Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

For someone raised in a nocturnal house, it’s odd how often you find yourself missing the sun. You were taught that the darkness is safety, the blanket shielding you from the monsters in the closet, only possible because of the monsters you serve. But humans were not made to stalk the night, else they would be able to see; there wouldn’t be an epidemic of aching muscles, frail bones, and children with rickets.

Tired – generally, but also of listening to Travis make an ass of himself – you slip out of the bar, fingers curling around the pack of cigarettes in your pocket. It was around five-thirty the last time you checked your phone, and the sky is just beginning to brighten with the promise of dawn. It’s a balm to the agitation churning in your stomach, but it also brings a feeling of melancholy, knowing you’ll crash before you can really enjoy the light of day.

Church Street is relatively empty at this point in the early morning; most of the vampires have already gone home, preparing to seal themselves in their coffins, and the diurnal humans are just beginning to wake. You occupy a weird sort of liminality between the day and night, the living and the dead, but there is peace in these moments of quiet desolation, like the world, for once, is at rest.

Sighing, you lean against the brick wall, fishing the cigs out of one pocket, your lighter out of the other. Muscle memory kicks in as you place one of the cancer-sticks between your lips, cup your hand around it, and light up. You’re long past the point where the first pull still burns. All you get is the taste of tobacco in your mouth and the pleasant buzz of nicotine as it enters your bloodstream.

Maybe you’ll walk to the park and watch the sun rise. That doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea. You can stop by Alma’s on the way back to the apartment and get yourself a little treat, maybe one for Chelsea, too. Sugar before bed always gives you weird dreams, but it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make for a bougie-ass pastry. It’s what you deserve, after the shit week you’ve had.

Every week is a shit week, but–

Your daydream, in which you’re laying in your bed, dipping a pain au chocolat in a mug of decaf balanced precariously on your stomach, is rudely interrupted by the sound of violent retching, echoing out of the alley between the bar and the neighboring building. You grimace, start in the other direction, but stop when you hear a distressed moan, accompanied by a gurgling, raspy inhale.

It’s really none of your business. People have bad nights. You should go back inside, tell your friends you’re going home, and spare this poor bastard the embarrassment. But experience has made you acutely aware of what the aspiration of vomit sounds like, and you just can’t take that chance.

Steeling yourself, you snuff out your cigarette on the sole of your boot, flick it into the gutter, and slink into the darkness. The commotion, now heavy breathing and the occasional groan, is coming from behind a stinking, overflowing dumpster. Cautiously, you shuffle around the side, until the shadow of a hunched-over body, bracing itself against the wall, comes into view.

“Hey, are you–” The figure jolts, whips around, and promptly loses balance, falling on their ass. This gives you the opportunity to get a good look at their face, and you’re a little surprised to find it’s familiar: spiky, black hair, a heart-shaped nose, and two wide, green eyes, though this time they’re fearful, not quite looking at you, but darting around wildly. He’s even got the corpse paint, though it’s smeared around his blood-stained mouth.

You’re alone, in a dark alley, with a vampire.

You take a small step back. “Are you okay, man?” Allowing yourself the quickest glance upward, you note the hint of blue creeping into the sky. “The sun’s coming up soon. You should really be getting home.” The vampire sniffles. He’s shaking uncontrollably.

“Everything’s moving,” he slurs, still with that watery, wheezing sound. At least he’s not in danger of dry-drowning, though you can imagine the feeling is still rather unpleasant. “I keep seeing shit. I can’t–” He swallows. For a moment, you think he might puke again. “Fuck, I think I’m dying.”

He must be rolling hard.

“How far away do you live?” You ask, pity quickly overpowering any feelings of trepidation.

It takes him a few moments to process your question. “W-where the fuck are we?” He’s still not looking at you, but rather all around, his eyes following something you know isn’t there.

“Six Feet Under,” you reply. His eyes bug out a little. “On Church.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “Uh, what did you–”

“Where do you live?” Your patience is beginning to wear thin. You want that fucking croissant.

“On fuckin’… Dunwich…” That’s not far, maybe a fifteen minute walk, depending on what end of the street he’s on. But you’re unsure if this guy can even stand up, let alone walk in a straight line. If he were to get turned around, he could very well end up being vaporized by the rising sun, or else having to take shelter in another disgusting alley all day.

“Okay,” you say, pulling out your phone. You’re feeling charitable tonight. “Why don’t I call you an Uber and–” Of course, you can’t get the damn thing to turn on. After pressing the power button a few times, the low battery icon appears on the screen. “Motherfucking– Son of a bitch.”

“There’s three of you,” the vampire remarks. He’s hyperventilating. “Why are there three–”

“Change of plans,” you interject, trying to keep him from freaking the fuck out. Shit, are you really about to do this? “How about I walk you home, make sure you get there in one piece?” Damn it all, you’re really doing this.

“Y-yeah, okay.” He tries to stand, but he’s swaying so hard that he immediately tumbles back down to the ground. “Help,” he croaks, without a lick of the swagger he’d had when you first met.

Maybe this is all some sort of weird fever dream.

Clenching your jaw, you extend a hand. You’re half expecting him to grab you, pull you in, and sink his fangs into your neck, but he just grasps your wrist and lets you pull him to his feet. His knees buckle, and you quickly slip your shoulder under his arm to support him.

“Lean on me,” you order, and he does. He’s remarkably light. “What’s your name?”

“Mary.” He coughs, then spits a glob of coagulated blood on the pavement. “You…?” Against your better judgement, you tell him your name.

“Pretty,” you think he murmurs.

It takes twice as long as it normally would, but eventually, Mary is able to guide you back to his place, a dilapidated brick building on the corner of Dunwich and Waverly. Like many of the structures in this area, it’s seen better days; cracks snake up the side of the complex, intertwining with strands of wilted ivy. The front steps are worn from centuries of use, footsteps carved into the stone. From the outside, you can see that most of the windows are covered, either with heavy curtains or a combination of cardboard and trash bags.

Great, he’s lured you back to one of the dens.

He’s a little more coherent but still unstable, so you have no choice but to take him all the way up to his apartment. Naturally, the elevator is broken, and so you have to drag the greasy punk up three flights of stairs. The halls are mostly empty – thank God – and the odd vampires that pass by keep to themselves, likely operating under the assumption that you’re Mary’s nightcap. You’re content to let them think what they want, as long as they mind their own fucking beeswax.

Mary’s unit, 302, is at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway that smells of dust and despair. He fumbles in his pocket for a while before finally pulling out his keys, and makes several feeble attempts to insert it into the lock. Grumbling to yourself, you snatch them away and unlock the door for him, wanting to get the fuck out of there as soon as humanly possible. The vampire mumbles a “come in” and trips through the threshold, dragging you along with him. It’s completely dark save for a lava lamp in the corner, casting an eerie red glow across the space. Trash – empty blood bags, bottles, cans, ancient-looking cigarette butts – covers the floor. An electric guitar is propped up against the far wall, a drum kit crammed into the nearest corner. The walls are plastered with posters of different metal bands, some faded, some pristine. There’s a small kitchen that looks like it hasn’t been used in twenty years, and not much in the way of furniture other than a beat up couch, a coffee table, and a cracked plasma-screen TV on the floor.

Just how long has Mary lived here?

The two of you awkwardly shuffle through the apartment towards an open door, where you presume Mary keeps his coffin. You’re a little shocked to find the small room contains not one, but four rickety pine boxes laying on the floor, though all of them are empty. His roommates must have found other lodgings for the night, which is fine by you.

“Alright,” you say, surveying the coffins. Each one is unique, displaying different levels of age and personal adornment. One contains a faded quilt, another a sleeping bag. An overturned lid is covered with cutouts from old porn magazines, which, based on the hairstyles of the girls, date mostly to the 1980s. Your cheeks grow hot, and you quickly look away. “Which one is–” With a grunt, Mary wriggles out of your grasp, drags his feet towards one of the less beat-up coffins, and flops down on top of the ratty fleece blanket with a thud. He’s snoring instantly, which is a relief; you really weren’t in the mood to trip-sit this guy.

“Okay, bye.”

You don’t know why, but you linger in the apartment for a moment, just taking it in. A quiet laugh escapes through your nose. They may be vampires, but they are definitely still just a bunch of boys – the state of their abode says that much.

The contents of the coffee table catch your eye: sheet music. Piles and piles of sheet music. Your curiosity getting the better of you, you aimlessly scan the documents. You can’t help but giggle to yourself as you skim the edgy lyrics and over the top titles; it’s all blood, guts, and corpse-fucking. Still, the volume of work is impressive, and it’s clear that a great amount of care was put into the crafting of these scores.

In the top corner of each page is a neatly printed name: M. Goore.

As you’re fiddling with the door, trying to make it lock behind you, something else grabs your attention. The bottom of one of the posters is curling in on itself, revealing a polaroid photo adhered to the wall underneath. And because you’re too nosy for your own good, you take a moment to examine it. In the picture, a small crowd stands in sloppy, uneven rows. Behind them, a black banner reads “HELLFEST 2001,” in bleeding red letters. Though the whole group, composed of both humans and vampires, is decked out in chains, studs, leather, and corpse paint, everyone is smiling. A few people hold instruments, others raise bottles of beer towards the camera. You can tell it had been a good night.

In the front row, towards the center, is a young human man with long, honey-blonde hair, light eyes, and a familiar, heart-shaped nose.

Chapter Text

For the first time since he was turned, Mary dreams. In his dream, he’s alone and afraid. He’s trying to move, to make sense of his surroundings, but the world is spinning and swirling and the shadows warp into threatening shapes, mocking him.

And then an angel appears. That’s how he knows it’s not real. Her features are vague, blurry, but her voice is grounding and her breath is perfumed with the incense of tobacco smoke, and when she lifts him up into her arms Mary knows that he’s going to be alright. Her body is warm, like the sun he’s longed to feel for every day of the last fifteen years, and under the cigarette smell is something sweet and intoxicating that makes his head spin in a completely different way.

“Lean on me,” she says. And so he does, hoping that by following her holy orders, he’ll attain salvation.

A few weeks go by.

Mary gets on with himself. That awful night, and the strange dream it had produced, becomes an afterthought as he throws himself into his work: writing, re-writing, booking gigs, advertising. He only enjoys the first half of it – the other is like pulling teeth, but the guys are all idiots who refuse to learn how the internet works, and so that job naturally falls on him. Somebody has to do it, or it’ll never get done, and they’ll spend the rest of their unlives wallowing in obscurity, desperately trying to claw their way up.

Whatever it takes, he tells himself. This is all I’ve got.

They score a gig at an alternative club on Hill Street, which is further east and even sketchier than Church. But the vibes, as the kids say, are good, the crowd full of energy and ready to fucking rage. The roar of applause when they take the stage is deafening, thrumming in Mary’s chest like a pulse, and as they launch into Hungry Are The Damned, it’s hard to keep up the tough-guy act and not grin like an idiot.

Perhaps the one good thing about having been turned is the stamina. Before, getting through a set would leave Mary drenched in sweat, panting like a dog and utterly exhausted. Now he performs with ease, able to keep his voice strong and even. The crowd is loving every second of it, headbanging, moshing, and screaming along with him. Mary knows that this is where he belongs, under the flashing red lights with his guitar in his hands. He doesn’t have to walk the line between human and vampire; he’s just himself.

They end with Spawn. It is utter chaos on the floor. People are screaming, cups and cans are flying. Management will be pissed, but Mary could not give less of a shit – they’ll stay after close and help clean up. He swears he can feel his heart pounding, adrenaline burning in his veins like fire. It’s euphoric. He feels alive again. The song ends, they take their bows, and then the lights come on.

And there, watching him from the bar, is his angel.

He hurries though packing up his equipment, leaving the guys to handle the rest. They yell after him as he absconds from backstage, but their protests fall on deaf ears. By the grace of non-existent God, you’re still nursing your beer when he emerges onto the floor. People try to stop him as he pushes through the crowd, asking for selfies and autographs, but he shrugs them off with muttered apologies; he’s on a mission. As he approaches, you turn, scan the room, and then your eyes meet.

“Oh. Hey, Mary,” you say, like you’re surprised to see him here.

“Hey… Um, you.” You roll your eyes and remind him of your name. He nods along.

“Right. That’s real pretty.” You smirk.

“You said that last time.”

“Right.” If he could blush, he’s sure he would. He scratches the back of his neck, skin prickling. His mouth is dry. The bartender passes by, and he quickly orders a bottle of A Pos. “What are you doing here? I didn’t peg you as a metalhead.”

“I’m not,” you say, matter-of-factly. “This is a little much for me. No offense. I just–” You swallow. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after all… that.” Mary isn’t sure if he buys your story, but decides not to press it. Yet.

“Well, thanks. I was, uh…”

“You were having a rough night.” You’re swirling your glass, creating a little whirlpool in the dregs of your beer. “What happened?”

Mary shrugs, reluctant to relive that terrifying experience. “Dunno. I just started tweaking all of a sudden. Tried to get home, but I was seeing shit and kept getting turned around.” He laughs. “And then you rescued me.”

“Who did you drink from?” It sounds only a little judgmental.

“A few people,” he says, feeling like a glutton and a bit of a slut. He probably is both of those things. “Didn’t know any of them.” The bartender slides him his drink, and he thanks her with a nod.

You hum. “Probably got crossed.”

“What?”

“If those people were on something,” you explain, “you probably absorbed whatever was in their blood, and the different chemicals didn’t play nice with each other. Prescriptions – antidepressants and shit – do that, too.”

He takes a sip of his drink. “You know a lot about this kind of stuff?”

“Comes with the turf.” Mary quirks an eyebrow. “I manage the folks on tap at Haemos.” He whistles.

“Bet that’s a nice gig.” You grimace.

“If you like dealing with bitchy high-borns and mid-ranks with inferiority complexes.” You give him a weary smile, and Mary can’t help returning the gesture. “But work is work. I leave that shit there.”

“That’s the way to do it,” he says, raising his bottle. You clink your glass against it, and you both drink. “Haemos… Vampire Mecca.”

At this, you laugh out loud, and Mary feels a surge of pride swell in his chest. “You ever been?” He scoffs.

“Fuck, no. You think they’d let someone like me in there? That’s, like, at least four tax brackets above where I’m at.” You snort, giving him a once-over. He likes it when you look at him, he decides. Your eyes are pretty.

“I guess not.” You take another sip of your drink. “But, I could get you and the band in.” Your gaze quickly flicks away, and then back. “If you want.”

And he really shouldn’t read into it too deeply, but–

“That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Yeah, well…” You turn your head away, suddenly captivated by the collection of colorful liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Your cheeks darken just a little, and that mulled wine smell fills Mary’s nose. His mouth waters. “I was kind of a bitch the first time we met. Thought I should make it up to you.”

23:32 Got you guys on the list

23:33 Lmk when you get in. I’ll be pretty busy so I can’t hang but I’ll come say hi at some point

23:45 Remember, NO face paint

“Dude,” Tom says, reading your text thread over Mary’s shoulder. “She’s so into you.”

Mary starts. “What the fuck? Don’t–” He shoves his friend away, feeling self conscious. “Of course she’s into me.” You wouldn’t have invited him if you weren’t, right? “Which is why I need you guys to be cool, and not fucking embarrass me.”

Karl scoffs. “You’re embarrassing yourself, blood-bagger.” Mary bares his fangs at him, having half a mind to call this whole thing off and go home. Instead, he takes a deep breath in and out, tucking his phone back in the pocket of the sports jacket he’d thrifted the day before. It’s cheap, black polyester, just like the button-up underneath, but it’s clean and not that wrinkled, and with a pair of unripped jeans and the boots that give him an extra inch, you’d said it was “good enough.” He really hopes it is.

“This is what feeder pussy does to a motherfucker,” Sid jeers. “Look at this fuckin’ pretty boy–”

If looks could kill, he’d be a pile of ash on the sidewalk.

He’s not nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous. Girls are girls, whether human or undead, and he’s got a good amount of experience under his belt. But, fuck, he really likes you. You’re all piss and vinegar, with eyes that make him feel like an amoeba under a microscope, but underneath that your blood is sweet, and Mary suspects that really, all you need is to be taken care of. He hasn’t a clue how to care for a pet, let alone a person, but he wants to try for you. It’s only a little alarming, this sudden change in himself.

But, then again, you are what you are, and he is what he is. Relations between vampires and humans aren’t unheard of, but they’re messy and largely avoided. Among the elite, those who can afford to keep feeding stock, it’s heavily frowned upon – like fucking your dog – and it sets the standard for most of polite society. But among the lower ranks of the vampire hierarchy, those who have been turned within the last century or so, it’s harder to draw the line between friend and food. People are just people, regardless of if they have fangs or not.

As for how the humans feel about it, Mary isn’t sure, and that’s been eating at him.

The line outside of Haemos is outrageously long. When they pull up, the party in front of them, a group of women from the upper-mid tier by the looks of it, gives them a suspicious look.

“Hey, ladies,” Tom says, flashing them a wink. They just scoff and turn away. Awesome start.

When they finally get to the door, about a half hour later, Mary is damn-near convinced they won’t be let in. Maybe this is a trick, some devious plot you’ve cooked up to humiliate him. He hasn’t fed in days, but his stomach is in knots as they approach the small podium. The bouncer looks them up and down, clearly skeptical, he feels like he might be sick.

“Mary Goore,” he says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “I’m on the list?” Wordlessly, the hulking mass of a man flips through the pages on his clipboard, then nods.

“Go on in,” he says, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone. Mary lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Swanky is the first descriptor he can conjure upon entering the club. The place is cast in dim, indigo light – because red would probably be too on the nose – giving the illusion of  mystical twilight. Illuminated tiles make up the dance floor, packed with bodies that sway and gyrate with the pounding house music. There’s a bar, and beyond that is the VIP area, cordoned off with velvet rope. Whirling around him are the city’s elite, the upper crust in all their finery: silks and furs, expensive watches and jewels. Even the humans, the pets, are well-dressed, many sporting fine leather collars with tags that gleam like polished diamonds. In his flimsy plastic suit, Mary can’t help but feel like a clown.

It’s the most vulgar display of wealth he’s ever seen.

“Dude,” Karl says. “This is–”

“Fucking gross.” Before he forgets, Mary pulls out his phone to shoot you a text.

01:28 Here

You respond right away, and his souring mood improves a little.

01:29 K

01:30 One round on the house. Just tell the bartender you’re with me.

01:31 Awesome thx

Suddenly aware that he’s slouching, Mary adjusts his posture, shuffling over to the bar with the guys in tow. The bartender gives them the same scrutiny as the bouncer, until your name comes up, and then he visibly relaxes. He bombards them with a list of wines, beers, and bottled bloods, before pointing to the tap list, a chalkboard of names on the wall. With each is their blood type, along with a brief description of their flavor profile.

SADIE: B+, Rosewater, Peach, Honey

ALIX: AB-, Bourbon, Citrus

MARKUS: O+, Pistachio, Coffee, Vanilla

A few of the names are crossed out, and Mary assumes that means they’ve been depleted for the night. 

Karl, Tom, and Sid all enthusiastically pick someone. The bartender hands them a token, and then points to a curtained off entrance labeled “TAP ROOM.” When Mary’s turn comes, he just orders a glass of O Negative.

“You don’t want to try the fresh stuff?” Karl asks. Mary shakes his head.

“You guys go ahead.” His bandmates exchange a look.

“Suit yourself.”

Left to his own devices, Mary wanders around the club for a while. He’s no stranger to debauchery, but this is on a whole different level. It’s the opulence of it all, he thinks. He passes by one booth and out of the corner of his eye observes a vampire in Regency attire drinking from a young woman’s wrist, her arms and neck covered in tiny, circular scars. In another, two women in eighties garb, shoulder pads and all, share a man, taking pulls from the crook of his elbow. He’s pale and floppy from blood loss, but has a blissed-out smile plastered across his face.

And, sure, it looks fun, and the prospect of fresh, clean blood is enticing, but really all he wants is to see you.

His fellow vampires either ignore Mary completely, or give him suspicious looks. It’s like they can smell the poverty on him. Eventually, he finds himself leaning against the rail above the dance floor, looking out at the crowd. His drink tastes bland, stale, but he tries to finish it anyway. It was free, after all.

He’s considering sending you another text, wondering if that would make him seem desperate, when through the drone of the crowd and the obnoxious music, he hears your voice. The VIP section is right behind him, and he turns, surveying the area. Sure enough, there you are, standing before a particularly pompous-looking vampire in a high-backed chair, like a supplicant before a feudal lord. For a moment, he almost doesn’t recognize you; he’s used to seeing you in jeans and that leather jacket, but tonight, you’re clad in a black dress that hugs your curves and a pair of matching kitten heels. The high collar covers your neck, signaling to the patronage that you are not, in fact, on the menu.

It’s simultaneously a relief and a disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur Archembault,” you say, hands clasped politely in front of you. “Katrina has already reached her donation limit for the evening. But, if you’d like, I can match you with someone that has a similar profile.” The man crosses his arms, his foot tapping on the ground.

“That simply will not do. I have been a regular client of hers for years. She should know better than to allow others to squander her blood. Surely, you can make an exception?” You force a smile, lips pressing into a thin line.

“No, sir. We follow strict health and safety codes, and we don’t permit exclusivity, either. It’s clearly stated in our rules that–”

“I am six-hundred years old,” he snaps. “Do you think I give a damn about your silly human rules? I used to hunt your kind for sport.” Something in your eyes flashes, the polite mask beginning to slip. Mary is impressed by your restraint; he probably would have cussed this guy out by now, if not worse.

“Times have changed, sir. If you can’t accept that, then I’m afraid this establishment isn’t the place for you.”

Glowering, Archembault rises from his seat. At his full height, he has to stoop over to get in your face. His nostrils flare, and then he smiles. It’s a sickening grin, full of sharp, white teeth and cruel intentions. You don’t flinch, you don’t back down, but you’ve dropped the customer service face. In the pit of Mary’s stomach, arousal and alarm begin to compete for dominance.

“You try to hide it, ma petite, but I know a Chauncey feeder when I smell one.” The hellfire in your eyes sputters. People are starting to stare. “Exquisite. Maybe I should feed from you instead, since it seems your masters have cast you aside.”

Before Mary knows what he’s doing, he’s ducking under the velvet rope, and then he’s face-to-face with the ancient vampire.

“Don’t you fucking touch her.”

Archembault’s beady eyes widen with surprise. He looks back and forth between you and Mary, and then laughs.

“And who the hell are you supposed to be? Her owner?” He leers at you. “Don’t tell me you’ve given yourself over to this whelp.” Your face goes red.

“He’s not my–”

“What’s going on here?”

Mary feels the pull of a vampiric thrall. His body moves on its own, turning to face a tall, slender woman with pin-straight, dark hair. Her lips are stained a deep burgundy, her skin so pale it’s nearly translucent. She studies the three of them with sharp, discerning eyes, and something in her gaze inspires animal panic in the buried depths of Mary’s mind. He can’t speak. He can’t move. Archembault goes rigid.

“Carmilla,” he sputters, putting on a nervous smile and bowing. “It is a pleasure.”

“Dearest,” she says, looking at you. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The monsieur would like to feed from Katrina,” you reply, voice strong and steady again. Carmilla shakes her head.

“Katrina has completed her services for the evening. She has already been put to bed.”

“I communicated that to him.”

“I’m sure.” She turns to Archembault with a reproachful look. “Frederic, I had hoped we wouldn’t have to have this conversation again.” He’s shaking.

“I-I am truly sorry, my lady. I did not mean to cause trouble–”

“If you were sorry, you would not have done it. Apologize to my employee, and then leave. Your invitation is hereby revoked.” Archembault recoils, gags, like he’s been punched in the gut. His body pivots towards you, and he sucks in a wheezing breath.

“My apologies, miss,” he chokes, bowing his head. “Farewell.” And then he turns and staggers away.

“Pathetic,” Carmilla mutters, watching him go. Mary feels his body relax, but the vampiress is no less intimidating as her attention turns to him. “And who might you be, young man?” It takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Mary Goore, ma’am.”

“He’s my guest tonight,” you explain. “Archembault threatened me. He was trying to help.”

“I see.” She gives him a polite smile. “Then I suppose I can forgive you trespassing in my VIP lounge.”

“It won’t happen again,” Mary swears. Carmilla nods approvingly.

“I believe you.” She notices a lock of your hair hanging in your face, and tucks it behind your ear with a sweep of her well-manicured fingers. “Why don’t you take your break now, dear? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

“I could. Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

And as quickly as she had appeared, Carmilla is gone.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mary blurts. “Is your boss the–” You turn and walk away. Unsure what else to do with himself, he follows, out of the lounge, past the bar, and through a door with a placard reading “STAFF ONLY.” As it shuts behind him you look back, and then continue forward without a word, only stopping to collect your jacket from a hook on the wall of the break room. Surely, that means his company is welcome, though you must be angry with him for causing a scene. There’s a concrete staircase at the end of the hall, and the two of you climb up, up, up, until you reach the door to the roof, emerging out into the cool, clear night. The city stretches for miles in all directions, the lights twinkling like the stars in the sky above.

You finally stop when you reach the railing. Mary is only a few paces behind

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I know you didn’t need me to–”

“It’s fine.” He watches you pull a pack of cigarettes out of your jacket pocket and go through the motions of lighting one up. Sometimes he still has the craving, but now he can only get that buzz from someone’s blood. It’s not the same. “Old bastard wasn’t going to listen to me anyway.” You exhale with a sigh, and the smoke is carried away in the lazy breeze.

“Smoking’s bad for you, you know.”

“That’s why I do it.”

A minute or so passes in silence. Mary joins you on the rail, and considers his next words carefully.

“You’re from a stock family?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Didn’t know you were a rich girl.”

“I’m not.” Mary raises an eyebrow. It’s usually a pretty lucrative arrangement.

“You get disowned or something?”

You huff out a laugh. “Big time.” You take another drag from your cigarette. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, I’ve got this immortality thing going on, so…” Mary pauses. “If you don’t wanna talk about it–”

“Nah, it’s fine.” You gaze out over the city for a moment, collecting your thoughts. “My family has served the Chaunceys for sixteen generations. Being a feeder is in my DNA; I was bred for it.”

“The old guy said he could smell it.” Does your scent run in the family? Mary gets the feeling he won’t particularly care to find out after this.

“You probably can, too. You just wouldn’t know it.”

“Are you saying I have no taste?” You scowl.

“I’m saying that I was raised to be part of their herd. That’s all I was ever intended to be.” A clump of ash falls from the end of your cigarette, and you tap it with your finger to get the rest.

“But, let me guess, you never really jived with that?”

“No.” Mary opens his mouth, but you quickly cut him off. “And yes, I know it’s cliche. The Chaunceys were always very particular about the taste of our blood – they have a ‘refined palate’ – so our whole lives were carefully monitored and controlled. Diets, activity levels, you name it. From the day I was born, I was being prepared to feed them.” Your lips curl into a bitter smile. “They called it ‘seasoning.’”

“That’s… Wow.” Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, and just let you be a sexy mystery.

“Yeah. And I guess there was always something wrong with me, wires that got crossed in my brain in or whatever, because I just couldn’t fucking stand it.” Another pull from your cig. “I acted out a lot. Mom used to call me her ‘terror child.’”

“Shit.” And Mary knows you don’t need him to do your dirty work, but fantasies of staking rich vampires, of dragging them into the sunlight by the balls and watching them burn, are starting to play in his mind like a slasher flick.

“It wasn’t all bad. They were controlling and patronizing as fuck, but they weren’t mean or cruel. They took care of us, so I could tolerate it for a while.”

“And then?” You’re quiet for a few seconds. The cigarette has burned down to the butt, and you let it fall out from between your fingers to land on the sidewalk several stories below.

“And then, they started encouraging me to date this guy in another family, and things just got… weird.”

He really should not have asked. “They weren’t going to make you marry him, were they?” You shrug.

“Didn’t stick around long enough to find out.” You sigh, visibly deflating. “There will be an exam, by the way. I hope you took notes.”

In spite of the discomfort churning in his stomach, Mary laughs.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Prof.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Man, I can see why you hate us so much.”

“I don’t hate you,” you say, giving him a pointed look. “I’m just… I’m angry. I’m tired. I’ve been treated like an animal my whole fucking life. And it doesn’t matter how many rules or laws or taboos we put in place, some vampires will always see us that way.”

“Is that why you’re here? To make sure the feeders get treated with respect and shit?” You scoff.

“I do it because it pays well, and I know how to talk to the high-borns. I’m not nearly that noble.”

There’s a lull in the conversation for several minutes. To fill the void, Mary tries to focus on the sounds of the city: cars honking, the distant wail of a siren, the rustling and cooing of pigeons. His mind is racing, scrambling to process what he’s learned and compartmentalize it, put it away so that it can’t bother him.

He’s failing on that front.

“Mary?” You finally ask. His name sounds like sacred verse on your lips. “How long have you been a vampire?”

What a thing to ask. But it’s only fair you get something from him, after all you’ve revealed.

“Fifteen years.”

“So you’re still fresh.” A beat passes. “How did it–”

“Accident.”

Fuck, babe, his lips are blue. Is he even breathing?

I think so?

Jesus Fucking Christ.

I’m sorry! Once I started, I couldn’t stop. W-what do we do?

We? There’s no “we” here. This is your mess. Fucking fix it.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Sometimes, Mary can still feel the ache of slow asphyxiation by blood loss. His head throbs, and he rubs his temples. “Not right now.” He knows he shouldn’t, but, God, he feels like a fucking coward. “I’m not good at this touchy-feely shit.”

“It’s okay.” You reach into your pocket, presumably for another smoke, but decide against it. “Thanks for defending me, by the way.”

Mary grunts. “Well, I tried. Wanted to even things out, but your boss stole my thunder.” Your shoulders quake with silent laughter. “She’s fucking scary, man.”

“Carmilla can be intimidating, but she’s got a soft spot for strays. She’s been generous with me. I owe her a lot.” Is that what you are? A stray? “I’m sorry she scared you. I hope it didn’t ruin your night or anything.” Mary shakes his head.

“Nah.” Should he go for it? He’s going to go for it. “I’m having more fun out here with you than I was in that fucking circle jerk.” You cock your head to the side, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Yeah?” Mary smirks, puffing out his chest a little.

“Yeah. You’re pretty cool.” He receives an eye roll.

“Oh, you can do better than that.”

“It’s true! You’re fucking cool. You don’t take shit from anyone, and I like that.” This earns him a nod of approval. “Plus, you smoke, and that’s objectively cool, no matter what doctors, or the government, or my mom says.”

“That’s better…”

“And you’re really pretty?”

“It’ll have to do.”

“Alright, then,” Mary says, trying to contain the excited butterflies flitting around in his stomach. “Your turn. What do you like about me?” You laugh, shoving him playfully.

“You’re funny.”

Mary gapes. “Is that really all I get?”

You’re shifting your weight from foot to foot. There’s something so juvenile, so innocent about it, that the ravages of time seem to melt away. Suddenly he’s fifteen again, and the girl next door is finally – finally! – going to the movies with him after school. It’s glorious, more potent than any drug and rivaled only by the rush he gets when he’s in front of a crowd.

“Well…” There’s a hint of sun-ripened grapes and autumn spice in the air. “I guess you’re pretty cute, too.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah. Especially when you’re trying not to be.”

Mary whistles. “Shit, that’s a first.” You chuckle.

“I have a hard time believing that.”

Silence, comfortable this time, falls over you. Starlight looks good on you; he can only imagine how you must look in the sun, unobscured by the cloak of darkness. Strings of lyrics are coming together in his head, flowery prose about the beauty of golden hour, how it can’t possibly compare to the way your eyes shine. Despite his profession he’s never considered himself much of a poet, but right now he feels enlightened, like the ancient gods have charged him with the task of immortalizing you in song.

Never in his life has Mary Goore had it this bad. He hardly recognizes himself. But he can’t find the wherewithal to be frightened, not when you’re looking at him like that.

“What are we doing?” You finally ask. Your breath is warm against his skin, and Mary realizes you’ve drifted closer, mere inches between you now. “What is this?”

“Does it matter?” The smell of you is so overpowering he thinks he might be drunk on it. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“Pft, no.” That fussy lock of hair is back. He’s greedy and wants to see all of you, so he tucks it behind your ear again, relishing in the warmth of your skin against his perpetually cold fingers. His touch lingers longer than it should, but you don’t object.

Still, if one of you doesn’t make a move, you’re never going to get anywhere.

“What if I said I wanted to kiss you? Would that change–”

You grab him by the lapels of his stupid jacket and pull him in. Mary’s brain fucking explodes, a jolt of electric excitement ripping down his spine. Your lips are soft and sweet and so wonderfully warm, and he’s so close he can hear your heart rabbiting in your chest. The kiss is gentle at first, but the longer your mouths are slotted together the harder it is for either of you to exercise restraint. He knows he’s already hard, he knows you can feel it, and so his hand finds the small of your back, holding you tight against him. You grind your pelvis into his and groan, the heat between your legs so intense it almost burns. Then your tongue is prodding against his lips, and he parts them to let you in. Now the only thing between him and your blood is the layer of cells lining the inside of your mouth, so thin he swears he can taste it already. But he’s being so, so good trying not to nick you with his fangs, tamping down the bestial urge to drink you down to the last drop. There’s no room for his prey drive in this, only the human desire to eat and be eaten in turn.

Just as Mary is about to trail his hand down towards your ass, an alarm sounds. You freeze, dislodge yourself from his mouth, and pull your phone out of your pocket.

“Fucking hell,” you grumble, silencing the device. “That’s my break.” 

“Oh. Right.” He feels himself deflate, the spell breaking. “I won’t keep you, then.”

But both of you just stand there, somehow unable to make eye contact.

“My shift ends in a few hours,” you finally offer. “I don’t know how long you were planning on hanging around, but–” Your face falls. A few seconds tick by. “I forgot you’re here with your friends.”

“Fuck those guys. Fuck them straight to hell.” They’ll bully him mercilessly, but if he passes this up, he might not get another chance. “I’ll be here when you get off.” You grin.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Chapter Text

Mary is true to his word; when you finally clock out, ten bajillion years later, he’s sitting at a high-top, scrolling on his phone as the last of the stragglers filter out of the club. His bandmates are nowhere in sight (thank God), and you have to wonder just how long he’s been waiting for you all on his lonesome. You call his name and he perks up, like a puppy, and smiles; if he had a tail, you’re certain it would be wagging.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say. The bartender, Murray, glances up from the glass he’s polishing and raises an eyebrow. You shoot him a threatening look, pinching your thumb and forefinger and drawing it across your lips. 

Zip it.

His attention promptly turns back to his work. You’ve got enough dirt on that man to bury him alive.

“Rest of your shift go okay?” Mary asks, quickly falling in step with you. “No one else give you trouble?”

“Nah. They’re always well-behaved after Carmilla shows her face. Primal fear is an excellent deterrent.” His full lips, which you’d learned on the roof are remarkably soft, curl into a pout.

“Damn. I was kinda hoping I’d get another chance to defend your honor.” He steps out in front of you and, bouncing on the balls of his feet, throws a few punches at the empty air. “Bust out the moves on ‘em.” For good measure, he adds in a karate chop, letting out a little “hyah!” You throw your head back, giggling.

You never should have told this guy you thought he was funny.

Once you’re officially off the premises, you hook your arm around Mary’s bony elbow. He must not be used to such a gesture, because he tenses for a moment, but relaxes once he realizes you’re not letting go any time soon. Sunrise is fast approaching, dusty pinks and oranges creeping into the dark blue sky, and so you hoof it. Mary lets you lead him down Broad Street and a few blocks west to your apartment on Cherry, in awe as he takes in the more modern, better maintained buildings. Entering your building, you encounter several of your nocturnal neighbors as they’re returning home for the morning, and though they eye him warily, you get the sense that it has more to do with his general vibe rather than the fact that he is very obviously a vampire. Though he’d listened to your demands and dressed up for the evening, he still projects an aura of miscreancy – like he’s looking for something to light on fire – that’s impossible for your well-to-do cohabitants to ignore. 

Maybe you’ll hear from your landlord about it. Maybe you won’t. If your neighbors get uppity about him being here, fuck them. Who you invite into your space is no one’s business but your own.

You wait until you’re alone in the elevator to kiss Mary again. The urge to drag him into an alley and jump his undead bones had been strong, but with the sun rising and the streets beginning to fill with morning traffic, you’d managed to restrain yourself. But now that all potential interruptions have been removed, there’s nothing standing in your way. He’s distracted, watching the numerical display above the doors slowly tick up, and so you tug on his sleeve to grab his attention.

“What’s up, babe?” He asks, looking down at you with a lazy smile. Oh, fuck, you think you might like being called that. You answer by leaning in and pressing your lips to his. They’re frigid, like he’s been out in the middle of a blizzard, but they don’t feel dead. You’re going to have to get used to it; the other parts of him will be just as cold. The kiss is tame at first, almost chaste, but it quickly devolves as Mary cups your face with a chilled hand, his callused thumb running across your cheekbone. He takes a step forward, and then another, until the rail is pressing into your back. His other hand finds your hip, holding you in place so that he can slot himself between your legs. You moan quietly into his mouth, feeling the way he’s beginning to fill out against your core, though his arousal radiates no heat and seems to leech yours away.

The elevator comes to a stop. The doors grind open. Mary groans, but lets you slip past him, taking his hand and pulling him out into the hall. The closer you get to your unit, the more excited energy begins to build inside you, to the point where you could run laps up and down the corridor. Your heart is hammering fast and hard; you’re sure he can hear it with those sensitive ears, evolved to aid him in the pursuit of prey but now relegated to detect changes in your emotional state. There’s no doubt he can smell the dew soaking into your panties, too.

Mary grabs at your ass while you work to unlock your front door, and so you take your sweet time. Once it’s open, you quickly slip through the threshold, leaving him standing out in the hall.

“You gonna let me in?” He asks, bracing himself against the doorframe. You scoff.

“At least let me get a little comfortable first. Fuck.” Eying him coyly, you kick your heels off one at a time, and then slowly, languidly, shrug off your jacket. Mary does not look amused, watching you hang it up and rack your shoes with a flat face.

“Better?” The hem of his dress shirt has ridden up, putting the straining bulge of his erection on full display. You don’t answer, just smile and reach for the zipper on the back of your dress. Mary growls audibly as you pull the tab down and shimmy out of the garment, revealing the black lace underneath.

You hadn’t necessarily intended for the evening to end this way, but you’d prepared for this outcome nonetheless.

“Oh,” he says, “you’re evil.” The look in his eyes is hungry, predatory. But it’s entirely human, not even remotely close to how Archembault ogled you, like you were a piece of meat to be devoured. No, Mary wants to savor you, and you’re keen to let him. 

After you’ve had a little more fun, that is.

“Here, boy,” you purr, crooking your finger at him. With a sharp-toothed grin, Mary steps into the apartment. There’s a small eternity where you just stare at each other, standing off like two rogues in a gunfight, tension smouldering in the air. Maybe you should be scared, wary of what you’ve just invited into your home, but your mind is cloudy with arousal, your common sense waning.

Then, Mary pounces. You start towards your room, but he’s lighting fast, seizing your arm and pulling you against the hard planes of his chest. You let out a small yelp as he smothers you with his mouth, tongue quickly pushing past your lips. The thought that Chelsea might be home quickly crosses your mind, but any consideration for your roommate goes out the window as cold fingers delve between your legs.

She’s a heavy sleeper. It’ll be fine.

“You’ve been thinking about this all night,” Mary grumbles, tracing your clit through your sodden underthings. He prods at the swollen bud and you moan, shuddering against him. “God, you’re fucking soaked.”

“Shut up.” You grab at the lapels of his jacket and pull it off his shoulders. He lets go, briefly to aid you in this endeavor, tossing the article onto a nearby chair before his hands find your breasts. Your nipples are pebbled beneath the thin lace of your bra, and Mary occupies himself by pinching and rolling them while you start on his shirt buttons. It turns out those fingers are good for more than just playing the guitar, each little tweak stoking the fire in your belly until you can’t focus on anything else. You have half a mind to pull down your panties, bend over, and let him fuck you against the dining table right then and there, but you have to maintain some semblance of composure, else he’ll never let you hear the end of it. So instead, you take a step backwards, tugging on his shirt like a leash until he’s obediently following you to your bedroom.

“Get in here,” you grunt, divesting yourself of your undergarments as you stumble towards your bed and flop down on it. Mary shuffles into the space and takes a look around, clearly judging your decor. He’s one to talk, given the deplorable state of his apartment.

“Cute,” he says, eyeing the framed prints of Impressionist paintings and vintage advertisements on your wall, when he should be looking at you instead. “Very… artsy.” You just roll your eyes.

“This isn’t an open house. Are you just going to stand there–” you spread your legs “–or are you gonna join me?” Mary swallows down a chuckle.

“Sheesh, woman, I’m coming. Fuck.” He pulls his shirt off and throws it at your face. You bat it away easily. Though your curtains are drawn, trace amounts of morning light seep into the room, allowing you to watch as Mary unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and then pulls his pants down his pale, skinny legs. He kicks them aside, leaving him in just his underwear. Your mouth waters as you take in the outline of his hard cock through the thin fabric.

“Bed,” you demand, snapping your fingers and pointing to the open spot next to you. “Now.” Mary licks his lips.

“As you wish.” The moment his body hits the mattress you’re crawling on top of him, planting yourself in his lap and grinding your sex against his. Mary groans like you’ve punched him, and maybe you should have disclosed the fact that you don’t live alone, but when was the last time Chelsea and her hookups were respectful of your rest? You kiss him once on the lips, satisfying your desire to feel their fullness, before trailing down his neck, then his chest, then his stomach, until you reach the patch of fairer hair that leads into his briefs.

So he is a natural blonde.

Mary hears you stifle a laugh and grunts. “What’s so funny?” Hovering over his crotch, you tug the waistband down a little, revealing more of the golden curls.

“Ever thought about dyeing them?” You ask. “You know, so that they ma–” He grabs the back of your head and shoves you into his dick, which only makes you giggle harder.

“Yeah, yeah. Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he grumbles. “You gonna put that mouth to good use, or am I gonna have to shut you up myself?” Choosing to ignore him, you pull Mary’s underwear down the rest of the way, letting his cock slap against his stomach. It’s pale, like the rest of him, and you pause for a moment, wondering just how he’s able to get hard without any blood in his body.

“I don’t know, either,” he says, reading your mind. “I stopped questioning it.”

You just snort, wrapping your hand around him and giving him a few preliminary pumps. Pulling back the sheath of velveteen skin, you lean in and give the very tip a little kitten lick. A contented groan rumbles in his chest, his fingers winding into your hair but not tugging or trying to force you down, just holding on. His flesh warms quickly when you take him into your mouth, which is a welcome discovery, though he lacks the heady taste of arousal you’re used to. You hollow out your cheeks, running your tongue up the underside of his cock, and Mary curses through gritted teeth. Bolstered by that feedback, you begin to bob your head, clasping your fist around his base to work the rest of his shaft. His hips jerk a little, but it feels restrained, like he’s trying to keep himself from fucking your throat raw.

You can tell he’s the kind of guy who likes to get a little rough. The way he grabbed you earlier said as much. Knowing he’s holding himself back, letting you take the reins, makes your stomach flutter and your chest feel tight, though you don’t have time to dwell on it when he’s making such wonderful noises for you.

“Fucking hell,” he groans. “That’s good.” Your pulse throbs between your legs, but you ignore it in favor of taking him as far into your throat as you can, squeezing your thumb to suppress your gag reflex. Mary must notice this, because he hums, combing away some of the hair that’s fallen in your face. “Don’t hurt yourself now, baby.” It seems you’ve been promoted.

Don’t get all sappy on me, you think, rolling your eyes. 

A few minutes pass. His noises grow louder and more aggressive as you continue to suck and lick, swirling your tongue around his head and squeezing his shaft. His restraint is beginning to slip, hips bucking into your mouth with each sound that rumbles in his chest. Eventually, you feel Mary tug on your hair and you pause, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“You want a turn?” He asks, lower lip caught between his teeth. His cock slips out of your mouth with a pop, a string of saliva connecting you.

“I thought you’d never ask.” With a grin, you start to crawl back up his body, stopping once to press an open-mouthed kiss where his pulse would be. Once you plant your knees on either side of his chest, he realizes what you’re after and huffs out a laugh, scooting himself down the bed so that his face is beneath the apex of your thighs. He whistles, his green eyes dark with desire.

“Knew you had a pretty pussy.” It’s by far the strangest compliment you’ve ever received, but your cheeks grow hot, a pang of arousal sounding in your belly.

“Fucking freak,” you mutter, lowering yourself onto Mary’s mouth.

Instantly he’s lapping at you like a dog, the tip of his tongue flicking against your clit. The cold is a shock at first, but quickly becomes an afterthought as his lips seal around the bundle of nerves. Your mouth falls open, a reedy whine ripping out of your throat as he sucks. Stifling yourself with one hand, the other finds the crown of his head, fingers twisting into his hair to hold him in place while you grind down against his face. Mary groans, hooking his arms under your thighs to grab at your ass, his grip so hard you think it could bruise. His attention alternates between your clit and your hole, each stroke of his tongue sending an electric jolt of pleasure up your spine. He puts every human you’ve ever been with to shame, and you have to wonder if it’s just his years of experience, or if, in exchange for their ability to die, vampires are blessed this particular skill.

But every thought in your silly little head is blown to pieces when you feel his finger prod at your entrance. You clench before it even slides inside, anticipating the sweet press of it against your sweet spot. And he doesn’t disappoint; as soon as the digit enters you, he’s crooking it into that patch of spongy flesh like he’s trying to physically rip your orgasm out of you.

“Fuck, Mary!” Your grip on his hair tightens, pulling another heady groan out of him that vibrates against your sensitive clit. Soon he adds another finger and – fucking hell – you get the hype about guitar players now. Every movement of his digits is precise, controlled, each stroke and bend with the intent to strike a certain chord within you. He plays you like you’re his instrument, and as his tempo increases, your pleasure approaches a dramatic crescendo.

But you didn’t comb social media to find one of his gigs, invite him to your work, and then drag him all the way back to your apartment just to finish on his fingers.

“Okay, okay,” you pant, trying to pull back. He resists a little, but you’re able to lift yourself off of him, shuffling backwards to straddle his lap. His mouth glistens with your slick in the low light, a smirk plastered across his face as he watches you grind against his cock to get it nice and wet.

“You want it, baby?” You start to rise back up but Mary’s hands find your hips, holding you in place. It’s such an obnoxious, shitty thing to do, but your resolve is at an all-time low and your pride practically nonexistent.

“Yes,” you hiss, hanging your head. “Don’t be a fucking dick.” His thumb brushes over your clit and you whine, hips jerking. “Mary…”

He just snickers, but his hold relaxes, allowing you to lift up, take him in your hand, and place the tip at your opening. You sink down slowly, letting out a long breath while Mary groans. His cock has gotten cold again, but it’s not freezing. If anything, it’s room temperature, like a silicone dildo: unfamiliar, but not unpleasant as it warms with the heat of your body. The thought that you could make this vampire into your own personal sex toy crosses your mind, and you clench around him.

You like that idea. You like it a lot.

Mary grunts, thrusting up into you as a reminder that he’s still there. And – ugh – he’s good at this too, hitting your sweet spot perfectly. You mewl pathetically, rocking your hips down, clit grinding against his pubic bone.

“Yeah, you like that?” You grunt, unable to glare at him with your eyes in the back of your head.

“Beginner’s luck.” He does it again, and you swear this time you can feel it in your teeth. “Oh my fucking god.” So that he can’t keep tormenting you, you start to ride him, at first slowly but quickly becoming frantic as your climax builds anew. The clap of skin on skin bounces off the walls, your secondhand bedframe creaking with each bounce, but preserving your roommate’s sanity is the last thing on your mind when Mary feels this good inside you.

Your scent is overwhelming. It’s everywhere. Ripe grapes and fresh orange, cinnamon, cloves, and a hint of something like licorice. Liquid comfort: warmth and laughter and hedonistic delight. Mary’s teeth ache, longing to pierce your skin and taste it, to warm himself from the inside out. Yet, he resists. Not only because of your… whole deal, but because he doesn’t trust himself to stop once he starts. It’s like his very existence yearns for your blood, every atom in his undying body screaming at him to grab you by the hair, yank your head back, and sink his fangs into your jugular.

But he won’t. He can’t do that to you.

“Are you okay, man?” Mary jolts a little as he snaps out of his trance. He realizes he’s been staring up at the ceiling for God knows how long, blinks, and then his gaze focuses on you, concern plain on your flushed face. His grip on your hips is bruising, his skinny arms trembling from the effort, and he quickly lets go. You swallow, brows knitted together. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” He forces a laugh. “I’m good. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Spaced out for a second.”

You huff. “Is my game that weak?” Fuck. Oh, fuck. He needs to salvage this. Expression softening, you lift off of him, sitting back on his thighs. “If you need to take a breather–”

Mary is able to flip you easily, and you yelp as your back hits the mattress. He can hear the thump, thump, thump of your heart hammering in your chest as he crawls on top of you. 

You’re nervous. He would be too if he was in your place.

So he grins playfully, trying to break the tension. “My turn.” Then he shoves your legs apart and positions himself between them, claiming your mouth. He can taste your apprehension, but you quickly relax under him as he grinds himself into your core. Taking himself in hand, he rubs his tip against your clit, teasing just enough to have you whimpering.

“Mary,” you pant, turning your head to break the kiss. “Are you sure–” He bottoms out before you can finish. Your back arches off the bed, the force of his entry expelling the breath from your lungs. He can tell you’re close, walls already fluttering around him, and so he tries to focus all his energy on getting you there, angling his hips to hit all the right spots. His hand snakes between your bodies, his thumb finding that little pearl and drawing tight circles around it. You keen, thighs squeezing around his hips, bucking to meet him with each thrust. He keeps as far away from your throat as possible, resting his forehead against yours so that he can occupy his mouth with yours, kissing and licking and swallowing down your sweet little noises.

You’re so warm around him, so tight. And he’s wanted this since he first laid eyes on you, but all he can think about is how full of life you are, each throb of your pulse ringing in his ears like a gunshot.

He’s so busy fighting his appetite that your climax takes him by surprise. You come around him with a gasping moan, shaking and clenching like you’re trying to pull him inside you. It distracts him long enough to set him towards his own end, though with each second that ticks by, the smell of your blood grows harder to ignore. He needs to feed, to taste iron and sex and you, to drink himself into a stupor and then sleep for a thousand fucking years and do it all again when he wakes. He needs to chase you through dark alleys, pin you against a wall and break through your fragile human skin and leave you a pale, lifeless husk.

Please come already, he thinks. Please, just–

It’s the mental image of you laying on your bed with your throat torn out that finally does him in.

He’s trapped until the sun goes down. He tries to sleep, but it’s always hard outside the safety of his coffin. Many of his kind suffer from this affliction, needing the simulation of the grave to find rest, but there’s no solace in that fact; it only serves as a reminder of what he truly is. Living dead, cursed to stalk the night and shun the day. Stuck in a body that does not grow frail with the passage of time, but hungers relentlessly for human life.

As if to prove that point, you shiver in your sleep, warmth sapped away by the black hole that is his being. Even still, you cling to him, your arm draped across his torso like he’s a cold, bony teddy bear. You’re smarter than this, he thinks. You should be able to sense the danger you’re in. He’d wanted to devour you, to open your veins and drink you down until there was nothing left. He’d wanted to kill you. And yet you’d moaned his name and come on his cock and let him fill you with his filth.

You were born in a cage crafted by his kind. You gave up everything to be free. To think you would just give yourself to him is fucking absurd. Maybe, without him knowing, he’s infected your mind, lowered your guard to make you easy prey. Maybe, in the depths of his subconscious, to taste you is all he’s really ever wanted.

Hunger. Consumption. Darkness. Death. This is what Mary Goore has been reduced to.

Somewhere between disgust and despair, sleep finally finds him. When he wakes, the room is darker, the light around the edges of the blinds a deep orange. You’re nowhere to be found, and for a moment, he’s relieved to think you might have come to your senses and fled. Then he hears footsteps, clattering metal, and a muttered curse coming from the kitchen, and his stomach twists into a knot.

He can only find his pants, and so he emerges from your room shirtless and exposed. Mary finds you standing by the coffeemaker, your back to him.

“Stupid fuck…” You smack the machine and it beeps, whirring to life. Then you turn, jumping a little when you see him standing there. “Oh, hey.” A sleepy smile spreads across your face. “You scared me.” You’ve appropriated his shirt, the buttons undone to reveal the planes of your stomach. Other than a pair of fresh underwear, the rest of you is bare. Your hair is messy, mussed from sex and sleep, strands of it clinging to your face. The remnants of your makeup are smudged in dark rings around your eyes. Mary’s undead heart skips a beat.

There must still be a human inside him, because only a mortal could find so much beauty in a sight like that.

“Sorry,” he says. A silent pause hangs in the air. He can’t remember the last time he ended up in this position; nowadays, most of his hookups end where they start, in a grimy bar bathroom or some other dark corner. He’s a bit out of his depth. “You need me to get out of here?” You shrug.

“I’ve got a few hours.” You shuffle over to a cabinet, pull out a mug, and then look back at him. “Do you want a little coffee?”

He should leave. For both your sakes, he should lose your number and put you out of his mind forever. But right now, nothing in the world sounds better than coffee and idle chitchat with his angel.

“That would be great.”

Chapter Text

This thing that you and Mary have, you like it. Somewhere between friends with benefits and a boyfriend/girlfriend arrangement; an unspoken level of commitment without a label. It’s casual, uncomplicated. You go out, you fuck, and sometimes, like on this early morning, you hang.

You’re lounging on your living room couch watching a baking show while Mary chugs away on his busted laptop, plugging sheet music into a pirated composition program. Chelsea is away for the weekend, giving you free reign of the apartment. He’s already bent you over every surface imaginable, and your clothes lay strewn about like the Rapture has just come through. A mountain of blankets covers you both, and with his cold body absorbing the excess heat, the temperature is just right. It’s precisely what you needed after another night of bullshit at work, your undead clientele emboldened by the steadily shrinking days as winter approaches.

A stream of morning light pokes through a crack in the blinds, cutting across the coffee table. Mary looks at it, then you. With a grin, he sticks his socked foot out into the beam, making a little hissing noise to imitate the burning of skin. But you’re thoroughly invested in your show, mesmerized as an old British lady pipes an intricate Pavlova cake, and so he does it again, and again, until he finally gets your attention.

“What are you– Stop that!” You bat at him under the blankets until he retreats back into their safety. “Fucking weirdo. Jesus.” He just snickers before turning back to his work. Grumbling about how you “have to do everything around here, for fucks sake,” you get up to fix the problem, shivering as you shuffle over to the sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony. Before rearranging the curtains, though, you permit yourself a moment to look out over the city, awash with the rosy light of dawn. Lights flick on while others go out, signaling the transition from the night shift to the day. The streets are filling after the lull of the witching hour, the sounds of morning traffic emanating through the glass. Next door, your neighbor’s potted flowers glitter in the first rays of sunlight, their petals heavy with dew.

Try as you might to appreciate their beauty, the exquisite blooms do nothing but fill you with longing.

“You okay?” Mary asks, lifting the headphone off of the ear closest to you. Sighing, you shut the blinds and slink back over to the couch, grabbing your sweater along the way.

“Yeah. I just…” You shrug. “Sometimes I just wish I could experience more of the day, you know?” Mary huffs.

“You’re telling me.” Fuck, he has a point. You can only imagine how out of touch a declaration like that must sound to someone who will literally burn to ash in direct sunlight. “But you’re right. It does suck.”

“And here I was thinking you were the Prince of Darkness.” A lingering question, one of many that’s been plaguing you, crosses your mind. “You were diurnal?” Mary hasn’t been particularly forthcoming about his human past, but you haven’t asked either, until now. You assume it’s a touchy subject.

“As a kid, yeah.” His eyes stay locked on his screen, but he continues. “We were in the day school district. Mom wanted us to grow up ‘the human way.’ Whatever that means.”

“So, you switched later?” He nods.

“Once I went all-in on the music thing.” You hum. A beat passes, the only sound in the apartment the clicking of Mary’s mouse.

You ask without thinking. “Do you miss it? The sun?” At this, he finally looks up, his expression twisted into a scowl.

“What’s with all the questions?” He snaps. “Am I being interrogated, or something?” You open your mouth to defend yourself, to scold him for being an ass, but he cuts you off. “Of course I do.”

Who wouldn’t?

You sit there in silence for a while, chewing on his words. On the TV, your British lady is assembling the Pavlova, decorating it with slices of fig and pear, but your appetite has soured. You’d gotten a taste of Mary’s brooding side that night on the roof, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. It’s like he’s suddenly become a stranger, distant and cold. He’s sitting only a few feet away, and yet there’s a chasm between you, bottomless and miles wide.

How much pain hides behind that crooked grin? What keeps him awake during the daylight hours, when he’s stuck in his coffin and yearning for the sun? You don’t want to know… You shouldn’t want to know. Things between you and Mary are easy because they’re not too deep, just casual fun and heavy sex when you have a moment to spare. Getting feelings involved is a recipe for disaster, so why do you keep doing it? Why ask him these things? Why make yourself so vulnerable?

Because you saw a photograph in a filthy boys’ apartment, and it’s been haunting you ever since.

“What? What’s wrong?” You blink, realizing Mary has been observing you for some time now.

“Nothing,” you mutter, unable to look him in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have pried. I’m sorry.” He scoffs. His left hand, buried under the blankets, makes what you think is supposed to be a jerking motion. He throws his head back, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Say it again, baby,” he moans. “I’m close!”

“Oh, fuck you!” Growling, you grab one of Chelsea’s frilly throw pillows and lob it at him. He just swats it away, laughing. “Fucking asshole, making me feel bad and shit.” In spite of yourself, you’re suddenly giggling too, your body forcing itself to expel the nervous tension burning in your chest. You laugh until your sides hurt, until you have to force yourself to stop, and clap a hand over your eyes once the fit subsides, heaving a long sigh. “I hate you.” Mary smirks, looking out at the clothes still littering the floor.

“Sure.” He pauses, expression softening. “Sorry for getting pissy. It’s just–”

“It’s fine. I’ll mind my business.” He nods, but there’s a guilty look in his eyes, the creases under them deeper than normal.

“Thanks.”

The rest of the morning passes in silence. Your show ends, and another comes on, this time featuring an aggressive Italian-American guy who won’t shut the fuck up about his new line of copper cookware. You tire of it quickly and shut the TV off, scrolling on your phone until you eventually pass out.

You’re not sure how long you’re under, but it’s a deep enough sleep that you dream a little. In that dream, you and Mary are sitting on a park bench, watching the sun set over the city. He’s got his arm around you, and it’s warm. His cheeks are rosy, a little sunburnt.

“… Go to bed, babe?” Mary’s cold, spindly fingers dance across your forehead, brushing some of your hair away. Slowly, your heavy eyes crack open to find him standing over you.

“What,” you mumble, your tongue like lead in your mouth.

“Do you want to go to bed?” He’s put his joggers back on but is still shirtless. Your eyes flick over the bony angles of his torso, skimming over his tattoos before settling on the two silvery puncture marks on the right side of his neck. You quickly tear your gaze away before he can notice you staring.

“Tired…” Your eyes flutter shut again. Sleeping on the couch always fucks up your back, but you’re exhausted and so, so cozy, you don’t think you could move if you tried. Mary sighs.

“Alright.” A rush of cold air assaults you when he pulls the blankets away. You groan, blindly grab for them, but his skinny arms worm their way under you, one across your back and the other hooking in the crook of your knees. “Here we go.” Mary picks you up effortlessly, holding you like a bride. For as angry as you are about being disturbed, you’re too groggy to fight back, and let him carry you to your room. You’re half-expecting him to drop you on the bed, but he sets you down gently, crawling in beside you and pulling the blankets up. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his frigid body as he buries his face in your hair. It’s tender and sickly-sweet, like a bruised, overripe apple.

“Are you okay?” You feel Mary nod into the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, already starting to sound sleepy. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest. “You’re warm.”

And you’re freezing. Even through your combined clothes he saps your heat away. You suppose it’s in his nature to consume, if not blood, then the natural warmth of a human body. It’s what makes the fresh stuff such a delicacy, why you live comfortably while the phlebotomists at the banks barely scrape by.

What a sad existence it must be, hungering for the essence of one’s absent life.

The next evening you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, spooning yogurt into your mouth between sips of coffee. Mary sits next to you, slowly drinking one of the cans of O-Pos you now keep in your fridge for when he visits. You have to be at work in an hour, but you’re dragging your feet, sluggish after a turbulent sleep. His outburst, and the admission that came with it, played on repeat all day, and your brain shows no signs of cutting you some slack as the night approaches.

“We’re a chatty bunch,” he says, plucking at the tab of his can. He’s got it bent in just the right way so that when he releases the tension, it plays a short, garbled note, like a guitar with a loose string. Since you’ve started seeing each other you’ve found he’s almost always making music, whether that be whistling a tune, drumming out a beat on a tabletop, or mouthing lyrics to himself. Sometimes it’s cute, sometimes it’s a nuisance. You’re not sure where exactly it falls right now, especially after he snored on and off all day.

At least he slept well.

“Yeah.” Your breakfast tastes bland, like water, but you swallow down another spoonful anyway.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Mary asks. The voice in your head lets out a scream.

“No.” You rest your chin on your fist, looking at the dirty dishes in the sink instead of him. “I’ve just been thinking about what you said, about missing the sun and all.”

“Oh.” The plucking stops. “You don’t need to feel bad for me, you know. It’s not like I’m completely miserable or anything.” In spite of yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches upwards.

“You’re only partly miserable.” Mary laughs, raising his hands defensively.

“Hey, I’ve got a brand to maintain.”

Even with his assurances, the thought follows you throughout the week. It pounces on you at work, while you eat, while you shower. You’ll be walking down the street, catch the morning sun in the cracks between buildings, and suddenly all you can think of is the younger Mary, with his golden hair and pink cheeks, scribbling lyrics on his worksheets in the back of a day school classroom. While you sleep, you’re plagued by dreams of blinding light and burning skin. When you wake, your mouth tastes like ash.

It’s eating you; a twisting, gnawing dread in the pit of your stomach. As the days pass it only gets worse, taking up more space in your mind and refusing to pay rent.

So what do you do? You turn to the Internet.

For several days, your free time is spent going down a half-scientific, half-supernatural rabbithole, browsing various medical information sites, academic journals, and discussion boards. Most of what you find is shit you already know: the components of sunlight, how it causes cancer in humans, and that it is anathematic to creatures of the night like Mary, who are reborn in death and thrive in darkness.

And then you come across r/NewVamps, and quickly learn it’s not that simple. You’d been taught that sunlight sensitivity was more than a physical reaction; it was a fundamental, ontological revulsion to it. The Chaunceys certainly hated it, so much that every new freckle on your skin earned a disapproving sneer and a stern lecture about the horrors of melanoma. It seems, though, that this hatred is instilled over hundreds of years, and for those who are fresh out of the grave, certain human instincts persist. So naturally, with infinite time at their disposal, those who still crave the warmth of the sun have come up with a few workarounds.

That doesn’t make it any less dangerous, though. One miscalculation, one day with a higher than average UV index, and Mary could end up burnt beyond recognition or worse. But you think it’s worth it to try, so at the very least your research doesn’t go to waste.

It takes some time, but eventually you work up the courage to pitch it to him.

05:46 Do you trust me

05:53 Probably shouldn’t

05:54 But fuck it why not

05:55 Great

05:55 I have an idea

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Mary says, eyeing himself in the standing mirror in the corner of your bedroom. He’s clad in a horrendous mixture of yours and his clothes, at least two layers thick, not including your long winter coat on top of it all. His feet are pretty well protected by his boots, and you’ve leant him a pair of leather gloves which he can just barely cram his hands into. He’s got on a faded baseball cap borrowed from one of his bros, and you’ve tied a scarf over it to cover every possible bit of skin.

He looks like a goth babushka. You’re sure it will be all the rage with the kids soon.

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out.” Then the gravity of the situation hits, and what it might mean for Mary. “If you don’t think this is a good idea, we don’t have to do it. It’s okay.” He scoffs.

“Who do you think I am?” He pulls a pair of scratched aviators out of his pocket and puts them on, flashing you his best vogue face. “Danger is my middle name.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, then, bad boy. Let’s go.” Grabbing your bag and an umbrella, the two of you shuffle towards the front door. You’re about to reach for the knob when it turns, and suddenly Chelsea is standing before you, mild irritation on her face as she looks back and forth between you and Mary.

“Hey,” she says, not moving. The two of you respond in unison.

“Hey, Chels.”

“What’s up?”

Awkward silence hangs in the air, until she finally clears her throat and steps into the apartment, her platinum blonde ponytail swishing behind her as she pushes past you. She doesn’t dislike Mary per se, but his increasing presence in your space has definitely put her on edge, especially considering what little she knows about your background. You two also fuck a lot and aren’t always the best at keeping the volume down. But if she has any grievances, she has yet to voice them. Not like you’d listen to her, anyway.

The walk to the park is quiet, but comfortable. With dawn approaching, the streets are beginning to fill up, but the folks you pass are either too preoccupied with their own lives or are too used to weird vampire bullshit to pay you any mind. As your destination approaches your excitement grows, quickly overshadowing the lingering nerves bubbling in your stomach. You’re excited to watch the sun rise, sure, but more than anything, you’re looking forward to sharing the experience with Mary, to make good on all the research and planning that’s led to this moment. It’s dumb, but you hope it makes him happy. If all goes well, maybe it’ll become a part of your routine. A weekly picnic date in the park doesn’t sound all that bad, even if it is disgustingly romantic.

You settle on a spot by the pond, spreading a blanket out on the grass beneath a willow tree and sitting side by side. There are a few joggers about, but other than that, the park is blissfully empty. The sun is just about to crest over the horizon, the sky painted with soft pinks and oranges. At the water’s edge, a pair of swans preen each other’s feathers, honking happily. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.

“This is great,” you say, rooting through your bag for your thermos and the cookie you’d packed. Though you’re bundled up, the autumn chill begins to seep in the longer you’re stationary, and so you eagerly unscrew the lid and warm your nose with the pleasant aroma of chai spice. You pour out a small measure of tea into the cap and hand it to Mary, who accepts with a grateful nod. After taking a sip directly out of the thermos, you place it between your knees and work on unwrapping the cookie, a festive pumpkin snickerdoodle thing that grabbed your eye the last time you stopped by Alma’s. You bite into it, and the taste of cinnamon, cloves, and brown butter bursts across your tongue, the sugar lighting up the pleasure centers in your brain. Your spine tingles and you moan, tipping your head back as you chew. “Fuck, she’s done it again.” You hold out the cookie, trying not to be too much of a glutton. “Here.” Mary laughs.

“You and your fucking sweet tooth.” He takes the treat, sniffs it, and then takes a small bite. “Holy shit.” You nod.

“Yeah.” You pass the cookie back and forth a few times. He can only tolerate so much human food at once, though, so eventually he waves you off. After wrapping the rest of the dessert in its plastic and stuffing it in your bag, you let out a contented sigh, laying back on the blanket.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed,” Mary says with a laugh. “You’re always looking out for something.” You just roll your eyes.

“Get off my dick, man. I’m feeling nostalgic.” He looks back at you with a raised eyebrow, silently asking you to elaborate. “When I was a kid,” you explain, “the Chaunceys kept a bunch of apple trees on their property. Massive fucking things. I used to sneak out and climb them to watch the sun rise.”

“Aw, you poor, repressed little baby.” He reaches over to pinch your cheek, but you slap his hand away.

“One time I fell asleep and everyone got into a panic looking for me. Mom called the cops. She thought I got kidnapped, or something.” You choose not to reveal how the small orchard had been chopped down following that incident. Best not to kill the vibe. The memory can’t bother you now anyway, not when there’s crisp, morning air in your lungs and open sky overhead.

“Man, you really were a ‘terror child.’” Mary snickers. “Not like I was any better. I snuck out to go to shows and stuff all the time. Came home in the back of a police cruiser more than once.”

“You? Really? I never would have guessed.” A toothy grin spreads across his face.

“It’s true, I swear.” He sighs. “My poor fucking mother.”

You start to wonder what she, who so desperately wanted her children to live like humans, must think of her son now. The thought is quickly overshadowed, though, as the sun finally crests over the mass of buildings to the east, a vibrant, orange fireball against the pale sky. You jump a little, quickly grabbing your umbrella and opening it, scooting closer to Mary so that you both fit under its shade. Angling it to protect his face, you watch as the park is cast in the glow of sunlight, sparkling in the dewy grass and shining on the surface of the pond. You can feel its warmth already, seeping into your bones like a shot of whiskey.

“Feel okay?” You ask. “You’re not disintegrating or anything?” Mary shakes his head.

“Not yet.” Slowly, hesitantly, he sticks his gloved hands out from under the safety of the umbrella. He lets out a little gasp as direct sunlight touches the leather, but it’s an expression of relieved surprise rather than distress. Wordlessly, he opens and closes his fists a few times, warming himself. A few minutes pass in silence, the sky changing from pink to blue as the sun steadily rises. The birds are chirping, flitting about in the branches above. In the distance, the commotion of morning traffic in the city is beginning to pick up, but you can’t possibly be bothered by that while you’re riding the high of knowing your crazy, potentially un-life-threatening scheme actually worked.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” you say, resting your head on Mary’s bony shoulder. There’s no response. His hands are shaking. Your stomach drops. There’s no burning flesh smell, but that fact does little to quell the uneasiness churning in your guts. You straighten up, inspecting him for any smoke or blistering skin. Physically, he looks fine. But, emotionally? Mentally? Spiritually? You’re not so sure. He stares out across the pond, unmoving save for the tremble in his limbs. You open your mouth to ask if he’s alright, but your words quickly turn to dust. Though his eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses, the tears silently streaming down his pale cheeks are impossible to miss.

So much for your fun picnic date.

“Mare, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “That was just a really fucking good cookie.” A few tense, agonizing seconds tick by. Mary sniffles, swallows, and then suddenly he’s sobbing, wrapping his arms around his legs and curling in on himself. For a moment you’re paralyzed, dumbfounded by the display and unsure how to proceed. Should you try and comfort him? Does he even want that?

You have to do something. And so you let instinct guide you, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leaning into him, hoping the feeling of another body is enough to convey that he’s not alone. Sure, you’re not a vampire, you’ll never truly understand what it’s like, but you can at least try. It’s better than nothing.

You sit there a while, just holding him. The sun continues to rise, city life goes on around you. Mary slowly calms down, the heaving of his chest evening out as his sobs return to sniffles.

“I’m sorry,” he finally wheezes. You give him a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s okay. I… Well, I don’t get it, but I do. I get it.” Suddenly, you’re far too tired to find any more enjoyment in this. “You want to head back?” Mary nods.

“Yeah.”

The walk back to your apartment passes in silence. You hold onto Mary’s hand like a lifeline, like he’s going to tear his clothes off and fling himself into the light if you don’t keep him in line. Thankfully, though, he does not attempt to evaporate himself, and you make it home in one piece. From there, you help him strip off the layers of clothing, and then somehow, you’re able to coax him into the shower with you, the water as hot as you can make it without scalding yourself. There’s nothing sexual about it; he lets you scrub him clean, though you leave his junk and scarred neck for him to deal with. He looks like a sad, wet cat while he washes himself, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh at him. Once you’re both clean, you stand under the warm spray for a while, just holding him. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t cry, and he doesn’t protest either, so you stay there until your eyes droop and your legs begin to wobble, your fingers and toes all pruny. 

After drying off and pulling some clothes on, the two of you collapse into bed, wriggling under the covers in silence. Mary turns his back to you. Normally this would tick you off, but he’s wrestling with the unfathomable expanse of immortality right now. For today, you can forgive him. Spooning him from behind, you drape one arm over his torso. Though you’re still fresh out of the shower, he’s already turning cold, and so you pull him tighter into your chest, trying not to shiver as your warmth flows into him. You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t say anything. Mary is silent and unmoving, which you hope means he’s asleep. 

Fuck, you forgot how exhausting it is to care about people. What are you doing, coddling this bloodsucker like he’s some poor, sick puppy? You like Mary because he’s low-maintenance, he’s fun. He cracks stupid jokes and grabs your ass in the dark corners of bars. He makes you laugh; he adds color to your otherwise monotonous existence. But when he gets like this, it’s a lot, and how on earth do you handle something of this magnitude? What do you say to someone who’s been cursed to live forever, to watch everyone he loves grow old and die, but can’t even enjoy something as simple as a sunrise? Maybe you’re getting in a little over your head.

But, then again, when was the last time you let yourself hold someone like this?