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Feb 23

Dépaysement (Part 2)

you have a heart-to-heart with renaud (if a heart-to-heart means arguing and then getting up close and personal in a tattoo parlor bathroom, that is).

->meanvamps featuring renaud. explicit; contains mind control, blood drinking, memory loss, rough sex, finger-sucking/hand feeding. also on ao3.

“…and then he gave me a card with nothing on it. Except there’s definitely something on it, I can feel it. It’s enchanted.”

You’re gossiping with the door again. More accurately, you’re gossiping with the thing behind the door that only you can see. You’re fairly certain you shouldn’t be doing this. Every time you come up here and get a look at the thing, you’re struck by instinctual dread. Singed black and adorned with that haunting carving of a butterfly made of jagged, furious gouges in the wood, it reeks of aggrieved spellwork. Whoever made this did so obsessively and with nothing but malice in their heart.

But the door is yours. It’s a secret, an inexplicable thing lodged in the heart of enemy territory and they have no idea. The nightbound get everything—you, your blood, your freedom, everything—but they don’t get this. Not even Athanasius knows about this and that makes you want to keep it all for yourself. Even when you walk away and inevitably forget it’s there, the door excised from your memory by the same eerie magic that keeps it hidden from everyone else in the house, you always find it again.

You’re kindred spirits. You think that’s what does it. Like attracts like in magic; similar energies and emotions, shared desires and intentions. Your resentment isn’t powerful enough to burn a hole in reality and cauterize it, leaving a seething pustule of ill will behind, but you wish it was. You hope someday it will be.

Door Thing makes a breathy, interested noise. “Hhhhh. A card. And an enchantment of concealment. Have you…removed it?” it rasps.

“Not yet,” you admit. “It might be a trap, right? There could be another spell underneath it.”

“Ahhh, clever! My friend, hhhhhh. Is so clever. Yes. Always be careful.”

Clever. Right. That’s what you are. Definitely not struggling to do even the simplest spells listed in Practical Arcana. You know you’re skipping a few steps, trying to shape your magic when you’re barely capable of making it solid enough to see, but you’re in a hurry. You’re tired of losing every fight.

“You don’t have any tips on dealing with finicky magic like that, do you?” you ask.

Door Thing makes that rattling sound that makes you think it’s pacing. You hear heavy chains dragging closer, then further away, back and forth. “Oh no, my friend. I’m sorry, but no. Magic is…hhh. Different for all of us. Isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,” you say dryly.

The last time you spoke, Door Thing managed to tell you remarkably little about itself for all the rambling it did. It insinuated it’s “like you” in some sense but it was evasive beyond that, fond of contradiction. It’s older than the Belanger Estate but also, impossibly, younger. It’s been here all its life. It’s here for Athanasius; because of him; in spite of him. It can’t settle on any singular explanation but it’s holding a grudge. He trapped it here even though he has no idea it exists. It’s under an enchantment, a “Letheian art,” though it won’t tell you who cast it, and how, and why. It carefully sidesteps if you ask if it’s a nightbound and it redirects if you ask if it’s a witch. But it says it understands you, that it wants to help, that it knows you don’t trust it yet but that’s alright.

It is very, very patient, it says.

Its chains scrape and clatter closer again. “My friend is, hhhh…troubled. I’ve troubled you.”

“I’m fine. Just thinking,” you say. Leaning against the wall across from it, your eyes trace the design in the door. A butterfly. A line speared straight through it. A circular border of linked half-ovals. It must mean something. It looks like a threat. “You’re on my side, right? You want us to help each other?” you ask.

“Yessss,” it hisses. “Yes, yours. Always yours. Never theirs. There’s, hhhhh. Little I can do now, as I am. But someday. Yes, someday. Perhaps, if you…open this door…” It never finishes the thought, sighing deeply as though it can see or sense your suspicious scowl. “Too soon. Yes. I know. Hhhhh, too soon for trust. I can wait. I can. What’s another year? Another. Hhhh. Decade?”

“I won’t be here that long,” you say. You hate to think about it. But if all else fails, if you can’t fight your way out and you can’t get out of the territory, the next best thing is to get through your sacramental service, get partnered, and try it all again under less scrutiny and supervision.

Door Thing makes a disconcerting, bestial noise, grating and rhythmic. You think it might be laughing. “You. You really think. That Athanasius will let you go?” it asks slowly.

“Well, yeah. I’m only here temporarily,” you say, but uncertainty creeps into your voice. Of course he’ll let you go, right into someone else’s clutches. That’s what they said at that awful meeting. That’s how it works.

“You don’t know him.” Its voice dips to such a low, gravelly rumble that you can’t tell if that’s wrath or yearning you hear in its voice. “No. He, hhhh. He’ll never let you go.”

“But he—I mean, the Council won’t just let him…”

“No one,” it whispers, “can force the hand of an ancient.”

“So, what, he’d fight them? All of them? The Lord Regent, too?” You’re getting louder, your breath coming faster, and you don’t even notice. It doesn’t matter that you’re new to all this kin and Council stuff. That doesn’t make sense. One nightbound can’t take on a whole territory, and why would he? For one witch?

But what if he did? you find yourself wondering. What if he decided he didn’t agree with the Council? They were afraid of him. You saw it on their faces. He walked in and they were willing to do anything to make him go away. If it came down to it, if he argued against them when your sacramental service ended, would they even put up a fight?

“What are you doing, sacrament?”

You flinch. Your pen slips from your fingers. Nobody’s there, of course, but you feel like you just bolted awake from a nightmare. It takes a second to reorient yourself, to remember that Athanasius uses telepathy. You’re in the creepy hallway, the same one you keep wandering into for some reason. It’s dark up here and too quiet. You’re staring at the wall, at the space between two doors for rooms no one’s using. Why did you come up here again? You crouch to pick up your pen and hurry back towards the library.

“Sacrament?”

“What?” you say.

“Where were you a moment ago?”

Is he serious? You can’t breathe in here without him knowing about it. “Second floor. I’m…practicing magic.” You fumble the words, tripping over your own tongue. You’re so nervous you can’t even lie properly.

Silence. You can tell he feels something but you can’t tell what it is. The moment you get an inkling of emotion through the connection, he smothers it and radiates tranquility instead. “Why there in particular?” he asks.

“Why am I getting interrogated?” you snap. “You said I could practice.”

“You can. But why there?”

“I don’t want anyone bothering me.” You’re being stubborn. You don’t have a clue why you’re here but you don’t want him to know that. You hate that he feels entitled to every single thought that passes through your head.

“Do as you will,” he says curtly. The smothering sensation of his mesmerism connection abruptly rips away and you feel a little cold. You think you managed to piss him off and, to your utter dismay, you have no idea how or if you could do it again.

Things are quiet when you tiptoe downstairs. No exuberant game music coming from the parlor. No conversation, no playful jabs, not even any arguing in the hallways. The mood in the convenire has been tense and somber ever since that disastrous outing to De Nuit. You didn’t see much of the hatchlings for the rest of the weekend and even Athanasius has been making himself scarce beyond the time it takes to cook your meals. You never got the reward he promised for your good behavior, and he hasn’t been around long enough to give you any praise, either.

Not that you care. Obviously. Of course you don’t care. You didn’t want anything anyway. It’s just bullshit, that’s all. Maybe you feel a little less inclined to play nice the next time he lets you out if there’s nothing in it for you.

“We’re, uh. We’re both kinda grounded,” Orion admits.

You find him outside. It’s a cloudy night, the moon engulfed in flowing black velvet. You have to use a flashlight to see that he’s got a pair of thick gloves and garden shears, kneeling in the dirt and pruning Athanasius’ roses. He goes slowly, you notice, checking and double-checking where he places the blades before he snips away errant growths.

“Renaud’s grounded because, well, you know. And I’m grounded because I should’ve stepped in. We’re supposed to look out for each other. I guess I got it in my head that he didn’t really need anyone looking out for him ‘cuz, like, why would he? Seemed like he was gonna graduate out of here any day now. I didn’t think he’d…” He sighs heavily in frustration. “It’s whatever. We both fucked up. Can’t even use you as an excuse since you did everything you’re supposed to.”

“Guess I missed my chance to make a run for it,” you say, half-joking. Probably.

“Yeah, well, I’m glad. It would’ve gone real bad if you’d tried.”

“You would’ve gotten in way worse trouble, right?”

It doesn’t matter that he’s kneeling and smaller than you right now. Orion looks up at you with that sharp, animalistic suddenness and shining eyes and it makes you feel like cornered prey. “No, I mean it would’ve gone badly for you,” he says. The apprehension on your face takes a second for him to register, but he laughs to break the tension when he notices and turns back towards the roses. “You’re right, though, we would’ve been in deep shit if we lost you. But we wouldn’t have lost you. I’m really good at tracking, remember? Even downtown, where there’s more going on. And I was really, really well fed that night so you weren’t going anywhere.”

His confidence is irritating but he’s probably right. “Why’d Athanasius let you guys go to a bar in the first place?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t he?”

You blink. Is he messing with you? Just being obtuse? “Because Renaud has a problem with alcohol.”

Orion glances up at you again, visibly confused. Then he snickers. “Oh, holy shit, you thought…? Yeah, no. That’s, like, the least of his problems.” He grins at your perturbed expression and then goes right back to pruning.

“So are you gonna tell me what his deal is?” you press.

“Nah, I shouldn’t. I’m on thin ice as it is.” He gives you a sly look out of the corner of his eye, but he’s not quite looking at your face. His gaze drifts just a little lower. His pupils dilate. He smiles so sweetly you’d believe he’s completely sincere and innocent if you didn’t just see him ogle an artery. “But I could be, y’know. Persuaded.”

Just for that, you’re going to delete all of his save files. It’s petty, and he’ll probably complain to Athanasius about it, but you don’t care. You head for the parlor with nothing but vengeance on your mind. The moment you get your hands on the household Switch, yanking it out of the charge port, you’re suddenly struck by the urge to do something more destructive. Submerge it in water? Stick it in the microwave? Throw it against the wall as hard as you can? Nobody’s there to stop you. You could do it. You could do anything.

The sudden viciousness of your own feelings startles you. Why do you feel so vindictive? Athanasius was probably just going to pat you on the head and say something patronizing. Why does it bother you so much that you don’t even get that? You thought you were angry but there’s a tightness behind your ribs and a sob building in your chest. He should be here, you think miserably. They should all be here. The estate has felt like a tomb these last few nights, hauntingly quiet and empty. You’ve gotten so used to being pestered, followed around, and surrounded by constant attention that the sudden absence feels hateful.

You’re lonely, you realize. Even though you hate it here. Even though you don’t trust anyone living under this roof. The invigorating heat of your anger is doused by cold understanding. It’s not fair. They brought you here, they won’t let you leave, and now they’re neglecting you. And it bothers you. You’ve been on your own for so long that any attention, even from them, started to feel good.

You smell nectar. Subtle, stifled, but unmistakably sweet and heady.

“Oh, sacrament. This was not my intention.”

You’re completely inured to sudden appearances. The sight of Athanasius coalescing from the shadows of the hallway does little more than elicit mild annoyance. The unbearable tenderness in his concerned expression makes you clench your jaw. “Leave me alone,” you say.

“But your reward—”

“Fuck your reward.”

He’s holding something. A glass jar with a cloth lid, wrapped tight with string. The liquid inside is gold laced with gooey streaks of darker orange. That’s nectar. Pure nectar, not diluted in a drink or watered down into whatever admittedly creative culinary format Athanasius has in mind. You can see it glitter from here, little bubbles of trapped magic churning in slow motion against the glass. You don’t need it. You’re low, drained from frustrating and fruitless exercises, not completely empty. The sight alone still makes you salivate.

You stare each other down. Athanasius tilts his head in a slighter, slower way than usual, contemplative rather than predatory. “It is true what they say. The children who make no trouble are the easiest to forget,” he muses. “Please forgive me, sacrament. Renaud has needed me more urgently than—”

“I didn’t ask.” You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. You don’t want his pity. “I don’t care,” you insist, bristling beneath his unwavering stare. “I’m not a child. Renaud needed help so you helped him. I’m not going to throw a tantrum over it.”

He calls you a liar with nothing but his eyes. His gaze drops to the Switch you’re still clutching in your shaking hands. You exhale sharply and drop it to the couch. You have to look away from the soft, approving smile he gives you in return, trying to ignore the way it makes you feel.

“I often tell hatchlings that emotions are akin to weather. We cannot control what comes. But we can prepare, and we can shield one another from its intensity.” He takes another step, not bothering to disguise it. “You need not feel ashamed, sacrament.”

You don’t answer and you don’t look at him. In the corner of your eye, you see him shift closer. He reaches out, gently moving the Switch aside, and sits down on the couch. He sets the jar on the table and pulls the string loose, untying the cloth. The honey-sweet scent of nectar floods the room and you sway on your feet.

“You have been practicing,” he says, approving.

“Is that my reward?” you ask.

Athanasius smiles. “I thought you had lost interest in your reward.”

If he wanted a reaction—wanted you closer, desperate, your composure wavering—he gets it all. You’re across the room in an instant, perched on the coffee table like an unruly cat. Your hand hovers over the nectar but never reaches it. Athansius grabs your wrist so quickly you don’t even see him move. He leans forward with a satisfied grin like he knew all along you would end up here and tugs gently, easing you closer.

“Open your mouth,” he says. “I will feed you.”

You're a breath away from telling him to go fuck himself until his other hand reaches for the jar. He dips two fingers in and then drags them back out coated in nectar all the way up to the knuckles. Your feed instinct kicks in and dulls your awareness, everything uprooted but animal instinct. Nectar. Hunger. Danger?

Athanasius brings the nectar to your lips. He doesn’t have to ask again. You open your mouth and he slips two fingers inside. No, your instincts soothe you. No danger. Safe. You suck the nectar from his skin. The scrape of your blunt teeth along the joints of his fingers makes him chuckle. He releases your wrist to stroke your cheek. “How lovely you are when you allow yourself to be cared for,” he murmurs.

You’ll be mad about that later if you remember he said it. Right now, you whine against his fingers. The nectar’s gone. He coos, kissing your cheek, and dips his saliva-coated hand back into the jar. You watch unblinking, as if he might try to take some when you aren’t looking.

“I am always of two minds about you, sacrament. Your defiance is thrilling. But this…” He sighs happily. You make obscene sounds sucking on his fingers, chasing a dribble of sticky gold with your tongue before it trickles down his wrist. “I relish the chance to indulge your instincts. Perhaps someday, you will feed from my mouth like a chick in the nest.”

When you come back to yourself, you’re in his lap. Not on the floor like usual, not just resting your head against his knee. In his lap, straddling his legs. Athanasius is wiping his hand on a silken handkerchief. The jar is still mostly full. You extricate yourself with your head bowed, determined not to look him in the eye. His hand splays at your side to steady you until you’re on your feet.

“I would like to make you an offer,” he says.

“An offer,” you repeat dryly. “So the nectar was a bribe.”

“It was nothing of the sort. You would like to leave the convenire again, yes?”

You give him an exasperated look. You’re not new at this anymore. “I’m babysitting Renaud, aren’t I?”

“No. Renaud has work this evening and he is employed by an elder who is well aware of his needs. However, he is also malnourished. I must send you off without a collar this evening, and that means you must not stray far.” Athanasius stands gracefully, retrieving the jar from the table. He gestures for you to follow but he turns back when you refuse to move. “As sacrament, it is your duty to tend to the members of this convenire,” he reminds you.

You know that. You don’t budge. “You still owe me a reward from last time,” you say.

Athanasius’ gaze narrows. You get the impression that he’s pleased for some reason, like he was hoping all along you’d make a fuss about it. “Indeed, I do. And with this, I will owe you even more. What do you think of having me all to yourself for a night?” You must look unimpressed because he laughs. “No? Not even a lovely evening away from the convenire together? We could have dinner at a fine kin establishment or take a walk beneath the moon somewhere. Or perhaps you would be more interested in lessons to better protect yourself from nightbound predation? They are offered at the CTF headquarters.”

“The CTF teaches self-defense?” you ask incredulously. “Against themselves?”

“Against traditionalists. But much of what you learn could be applied more broadly.”

It’s certainly tempting. “And what’s the catch?”

“There is none. It would be your reward.”

You’ll believe that when you see it. “I’ll think about it,” you say begrudgingly.

He’s got you now and he knows it, but he smiles patiently while your pragmatism and your pride bite at each other’s heels. “Do let me know what you decide,” he says. He gestures again, flicking his hand towards the hallway. This time, you follow when he starts to walk.

The Belanger Estate has several studies, elegantly decorated office spaces with wood panel walls and old furniture. The one Athanasius leads you to is the only one that sees any use. It’s a few doors down from the library. An enormous red Victorian rug spans most of the floor space. Renaud is seated at the desk, scribbling into a notebook with a pinched expression. A hot drink steams at his elbow in a floral ceramic teacup on a matching saucer. A series of bird paintings in delicate watercolor are framed on the wall behind him.

“Sir,” Renaud greets. Your eyes meet just briefly and then he averts his gaze, swallowing thickly.

“I apologize for the interruption, but you will be late for work if you do not leave soon,” Athanasius says.

Renaud glances at the grandfather clock across the room and curses under his breath. “Thank you, sir. I lost track of time.” He’s nervous, you notice. Stiff when he moves, rushing so much that he bangs his knee on the underside of the desk when he stands and winces, trying to hide how much it hurts. He avoids looking at Athanasius, too. “I don’t need it,” he says quietly.

Athanasius’ shoulders rise and sink in a deep, soundless breath. “Renaud.”

“I know. But…” Renaud glances at you again, just as fleeting as the first time. He gulps down the rest of his drink hastily. The pale dregs left in the bottom of the teacup don’t coagulate. Not blood. Regular tea. It smells sweet like caramel. “Let’s go, then,” he mutters as he brushes past you. “Bring a book or something to keep yourself occupied.”

“I’m not thrilled about this either, you know,” you tell him.

Renaud pauses in the doorway to the study. He gives you a look you struggle to read. There’s anger there, maybe, but there always is. Brows furrowed and lips drawn into a resentful scowl, he looks like he wants to say or do something but Athanasius’ presence makes him reconsider. In the end, he leaves without another word.

“What did they tell you?” Renaud asks later.

He’s quiet at the manor’s front doors, refuses to look at you for the whole long walk down the path to the street, and he doesn’t say anything while you wait for the bus together in excruciating silence. But suddenly, somewhere in Harrow Creek where neon highlights your silhouettes, he decides he wants to talk.

You’re not sure you want to. You give him a perturbed look and go back to taking in the sights. This is a part of downtown you haven’t seen before. The buildings are brick, old in a warmer, more approachable way than the imperious aura of the nightbound’s preferred styles. Soft light shines in the windows of second-story apartments above little eateries and office space. The signage is antique and the bars are busy.

But Renaud is staring. He’s giving you that look again, the same one from the study. There’s anger and something else, something he’s keeping a leash on for now. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“Orion and Athanasius. They must’ve said something by now about me and my damage.”

That’s the second time he’s used the particular phrasing, isn’t it? His damage. “They haven’t said much,” you tell him. “Orion said you don’t have an alcohol problem.”

“Telling the truth for once,” he mutters. He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky. You can’t see it as well here. All the city lights make an ugly haze that drowns out the stars and the moon is still half-hidden by clouds. He was looking at it the night you dragged him out of De Nuit, too. “That’s the same moon there’s ever been,” he rambled with childlike wonder, sounding a little bit like he might start crying.

“Do you remember whining at Orion for not looking at the sky?” you ask him.

You really thought he’d take the bait and get irritated. Instead, he says, “You don’t know much about us, do you? Athanasius said you’re new to all of this.” You nod slowly. You’re not sure where he’s going with this. “So you wouldn’t know that it’s hard to get sick from bloodwine. It takes a lot. They would’ve cut me off long before I reached that point.”

“So you weren’t drunk?”

“No, I definitely drank more than I should’ve. But I didn’t go there for bloodwine. That just makes it easier.”

You’re getting a little sick of all the cryptic bullshit. “Makes what easier?” you press.

Renaud shrugs. “Cannibalism.”

You stop moving. “Excuse me?” you say. Renaud keeps walking and you have to rush to catch up to him again. “Wait, no, hold on, what? Hello? What do you mean, ‘cannibalism?’”

You follow him around the corner and his steps slow, stopping halfway down the block. You’re standing in front of a store with lighting so dull it looks closed. Through the glass, you see sofas and coffee tables, an abundance of potted plants and decorative vases. Cafe? Upscale apartment lobby? Therapist’s office waiting room? You look for a sign, startled by the bold lettering that spells out CASSOWARY TATTOO above the door.

“We’re going to talk about this, right?” you say. “You’re not just gonna say ‘cannibalism’ and then act like nothing happened?”

He holds your gaze as he smirks, pushes the door open, and walks in, acting like nothing happened.

There’s a nightbound behind the reception desk, a guy in a black hoodie whose eyes glint when he looks up and exchanges a wave with Renaud. He looks young, you think. Really young, like barely old enough to be out of high school. He spins restlessly on a swivel chair and checks his phone. You think of all the tragedies you’ve heard so far when it comes to hatchlings and wonder how he ended up here. “Hey, bro. You good?” he says.

“Good enough to be here,” Renaud mutters. He glances past the desk to a red curtain hung in an open doorway that looks like it leads to the back of the shop, rippling gently in the air conditioning. “Is he out or something?”

“Nah, he’s here. Just didn’t wanna ambush you, I think.” The young nightbound looks you over, tilting his head. It’s almost cute, somewhere between a small human motion and the sharp avian movement of the nightbound. Definitely a hatchling. “Oh, hey, what’s up? You the ten o’clock?”

Renaud sets a hand on your shoulder. “This is what Athanasius got us at that Council meeting,” he says, utterly unenthused like you’re a house plant he never asked for.

The young nightbound reels back so fast and so forcefully he nearly knocks his chair over. “Oh! Oh holy shit wow okay I didn’t know—”

“Colt,” Renaud says. “Relax.”

Colt nods vigorously. He’s staring. He looks fascinated but also terrified, leaning back in his chair away from you. “Cool. Alright. Could’ve warned me,” he says as Renaud pulls you along.

The back of the shop trades a comforting appearance for an air of mystique. The floor is polished laminate in a rich shade of imitation mahogany and the walls are painted mossy green. There’s more plants and more artwork here, too, bowls full of crystals and miniature forest scenery, macabre shadow boxes of collaged birds, butterflies and Venetian masks. They keep the lights low here, too, the bulbs in the ceiling dimmed enough to make the room swim with shadows.

There’s another nightbound sitting in an armchair beside one of the tattoo stations, legs crossed, reading in the dark. His hair is long and bleached, stark white with faded blue at the ends. The tank top he’s wearing shows off full sleeves of colorful ink on both arms. He turns the page of an old novel with rough, curling edges and sighs deeply.

“What’re you doing, kid?” he drawls.

Bold choice. You can practically feel the resentment pouring from Renaud like smoke off a bonfire. “Not here to get condescended to,” he says. He stalks past the other nightbound and over to a desk and filing cabinet towards the back, shrugging off his bag and letting it fall heavily to the shop floor. Abandoned in the middle of the room, you look around nervously. You find the other nightbound peering at you over the edge of his book.

“Not going to introduce us?” he says.

“Are witches incapable of speaking for themselves?” Renaud snaps. You flinch. He’s not quite yelling but it’s close, the loudest you’ve ever heard him. All that anger you always see in his rigid posture and tense expression bubbles to the surface and threatens to spill over. “Should I carry them so the ground doesn’t dirty their precious feet?”

“And here I thought you wanted to observe tonight instead of just sweeping the floor.”

Renaud falls silent. He glares at the back of the other nightbound’s head, takes a deep breath, and lets it out even more slowly. “I’d like to observe, sir,” he says meekly, his gaze on the floor.

“Oh, so now I’m sir. Funny how that works.” The other nightbound gives you an indulgent smile like you’re in on a secret, the two of you the only adults in the room while a child throws a tantrum. He gets up, book tucked under his arm, and approaches Renaud with his hands in his pockets.

Your heartrate skyrockets. That’s an elder. An elder, lounging in the back of a tattoo parlor in sweatpants and sneakers. He moves like they all do, graceful and wolven, footsteps quiet like an animal that hunts. You see the telltale sign of an emphatic telepathic conversation, sharp head tilts and restless shifting. Renaud lets out a frustrated huff but he nods, looking mollified. The elder gives him a quick half-hug, one arm around him squeezing tight before he pats his shoulder and steps away. Then he makes his way back to you.

“Virgilio,” he introduces himself casually. “I’d greet you the traditional way but you look skittish. I doubt you’d like it.” You don’t ask but the curiosity must be plain on your face. “Kiss to the wrist,” he explains.

No, you definitely wouldn’t like that. “Are you Renaud’s boss?” you ask. “You let him talk to you like that?”

Virgilio lets out a sharp bark of laughter, like you caught him by surprise. “Yeah, this is my studio and I run it the way I like. I don’t let my apprentices get away with everything but I don’t like pulling rank, either. We’ve all had enough of that for a lifetime.” He cocks his head, nodding back towards the desk where Renaud’s shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. “Go ahead and have a seat. I’d tell you to get comfortable in the waiting room but I don’t want Renaud going back and forth. We’re going to test out shallow feeding tonight if he can’t get down what he needs in one go. Frequent, but small amounts. I hear you’re on roseblood but let me know if you start feeling lightheaded.”

You nod slowly, more confused than compliant. He’s so matter-of-fact about it. You’ve gotten used to Athanasius’ secretive nature and cloying kindness. “Are you really an elder?” you ask.

Virgilio grins, showing off his fangs. He says, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The evening is slow and quiet. Pleasant, even, you can admit in the depths of your own mind. There’s some jazz playing overhead, the whispering ambience of Renaud’s cleaning, and the occasional needle buzz. Virgilio does a few piercings and small, simple pieces for jittery hatchlings who have trouble looking him in the eye. Cassowary Tattoo specializes in nightbound body modification. They have unique tools, custom needles and magic-infused inks.

“To make sure it lasts a little longer. Our skin doesn’t hold that kind of change well,” Renaud explains to a nervous customer.

That’s another strange surprise—Renaud’s chatty, and it doesn’t sound like he’s in physical pain when he talks. Sometimes it’s just a quip as he passes by on his way to find a dust bin or wring out a wet rag, but he also doesn’t mind swinging by to make smalltalk with hatchlings as they nervously wait for Virgilio to get set up.

You watch him veer off from sweeping the corner just to amble over to a nightbound who’s getting a small design on her shoulder while Virgilio flattens out the leather chair for her to lay down. You watched her walk in. She’s not an elder but you don’t think she’s a hatchling, either. She doesn’t have their nervous energy. She pulls her shirt off over her head and you see one of her shoulders is already inked, decorated with a sprawling, leafy branch.

“That’s a nice one,” Renaud says.

“Thank you,” she says. She rubs the design where it curls beneath her collarbones. “How much longer do you think it’ll last? I’ve had it, ah…about fifty years or so, I think.”

Renaud hums. “Mm, maybe another ten or fifteen. You could always get a touch-up with specialized inks if you want to keep it.”

She nods slowly in acknowledgement, looking torn. “I might just let it go. I can’t actually remember why I got it in the first place. It’s my, um…” She lowers her voice into an embarrassed hush. “It’s my PPA.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Virgilio says sadly. She tries to shrug off the concern but she’s staring at the floor now, her shoulders drawn inward. “You’re young for that.”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” she insists. Virgilio pats the chair and she stretches out on her stomach, folding her arms under her head. “So probably no touch-ups. Just new stuff. I want to get my back done when I become an elder.”

“Yeah? You should come to us for that, too,” Renaud says. He saunters around the chair so the fledgling can see him, smiling down at her.

“Should I?” she asks playfully.

“Mhm. My apprenticeship will be over by then, so I could do it.” Renaud’s gaze rolls over the curves of her figure stretched out in front of him. “Only if you want my hands on you, of course,” he adds.

The fledgling smiles back at him. You can’t believe what you’re seeing. Is Renaud flirting? Is someone flirting back? Incredible. “Are we gonna talk about your cannibalism thing or what?” you say, determined to ruin the moment.

“Ruined” is perhaps an understatement. You’ve mangled the moment into unspeakable carnage. The fledgling looks at you in surprise, apparently forgetting you were there at all, and then looks at Renaud with revulsion. And Renaud—

Oh, he’s mad. You’re giddy about it. He always looks angry but you know what he looks like when he’s furious now. If he were a dog, his hackles would be raised. He flashes his fangs in a snarl and walks back to you swiftly, yanking you out of your chair by the arm. “What’s your fucking problem?” he growls. Really, truly growls, like an animal, a low vibration thrumming in his throat. “All you have to do is sit there and behave for a few fucking hours. That’s it. Is that so hard? Do you really have to insert yourself into everything? Just be a proper blood bag for once in your fucking life—”

“Renaud.”

You both flinch. Renaud lets you go and stands up straight, legs apart, arms folded behind his back in what looks like strict military posture. He lifts his head and stares at the wall behind you, looking both intensely focused and yet completely absent from his own body. You don’t move. Renaud’s anger is nothing compared to Virgilio’s. His irritation radiates out as directionless mesmerism, strangling the whole room into obedience. The fledgling turns her head to the side, baring her neck. Virgilio is looking at Renaud but he has all three of you at his mercy.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He brushes his knuckles gently against the fledgling’s throat. It must be a meaningful gesture. It makes her whimper softly, her eyes fluttering shut. She sags in relief. Then he takes a step towards Renaud and you both flinch.

“I know things aren’t easy for you, but you’re really pushing it tonight,” Virgilio says, all the levity gone from his voice. “You’re going to feed. Shallow if you have to, but you’re going to feed. You’re not going to argue with me about it.”

Renaud nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

“Take your sacrament with you to the bathroom. Don’t come back until you’ve got your head on straight.”

You hate being discussed like you don’t matter; like you’re an accessory to Renaud, just something he brought with him that complicates things tonight. You don’t say anything but Virgilio looks at you sharply like the thought alone was loud enough for him to hear. You can barely breathe. This is what it feels like when an elder is unhappy. Thinking about the Council meeting that ruined your life makes your stomach churn, knowing how little they were affected by everything you said or did.

“Put them under,” Virgilio orders.

“Wait,” you say weakly, your voice straining against the hold he has on your body and mind. “Wait, don’t—”

Renaud grabs your shoulder and you plummet into a soft abyss.

It’s dark again. Renaud’s mesmerism has a cavernous feeling, a sense of vastness that should be frightening. But you feel held, too, cradled in the greater void by careful hands. His emotions flit past in fleeting sensations and whispers. Streaks of angry heat. Gusts of frustration. Skittering shards of aimless hatred. You’re shielded from these things, only allowed to witness them as shadows and ghosts. He wants you calm and you are, faintly delighted by your own easy obedience. You are calm just like he wants you, and you feel that he is wearily relieved by this. You are calm. You are content in the dark, in his hands.

And then you’re ripped from that tranquil place into cold, hard unpleasantness, your knees slamming into a tile floor. You hear Renaud curse under his breath and then he’s touching you, trying to get you back on your feet.

It takes a moment for the vertigo to recede and your thoughts to come back. You’re in Cassowary Tattoo’s surprisingly tidy bathroom. The walls are green here, too, sparsely decorated with framed pictures. The toilet’s in the far corner. You’re next to a metal sink basin set in a black countertop, the mirror in front of it held in an antique brass frame. You fell, or started to, but Renaud has you, holding you up beneath your arms until you can stand on your own. Your knees sting. You feel new bruises throbbing under your skin.

“Athanasius told you to be more careful with your mesmerism,” you mutter.

Renaud looks at you like he regrets helping you up. “I didn’t feel like being careful,” he says.

“I’m going to tell him you dropped me.”

“I didn’t drop you, you fell. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You’re supposed to be careful with me.”

“You’re fine, you’re not made of glass!” he snaps.

“You can’t just tell me I’m fine! You have no idea if I’m fine!” Your heart’s racing and your face is hot. You feel incredible, angry and invigorated like a livewire. You wanted this, you realize. You wanted an argument. Orion will placate you and Athanasius will snuff out your resistance, but Renaud will get down in the dirt with you. Maybe he’s wanted this, too.

He drags his hands over his face, sighing into his fingers. “Fuck. You’re doing this on purpose. You want to get under my skin.”

“I want you to stop being an asshole,” you say. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

“You just blurted out sensitive information at my workplace, in front of a customer.”

“How was I supposed to know it was sensitive?”

“Maybe use common fucking sense! We call it cannibalism! You think that’s some normal thing we all do?”

Now you’re both yelling. All the other nightbound in the building can probably hear this but nobody comes knocking to intervene. Good, you think. “I don’t know!” you yell back. “I don’t know anything because no one will tell me anything! None of you will tell me fucking anything! I’m just supposed to guess or figure it out while you all keep secrets. And all that shit you said about me being ‘wanted’ like that means anything, like I want any of you awful fucking things to want me. You ruined my life! You stole it! I was so fucking lonely and all I ever wanted was to meet another witch but I got you instead!”

Your voice cracks. Shit. Your face is burning and your vision’s going soft with tears. You’re not going to cry. You’re not going to fucking cry, not here. Not in front of him. You rake your hands across your face furiously. You try to breathe and let out a shaky sob instead.

“I hate you,” you say miserably. You don’t know if you mean it. You feel like there’s barbed wire threading through your ribs and every time your heart beats, it snags and aches. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

Renaud stands across from you, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms still tightly folded over his chest, but his anger has dwindled to dying embers. He watches you break down with a small scowl, glancing occasionally at the floor. Maybe in guilt. Maybe in awkward desperation, wishing it would swallow him whole so he could get away from you.

“Yeah,” he says tiredly. “I kind of hate you, too.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“It’s not really you. Just the idea of you, I guess. The concept of a witch, the way elders explain it to us.” He shrugs, avoiding your bloodshot, teary eyes. “I hate that we’ll debase ourselves, make fools of ourselves, even put ourselves in danger, just to have you. I hate that I can never compete with you.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “You’re jealous? Athanasius owns me, Renaud. You want that? You want the Council to stick you with a moody immortal man-child who treats you like shit?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in annoyance. “You said nobody tells you anything so I’m trying to tell you something,” he says tersely.

“Then tell me something less pathetic.”

He laughs. “You’re a nasty piece of work when you want to be. God, no, I don’t want to be in your shoes. I know what we do to you. But as much as you hate it, you are wanted and I am envious of that. Most of us don’t know what that feels like.”

Here comes the sob story, you think. He hinted at something tragic at De Nuit but everything about him tells you he wasn’t quite being truthful. “You said you left your sire but it was the other way around, wasn’t it?” He looks longingly at the bathroom door. Maybe you’re being unfair. He’s the one who offered a truce, however ineptly. “Sorry. That sucks,” you say. “I assume it sucks, anyway. I don’t know what it's like to have one.”

“Your sire is everything,” Renaud says quietly. “They make you. Their blood is yours. When you see them, you remember what the sun felt like.” He pauses, his gaze growing distant. “She said that about me once. I was like daylight. Like dawn she could touch. I didn’t realize what that meant until later, but that’s for the best. It might as well have been a lie.”

That’s not what you expected at all. “Orion said something about most nightbound getting turned because of wars,” you say.

Renaud nods. “Yeah, that’s most of us. Conscripts. Soldiers.” He smiles bitterly. “I was a fling. An impulsive decision made by a dissenter who was just passing through. I’m told it might’ve meant something to her at first, like that would make me feel any better. Eventually, she lost interest. I woke up and she was gone. She tipped off the nearest Council that they had an orphan on their hands, but I didn’t even get a note. Thought I was being kidnapped when the CTF came to get me. They tried to tell me she’d left me behind and I didn’t believe them.”

You look at him and he studies you in return, both of you tense and anxious in this tiny room where you can’t keep your distance from each other.

Suddenly, he changes the subject. “What were you doing before we ruined your life?” he asks.

You shrug, unprepared for the question. “I don’t know. Just living. Trying to keep my head down.”

“You said you were lonely.”

“We’re talking about you right now,” you say.

He gives you a look you don’t like, something soft like pity. “We don’t have to.”

“What were you doing? You said you’re from France?”

He frowns tightly. “Yes.”

You’ve hit a nerve. You have a terrible urge to hit it again as hard as you can, but he’s trying right now. You suppose you can try, too. “No good memories?”

“Not many memories at all. I assume no one’s told you about PPA?”

The first time you’ve heard of it is tonight, when the fledgling mentioned it and Virgilio looked at her like an injured animal. “What does that stand for?” you ask.

“Progressive prenoctic amnesia. You lose everything from before you were turned, a little bit at a time. Usually, you start to notice around a century but some of us get it early.”

Do you remember your childhood? he’d asked you at the bar. Suddenly, your heart feels heavy. “How much have you forgotten?” you ask him.

He doesn’t answer for a while. You figure you’ve pushed too hard, been too nosy. You’re about to apologize when he says, very quietly, “Athanasius is teaching me how to speak French again.”

You lapse into silence. Faintly, you hear movement in the shop; Virgilio talking, the fledgling laughing. They’ve managed to tune you out and Renaud looks relieved, running a hand through his hair with a long sigh.

“I’m supposed to feed,” he says.

“Oh. Right.”

You stare at each other a while longer, neither of you willing to make the first move. Renaud’s gaze wanders like he’s seeing you for the first time. Your face heats at the attention and the thoughtful, appreciative hum he lets out. Something strange is happening. He’s looking at you the way he looked at that fledgling. That perpetual scowl becomes a more calculating expression.

“Did Orion fuck you when he fed on you?” he asks conversationally.

Heat spikes in your face again. “No. Not really,” you say, embarrassed. “I mean, Athanasius was right there.”

“That matters less than you think it does. But I’m not surprised, either. Orion needs to work on his self-control so sex is probably off table while he feeds for a while.” Renaud holds out his hand. Curiosity makes you take it, and then he’s pulling your wrist to his face. His mouth brushes against your pulse in a chaste kiss. “Some of us lose interest in sex because the taste of blood is enough to get off, but some of us feel it heightens the experience,” he says against your skin. He licks along the vein. It’s such a strange form of sensuality but the tender way he holds your wrist and the glances he gives you through his lashes have an undeniable effect.

“And what camp are you in?” you ask.

He pushes your shoulder, gently but firmly, until your back hits the wall. He braces his arm beside your head and leans in close enough for you to feel his breath warm your lips. “I can show you, if you’ll let me,” he says.

You rest your hands on his shoulders, not quite pushing him away but not leaning in, either, and weigh your options. You imagined feeding would be more of an argument, another fight you could get lost in, but he’s offering something else. “Why?” you ask.

He traces the curve of your neck with his fingers. “Why what?”

“You don’t even like me.”

“I don’t really know you,” he corrects. “But I know we’re both lonely.”

“I said I was lonely.”

“You still are. I felt it when you were under.” He strokes your arm, his hand sliding up to your shoulder before it comes back down and circles around your wrist again. He kisses with his teeth this time, nipping play-bites that make your heart race. “You want to be held, and I want to hold someone. There’s an easy solution here.”

“Even though I’m a witch?”

When he leans in, you don’t push him away. The first kiss is a barely-there brush of his lips against yours. “You’re wanted,” he whispers, “even by the ones you wish they didn’t want you.” He strokes your cheek and kisses you again, pressing you into the wall with his body. “I’ve avoided tasting you as long as I can. I know the wanting will get worse.” His hand slides under the hem of your shirt and slithers up your stomach, palming your bare skin. “I hate it. I hate that you consume me without so much as looking my way. I hate that I can’t stop wanting you no matter what I do. I’m tired of fighting it.”

He trails his lips from the corner of your mouth to your ear, nosing against the shell. Then he dips lower. You know what’s coming and Renaud knows that you know because he makes it his mission to drain the tension from your body. He slots his knee between your legs and encourages you to grind down on him, pulling you into a steady rhythm with his hands on your hips. He kisses your neck and he takes his time, not going straight for your pulse but meandering down to your shoulder and back up again, teasing the shell of your ear with his tongue.

Familiar pressure nudges inward from the corners of your minds like somebody knocking, wanting to be let in. You don’t understand the feeling until Renaud reinforces it with a gentle caress of your temples, stroking the side of your head. You feel it again, more insistent. It’s his mesmerism. He’s offering connection. He holds your gaze, waiting for you to accept or deny him. Hesitantly, you nod.

Hungry. That’s all you feel from him. He’s an open maw. Hungry for skin, for warmth and touch and your body against his, and your hitching breath and your arching back. It’s like sparks up his spine every time you shiver and move against him, open, wanting. He needs you to want him. It doesn’t have to be real. Just let him pretend for a while. His fangs ache and his heart hurts and every part of him aches the way empty things do when they’re freshly hollowed out and gaping. Want him, he pleads, just for a little while. He’ll make it worth the trouble, he swears he will. He’ll make you want him, too.

You shiver under Renaud’s undivided, devouring attention, letting yourself enjoy the friction, the push-pull rhythm, his hands under your clothes. He doesn’t undress you or himself. Don’t need to, you feel rather than hear him think, an impulse rolling between your minds. No. Don’t need all that. Just enough to get inside. It’s going to be quick and dirty, shoved up against the bathroom wall in a tattoo parlor, and you don’t know if that gives you a rush or if it’s just him bleeding into you some more. He gets his belt unbuckled and his jeans down around his hips and you shimmy out of your clothes just enough to get what you both want.

“Pretty down here,” Renaud pants against your cheek, staring down your body as he lines up your hips with his.

You wheeze out a laugh. “Pretty? Between my legs?”

“Mhm.” He cups your sex and squeezes possessively, his gaze going half-lidded when you gasp and buck into his touch. “Shame we don’t have a bed, I’d give you proper attention. Maybe next time.”

“Next time—?”

He cuts you off with a kiss, swallowing your protests and the moan that slips out when he keeps stroking you. You’re embarrassed at just how quickly he’s making you fall apart with nothing but his mouth and his hands, but he’s good at this. He goes slow and pays attention, lingering on the spots that make you writhe.

“Turn around for me,” he says. He wants you facing the wall. When you do as he asks, he grabs your hips and pulls them closer, sliding his cock against your ass in slow strokes. He’s not hard yet but he’s getting there, hot and twitching as he moves in a lazy grind. “This might not be what you’re expecting. It won’t last very long, but it’ll be intense.” He leans in, blanketing your body with his. His breath tickles the side of your neck, warming the spots he lavished with his teeth and tongue earlier. “I like how you feel against me.”

You’d snap at him to hurry up if he wasn’t making you melt, rubbing the tension out of your spine and squeezing your ass as he ruts against you. Eventually, he seems to decide you’ve both waited long enough. You hear him stroke himself a few times, his grunts and the slick sound of gushing precum making you squirm impatiently. The kiss he presses to the side of your neck tingles pleasantly. He’s thorough with his venom, dragging his fangs up and down and making your whole throat warm and sensitive. You moan from nothing but the sensation of his lips and the stroke of his tongue.

But he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t fuck you. You wait, and you whimper, and you squirm impatiently, trying to push back onto the head of his cock, and all he does is hold you more firmly in place. “Just do it,” you say.

Renaud nips your earlobe. He keeps you still, pinned in place while he thrusts against your entrance, sliding off and past it every time. Your legs start to shake. “Say you want it,” he whispers.

Ten minutes ago, you would’ve told him to go fuck himself. But he’s got you worked up, his venom warming your skin and unraveling your thoughts. His connection feeds you echoes of his bloodlust and you’re almost as desperate for the bite as he is to give it to you. “Please,” you beg, your voice shaking. “I want it.”

“Say you want me.”

“I want you, Renaud, please, can you just—”

He goes slow when he bites you. You expect it to hurt but the sting is fleeting, swept away by heat and ruinous pleasure. He sinks his fangs in deeper, deeper, deeper in maddening increments, tightening his jaw gradually like he’s savoring the tenderness of a steak. You’re going to cum. Just from this, from his teeth still piercing their way into your skin. He has to hold the back of your head to keep you from thrashing.

You’ve forgotten that there’s more until his hips start moving, his cock pushing into your tight, eager heat. No words make it across the connection, only a euphoric rush and the sense that he’s staking his claim. You’re his now. Orion had you first but not like this, not so thoroughly. You’re his and it makes his hips stutter and his jaw clamp down, sheathed inside you every way he can be. It’s ecstasy and it’s torture. You cum and it feels like the high never recedes, the cresting pleasure never waning. Renaud fucks you hard, his hips snapping at a relentless animal pace even as his fangs slip out of your neck too soon.

“Fuck,” he gasps. You feel him panting against your nape. He grabs your hips with both hands so he can rut into you faster. He talks haltingly, his voice strained and his words punctuated with quick, harsh thrusts that push you up onto your toes. “God, you feel so fucking good and you taste even better. Want me to bite you again?”

You have no idea if you manage to say anything coherent but your needy whine and the way you arch and meet his thrusts makes Renaud moan.

“Was that a yes? You like my fangs? You want my bite?” He teases you, biting but not hard enough to break the skin. You nearly sob. “There we go. Oh, I know, mon ange. I want you, too.” His pace falters. He laughs under his breath. A trickle of something cold and sad slips through the connection before it’s drowned out by desire. “One more time. I’ll give you another. I’ll give it to you anytime you ask.”

He sets his teeth lower this time, closer to your shoulder. The first bite still oozes and throbs. Renaud doesn’t make you wait as long for this one and that’s both a blessing and a curse. Your toes curl and your vision goes spotty as another wave of pleasure drags you under. Renaud’s aggressive pace pushes you into the wall until he’s crushing you against it. You’re so close that there’s nowhere for you to go and no distance left between you. He fucks you deeper, thrusting up at a new angle that makes you scream. It’s a small mercy when he slows down, letting you feel every inch of languid, rolling movement.

His fangs come out of your neck with a shaky sigh. Renaud kisses both bites, licking up the red droplets that ooze to the surface. “I’m close,” he says hoarsely. He sounds wrecked and satisfied like he already came. “Have you got one more in you?”

You have no idea. Every sensation is razor sharp. You’ve been overstimulated the whole time, out of your mind with pleasure nearly to the point of pain. Renaud’s sudden gentleness helps bring you back down and you find yourself panting, sagging against the wall to catch your breath. You didn’t even notice your hands were against the wall because he put them there, folding his fingers over yours on either side of your head.

“One more. Come on,” he urges. He sounds so soft now, tender and intimate. Like you’re a couple instead of a reluctant convenire member and his equally reluctant sacrament. “Give it to me. Cum on my cock.” He talks you over the edge. The sweetness and praise and lightest whispers of “mon ange” don’t stop until you’re trembling in his grasp. He fucks you like you’re all he needs to live, worships the bites with gentle kisses, and holds you through one last mind-melting orgasm.

The bathroom wall is pleasantly cool against your forehead. You stay there a while, just breathing and trying to remember how to move. Renaud lingers, too, stroking your spine and trailing kisses along your shoulder as he makes you both presentable again. Your legs are wobbly for a while.

“Too much venom,” Renaud admits. He dabs the excess from your neck with a wet paper towel. “I’ll be honest, these are going to be sore later. I was a little careless. Should probably get you a mending poultice, come to think of it—” Two sharp knocks on the bathroom door make you both jump. Renaud recovers first with a huff, rolling his eyes. “Just come in.”

“Are you decent?” Virgilio asks. He lets himself in before he gets an answer, giving you a smile and a nod like you’ve just done him a favor.

“Sorry about the noise,” Renaud says, pointedly not looking Virgilio in the eye.

“You’re lucky we can choose what to ignore.” Virgilio peels open a little bundle of cloth full of something thick, wet and grayish-green. He slathers it over the bites with two fingers. “How much did you have? These are messy.”

“More than I usually take.”

“And how are we feeling?” Virgilio asks you. He tilts your chin upwards and turns your head, giving you some kind of quick medical examination. “Lightheaded? Trouble standing up?”

“I’m okay,” you say awkwardly. “He used a lot of venom, I think, but I’m fine now.” Renaud’s moved back to the opposite wall, watching Virgilio fuss over you. He’s scowling and unreadable again. You wonder if your truce will hold once the afterglow’s worn off. Virgilio tells you to leave the poultice alone until it dries, and then he slips out of the bathroom. Renaud moves to follow him but he hesitates, his fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“Sorry. About earlier,” he says. He sounds exhausted, the weight of the grudge he’s carried all this time no longer worth the trouble. “Sorry about everything, honestly. I know I’m not nice. Got all that wrung out of me before you were born. I don’t trust you and I know you don’t trust me. But I know you didn’t ask for this.”

You shrug. “None of us did, apparently. I’m sorry for bringing up the cannibalism thing. I just wanted to make you mad. You mentioned it out of nowhere, so I guess I thought you wanted me to ask.”

“I did,” he admits.

“Oh,” you say.

“I shouldn’t have. I don’t actually want to talk about it. I wanted a reason to hate you.” You have no idea what to say to that. Renaud glances back over his shoulder and scowls. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m so fucking sick of elders feeling sorry for me.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot going on,” you say diplomatically. “And I’m not an elder.”

“No, you’re not,” he says. He doesn’t smile but his gaze softens. Then his gaze shifts lower, down to the poultice smeared over his bites. “Next time, I want to make you cum on my tongue.”

The look in his eyes makes your heart beat a little faster. “You’re really confident that there’s going to be a next time. Why would I let you put your mouth anywhere sensitive?”

“Other nightbound let me do it all the time. They’re hard to convince, but I’m very persuasive.”

A hazy image flashes through your mind across the connection: a man, nightbound, on a bed, in the dark. You’re looking up at him from between his legs, his ankles folded over your shoulders and your hands digging into the meat of his thighs. He’s flushed and whimpering, biting into his own hand just to keep from crying out in ecstasy but you remember that he moaned for you, begged for you, cried your name—

You’re hot all over again when Renaud pulls back and the connection severs. He’s watching your face carefully and he spots something that makes him smirk.

When you both finally make your way back out into the tattoo shop, you reclaim your spot at the unused desk and Renaud goes back to cleaning, but it’s not like it was before. He keeps stealing glances. He comes over and pretends to rearrange something just to brush against your shoulder and graze his hand against your neck. He still looks stoic and uninterested but you feel heat that wasn’t there before, desire simmering in his gaze. He wants you. It used to scare him but he seems to have conquered his fears.

When he drags his finger up your nape and makes you shudder, you catch him smiling as he walks away. You’ve solved one problem, you realize, and inadvertently created another.

#rotpeach writes #meanvamps #renaud #sorry no asks tonight since its late for me i'll try and do some tomorrow!

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