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Remy doesn't know why he continues to let her do it. Whatever his reasoning may be, he knows it's not rational. He hadn't even told Logan, not uttering a word about her to the other X-Men when she was supposedly in danger. 'Ell, who he kiddin'? She was the danger.
But he's no saint, never claimed to be.
She ain't no angel, never could be. Not anymore.
He stands there under the street lamps, looking out of place, yet feeling at home otherwise. Right in the worst part of New 'Orleans.
No wonder she's always hungry, she's stayin' on the wrong side of the bayou. Ain't a soul got meat on their bones here, he would know. He lived that life 'bout a decade ago.
He feels like a damn couyon; standin' there by the bench, just like how she told him to. How come he ain't told her to quit with this? She got some sorta charm on him or somethin', surely. Tonight, he's gonna break this arrangement they got goin' on. just like he told himself he would.
Then she appears, and all of that tension on his face melts away. He catches himself folding yet again.
She don't look a day over 20.
Oh, right.
"'S Nice seein' y'here, Beau." There's that sultry twang, ooh, she a real sly minx nowadays. He's all in before she even calls his bluff. She doesn't wait for him to respond; he doesn't deserve her benevolence, anyway.
Merde, she's tantalizingly close. She smells of somethin' sweet. Cherries and vanilla, maybe. But she always gets ta' muckin' it all up. She's tryna pick pocket off him, he ain't stupid. This coat ain't as thick as she thinks it is, he feels those lithe fingers diggin' all up in there. Where she even learn that from?
Oh, right. All them times they were playin' for keeps in the Thieves guild.
"I ain' smoke no more, sha. Keep tellin' you dis." She's searching him, and he doesn't swat her hand away. Something flashes in those eyes of hers, somethin' red, evil. It's tryna intimidate him.
That ain't her, and it ain't caused by no voodoo neither. He reckons that's the beast in 'er.
"Huh. You know how it is, guess I went ahead and forgot."
"I know, sha. It ain't your fault."
She doesn't apologize, but he, of course, forgives her regardless. All he can do is stay lookin' sorry for the both of 'em. When her hand leaves his pocket, she draws it near his chest instead. Feelin' him up, maybe?
Non, she feelin' somethin' else. She can have anything and anyone. But one thing is for damn sure.
She will never live again; never gone feel a heartbeat that she can call her own.
She drags that pretty lil hand up 'til it meets his jawline, and he realizes he's never met a woman with eyes darker than his. They just keep getting darker each time they meet like this. Hers aren't red and black; instead, her irises are a luminescent purple, and her eyes are all too dilated. He can't even see the whites of 'em.
She must be real hungry. Damn famished.
"C'mon, Rems, look at me." She don't look happy no more, but he doesn't know why.
"Oui. 'S what I'm doin'." Something about that answer doesn't satisfy her. He knows it doesn't because he got them sharp ass nails diggin' into his jaw, remindin' him of someone. He taught a girl like her once, just around this age. They ain't too alike, not in the slightest. She had real long claws, though, made of adamantium. Luckily, this ain't that.
Least she gettin' them done again though, that must mean somethin' good, right?
"Now…I done had it, p'tite," His hand is on top of hers now as he proclaims it.
"When you gonna have enough, hm? You hungry, no?" She knows where this is going. He was lax about it the last two times she needed him, but they both know this won't end well. This isn't "temporary."
Well, some of it is. He is. When he dies, she'll probably be fine. She's more of a danger to others than herself; that wicked metabolism of hers doesn't make it any better. He knows she's not lying when she says no one else quenches the thirst.
She's got a hankerin' for somethin' satiating, unluckily for him—everything about his genetic makeup is like a drug to a psi-vampire. She drinks plasma like it's nothin', he don't mind. The real issue lies in the fact that it has started to show during training.
Neither of them can be trusted at the inn anymore. He always ends up bein' the one bleeding out, and the one tossin' the sheets. If they keep going 'bout it like this, soon he won't be able to charge his cards at all.
"They can't know, Remy." She warns methodically.
He doesn't listen to her, keeps on trying to prove a point, "I know you are! The X-Men can feed'ya."
"No, they can't cure this Remy! Y'want another massacre? Want 'dem to come knocking at your door?" So now they're swinging for the low-hanging fruit, hein? 'cept it's not that low, because he knows exactly what she means. Mutant preservation, and all that.
She can be real cold with it; Ain't nothing he ain't used to, though. She ain't frigid like it was back down in Antarctica.
She doesn't look like she has any interest in him right now, but she don't got a damn choice.
They both know what comes next. The moment he sits down, her eyes lock onto him. Her neck snaps like she's some sorta demo—non, he can't think 'bout that right now. What would Tante Mattie say? Why does he suddenly feel so holy? Ain't no god to protect him now.
He tried to prolong the inevitable by standing in the first place. Maybe he was just tempting fate, resisting what's destined for them.
He pats the high of his thigh, invites her in. She takes the offering, throwing a leg between his. Ain't no bite to her now, not no more. A part of him doesn't think she even feels emotion anymore; he doesn't blame her. There ain't nothin' round these parts worth smiling 'bout.
Sometimes vampires can have everything they want.
Other times, they get dealt a bad hand; Insatiable hunger. The odds are looking pretty bad, but if they play they're cards right—maybe find the right person to curb the desire…
He packs more turtlenecks now; none of the X-Men question it. It's too humid to throw a coat on top of that usually, so it's always one or the other. When he sees her, though, it's always both. He always ends up bringing the jacket just for her. Her body remains frigid, but she says it helps.
It does get him looks during the daylight, but what they gone say, hein? What'chu hidin?
That's what the Thieves do best: they hide.
She leans close to his neck, her fingers make quick work of rolling down the collar of the grey turtleneck. The fabric brushes hard against the marking there; he's never been all that sensitive to these things.
They hiss at the same time; it comes as a shock to both of them. More so on her side, she stares at him earnestly, "You've been bruising?"
Cat's outta the bag now.
"Yah, jus' a little, t'en fai pas."
"Remy, I don't think you understand how dire this could be." Non, he doesn't. While she thinkin' of that purple patch of skin, he thinks about the purple lipstick that adorns her lips. She wasn't always fond of the color, kept sayin' it was too out there when they were younger…
It was. Was, being the keyword.
It makes her look just a bit older, ages her in just the right way. If he didn't know her, he would say she's maybe 25. 21 without the lipstick. 20 without the makeup at all. She doesn't want to be 20; they both know she worries about that now.
She worries 'bout a lotta things. She's worryin' bout him right now, like he an old dog who's gone pass away right here.
She testin' him, or maybe just simply inspecting. He can't tell right now; the expression on her face seems calculated. The pads of her finger massage at the blemish, it takes him a while to realize she's touchin' his neck at all.
Then, those cold fingers graze against his shoulder. Merde, C’est mal. He feels it all right there, tensing beneath her like he's 'bout ta explode. It's not a great feelin', maybe he could go for a smoke righ' bout now.
"Take me back to your hotel. You're fucking insane, Rem." There she go again, with all that edge and unjustified authority. It just compels him to listen.
"Maybe so, but you been holdin' out on me too," He's throwing his arms 'round her waist, 'cause he knows where this is 'bout to go. The least he can do is stop her from avoiding it.
She twists the knife deeper, only retorting, "Why y'always gotta win?"
"Could ask y'the same t'ing." He adds. He wants her to stab him. It'll make 'em both feel better. She's worrying about him as if she ain't gone wither away, and he really doesn't want that. He should be thinking that he doesn't want any of this, but he doesn't think that way at all. Why? Because he ain't right in the head, that's for damn sure. Because he doesn't mind the fact she's siphonin' his life-force.
Ain't the first nor second time this has happened.
"Why's it gotta be righ 'dere anyway, hein? Gambit knows somewhere else you cou' bite."
"Remy." She steels her expression.
She's squirming now, and he's not like that. They both know she can leave if she wants to; he loosens his grasp in case she's weak enough to the point where she can't.
"You go 'head an' be that way, but I was jus' gone say take the other side, bébé."
"Jesus Christ, I can't do that to you." He's worrying her again; she nearly conceals it, but her voice warbles, gives it away.
"Why not? My Blood, it be clean. 'S not infected."
He ain't no fool now, he's inspected the bruise. It started happening just recently; he had never seen it before, not even that time they went all the way. It's a recent adaptation, not from pressure—but somethin' else. Somethin' downright ghoulish, that's for sure.
It takes a bit of coercing; he lets his eyes do most of the talking, tells her there ain't no bluff. Eventually, she softens against his thigh, meets his gaze like it's finally something worth considering.
"'An you're sure about this?"
"Oui, never been more sure den dis."
Somehow, she's got the nerve to hesitate. He's got a feelin' it ain't got nothin' to do with bein' cold. He don't think he's ever seen the girl shake quite like that. He worry bout her, real bad.
She's inching closer, now. It's a bit awkward. All've this is if you think 'bout it, really. To hell with it, this ain't the first time he's done sketchy things at this park.
She's still straddling his thigh, inching towards the left side of his neck. The bad side. Her lips graze against the tender flesh between his shoulder and neck gently; he flinches, makes a sound that's a little more inclined than a hiss of pain. Downright obscene; he keens in a way that should make him feel pathetic.
"Sha…" It's intuitive, just slips past his lips all fast like. Because something in his head ain't right. It stings, yet it feels so god damn erotic.
She pulls back from him after a while, and he watches the moment the concern in her gaze morphs into sick curiosity. Now the humiliation is pooling in. She quirks a disbelieving brow. There's something else there, the look of something primal.
'An of course she'd humor him. He feels just like putty in her hands. Together, they form the whole definition of sadomasochism.
The flat of her tongue laves past that same side of his neck, runs past the hilt of his collarbone. Now her teeth glide across the lower parts of the swollen flesh; it's nearly numb there. For some reason, he flinches anyway.
She got him wrapped 'round her finger.
She doesn't quite bite down, and she sure as hell don't stop either. She just keeps toyin' wit him, coaxing out them blasphemous moans 'till she's satisfied, 'till he's all 'roused and his blood is warm for her. He's up for the taking; hers, specifically.
He forgot she was a vampire, really. But when she swipes past his chest to dip right in—he realizes those reflexes just ain't human.
He would know.
"Mon dieu…" Just 'fuckin pitiful how easy he is for her.
Them teeth of hers don't give no warm welcome; the chances of a warm, gradual bite comin' from a vampire's fangs is real bleak, anyway. She's drainin' him, they both pray no bystander comes too close.
Somehow, he feels like he's running outta air, like maybe she's already killed him. Her ass is pressed flush against his cock, and it unveils somethin' in him. It makes him start pantin' like he's goin' through some typa' heat. All cause she feedin' on him.
He understands why it happens, 'vaguely. Somethin' bout his body tryna make up for the lost blood and energy; her feeding combined with his genes accelerate the process. There's a survival mechanism to it, too. That's the part that feeds into somethin' debaucherous.
All sorts of blood is flowin'.
"Yah…Thas it, y'keep feedin' on me," He's got no idea how loud he's being. It be a special kinda high you see; whatever she set off in him.
Sometimes, she's got to remind him where he is, what she's doing to him. She's got to make sure neither of them lands in some lab or cellar somewhere. The X-Men would just bail them both out, sure. But she's not exactly trying to reunite with them. Not anytime soon.
She feels it, too. If she hadn't known he was a mutant, she'd think his blood was laced with some street drug. The smell of copper is cloying; the taste is something else entirely, saccharine and addictive. He doesn't tell her to pull back. While she's worrying about him dropping limp beneath her, she feels him buck his hips.
She works a hand up to his mouth, sinks her fingers between those plump lips. There's no resistance, she feels him writhe beneath her. His tongue wraps around her forefinger, and it's enough to subdue him. He sucks like he doesn't have a choice.
He feels like the world is 'bouta end when she pulls away.
He knows she can feel his need, feel the way he whines against her fingers. Why'd they gotta meet out here out of all places?
Her hand drops right then, her fingers are coated in his drool.
She's not much better. Her chin, teeth, and the collar of her dress are soaked in his blood. He's coated in the tacky substance as well, and doesn't seem to mind one bit. It's starting to oxidize; scarlet drying as brown under the drab streetlights.
She wipes the blood from her chin, like it matters. Most of it has dried and crusted over anyway.
"S'il te plaît…Sha, please." She can't resist that look on his face; the way his eyes almost look pink when they're this glazed over.
"Shit…Might've taken too much, think you can take us back to your hotel?"