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Over the phone, he sounds worse. His voice is warped, even more grating than it is in person. Sammie’s cock has gone soft under his palm, listening to him whine.
“Come on, please, you can’t do this to me, why do you hate me, baby, Sammie baby, I love you,” so on and so forth. Sammie can hear his voice lilting, pitching high and then plunging low. The man on the other end is breathing too hard, almost panting.
“It’s fucking midnight. You can’t go one night without pussy?” Sammie drawls, pinching his nose between his index and thumb, sighing heavily into the receiver.
“I— I can take the subway! Runs all night, baby, I can be over in ten minutes. And— and I’ll be quick, too. When I get there.”
Sammie kisses his teeth and immediately hears Remmick descend into tears.
“Startin’ to think you makin’ this shit up, tryna get yourself worn out.”
The words come out less harshly than he intends. But he knows the white man isn’t making it up. He’d seen him eating before. Seen his teeth extend and retract in front of his own two eyes. Seen his tongue split down the middle, like a reptile’s. Felt that grotesque tongue inside of him.
“I t-told you—” he interrupts himself with a hiccup, “It h-hurts, I need it, I need… “ he trails off, cutting himself off with a frustrated keen.
Sammie grimaces, annoyed. The guy, he knows, is very literally an animal, a different species than Sammie. Too much of any feeling and he begins to sound and act like it.
“You can’t go on Grindr or something?” Sammie asks, and already knows the answer.
A garbled, quivering “Nooooo” trails over the line.
“Why not?”
Another question he already knows the answer to. He likes to hear him say it, though.
“Cause— cause they’ll see me. Th-the fangs and everything. So I can’t— I can’t—”
“Can’t what?”
“It won’t go down,” Remmick sniffles, dejected, crying again.
Sammie tries to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, amused. More than a little proud. Slowly, he feels his dick swell back to life, clutched under his hand.
“And whose fault is that?”
A beat of silence. A snarl tears through the phone. Sammie remembers he should probably be scared, that the animal could maul him. But he knows Remmick won’t, that no matter how much he writhes and crawls and threatens, the other man is still too much of a pussy to actually kill or turn Sammie. Too kind.
“Mine. I shoulda been… shoulda been hunting.”
Sammie is speaking through his smile, now. He fights to keep his voice level, not to let his giddiness and slight awe show. It’s been months now since the twins employed Remmick as a bouncer at Club Juke and he still hasn’t gotten used to the guy. He remembers being introduced to him, Stack cornering him after his set ended, his arm on Remmick’s, saying, “Sammie, someone I want you to meet. Name’s…”
“Remmick,” the white man had supplied, too keen already, too smiley, and extended a hand. Stack held onto the guy’s shoulders like he was a poorly behaved kid, watched his face like he was wary, which Stack never, ever was. They had both seemed slightly tipsy.
Sammie had taken it, then, and remembered wondering what the hell kind of business a guy this simultaneously soft and scrawny had being a bouncer. It wasn’t until a month, maybe, had passed that he began to understand.
He’d been digging in the back closets for a spare speaker when one had gone kaput, a little high, but not nearly high enough to mistake what he saw when he accidentally opened the back door.
There, in the grass, Remmick was crouched over a body, his shirt half-untucked, the muscles of his back seizing and relaxing in rhythmic yet shuddering waves. Having sex, probably. Or something else. Or something else.
Sammie stood watching, transfixed, until his beaten shoe scuffed against the porch and Remmick whipped his neck around. He remembers being unsettled, remembers thinking the guy had looked like an owl, or some kind of backwater reptile, the way his eyes flashed. The way he was soaked in blood.
His face had fallen when he saw Sammie, as if he were embarrassed, but his eyes didn’t stop buzzing. He didn’t stop tonguing the blood from his face, either.
“Sammie. Sammie, this ain’t… Ain’t what it looks like, sorry you had to see—”
But Sammie had turned and ran before he heard anything else. He made it halfway down the hallway before he slammed into the warmth of Stack’s chest, who, in hindsight, had seemed just as embarrassed as Remmick. He’d explained, then. Everything eventually settled back into normalcy. The guy seemed more comfortable around him, afterward.
In the present, he pinches his stiff-again dick between two fingers, slides them up and down.
“But you weren’t hunting. Why’ssat?”
“Cause I’m… cause I got my… and it hurts.”
“Got your what?”
Sammie licks his lips unconsciously. He likes how ashamed the other man gets of what he is; of how far from human he’s become.
“My heat.”
The words come out mumbled, almost slurred.
Sammie takes a long breath, unused to not being the nervous one.
“Yeah? Yeah, and now you’re too hard and stupid to find your own food? You gotta—” he shakes, his dick piquing, “come crawling back to my place?”
A loud, pornographic moan rings across the line, crinkling through static. Vaguely, Sammie thinks he can hear the soft plick plick plick of the guy’s hand pumping over his cock, but he thinks he’s imagining it, tells himself it’s the radiator. Or something.
“Yeah. I thought— I thought so.” Sammie breathes, still tentative.
Remmick sounds like he’s genuinely in pain when he blurts, “Please. Please, come on, please.”
The sounds of what is now, unmistakably, Remmick uselessly tugging himself off continue as neither of them speak.
Then, before he hangs up, Sammie says curtly,
“Pay for your own Uber.”
_____
It’s a little after half past midnight when he hears three knocks on his door. Sammie, shirtless, tucks himself back into his pajama pants and, after checking himself out in the mirror, opens the door.
The man staring back at him looks a complete mess. He’s in a sweatshirt slightly too slouchy for him, wearing sweatpants through which the outline of his dick is visible even tucked up into the waistband. Seeing Sammie, he blinks and falls against the doorway, clutches it. Drool unspools from his mouth where, Sammie’s sure, it’d just been wiped away.
Sammie winces.
“You dramatic as shit.”
He’s turning away, expecting Remmick to follow him, when he remembers.
“Oh, yeah— come in. Lock the door behind you.”
Remmick does as he’s told. As soon as he’s inside, he’s leaning against the wall, unsteady on his legs.
It’s a straight shot from the door to the bed in the studio. Sammie sits down on the edge, watching the man.
“You don’t gotta walk,” he says, swallowing down his hesitation when he remembers how desperate the other man is, “Just crawl.”
The vampire’s eyes go as crazy as that night in the grass, buzzing red like exit signs as he obliges, dragging his limbs at once too slowly and too quickly, like a moving sculpture.
Without asking, when he reaches Sammie, he buries his face in his crotch through his pj pants. Sammie lets him. Gets a little pissed off at his lack of shame, at how obviously the man is smelling him, but lets him.
Until Sammie pulls him by his hair, he doesn’t move. Sometimes Sammie forgets that he doesn’t have to breathe. He looks up and it strikes Sammie then that even when he’s docile, he’s docile the way an animal is: uselessly obedient, thoughtless, waiting to be told what to do and how, unable to make decisions or plans for himself.
Absently, while pondering this, Sammie pets his hair and he purrs, pressing his cheek up against Sammie’s thigh.
“Does it hurt?” Sammie asks, soft. Afraid of something, but not sure what.
“Badly.”
_____
When he lets him inside, he goes nearly catatonic, burying his face into Sammie’s neck, completely still. Almost immediately, without moving, he comes, but stays hard, the only indication of his release a tiny, relieved hum. His claws are beginning to dig into Sammie’s tape as they extend, and Sammie cringes.
“Sheets,” he directs softly, and Remmick opens his bleary eyes.
“Hm? Shit. M’bad,” he slurs, belatedly, lamely registering the shadowy dots his nails have left behind, and moves his hands onto the sheets on either side of Sammie.
“Can we— can we get the lights?” he hears Remmick ask, after having been distracted by the long, slow drag of Remmick’s dick in and out of his cunt, “It’s hurting.”
True that his eyes are terribly red. True that, although the light of the studio is soft and flattering and Sammie takes care to keep it that way, he knows how sensitive the vampire gets during his week. His cycle.
It’s satisfying in a sort of vindictive, indulgent way: the fact that Remmick’s body is male, that it should operate like a man’s, but it doesn’t. The fact that once a month, he becomes more indisposed by his body than Sammie ever has been or will be. Maybe, he wonders sometimes, it’s why he keeps the animal around.
Darkness sweeps through the room as the lights are clicked off. All Sammie can see with the curtains drawn are the two red alligator eyes shifting around the bed, unblinking.
He lies down on his front and instantly, Remmick is scurrying to lie his full weight on top of him, maneuvering himself easily into Sammie’s slightly gaping cunt. The creature wraps his arms around Sammie’s middle like he’s afraid he’s going to try and crawl away, and Sammie lets him. Not that he would be able to physically stop him, but he knows how shy the thing can get once he’s told off, even if he winges and pleads.
As he begins moving, slow, making himself come for the seventh time that night, but still not softening, he rambles, shuddering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, baby, ugh, you’re so good to me, perfect fucking angel, s-such a tight little—”
“Can you hush, Rem?” Sammie cuts in, no real venom in his voice, “I’m tryna go to sleep.”
A sound tears from the creature like a hit, rabid dog with a Southern accent. Sammie can feel it vibrating from low in the creature’s belly where his front is pressed to Sammie’s back. Sammie rolls his eyes hard when he starts up again. When he gets his heat, it’s like sleeping with a busy highway.
“Goddamn— sorry, didn’t mean it, just hard, see, I try’da be quiet and it’s so hard, cause— cause see I’m thinkin’ so much about you and it just comes out—”
“Remmick.”
He’s crying, now. Of course he’s crying. Despite himself, Sammie feels guilt coil in his gut. He screws his eyes shut, exasperated.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You can’t help it, huh? Just get all— all worked up, don’t you? Can’t fuckin’ think properly.”
He feels Remmick nodding along.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. You’re so understanding. So nice. You’re so nice to me, Sammie.”
Sammie cringes at how obvious his smile is in his voice. It’s slightly appalling how quickly his tears have stopped, his voice taking on a purring, earnest, fervent tone. Distantly, he feels Remmick come for the eighth time. Sammie rolls his eyes.
“Mhm, sure. Whatever you say, man."