of your nieces, the heavy thud of your brother’s boots, and the soft chatter of his wife as they settled into the guest rooms. You played your part, serving food and enjoying family time, but your mind was stuck in the quiet shadows of the washroom.​

When you finally crawled into your own bed, the sheets felt cold and lonely. You fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the weight of the secrets you were carrying.​

In the dead of the night, the air in your room shifted. There was no sound, just a subtle change in pressure.​

Bo appeared at your bedside like a shadow detached from the wall. He stood over you for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, and pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss to your forehead.​

He reached out, his long fingers snagging a small scarf you’d left on the nightstand—one you’d used to tie back your hair. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent of you that clung to the fabric: the peach-sweetness, the earth, and the lingering spice of the night before. He tucked it into his pocket, a piece of you to take back into the dark.​

When you woke the next morning, the room was empty and the sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon. You sat up, shivering slightly, and noticed a small piece of paper weighted down by a small sack on your vanity.​

You picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted.​

The Delta is a dangerous place, dear. Keep your doors locked and your fire high. I'll be back for the rest of what I owe you.​— B.C.​

You clutched the silver coin in your hand, feeling its cold weight, and looked out at the swamp. Bo Chow was gone, but you knew that he was still watching.

ᦏ𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈᪔

тαgℓιѕт: @aizawash0e, @h3avenlyglory, @mahoganybreeze

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

"Easy, easy now...calm down. You're safe."

“Who the hell are you-“ you question in fright at his fanged teeth.

He gave a slight frown, eyes shifting a bit as he studied you.

“This is my home, your wounds…you’ve been here just short of a day.”

He explained, keeping his distance to not further frighten you- pointing to your abdomen.

“You're- a vampire?!!”

He chuckled slightly, not amused by the fear in your eyes but understanding your reaction”

"Half vampire, actually” He went on, “But I mean you no harm, you have my word."

“You could be lying”.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of irritation in his voice at the accusation

"You'll have to trust me on that, won't you? If I wanted to hurt you, I could've done so long ago. You were passed out and bleeding on your horse's back."

Realization hit you, his arms crossing over his chest as you stay silent in protest.

"You were quite injured, I patched you up the best I could and kept you in this room to rest. Please allow me to heal you back to health completely.”

You stay in the corner of the bed with your hands clutched onto the thick fur blanket. You give him a nod, accepting his proposal, although reluctantly.

He nods back, sensing the fear and uncertainty radiating off of you but appreciative that you aren’t too stubborn.

"It would've been wrong to leave you to bleed out in the woods." He said, slowing returning to the fire and book.

“I didn’t know vampires had morality.” You retort, slipping out of your mouth without much thought.

He but only chuckles, you can almost hear his smile as he speaks, low and soft.

“I’ve had my share of…distasteful humans. But your horse made a good case for you, you know.”

You have to almost stop a smile- becoming more comfortable by the second with his seeming civility.

Not too comfortable, though, feeling the bandages around your waist.

He looks back and sees you touching them through your shirt.

“Can I see them?” He asks, walking closer to you now with a voice of concern.

You nod.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch you unnecessarily, reaching out and gently unwrapping the bandages, his movements slow and deliberate as he revealed the wounds beneath.

You wince slightly at the cool air hitting your broken skin, your stomach flexing inwards and your lungs expanding.

He pauses for a moment as you flinch, his eyes flicking up to your face.

"I'm sorry, I'll be gentle," he says softly before continuing to unwrap the bandages, revealing the cuts and gashes on your body. His expression hardened again as he took in the extent of your injuries, his fingers tracing lightly over the wounds, gentle and steady.

“How do they feel?” He asks, taking all the bandages off and reaching to the nightstand for more.

“Fine” You reply.

"Are you sure you're feeling alright? I can sense your emotions, you know. And you're not very good at hiding them."

You feel your brows contort into irritation, you dont even know what for- maybe your innate distrust.

"What, you're mad that I can read you so easily?" He replied with a smile, enjoying your annoyed expression a little more than he thought.

“It's a bit annoying…” You say, raising your brows, with a sprinkle of sass.

He smirked again, his lips playful.

"Well, I'm sorry if it's annoying. But you're quite expressive. It's hard not to notice when you look like that.”

“Like what-?” You retort.

“That.” He replies quickly, making you swallow your words.

You watch as he redresses your wounds, taking his time to wrap the bandages around your waist and stomach.

You take that time to look at his face more carefully than before- being this close to a vampire wasn’t something you think you’d live long enough to be able to observe like this.

You noticed his light amber hair, his yellow eyes and long lashes that gave him an epicene charm. You couldn’t keep your curious eyes from wandering over his features, he smelled like oud and iron.

When he was done, you looked out toward the open window, the sill swaying back and forth as the wind dance.

“How long will they take to heal?” You ask as you look back down at his hands.

"It depends. The wounds were quite severe, so it may take a while for them to fully close. The medicine should accelerate the healing process, but it's not instantaneous.”

“Okay- well, if it's fine i'll return to my town then by tomorrow.”

His expression shifted to surprise at your statement.

"You want to leave already? You're not fully healed yet, it's not safe for you to go back out there. They could open, get infection, you could get-“

“I don't wish to bother you any longer- you've already helped me enough.” You state. You’ve been quite wary about vampires- raised to practically believe they were spawns of hell itself.

He raised an eyebrow, his surprise quickly replaced by a hint of irritation

"Bother me? Nonsense. You're a guest in my home, and I don't intend to just let you wander off into danger when you're just as injured as when I found you.”

“It's still an inconvenience…”

He lets out an annoyed sigh, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're insufferable, you know that?” It's not an inconvenience. You're my responsibility now, whether you like it or not.”

You let out an equally annoyed huff, but you don’t bother to object anymore, clearly stuck and indefensible.

“Fine”. You breathe out.

He gave you a firm nod, satisfied that you had agreed to stay.

"Good. You'll stay here until you're fully healed. I won't have you running off and getting yourself killed out there."

He watched you as you settled back into bed, his expression softening slightly

"I'll be back to check on you later. Try not to do anything reckless while I'm gone." He says, walking out the door.

“Wait!” You shout.

He pauses in the doorway, turning to look at you.

"Yes?"

“What’s your name?”

“Alucard”, is what you hear before the shut of the door.

You hear his descending footsteps on the floor of the castle, plopping your head back into the goosefeather pillows as you stared at the brick ceiling, trying to get comfortable again, as much as you could considering your circumstance.

Hours had passed, and sleep didn’t miss you on its way.

Alucard had come back to your room, opening it after not hearing any confirmation at his soft knocks.

He saw your sleeping state and moved quietly as to make sure sure not to disturb you, scanning over your form, taking note of your condition and whether you were in any pain or discomfort even if your unconsciousness.

He leaned over and placed a hand on your forehead, checking for a fever or sweats.

After making his observations, his eyes lingered on your hair, fingers carefully brushing against a few strands as he withdraws his hand.

He found himself captivated by the color and texture, a hint of curiosity flickering within as the sunlight filtered through the window and casted a warm glow over your skin, the smooth contours of your face and neck.

He looked at your physiognomy in almost jealously, envious of your humanness. The feeling of your warm skin coursing with blood that hadn’t yet gone through the process of death. He brushed his knuckle softly against your cheekbone but quickly removed it once he felt you slowly stir away.

You crack your eyes open and flutter your flashes as the setting sun pokes at your lids again.

“Is it evening already?”

He nods, his voice low and quiet, walking around the corners of the room to light the candles scattered around to offer some light before the moons arrival.

"Yes, it's getting late. You've been asleep for quite a while."

You let out a long drawn yawn and attempt to sit up near the headboard.

He watches, eyes tracking your every move. He can see the pain and stiffness in your movements, a pang of guilt tugging at him for not being able to do anything for you in that moment.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice taint with concern. "You're still injured, remember? You shouldn't be sitting up yet. Let your body heal."

“I can't just sleep all day.”

"Yes, you can”…He continues, trying to push through without the conversation. “You're still recovering. You need to take it easy and let your body heal itself. Sleeping is the best way to do that." He crosses his arms over his chest, a hint of frustration in his voice over your seemingly unmovable persistence.

You frown at his scolding, crossing your arms back.

"What's with the pout? You look like a petulant child."

You scoff, leaning your head back and mouth slightly agape.

“That's rude...”

He chuckles, a smirk growing at your response.

"Is it? I was merely stating the truth.

You're acting like a spoiled brat who doesn't want to listen to their caretaker."

“I'm just tired of sleeping so much...”

“Well I can’t just let you run around and frolick can I?”

You pout again, knowing he’s right but not wanting to agree out of…pettiness.

He shakes his head and sighs, “Stay here, I’ll bring you some food”.

“Yeah sure i’ll stay! No problem Doctor!” You say with fringed enthusiasm. “Can’t really go run and frolick can I…?” You mumble after.

“I heard that.” He says as he walks out, making you chuckle a bit.

As you wait, your stomach growls even more, wondering what kind of food you’ll be given. With all the wealth and luxury displayed in just the small portion of the castle you’ve been limited to witness- you had set your expectations high….unfortunately.

He comes back not more than an hour or so later- hair tied up in a low messy bun and what seems to be flour on his pants.

You see Alucard bring in a tray of a small loaf of bread and a bowl of what smelled like plain chicken stock, small floating pieces of carrot.

He sits down next to the bed, putting the tray on the edge of the bed before helping you sit up just a bit so you could eat.

You look at him and then the food- the silence and your inactive made him scoff.

“Are you hands broken all of a sudden? Do you need me to feed you?” He says bluntly, raising his brows in disbelief of your shamelessness.

You gave him a shrug and innocent expression smile- but he lets himself fall to your poorly executed manipulation.

He tears a piece of the what you can only imagine is some kind of buckwheat bun, as he dips it into the plain soup.

“Fattening me up so you can eat me?” You say as the soup soaked bread moves closer to your mouth.

He rolls his eyes and holds it closer to you to take a bite.

Before you open your mouth to accept the bread, you catch a wiff of the smell and…your head tilts away swiftly.

“Oh gods- you don’t even need to fatten me that’s gonna kill me first!” You say as you shake your head.

“What? Stop being dramatic. It’s just bread, here” He says, tilting your head back toward his face and the bread.

“Where did you get that? Did my horse produce it?!”

Alucard furrows his brows and scoffs.

“I made this…it took a while by the way.”

Your eyes widen- not knowing if you should be surprised and touched that he attempted to make you food or if you should be alarmed at how horribly it went.

“Oh…”

He sighs, “Is it really that bad..? What do you humans even eat besides bread and beer?”

You scoot back a bit, creating a good distance away from the bread.

“Is this- just chicken stock?” You ask, trying to find any kind of compliment to give him.

He looks at you deadpanned, and you have to stifle a smile.

“I should have gave that carrot to the damn horse…” He mumbled before getting up to leave with the tray.

“Wait wait!” You laugh as you protested, waving your arms back up to urge him to stay.

“I’ll try it…since you went out of your way.”

He sighs, giving you another chance and placing the tray back on your lap.

You have to gather more courage than you might have ever before- taking the same piece of bread he tore and counting your blessing before putting it into your mouth.

Truthfully- the chicken stock made it somewhat bearable, masking the stale like gummy texture of the bread…and swallowing it before it could bother you too much.

Alucard watched at the bedpost, arms crossed as he observed your expression.

You look up at him after the first bite, tilting your head back and forth and twisting your arm to try and say it wasn’t too aweful.

He lets outs a chuckle and sits back down on the chair; occupying his earlier read as he waits for you to finish your meal.

As soon as you’re finished, he glances at the empty bowl and plate, a hint of relief in his eyes

"You ate everything, good. It's important to keep your strength up while you're recovering."

You simply nod, not wishing you further frustrate him over his cooking inability.

"Get some rest now. You need it."

He takes the tray and turns to leave, but once again hesitates at the door, as if his body screams at him to stay longer than needed.

Looking back at you; his eyes roaming over your face as if committing it to memory.

“I never got your name, now that I think about it. I think I’d like to know what to address you as.”

You hesitate for a moment- but it’s the least you could offer, formality wise.

“Y/n.” You respond.

He replies in almost a whisper.

"Goodnight, Y/n." He smiles.

He won’t be going to bed anytime soon but he hopes your rest is committed.

“Goodnight, Alucard.”

Again is the shut of the door, and you know you won’t see him again til the next morning.

After he leaves the room, he stand in the hallway for a moment, lost in thought- he feels a heaviness in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips. It’s been a long time since anyone has said his name at all- nor with as much tenderness and void of disdain as the way in which you spoke it.

The next day comes, much like the last in its configuration, just as the next few would likely follow.

Alucard comes in and moves quietly around, tending to the small fire in the hearth and tidying up a bit around your room; keeping his movements soft and silent, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere while you sleep.

He notices the moment you start to stir, his eyes flickering towards your sleeping figure on the bed. He watches you wake, and a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his lips as he watches you blink sleepily.

“Goodmorning”, you hear from the vampire, chuckling as he sees you stretch. “Sleep well?”.

You reply with a nod, yawning greatly before giving him a “Mhm”.

He feels a sense of relief wash over him, glad that you were able to get some restful sleep. Moving closer to the bed, his eyes scan over you for any signs of discomfort.

"That's good to hear. How are you feeling? Any pain?"

You shake your head, truthfully feeling much lighter than the previous day. You sit up so you can present your wounds to him.

He nods in approval, satisfied assurance while he steps closer to the bed until he sits on the edge, gently reaching out to examine your wounds, his fingers lightly brushing over the bandages that cover your injuries and unwrapping you.

"They're healing well. You're lucky you didn't sustain any serious damage."

He relays, his palms trailing down your sides as he tries to feel for any swelling, and you seem to find your throat a bit dry.

He can hear you gulp, and he reluctantly pulls his hands away and starts to wrap you with new bandages, rolling your shirt back down.

“Thank you”, you reply, trying to fill the empty space between you two, even if it’s just verbal.

He pauses for a moment, surprised by your words. He hadn't expected you to thank him, and the sincerity in your voice catches him off guard.

He clears his throat again, trying to maintain his demeanor.

"You don't need to thank me. I'm just doing what I can to ensure your recovery."

You smile and nod, impressed by his humbleness.

“Do you think, I can go outside now? Maybe for a walk.” You ask.

He hesitates, considering your request. Youve been confined to the room for almost a week now, and the thought of you getting some sun wasn’t the worst.

"Hm...I suppose it would be good for you to get some fresh air. But only for a little while. You're still recovering, so you shouldn't push yourself too much."

You smile even wider, glad that he wasn’t cruel or unreasonable.

“Thank you, will you join me?” You offer.

He feels his brows contort with confusion, but he can't help the small smile that follows.

"Me? You want me to go with you?"

“Well i've never been to this part of the country- i’m not so used to it.

He chuckles softly, finding your naiveté endearing

"I see. Very well, I'll accompany you on your walk." He replies, coming back to the edge of the bed and helping you up, putting out his forearm for you to hold yourself up with- making sure you don't stumble or fall.

"Take it slow. You might be a bit unsteady at first."

You hold on tight, feeling your limbs finally stretch out after hours of laying down with not much breaks.

He watches you carefully, his eyes following your every move. He notices the warmth of your hands on his arm, gripping and clinging to him so tight, and the closeness of your body sends a current through his body- and he finds himself putting a bit more effort into trying to push down the strange feelings that are bubbling up inside him, because of you.

"Easy there. Don't push yourself too hard."

Once he makes note of your posture, he slowly releases your arm, though keeping a hand hovering nearby, just in case you need support.

“Do you happen to have any clothes?” You ask, wanting to get into something more fresh compared to your tattered and messy clothing.

"Yes, I think I do. Stay here.” He says, quickly moving out of the room to retrieve them and arriving again only minutes later with a neatly folded stack of garments in his arms.

He hands them to you, his eyes flickering over your figure as he does so.

"These should fit you. Let me know if they don't."

You take the small pile with both hands and go to the washroom of your familiar room to change.

Alucard waited patiently outside the door, his mind racing as he imaged you changing inside- hearing the rustling of fabric and wanting to ask if you needed help but he didn’t want to overstep- didn’t want to make you suspect anything more of it all.

Desperately he tried to push the thoughts down into the back of his head, but they keep creeping up, making his heart race and his palms sweat a bit.

When you emerged back out in the clothes he gave you, his eyes almost widened, a faint melancholy in his gaze.

“What…you look like you want to say something.” You ask.

He looks back into your eyes as he’s snapped out of his thoughts.

“Sorry- sorry…no you look fine. It’s just that” He rambled on, “The clothes belonged to my mother, they suite you.”

Your brows rise at the information and your stomach drops a bit- feeling sorrow for him in his dark undertones. But you stay silent.

“Alright”, he continues, draping a red scarf around your neck.

“Keep this on, it’s cold in the mornings.” He says as he pulls your hair up from the scarf and lays it behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your ears slightly as he stands much closer now.

You only nod, allowing him to open the door and lead you out of the room for the first time.

When you step out of your enclosure of a room, you feel the smooth velvet carpet rolling out into the deep hallways of the ancient castle, soothing the soles of your bare feet as you walk alongside Alucard, looking around at the ceilings and the fixtures that adorn the home.

He watches as you take in the grandeur of the castle, a hint of pride in his eyes. He’s lived here for so long, but he sometimes forgets how impressive it must look to outsiders

"It's a bit much, I know. But it's been in my family for generations."

“No, it’s beautiful. Really.” You assure, taking everything in as you finally get to explore the place you’ve been locked up in.

He smiles again at your words, feeling a small swell of warmth in his chest. Expecting you like most people to be intimidated or scared by the castle's size and antiquity, but he can tell you seem genuinely impressed by it.

"Thank you. My father, Dracula, had it built many years ago. He desired opulence." He says with cadence.

As he explains more of the building’s interior, you both finally reach a exit. You can hear the chirping of birds and the wind on the other side as if a portal to an unexplored grove were near.

Alucard pushes the heavy doors open, revealing the sprawling gardens outside. The morning sun is casting a warm golden glow over the landscape.

The gardens- a riot of color, with blooming flowers and lush greenery filling every inch of space.

He watched as you step out into the grass. He can't help but find the sight of you barefoot in the garden endearing, your toes sinking into the soft earth as you breathe in the sweet spring air.

You open your eyes and look up, appreciating the sky from below opposed to the window from a distance as to which you were forced to do for the past few days.

Alucard, though, doesn’t follow your gaze. He instead can't help but admire the way the sun catches in your hair, and on your skin, making you look like you're glowing. A second, much more beautiful sun.

He finds himself staring for a moment, mesmerized by your beauty.

He also notices the way you hold the shawl closer to your body, and he wonders if you're cold or if there's something else you're trying to hide. He tries to resist the urge to reach out and brush a stray strand of hair out of your face again, wanting to feel just an atom of your being, as if to merge them with his.

He step closer, concern etched on his face

"Are you cold?"

You look back at him, your brows contorted and a soft look of vulnerability on your face.

“A little”, you admit.

He sees the goosebumps emerged on your soft and sunkissed skin, and he frowns slightly.

He takes the coat off his back, and drapes it over your shoulders

"Here, this should help." He says as he pulls you closer to him, your shoulders rubbing up as he keeps the draped jacket close around you, a bit too big but enough to warm you.

You give him an appreciative smile, and he returns one right back.

He watches you return your eyes back on the scenery, his gaze softening as he sees the way you admire the beauty of the world around you.

He’s seen this view countless times before, smelled the same air and felt the same breeze pass him by. But somehow, it seems more vibrant with you here with him now.

“Would you like to go back inside now?” You ask.

He shakes his head, not wanting the moment to end just yet.

"Not yet. Let's stay out here a little longer. Is that okay?” He asks softly.

You nod, happy that he’s willing to indulge you in just a bit more time outside.

You can’t help but feel his eyes glancing to you every now and then- and you try to ignore the urge to get closer to him.

Not for warmth, or because of the cold, or anything other than the flickering need to be closer to him.

Something entirely separate, something entirely unfamiliar.

After another few minutes, you two decide to come back inside to prevent any possibility of you catching a cold.

Alucard shows you a few more hallways and rooms along the way, pointing them onto and providing a little history lesson every now and then, not wanting to bombard you with his entire lifetimes worth of stories. When you arrive back at your room, he watches you settle back into the bed. A strange mix of emotions swirling within him. he wants to stay with you, but he knows he should give you some space.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment before speaking up again.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll be around."

You smile and nod, “Thank you”. You whisper.

“Of course. I'll be in the library if you need me." He hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say something more, but then he turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the room, leaving the door open this time- as if inviting you to join him.

Maybe you’re just thinking too much into it.

As he sits down on the wooden library chairs, trying to concentrate on the book in his hand and the ink that sticks to his quill, his thoughts keep drifting back to you, wondering what you're doing in your room and if you're comfortable.

He can't shake the feeling that he's being drawn to you like a moth to a flame- in an inseparable trap he set himself. His affliction.

Lost in his own mind, he snaps out of it as he hears a knock at the library door. He looks up, setting his book down to calls out.

"Come in."

You hear his command, opening the tall doors and peaking your head in to find him.

He looks up as you enter the space, his eyes widening slightly as you approach closer and walk down the sparse steps- secretly trying to hide the fact that he was thinking about you just seconds ago.

"Ah, I wasn't expecting you so soon.

Is everything alright?" He asks, feeling his heart suddenly accelerate.

“Yeah, sorry” You reply, handing him back his jacket, “you just forgot this”.

As he takes the jacket from you, his finger brushing against yours for a brief moment that he curses himself for not keeping it a second longer.

He looks at it for a moment before looking back at you.

"Ah, thank you. I didn't realize I had left it behind." He says in a more hoarse tone than usual.

You chuckle and nod, “I also didn't realize.” You say in a lighthearted tone.

He chuckles softly in return, his eyes locked on yours- Acutely aware of the way your scent fills the air around him, intoxicating him with its sweetness.

"I suppose I was too distracted this morning to notice."

He finds it harder and harder to resist the urge to reach out to you, to pull you closer to him with each growing second.

You break the short lapse of silence, your eyes trailing down to the desk full of books and sheets of freshly inked script.

“Reading?”

He also glances at the books on the table, trying to compose himself.

"Ah, yes. I was just doing some light reading. and annotation. Trying to take my mind off things." He says before looking back at you, his gaze lingering on your face. He can feel the tension between you growing, the air heavy with unspoken words and emotions.

“What, uhm- kind of things?” You ask, immediately feeling as if you overstepped.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should be honest with you, but he can't bring himself to lie.

"You." He speaks.

You nod, understanding as you touch your wound on your side- Assuming he’s referring to your injuries, knowing how much he cares to treat you. Pushing away the initial thoughts of affection, not wanting to get your hopes up.

He nods, a small sigh escaping his lips. He conflicts with himself- wanting to tell you every preoccupied thought he’s had of you since the moment he found you on the back of his horse.

"Yes, that. And other things." He slips in quietly.

“You should rest, you’re not well enough to be up for so long.” He says a bit more sternly.

You furrow your brows a bit in unease, wishing he elaborated.

“Right.” You respond plainly.

He sees the disappointment in your eyes and immediately regrets his words. He didn't mean to push you away, but he's afraid of letting his guard down, of getting too close to you.

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling frustrated with himself

"I just... I don't want you to overexert yourself."

“It’s fine-“ You reply quickly, not wanting to invest more emotional energy into the exchange, exiting the library and walking back to your room, each step heavy and unrelenting as if your body rejects being away from him.

He watches your back as you leave, his heart sinking at the sound of your steps descending in volume. He wants to call out to you, to tell you to stay, but the words stick in his throat like a lozenge.

He sits there for a moment, frozen in place, before cursing himself under his breath. He knows he's messed up, but he's not sure how to fix it just yet.

Alucard remains in the library, pacing back and forth restlessly, still. He can't focus on anything, his mind consumed by thoughts of you.

He curses himself for being so awkward and aloof, for not being able to express his feelings properly even if they aren’t all fleshed out and appropriate.

He wants to follow you, to make things right, but he's afraid of what might happen if he does. So he stays in the library, brooding and frustrated, feeling more alone than ever.

You on the other hand, stay cooped up in your room. Equally frustrated- pacing around the bed unaware of how similar you both seem to cope.

You stay until the sun sets, wondering if he’ll show anytime soon to check up on you like he has been- angrily ruffled into the bedsheets as you almost wish you never went to the library, wishing you just left it at the peaceful garden walk from this morning.

“Fuck it?” You think to yourself, just go. “Just get up…walk over to him and figure it out? Right?” What even is there to figure, maybe, you were just overthinking.

You put your hand on the doorknob, resting before you swing it open.

As you prepare to take the first step out your eyes widen at the sight of him right infront of you with his hand raised.

He freezes in his tracks, surprised to see you standing in the doorway. He hadn't expected you to open the door just as he was about to knock, and his face looking more pale than before, somehow.

He looks at you, heart racing as he takes in the sight- feeling a mix of relief and nervousness, unsure of what to say or do next.

“…Hi.” You break the silence.

He swallows hard, his palms feeling clammy. He forces himself to speak, his voice sounding hoarse and awkward

"Hey. I was just coming to check on you." He drew on.

“I was also going to find you.” You confess.

He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your words. He hadn't expected you to be looking for him as well, his hopes rocking up.”

"Were you?"

“Yeah well- it's evening so I figured you'd want to check up on me again.” You sidetrack, dancing around the idea of anything else.

He nods, feeling a pang of guilt.

He had been avoiding you all day, and yet here you were, still thinking about him and his routine. Sure, he was too, but he hated the idea of burdening you with such heavy feelings in his care.

"Right, of course. I should've been more on top of it."

You nod, letting him into the room as you go to sit down on the bed as he follows you, his heart pounding in his chest. Why?

He can feel a tension between you two, one that’s been bubbling and thickening like a witches brew.

He tries to focus on the task at hand, but his mind keeps drifting to other things as he approaches you, his hand trying not to linger too long- prudent in his action.

He keeps his gaze clinical as he examines the wounds, rolling your shirt up and unwrapping the bandaged, but it's hard not to notice the softness of your skin beneath his fingers.

He gently touches the edges of the scars, his touch cautious as he checks for any signs of infection or irritation.

He’s aware of how close he is to you, how intimate the situation is, how for the past few days that he’s tried to ignore- scared of pushing himself onto you in any way.

He can feel the heat radiating off your body, and it's making it difficult for him to concentrate as he can see you watching him.

He glances up at you, his eyes locking with yours for a brief moment.

“You look worried....”

He looks up at you again, his expression serious.

"It's just... the scars are still a bit red. I'm worried about infection."

You nod, your expression also turning more stone.

He frowns, his fingers tracing the edges of the scars lightly.

"I'll have to keep a closer eye on them. Make sure they don't get worse."

You nod, wincing slightly as he touches them.

He immediately stops touching the scars, his expression softening.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." He whispers.

“It's okay- it just stings a little”. You assure.

But he still feels a pang of guilt at the thought of causing you pain, even if it was accidental.

"I'll try to be more careful. I just want to make sure they're healing properly." He goes on, feeling himself open up more- wanting to tell you just how much he cares.

He wraps you back up in new dressing, rolling your shirt down again and leaning down toward you.

“Hold onto me, I’ll help you up.” He says softly, putting his arms around your back as you wrap yours around the back of his neck, holding into him for support as he helps you up onto your feet without too much trouble.

For just a moment your chests press up- but soon letting go.

Alucard steps back, not wanting to cross any lines- but gods is his mind absolute chaos right now.

The feeling of your body closer than it’s ever been- the feeling of almost embracing you was too much for him to handle.

You clear your throat, leaning back against the bedpost, “Earlier today...in the library...”, you go on.

He perks back up, “Yes? What about it?”

“I'm sorry if i seemed too insistent, you probably wanted to be alone”…

He shakes his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Don't apologize. You didn't seem insistent at all. If anything, I found your curiosity endearing."

He sends you a smile, a softer look.

"And I must admit, it was nice to have some company in the library for once. I've been alone for so long that l've almost forgotten what it's like to talk to someone…”

You smile back, “Me too.”

He returns your easygoingness, “You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

“I'm not, it's making me feel better too.”

He chuckles, a bit deeper this time.

"I see. So you're not just a beautiful woman with a sharp mind, you're also honest."

“I hope to be”, you reply wittingly.

“Honesty is a rare quality, you know.

Most people will say anything to get what they want, or to avoid hurting your feelings. But you... you seem to speak your mind without a second thought…Especially about my bread.”

You roll your eyes place and scoff, “I’ll never hear the end of it from you.”

“I’m still hurt.” He says, feigning offense.

The two of you exchange a few more pleasantries, both reveling in the fact that your issues from earlier have been mended and quickly forgotten. Thankfully.

Alucard glances out the window, seeing the darkness of the night outside and hearing your yawn.

"It's late. You should probably get some rest, as much as I wish to keep talking.” He adds on quickly.

You nod, opening the door as he walks out into the doorway.

“Goodnight, dear.” He says politely.

You respond with a kiss on his cheek, quick and gentle.

“Goodnight.” You say with a soft smile, and and shut the door on his dumbfounded face.

He stands there for a moment, stunned by your unexpected kiss.

His hand comes up to touch the spot where your lips had been, a look of surprise and... something else on his face. He shakes his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips as he turns and walks away, heading to his own room and recalling the experience with every step. He tries to tell himself that it was just a polite gesture, nothing more, but he can't help the way his heart flutters at the thought of your lips on his skin. He knows any semblance of sleep won’t be easy- not after your stunt.

You sleep deeply through the night and into first light, unable to hear Alucard knocking at your door.

He knocks a second time, a tray of breakfast food in his hands.

Upon your lack of response, he enters the room quietly, his eyes immediately going to your bed to check on your condition- smiling softly as he sees you still asleep, setting the tray of food on a nearby table.

He walks over to the bed, his footsteps light and quiet so as not to wake you. It’s almost noon, and he wants to make sure you’re not feeling any sort of extreme exhaustion- considering the irregular surplus of sleep.

He continues to watch your face- finding himself getting used to the peaceful sight of your sleeping form.

But he notices a look of distress on your face, becoming concerned. He sits down on the edge of the bed, observing intently, his eyes narrowing as he realizes you're having a nightmare of some sort.

He hesitates for a moment, unsure if he should wake you up, but the conviction on your face convinces him to act.

"Hey...wake up." He gently shakes your shoulder, trying to rouse you from your terrors.

He watches as you rise up in a jerked motion- breathe quick and heavy, pupils dilated and expression that of terror.

He places a comforting hand on your back.

"Shh... it's okay. You're safe now. It was just a dream." He says as he rubs your back in soothing circles, his touch gentle and reassuring. He looks at you with concern, his eyes filled with worry

"You were having a nightmare... do you want to talk about it?"

“I don’t really remember it-“ You say in a defeated tone, more annoyed than anything.

"Okay. But if you do, I'm here to listen."

“Thank you”, you say with a faint smile, his hand now on your shoulder.

"Of course.“ He glances over at the tray of food he brought in.

"I brought you some breakfast. You should eat something. It’ll take your mind off it perhaps?”

You take the tray appreciatively, nodding but still disoriented.

He notices the slight change in your expression. He tilts his head slightly, studying your face.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look a bit... dazed."

“Sorry- i'm just- still waking up”

He chuckles softly, amused by your sleepy state “It's alright. I understand."

He sits on the edge of the bed again, watching you pick up the food, satisfied that you're finally eating something.

He leans back against the headboard of the bed, content to just sit with you for a while.

"How are your wounds feeling today? Are they healing well?"

“Oh- yes I think so”, you say, putting the tray next to you and turning to face him, lifting your shirt up to let him examine them.

He runs his fingers gently over the healing cuts under your bandages, making sure they're not infected or still bleeding

"Good. They look like they're healing nicely. You'll probably be fully healed in a few more days."

“A few more days...alright”. You start to think to yourself, wondering what'll happen then- considering that you’ll have no need to stay here once you’re healthy.

He notices the look on your face, the slight furrow in your brow as you think to yourself. He lowers your shirt, his gaze fixed on you

"Is something wrong?”, he asks, getting closer to you as he tries to coax it out of you.

You simply shake your head.

He raises an eyebrow, not quite believing you. At all actually.

"You know you can tell me if something is bothering you, right?"

“I know…” You say, unconvincingly once again.

He reaches out and gently takes your hand in his, his touch gentle and comforting

"You can trust me, you know. I won't judge you. I swear it.” He says with a gentle expression.

“Yeah- yeah I know.” You say quickly, your face developing a rouge at his sudden act of affection. Or maybe it was just- care, a polite gesture of friendship.

You go back to eating your breakfast, slipping your hand out of his.

Even while enjoying your morning meal, your stomach is heavy with the residual feelings of your nightmare- frustration that you can’t seem to remember what made you feel so ill.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” You ask Alucard.

He looks to face you- a bit unprepared for your question but honest.

“At times, they seem more like recollections than fantasies of my mind.”

You furrow your brows, looking done at your food and playing around with it.

“I can’t remember what I was even dreaming about- but it’s a strange feeling.”

You go on, opening up about the discomfort of your body.

He frowns, feeling a mix of sympathy and concern for you. He pulls you closer to him, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could take it away from you."

You let out a surprised sound- hands hesitating to wrap around him.

He can feel your surprise, unrelenting. He holds you tightly against his chest, one hand gently stroking your hair

"It's okay," he murmurs softly.

"You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you. Alright?”

You feel your brows scrunch up and your body lighten- as if he’s shared some room in his body for you to lay your afflictions bare. To take some of the pain from you and lock it away in himself.

With contemplation- you hug him back.

He holds you closer, his chin resting on the top of your head

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just relax. Let me hold you."

His words soothe you like a balm, mending together pensive feelings of melancholy you weren’t even aware of before.

You feel warm tears roll down your cheeks, sniffling before he gently rocking you back and forth as he tries to soothe you

"Shhh, it's okay. Let it all out," he whispers, his voice filled with tenderness and compassion.

"I've got you," he continues.

You use every second to try and pull yourself up together- but he wraps around you close, holding you together as you fall apart in his arms.

He continues to whisper words of comfort, his voice low and soothing

"You're doing so well. Just keep breathing. In and out, that's it."

After a few minutes of much needed exhalations, you recover well in the vampires arms.

He feels a sense of relief wash over him as you relax against him. He gently tilts your chin up.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks gently, his hand still stroking your hair.

You let out a cathartic sigh, nodding.

He cups your cheek in his hand, his thumb gently brushing away the tears from your face

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. You had me worried for a moment there."

“Sorry...I guess I just haven't had someone hug me in a long time.”

He shakes his head, his hand still cupping your cheek.

"You have nothing to apologize for. And don't ever apologize for needing comfort. Everyone needs a hug sometimes."

As you calm yourself more, Alucard decides to give you some space to recollect yourself, clearly needing it.

“I’ll give you some space. I’ll be in the library, if you need anything.” He reminds, before bidding you a goodbye after making sure you ate.

You take deep inhales and deeper exhales, your mind ringing with his voice guiding you through breathes.

The room becomes quiet and dark, you're left alone with your thoughts. The memory of Alucard's touch and his warm smile are all you can think about, and you can't help but wonder what he's doing right now- deciding it’s better to find out for yourself than wonder.

Alucard looks up as you enter the library.

He sets down the book he was reading and smiles softly.

"Feeling better?" he asks.

You smile and nod, walking closer.

"Come here," he says, patting the chair next to him. "You can keep me company."

You gladly take a seat, eyes roaming over the various books and sheets covering the desk- similar to yesterday’s spreads.

He notices how close your face is to his work. He closes the book, gently tapping your forehead with it.

"You're going to give yourself a headache if you keep reading like that," he teases, a playful glint in his eyes.

You pout and rub your forehead.

“Rude…” You say in a whisper.

You scoot closer to get a better look at the writing, your elbows folding on top of the table.

As you observe the scripts, Alucard is more concerned with how beautiful you look- even when you’re concentrated, and he can't help but feel a pang of longing in his chest- quickly pushes those feelings aside, not wanting to ruin the moment with his own desires.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, noticing the pause of his writing and his gaze.

He blinks, realizing he's been caught staring. He quickly looks away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ah, nothing," he says, trying to play it off as nonchalantly as possible.

"Just lost in thought for a moment."

You nod, going back to watching him work, putting your head on his shoulder with the close proximity.

He freezes for a moment, completely caught off guard by your sudden closeness. He can feel the warmth of your body against his, and the scent of your hair filling his senses.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

You can’t help but chuckle at his reaction.

He can feel your laughter vibrating through him, and it's a pleasant sensation.

"What's so funny, human?" he asks, playfully.

“Nothing, you've just….been on that page for a while. You can’t read can you? Tell me the truth.” You play around sarcastically.

He glances back down at the book, realizing that he's been staring at the same page for several minutes now, obviously at that.

He lets out a soft chuckle, embarrassed that he got so distracted by your presence once again, finding it to a troublesome, reoccurring issue.

"Ah, I guess I am a bit distracted," he admits, his gaze flickering back to you.

“No no it’s okay, lots of people can’t read you know. Don’t be embarrassed”, you continue with your nonsense joke.

You pretend to look around, your eyes going around left and right as he shakes his head.

He shuts the book, setting it aside and turning his full attention to you as he pushes it away.

He turns his body towards you.

"You're a distraction," he teases, poking your side gently.

“Hey!” You exclaim, “you invited me to sit here”, you digress, poking him back.

He chuckles and dips his finger in a small pool of ink, swiping it on your nose, making you backup a bit and give him more room for defense.

You gasp at the sudden cool touch of pigment- and run after him as he walks over quickly to the books nearby.

“This is not fair at all!” You exclaim, watching him dodge your attacks with ease.

“That seems like a personal issue, yes?” He says as he walks deeper into what seems like a maze of shelves.

As you get more and more competitive- you finally land a hit on him: a decently sized dab of ink landing on his cheek.

As it lands you run off- not wanting another hit of solvent somewhere on your face.

But of course…to your disadvantage, you can’t necessarily outrun a vampire.

Easily, he catches up to you- pinning you against the bookshelf. He stands over you, his body caging you in, as he holds up his finger- ready to mark you with another proof of failure.

"No escape now," he teases, his hand slowly and tauntingly smearing ink around your chin.

You roll your eyes and chuckle- the both of you breathless from the chase.

He can feel your small breathes mingle with his- noticing your chest pressed up against his.

He looks down at you, his eyes locking onto yours, and suddenly the playful atmosphere shifts into something more intense.

He rubs your bottom lip- except you don’t feel anymore ink rubbing into you, just the touch of his skin, his eyes glued to your supple lips as you look at his gaze.

“Alucard…?” You whisper softly.

He doesn’t look at you, eyes still glued to your flushed cheeks and the staggered breathe that escapes from your mouth.

“Hm?” He responds, finally flickering his eyes up to look at you.

“Yes dear?”

As your eyes lock, you feel a force that only pushes you to an immeasurable distance into him- and he responds immediately.

As if endless moments of pining finally meet its destiny- the kiss is tentative at first, a slow exploration of each other's mouths.

He takes his time, wanting to savor every moment of this, wanting to make sure that you're comfortable and enjoying it too.

Your arms wrap around each there- Alucards large frame pressing you into the bookcases behind you as his hands hold your sides- your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

He groans softly at your hands on him, your tongue meeting his in a heated dance. He's surprised by how easily you fall into rhythm with him, how well your bodies seem to fit together.

He revels in the sounds you're making, the way your body trembles against his. He descends his kisses to your cheek and then neck- feeling your pulse racing under his lips. He continues to kiss and nip at your neck, his fangs scraping gently against your skin as he moves down to your collarbone- the feeling of his teeth grazing your skin absolutely electric.

Your fingers grip slightly at his hair, running through them as he lavishes your shoulder with his sweet kisses.

Your body starts to arch into his touch. His hands on your sides tighten, holding you in place- his breath heavy as he starts to speak between kisses.

“Stop me…please, please stop me if you don’t want this…Stop me, I won’t be able to stop myself.” He pleads, kissing up to your ear as his other hand snakes up to hold the side of your neck, pulling his face to look at you again, his aureate eyes piercing into yours.

You let out deep breathes from your nose, swallowing the lumps in your throat as your half lidded eyes meet his, nodding just enough to assure him before diving back into his lips.

He groans again at the feeling of your lips, his grip on your thighs tightening. He presses his hips against yours, letting you feel the evidence of his arousal.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your jawline and to your neck once more. He can't resist the urge to mark you, his teeth meeting kisses and sucks at the sensitive flesh.

“Alucard-“ You interrupt.

He growls against your neck, his teeth almost sinking into your skin just enough to leave a mark

"Yes, my dear?" he murmurs, his voice low and yearnful.

“You….can drink, if you want to.” You go on softly, seeing his eyes flicker with an immediate importance.

He lets out a shaky breath, his control hanging by a thread. He can feel his fangs lengthening, his body practically vibrating with need as he gulps.

"You shouldn’t say such things to a dhampir," he growls, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your pulse point once more.

He can feel your heart racing, the scent of your blood is enough for him to go mad- the sound of your blood that pumps through your veins sounding like the perfect symphony.

"Last chance to change your mind, y/n.” He murmurs, his breath hot against your skin.

You shake your head, holding his chin and tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I want to feel it…feel you.”

Your words cause his self-control to shatter. He can't hold back any longer, the need to taste your blood overpowering everything else, any sense of responsibility or moral compass gone- your declaration of want is all it takes.

He sinks his fangs into your neck, a deep moan rumbling in his chest as the taste of your blood hits his tongue. You feel the two long needles puncture your skin smoothly- the pain quickly subsiding as you feel his lips plant themselves on your skin and his breathe blows kisses over your skin over and over- his chest puffing out as he gets closer and more greedy.

You felt his hands clutching at your waist as if his fingerprints could weld onto your skin like iron.

The pain and pleasure mingled, creating a heady cocktail that clouded your senses.

The room spun around you, the world narrowing to the sensations of his fangs in your skin and the blood leaving you and nourishing him, his heart pounding in sync with your own.

You felt his hardened length, insistent, pressing against your thigh, a silent testament to the desire coursing through him while the taste of your blood intoxicates him- the taste like ambrosia, all while he can feel your body trembling against his, can hear the sounds of pleasure falling from your lips.

He can smell your arousal, the scent driving him wild with desire. He drinks deeply, his tongue lapping at the puncture wounds on your neck to encourage the flow of blood.

His grip on you almost bruising as he grinds against you-feeling himself losing control, his body acting on pure instinct as he takes what he needs from you, as if you were providing him with life force.

He finally pulls back, his fangs leaving your neck as he looks at you- your blood on his lips staining them as if he devoured a mound of cherries.

You smear the droplet across the corner of his lip- the red hue replacing what was once ink, pressing your lips onto his.

He moans into the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours.

He carries you over to the nearest surface, which just so happens to be the desk you were just at. He sets you down on it, his body pressing against yours as he continues to kiss you hungrily and messily.

He chuckles against your lips, enjoying the way you groan as he pushes the books off the desk to make space for you. He lifts your hips slightly, grinding his hardness against you through the layers of fabric between you- growling in approval as you open your legs for him, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he presses himself against you even more.

He nips at your collarbone, his lips trailing down to your chest as he begins to unbutton your shirt with deft fingers.

“May I?” He asks before completing removing it at your confirmation.

He pushes your shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and leaving you exposed to him

"Gods, you're perfect," he murmurs, his hands moving to cup your breasts as he leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth, your head tilting back as moans spills from your mouth- his tongue swirling around it before he gently nips at it with his teeth, the small remnants of your blood on his lips painting your chest in blotches.

His other hand moves to your other breast, his large hand almost completely covering it as he squeezes and kneads the soft flesh.

“Fuck-“ You groan, feeling his fingers tweaking at your sensitive buds while you feel him grinding even harder onto you his fingers trace patterns on your skin as he continues to worship your body.

Your fingers deftly unbutton his shirt, letting it fall open - his head perks back up to capture your lips once more.

Your hands trail down to his belt buckle.

He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your ear as he whispers

"Eager, are we?"

“Can you blame me…?”

"No," he murmurs. "Because I want you to be. I want you desperate and needy for me…burn for me, like I burn for you.” He groans against your ear, his hands trailing up the sides of your thighs and gripping your hips to toy with the hem of your skirt.

“Stay still”, he whispers, his voice much more playful now. “Let me check the rest of these wounds? Yes?” He mentions, slowly letting the tie of your skirt undo itself as he slides it down, humming in approval as you lift your hips for him.

His cold hands touch your bare skin and you almost flinch, but you welcome them.

“Draga mea…you’re stunning.” He groans, looking down to appreciate your skin under the moonlight seeping from the overhand windows of the library.

You feel the light seeping into your skin and more noticeably his hands becoming more bold, more desperate, and daring. So are his kisses, descending down your neck to the valley of your breast, worshipping your skin as he kneels down to get on both knees while his face is met with your core- your cunt throbbing loud enough that his ears are sure to pick up on it.

He parts your thighs further, his hands gripping them tightly as he continues to kiss and nip at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

He's close enough now that you can feel his hot breath on your aching core, but he's deliberately avoiding touching you where you need it most.

“Alucard…please-“

He looks back up at you, cutting you off before you can beg.

“Adrian. I need you to call me that now.” He says, placing a kiss on your core through the fabric.

“Okay?” He adds, waiting for you to nod before he slips the fabric off and finally darts his tongue out to tease the sensitive skin just above your clit, smirking into your folds when he heard your breathe hitch.

He moves his tongue down slightly, tracing around your clit.

He can see how wet you are, your arousal dripping down, tasting it.

He starts to lap at your clit, his tongue swirling around it in tight circles before dipping down to tease your entrance as your moans spill out, hand tangles in the his hair, gripping his golden strands and making him groan into you, eyes darting up to meet yours- lost in the taste and scent of you, completely consumed by the desire to make you feel good.

You feel your hands gripping tighter, the heavy cinch in your abdomen ready to snap.

Minutes that felt like hours of him reverently pleasing you- you tremble and gasp.

He doubles down his efforts, his tongue and lips working even harder to push you over the edge. He can tell you're close, your body trembling and your breath coming in short gasps

“Adrian- I’m-!” You whine, your legs loosening their clasps around his face as you cum on his tongue.

He groans loudly as you cum, his tongue eagerly lapping up every drop of your release. He doesn't stop, continuing to lick and suck at your sensitive flesh even as you ride out your orgasm.

He finally pulls back, his face wet with your juices as he looks up at you. “You’re so beautiful when you cum. I want to make you do it over, and over.” He said, rising up to his feet- resting his forehead against yours as he tries to catch his breath

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers, his voice filled with raw emotion, lips brushing on your ear.

“What do I do to you?” You reply, pulling your head back to look up at him.

He gazes back down at you, his heart clenching at the sight of your innocent eyes. His hand cups your face, fingers tracing your supple face.

“You make me want things I never thought I could have. Things I don’t deserve." He admits, almost like confessing a sin to you, leaning in to kiss you again, pressing his lips against yours in a tender caress.

“I almost want to keep you here. Just for myself- look at how selfish you’ve made me, draga mea”. He speaks, a smooth accent painting his last words as he pecks kisses to your jaw, chuckling deeply as he feels your hands unbuckling his belt and letting it fall.

Both of your hands frantically pull at eachother- the innocent chuckles and soft kisses between the seconds it takes for him to undress and spread you apart- ready to give you the attention you need.

He positions himself at your entrance, his cock throbbing with anticipation. He looks into your eyes, his expression filled with desire and possessiveness

"Are you ready for me, love?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Are you ready to feel me inside you?"

“Yes- please, need more Adrian.” You plead.

He slowly pushes in, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate thrust.

He looks down at you, his eyes locked on your face as he watches your expression

"Relax for me, love," he murmurs, his hands stroking your thighs gently. "Let me in."

You nod, breathing in and out softly as he helps you and reassures you with soft words and gentle caresses.

“You’re doing so well, keep going for me. Breathe…Fuck- just like that.”

He can feel your body relaxing around him, allowing him to slide in further with each slow glide of his hips.

When he finally bottoms out, he feels your walls clenching down on him- making him bite down on his one lip til it bleeds.

The same blood hits your lips over and over on an tangle of kisses, his pace getting faster and more intense as he starts to lose himself inside you- his heart beating in sync with yours as he fucks you on the desk that starts to creak now.

“Fuck- it's so...” You groan, your stomach pooling with the same feeling just moments ago.

"So what, love?" he asks, his voice rough. "Tell me. Tell me how it feels. Tell me everything.”

You whine softly- felling each thrust hammer into you even deeper as he urges you to speak.

“So...fucking good...” You admit, wholeheartedly.

He shudders at your words, his cock twitching inside you. He nips at your ear, his breath hot against your skin

"My perfect little human," he groans, his hands roaming over your body- your walls tightening hearing him whisper to you.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" he whispers again, his voice low and seductive. "Being told how perfect you are? Hm?”

You can’t reply even if you wanted to- and you most urgently did. Only whines and moans escape your lips.

He chuckles, his smirk widening as he sees the effect his words have on you

"You're such a good girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. "So beautiful, so sweet. I wonder how many times I can make you cum tonight."

“So close- Adrian!”

He can feel your body trembling beneath him, your breathing ragged and uneven

“Come for me, darling” he whispers, his voice smooth and sickly sweetened. "I've got you. I'll take care of you. Just like I’ve been doing, yes?”

You look up at him once more- your big pleading eyes grasping for a piece of his soul to gaze into.

Looking down at you again, his eyes meet yours. He's momentarily struck by the vulnerability and trust in your gaze, and it almost brings him to his knees completely.

"God, I love you," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion- almost as if he had no time to think before he spoke, as if it would change anything.

Your heart thumps, unable to tear your gaze away.

“A-Adrian-“ You moan out- his cock still pumping in and out of you and hitting every spot to make you cry out- ultimately making you spill all over him as you cum.

He lets out a shaky breathe feeling you release.

He’s never said those words out to anyone before, never dared to hope that he would ever feel this way at all.

He buries his face in your neck, his movements becoming more desperate as he clings to you, still going even as you’ve finished.

"Say it," he begs, his voice rough. "Please, say it. I need to hear it."

Your thighs twitch around his waist- overstimulated and sweaty, “love you…Adrian-! I love you…” You reply, clawing your nails at his back.

He groans into your neck, his own orgasm washing over him in a powerful wave.

"Oh, gods-" he gasps, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you. He holds you tightly, his body shaking, licking at the wounds he planted on your neck from earlier, wanting to taste the crimson of your being, just a little more.

As the blood draws, each drop hitting his senses, he knows he is binded tightly to a world he cannot live in without your presence. His Affliction.