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Parties are always good nights to feed. Well, at least they were in college and that awkward period after, where Jeremy would get invited to houses full of wasted twenty-somethings that he only knew one or two of, and vaguely so. Sometimes he’d just drop into a party down a few blocks from his house in Boston and integrate himself into the scene, saying that Mike or Kevin or Nate or some other generically named individual invited him, just praying that they wouldn’t doubt him. He was good at being confident then—the muscles helped, but so did his age, or lack of it, not to mention the boost of handsomeness that comes once he gets particularly hungry. It must be some evolutionary thing. Sometimes he could find a drunk girl, enough to blame it on her hangover in the morning, to drain within 15 minutes, in and out without suspicion before he would get ringed in for a round of shots. It was a good routine. He has an affinity for boozy blood, anyway.
It’s different now, of course. There’s this peculiar embarrassment that always comes when Ludwig invites him out to LA for anything, not because he doesn’t like it (he does, too much), but because he’s forty and he fell off and if it weren’t for the clear ulterior motives he knows Ludwig has, it would just feel like a big dumb prank. When Jeremy got to the party, he was more surprised than relieved that everyone wasn’t waiting there at the door for him, pointing and laughing. Even more embarrassing than the complete joke of his life, though, is this Halloween costume. Dracula.
Jerc
ula. There’s no use even commenting on it. At least it gives him an alibi for his fangs popping out.
So after making his rounds, he’s just awkwardly in the corner, sipping on his fourth glass of mystery booze punch, with everyone else running around screaming and vlogging and doing karaoke and drinking, smoking, being beautiful in the flashing, colorful light. Ludwig is a werewolf, on the other side of the room, doing some stupid routine for the Frankenstein taking a video of him. He’s laughing, curling his fake claws at him, and Jeremy is hungry. Starving. Everyone is wasted so it would be perfect to feed if they didn’t all know him, know that he’s taken, know that he’s forty, et cetera. He should’ve just woken up early to go hiking and kill a few possums or squirrels or whatever wildlife is in a fifty-mile radius of this flashy consumerist popstar hellhole. Not that finding something to eat in Vegas is any easier, or more appealing (though the Strip typically has easy pickings). It’s just become a chore at this point.
Ludwig’s closer to him suddenly, at the punch table, draped over Blaire, who keeps trying to shove him off. He’s laughing still, his eyes squinted under the pink light strobing over him. Jeremy can hear it over the music with his senses heightened like this—the squeaky, breathy sort of laugh he gets once he’s fully gone, the point in the night where he’s a bit more slobbery, aggressive. Bitey. He’s experienced it plenty of times, and he knows everyone must have also,
especially
Blaire, but there’s still this jealousy thrumming in him watching the scene from across the room, his hand on her waist, her baring her fake fangs at him before they kiss for too long between strobes of light and Jeremy looks away, at his near-empty Solo cup. He needs more to drink soon. He needs something to beat down this feeling in his chest.
He waits a good five minutes, pretending to pay attention and nod along to a conversation with some streamers he half-knows who are all cosplaying characters he doesn’t, before meandering back to the punch table, which is thankfully cleared. While ladling himself another cupful, there’s some girl he doesn’t recognize—either because he’s terrible at this big streamer shit or because she’s coated in face paint and DIY prosthetics—stumbling over herself dancing in five-inch heels, and it would be easy. Quick. Just sweep her off into the bathroom while everyone else is caught up in their narcissism, kiss her once and bite her there, right on the inside of her lip where no one can see. She probably won’t even notice it, all numbed up from the booze and adrenaline. It could work.
“Jerma!” And he blinks. Ludwig is there on the other side of the table, his werewolf makeup. The shape of his nose is wrong, Jeremy realizes. More prosthetics. Ludwig shoves pretzels into his face by the handful, chews with his mouth open. “You checking someone out?”
If he had enough blood in his body right now to blush, he would. “W-What? Uh,
no.”
And now Ludwig is circling the table to cling onto Jeremy, and it’s too much. Too much blood under his skin, pumping. His fangs pop, digging into his gums.
Fuck.
“I just, um, spaced out.”
“Yeah?” And Ludwig pulls back, thankfully, bouncing on his heels instead. He takes Jeremy’s cup to drink out of, deliberately. His mouth is wet. “You having fun, man?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy takes the cup back, purposefully not drinking from the same spot. He doesn’t even feel drunk. Wet mouth. The smudge of red lipstick over it. “…Well, no, actually. This costume is so fucking itchy.” It is, and just saying it amplifies it. The face paint—well, the little of it that he has on; being so bloodless right now already makes him look pale enough—is also way too overstimulating. Again, the hunger is making it worse.
“You want me to help you get it off?” He’s grinning, like he always is. He’s awful. The answer is yes.
“Ludwig
, shut up.” Ludwig usually isn’t this… forward with him, never mind in public. It sort of turns him on, but also makes his skin crawl. Maybe he’s on something. Of course, there’s no one in earshot and the music is way too loud, but. It really isn’t a good idea. Not with Blaire posing with whoever the cheetah girl is just a few steps away. And then making out with her. Okay, maybe it really doesn’t matter. “…Later, okay?”
He can’t stop smiling. His mouth. “Later, yeah.” Still, he leans forward to adjust Jeremy’s puffy cravat. Way too close. “This is a nice costume, though, I think. Do you like mine?” He steps back, thankfully, and does a twirl in his big furry coat.
It is cute. Jeremy wants to lean into it. Him. “Yeah, it’s nice. Um. D-Do you wanna, um—”
“LUD!” And there are her black acrylic nails sinking into the plush fur of his shoulder, and then her face, peering over at them. Blaire. She’s very pretty, and drunk, and 100% off limits. There’s that thought again, though: her in the bathroom, fangs in her lip. Ludwig probably wouldn’t even mind. He’d probably think it was hot.
“Hello, lover,” Ludwig says, looking only at Jeremy. He’s sweating through this ridiculous vest. “What is it?”
“Hi Jerma,” she says, and then the guilt is real. He’s not a fly on the wall anymore.
“Hey,” he says, casually. More punch. There isn’t enough vodka in it, even with his mouth numb, sticky, hanging open for too long.
“I was gonna get actual food delivered maybe, so do you want anything?” She’s lisping over the fangs glued to her canines. Clinging onto him. Her lips so close to his neck, and then kissing it once. More punch in Jeremy’s mouth.
“No, I’m okay,” he kisses her too, the crown of her head. It’s awful and voyeuristic and Jeremy wants to eat both of them. He won’t. “Jerma?”
“…N-No, I, um. Yeah, I’m good. I’ve eaten too much candy today—I don’t need anything else.”
“Kay then. See you.” Another red smear of lipstick deposited on Ludwig’s cheek, and she disappears back into the crowd.
Ludwig wipes it away with the back of his palm, staring at his feet. “So.” He says. There’s no continuation of it.
The awkwardness of this whole thing is gonna make Jeremy explode if he can’t just kiss him already, so he goes for more punch instead. He needs to drink anything at this point. Just as a placebo. It’s red. Kinda tangy. And Ludwig stares at him, at each gulp. “…It’s weird,” Jeremy says, and he doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Admitting it is just too. Too.
“What?” And he’s looking at Jeremy with those eyes again, waiting for him to drink more, lick his lips, something. It’s obvious. That hunger in his eyes too. His mouth is numb.
“You, um. You should’ve told me QT was gonna be a vampire too. I feel like a total poser.” More punch, and it’s empty again. It fucking sucks.
Ludwig’s drunk, of course, so he says, “Why can’t I have two vampire bitches? Isn’t that my right, as an American?” and Nick is there staring at the both of them, just trying to get a plateful of stale chips. He doesn’t even say hi. “So, um, you were saying…?”
Nick walks away, thankfully. “What?” Everyone else disappears when Ludwig’s so close like this. There’s no lights, music. Just him, taking another step forward.
“Before QT came by, you were in the middle of saying something.”
“Oh, um, yeah. Right.” Jeremy swallows, and he wishes he could actually swallow in a way that would kill the hunger, put some color in his cheeks. He really can’t now. Not tonight. He needs this instead. “I was just thinking that, uh. Well.”
“What?”
“Y-You know. I’m way too fucking drunk. I need someone to, um… help me get back to the hotel in one piece.” He goes to chew on his bottom lip, but his fangs are stuck behind his gums, sinking in. “Um.”
“Mhm. Okay.” Ludwig takes Jeremy’s punch away from him and finishes it off. “This stuff is dangerous, yeah?” He’s looking right at him.
Right at him. “Y-Yeah. It is.”
Jeremy’s doing a spectacular job at keeping his fangs at bay with Ludwig’s tongue in his mouth, his exposed neck right there for him. He’s more aggressive than he is normally, dragging his fingernails so harshly down Jeremy’s chest under his shirt; he would be bleeding if he could. He deserves to be torn from piece to fucking piece for even thinking about feeding at what is practically a work function, never mind on Blaire, never mind any of it.
It’s thankfully a lot easier for Jeremy to control himself with less people around, even if Ludwig is boozy, needy, edible. He could probably pass it off as some sex thing and Ludwig wouldn’t think twice about it. Just humping him from behind and bleeding him there, on the back of his neck where no one will notice. And he’d be delicious.
Ludwig pulls back suddenly, panting. Really panting. His face is completely red, and it looks even darker in the lamplight. He might as well be a different person, especially with the prosthetics, makeup. Jeremy doesn’t want him to be. “Dude,” and he laughs a bit, combing back his hair in a way that only supermodels, and Ludwig Ahgren, do.
“What?” Jeremy pushes himself up the headboard of the bed a bit, trying to meet his eye, or at least pretend to.
“Your fangs.” Jeremy’s heart drops for half a second, before he continues: “You left them in.”
Once the shock wears off, Jeremy laughs too. “O-Oh, um, oops. Yeah, um, one second.” Ludwig is looking at him and it’s awful and humiliating and he really should’ve learned to control the reflex when he was a teenager like every other vampire freak in the world, but he’s still a late bloomer, even at forty. He might as well just drain Ludwig dead to save himself the embarrassment. But he just covers his mouth with his hands instead, pantomiming spitting out fangs and shoving them in his jacket pocket. “T-There, um.” And Ludwig is just still staring at him. Panting. “What is it?”
He doesn’t respond, just lurches forward again, pressing Jeremy back down into the bed and his open mouth, panting, messy. “Get this off,” comes in between kisses, and then his hands are on either end of the collar of the awful, scratchy Party City shirt. He rips it, and easily—two tugs until it’s just a flimsy vest half-covering his gut, which is actually scratched up by Ludwig’s previous groping. Another thing that will be a total pain in the ass explaining to Monica when he gets home. Hopefully they’ll heal fast enough to avoid it altogether.
All the blood left in Jeremy’s body goes to either his cheeks or his dick. “L-Lud, what’s gotten into you—?” but then he’s in his mouth again, almost viciously, lapping at him and scratching up his chest and grunting, humping Jeremy’s knee like a dog. Like a dog. The silly prosthetic nose tickling Jeremy’s upper lip, his tongue. His teeth, suddenly, very sharp, pricking Jeremy’s tongue, but it’s too addicting, this scent and this feeling and the taste of him, the remains of shitty punch and sour candy in his mouth, and the blood coursing under his skin, the real, living blood. And suddenly, Jeremy’s mouth is much fuller than it should be. Ludwig bites. It stings, bad.
“Lud!” Jeremy shoves him back suddenly, and there’s blood in his mouth. His own very diluted blood. It tastes like rust water. “O-Ow, what the fuck?” Still, he swallows it down, barely quenching his thirst, and realizes his fangs popped out again.
Fuck.
“What? I can’t bite you a bit?” There are bigger issues, though, when he opens his eyes.
Oh god.
Ludwig’s there, still panting. In his open mouth, rows and and rows of sharp teeth. Hair on his arms, his chest. “…Hey, don’t look at me like that. You practically ripped a hole in my lip before.”
Hair everywhere. His pretty cherub mistress boy covered in it: these coarse hairs all the way down his bare stomach, his knuckles. And Jeremy’s eyes widen more—his fingertips are long, blackened claws. And Jeremy’s own chest and stomach, littered with lines that should be bloody, but he’s so fucking starved that there’s nothing left in him to give. And the veins on Ludwig’s neck, still. Thick, blue. Suddenly the rest of it doesn’t matter.
Jeremy is a second away from attacking him before Ludwig looks down at himself. “…Oh,
fuck.
Um.” And there’s a deep fear in his face now. “Wait, what— What day is it? This isn’t, um. Jeremy. Um. Fuck.” He gets off the bed quickly and scampers—the only word that can come to mind is
scampers—
to the hotel window, ripping open the blinds.
“Fuck.
Um. This is. Um. You need to leave.”
But Jeremy is stuck there, still on the bed, shirt ripped open, fangs permanently out at this point from the scent of him across the room: strong, inhuman. Distinctly inhuman. “Ludwig, what—what’s. What?”
There’s a distinct lisp in his voice, and under that, gravelliness. It gets worse with each word. “Jeremy, you really need to leave. I’m serious.” He doesn’t turn to face him. There’s just his crouched back, shivering. Panting. “Please just leave.”
Jeremy looks up through the window—above the city skyline, the full moon glows into the room.
Oh. What the fuck?
“…Ludwig—”
“Leave,”
he growls, but when he looks back at Jeremy, he’s teary, afraid. There’s that nurturing instinct inside him, just beneath the hunger from his veins, bulging in his muscles and neck and jaw and his blood, all the blood under his skin. “I’ll hurt you,” he says, seriously. “I’ll hurt you. I need to be alone.”
“…I’m not gonna leave you, Lud. You’re.” Jeremy’s mouth is dry. He pushes himself off the bed, stumbling over his own feet. “You’re alright, Lud. You’re not— you won’t hurt me.” He can’t even tell if it’s the hunger or the liquor at this point, but everything’s fuzzy around the edges. This might as well all be a hallucination, and the aching in his gut might just be Ludwig pounding his insides by now, but it must be the hunger instead, it’s the saliva dripping from his fangs and the eroticism of danger and being caught and catching, catching a new monster that isn’t the one in the mirror, for once.
“Jeremy,
go,”
is what Ludwig says when he’s just a step away, but he can’t. He can’t leave him like this, shaking and teary and mouth full of teeth and body full of blood and skin covered in fur, which, when Jeremy finally touches his arm, is soft, thick. And he turns around—the prosthetic not being a prosthetic, but now just an elongated snout in the center of his paramour’s unreasonably handsome face. And something about it makes his dick jump up. Of course it does. It’s Ludwig, still.
“…I’m a vampire, Lud,” which is so obvious now, when there’s no use hiding it, but it’s terrifying just to admit for the first time, even if it seems so trivial to think about when
this
is what Ludwig deals with instead, monthly, no matter what. It’s such a non-issue. “That’s the, um, my fangs. I’m. I forgot to feed this week, so it’s just. Um.” And there’s that vein in his neck, staring back at him. “It’s really not a big deal that you’re. Um.”
Of course, all Ludwig does is scoff at it. “So we both have really stupid costumes this year, huh.” Somehow, the scariest thing is how different his voice is now, how inhuman and hoarse and
hot,
unfortunately, so, so
hot.
“Okay, get out of here now. I’m serious.”
“I’m not leaving.” Jeremy runs his hand up Ludwig’s bicep, which is bigger now, somehow, his shoulder, his neck. His neck. “I want to stay with you. I do.” Jeremy leans forward to kiss him and lets his fangs get in the way of it, lets them clink against Ludwig’s and his slobber, his panting and whimpering and the claws in his waist, tearing the polyester of his cheap costume pants. Before he’s even conscious of it, Jeremy’s at Ludwig’s fuzzy neck instead, not waiting for permission or a flinch or anything, just sinking his teeth in, finally, finally. He tastes like the street rats Jeremy used to suck down in Boston, but also like he should, just like he should. Sweet, boozy, like soil. His whimpering at the initial pain of the bite and whimpering, in other ways, at the sucking. He tastes like a little scared puppy. It’s perfect.
Jeremy only lets himself have a minute of his blood before pulling away, lapping once over the bite to numb him a bit. The lightheadedness is gone, and the shakiness, and the constant thought of blood whenever he blinks or exhales or shifts his tongue. And Ludwig’s chest is so soft, warm. He’s panting. Jeremy leans into it. “Thank you, Lud. Ugh, that’s so much better. Thank you.” Looking up, Ludwig’s face is even more wolflike. It’s cute. Bringing his hand up to Ludwig’s face to stroke his cheek, he coos, “Good dog.”
The sex is kind of terrible, if Jeremy’s honest. Ludwig has been dry humping his thigh for a good five minutes with his fangs dug into his shoulder, too horny and impatient to let Jeremy grab the lube out of his suitcase, grunting and huffing and tail wagging—yes, a tail has made its appearance now: this big bushy thing thwaping back and forth. Jeremy reached out to touch it once and it was thick, soft, and the sensation made Ludwig yip, so he hasn’t tried to again. Ludwig won’t even jerk him off too, which is the real kicker. Though, thinking about having the claws, which are dug deep into his waist, anywhere near his dick is a nightmare itself, more than the rest of it.
“Lud…” Jeremy tries to get his attention again, to no avail. It only seems to make him hump him faster, less precisely. “C’mon dude. I have to get up.” Nothing, outside of a little whining, more drool dripping on his chest. “…You wanna have sex, right? C’mon. Lemme get up, boy.”
Ludwig just yips at that, biting down harder. He’s definitely broken skin at this point—another impossible thing to explain to Monica. The most plausible excuse would be that a street dog attacked him, which is essentially the truth, but there would be a whole lot of other excuses to tell for that to even be believable. At the very least, faking a rabies shot.
Jeremy finally gives a shove to Ludwig’s side and sits up—or at least tries to, but Ludwig forcefully flips him on his stomach suddenly, his muzzle at his ear. “Lud…” It’s half-exacerbated, half-teasing, and another ounce of affection at his cute little whines. But Ludwig’s holding down his wrists. “Lud, c’mon. I’m just trying to get what you want.”
Ludwig just grunts before leaning back into a kneel, his fuzzy thighs tickling Jeremy’s own. Still, he keeps a hand on Jeremy’s back, holding him down. And he curls down further. Sniffing.
“Ludwig…?” And suddenly, this sticky, wet sensation at his asshole. “L-Ludwig, what the fuck are you—!?” but his mouth just stays drawn open instead, dry. It’s his slobber. His inhumanly long tongue slurping at his hole, at everything. It’s foul. “O-Oh my god, Lud, don’t do that. That’s—that’s fucking disgusting, you can’t—” and the tip of his tongue reaches his balls, and Jeremy sees white. “F-Fuck,” he mutters, just shutting his eyes tight and holding onto the nearest pillow for dear life. “Th-There’s all sorts of terrible bacteria d-down there a-and—” Ludwig’s paws (or whatever you would call them, at this point) spread his asscheeks further apart, and there’s an even more terrible, sordid sucking sound. “—O-Oh my god, Lud.
Fuck.”
And then Ludwig’s tongue forces itself in, wet and slimy and teeming with filth and hot, so fucking hot. Even with the awful foreplay, Jeremy could come just like this, untouched. He might.
Ludwig, of course, pulls away just as it’s starting to get good; Jeremy finds himself wondering why he bothers to sleep with this guy in the first place. Ludwig’s there again, wet nose right up against Jeremy’s neck, huffing. His paw still claws at his ass, hips still hump the air. “Don’t even
think
about kissing me, you disgusting mutt,” Jeremy spits. It’s cruel in just the way he knows Ludwig likes, and likes it he does. There’s pressure up against his asshole, suddenly.
Jeremy’s eyes shoot open. “H-Hey, don’t…” but his mouth is dry. Shoved down into the mattress, he remembers the warning:
You need to leave. I’ll hurt you.
“Ludwig, seriously d-don’t do that. I-It, um, it’s not enough—” but with Ludwig pushing in harshly, his complaints dissolve under a shout muffled by the pillow. His eyes go red before the tears have a chance to catch up with the pain, white, hot, fucking terrible and full and hot and everything, so much of everything that Jeremy feels like he’s going to pass out with just the first thrust: sharp, precise. He’s not sure if it’s just the bare minimum of lubricant, which already seems to have dried up, but Ludwig feels huge, way more than usual, and it’s too fast and too much, him panting and drooling slobber on Jeremy’s hair, grunting sharply.
The adrenaline, or maybe the helping of blood from earlier, at least slightly numbs the pain, given how quickly Ludwig thrusts into him. He can barely feel anything but the fullness, the pleasure in his mind reduced to some background noise, his mouth spewing these obscene sounds that he can’t even make out over the panting, the echoes of slaps and grunts and the claws in his waist, sharp, back arched. It doesn’t even occur to him that he’s close to coming until his vision goes white again, thighs spasming and chest sputtering, and the fullness, too much of it, like he’s a balloon about to pop. “O-Oh my fucking god, Lud,” is weak, broken, barely audible with his mouth jammed into a pillow.
A few heavy breaths seem to bring his consciousness back enough for the pain to really kick in, and it’s a high-pitched ringing through his entire body, more like a shriek than a bell chiming. Even if it’s just a little slobber and his bleeding shoulder from Ludwig’s fangs, his body feels entirely covered in hot slime. Ludwig came inside him, of course, at some point that Jeremy can’t even remember, but he can feel the warmth inside him, the dribble of ejaculate down his thighs (if that’s not his own blood. It’s probably a bit of both). And, unmistakably, his ass must be torn to fucking pieces. Never mind Monica, there is no fucking way he’s going to be able to explain this to his gastroenterologist next week. He might as well just cancel the appointment.
“Ludwig, you are such a fucking asshole. D-Don’t you ever do that again.” He can’t bring himself to say much else, and even that is hiccupy, too quiet. Trying to look back at Ludwig hurts, so Jeremy just presses his face into the pillow again, groaning. The tears keep coming, unconsciously. “O-Ow…”
“Sorry,” Ludwig says, and it’s surprising he can still talk with his mouth… like
that
, but when he presses his face into the back of Jeremy’s neck, it feels surprisingly more human. His voice is still gravelly but it’s him, his lips chastely kissing there.
“I told you not to kiss me Lud—I’m serious. That was so fucking gross.” The pillow makes him sound even whinier than he is. “Get off me. G-Go brush your teeth or something. Wash your mouth out with bleach.” But his lips are still there, at his neck. Outside of everything else, it’s nice. Outside of this pressure, still building inside him. He tries shifting his hips away, but it just makes the pain grow more, and he shuts his eyes tightly again, gasping. “L-Lud, you need to— Get the fuck off me, o-ow.” The tears are bubbling up more than they should, in a childish, uncontrollable way, especially for somebody who wanted this, needed this. This thing tearing him from the inside. The pressure, rupturing. It only grows with each second.
Ludwig seems to have reverted to his more animalistic side again, grunting and nudging the back of Jeremy’s neck with his nose. His hips stay fixed in place. “But you feel so nice, baby.”
“Ludwig, don’t.” Jeremy tries to shift forward again, but it just makes the pain escalate. “Seriously, Lud, it really fucking hurts. I think you d-did something bad to me.”
“You’re okay,” he responds gently, in a way that actually does make it feel like he is okay, that this throbbing is just the normal way his body protests after anal and it’s nothing to worry about, but it is, it is. Those lips at the back of his neck again, though. His fingers dancing up Jeremy’s forearm—his nails are more normal now, still slightly pointy at the tips, but paler, less fur. He thought werewolves, if they existed (apparently, they do), couldn’t turn back to their normal selves until the morning after, so it’s a bit confusing, although relieving. Maybe getting breeding out of their systems makes the whole wolf thing disappear a bit early. Breeding.
Breeding.
“Ludwig, pull out.”
“What is it?” He’s sleepy. He’s an asshole.
“Ludwig, I’m gonna bite the shit out of you if you don’t pull out right now. I’m serious. I-I’ll kill you.”
“It’s alright, relax…” Ludwig tries to move back, but the pain swells up as soon as he does. For him too, apparently: “Ow, what the fuck?”
“W-What? What’s wrong?” But Jeremy knows what’s wrong: that inkling of suspicion. The giant, hot pressure inside him. “Lud?”
“I, um, oh. Oh. I think I, um. Well. Like. You know. With, like, dogs and wolves and, um. Well.”
And there it is. “Jesus, Ludwig. I can’t fucking believe you.” Jeremy should be mad, but he just slumps down further, pulling Ludwig with him. It fucking hurts, more than anything, but something about this is nice. Being stuck to him like this, at least for now. His warm stomach against Jeremy’s back. And the fullness too is, in a sense, comforting, though it hurts like a bitch. It would’ve been a lot nicer if Ludwig just let him get some lube, though. Or gave him a proper warning.
“I’m sorry. I think we’ll be here for a while.” It’s still him, though. His arms, curling around Jeremy’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, and then pulls Jeremy gingerly onto his side, spooning him. Well, doing more than spooning him. “Good thing you can’t get pregnant. We’d have some fucked up dog-bat babies right now. A whole litter of them. Probably make bank on our own TLC special. Prime time slot.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Jeremy groans. “Please.”
He doesn’t shut up. He never does. After kissing the back of Jeremy’s neck again with his gross mouth, he whispers, “Do I get to be a bat now too?”
“Ludwig, that’s some Scooby-Doo shit. No. I don’t turn into a fucking bat.” More kissing. It’s nice. He lets it happen. “And I didn’t
turn
you. It’s not that easy.”
“Can you turn me?”
There are Ludwig’s thick veins on his wrists laid out for him, right in front of his face. Juicy, blue. Jeremy takes one and kisses it, just to feel the blood pulse underneath. It is tempting, to get back at him for tonight if nothing else. “…No. You have enough problems as it is.”
He whines, but gets over his quickly. His mind is clearly in other places. Specifically, up Jeremy’s ass. “…So, do you have any plans next month? In around 30 days from now?”
“Ludwig, no. I— Don’t even fucking think about it.” But Jeremy does think about it. “…Maybe December. Gimme some time to recover, god.”
“Yeah? You wanna come over for Christmas?”
“…Sure, whatever. If you let me feed too.
If and only if.”
Ludwig hums, his eyelashes dusting over Jeremy’s nape. “Of course I will. You can do whatever you want.”
Of course he will. Mutual exploitation is nothing new for them, anyway. At least this is rewarding.