Love of Enemies

To The Last Drop

Welcome! This story is for 18+ ONLY! Contains very spicy content & gobs of coarse language.

Just a word of caution, this story will also contain the following: (Skip this part if you don't need content alerts)

DCon vibes, self-injury during anger, rough se.x between supernatural beings, shifted se.x, joint dislocation, edging, denial, domination, fated mates, biting, thoughts of past self-harm, and will ultimately end in a happy-for-now.

~Candy~

Dropping out of a shadow, I come face to face with the weathered wooden door I know and love. The Dragon Roost, affectionately known as just Dragon, is the only supernatural bar I know of, and the one place I can relax.

Might sound stupid, but knowing this magical watering hole is, like, a neutral plane or whatever, makes me feel safe. Ish. I mean, a vampire is never truly safe anywhere, and a woman even less safe than that, but with all the Fae protections on this place, the chances I'll get a stake in the back are slim to none.

So, when I get strung out from being one of the Vampire Monarch's regulators, I come here and drink away the night.

I'm here a lot.

Not that it matters, since we can't get drunk on alcohol, only mass amounts of blood. But at least I can be bored here instead of being bored in our nest.

I even like the decorations, not that I'll admit that out loud. I'd never ever choose this combination personally, but the whole 'high tech arcade ate a sixties carnival and spat out a discotheque' motif works.

Apparently, this place turns into a coffee shop in the morning, letting humans in unchaperoned, but I'm never up early enough to see it. Fuck all that noise. What's the point of being immortal if you don't get to be lazy whenever you want?

Nope. Hated mornings before I was turned, and I sure as hell hate them now. The sun doesn't bother us, like the dumb lore wants you to believe, but it makes hunting nearly impossible. And makes our Shadowstepping skill basically useless. So, we do inside shit during the day, and outside shit at night. Nothing mysterious about it. Aside from the endless need for blood and the never dying thing, being a vampire is pretty boring.

Sometimes. Okay, I'm apparently the only one bored by the whole thing. But I'm really, truly dead inside, unlike the rest.

No boredom tonight, though.

With a slow exhale, I shove through the door. The magical mojo doorman is perched in his seat, like always, and I give his frozen-in-time fist a bump as I pass.

I can't remember what he's called, but he's a special type of warlock. He's like, awake and aware and stuff, but never moves or changes or ages. How he got saddled with a gig protecting a busy inter-dimensional bar, I'll never know. Mostly because I don't give two-shits enough to ask.

I glance down as I stroll up to the long wooden bartop and frown at the blood on my leather jacket. Great. Now, I'm sad again. One of the few emotions left in my withered soul, and it's on overdrive tonight.

Our job as regulators is to track down and snuff out something we call The Lost Ones. They're a secret we keep from the other superfreaks that exist in the world. They get spotted, oh hell yes they do.

Hard to miss a giant, twisted, murder-hungry, grey skinned monster. But only we know what they really are. Vampires who don't take to the change, becoming blood-crazed psychopaths, leaving swaths of death, killing indiscriminately, and showing themselves to the humans. Pretty gnarly stuff, and not in the, "gnarly, dude," surfer way.

The Lost One Vex had us—sorry, The Monarch—had us take down tonight was someone I went to high school with way too many years ago, and I have to assassinate my last strand of human feelings before it turns me soft or something.

"Tucker," I call out, "what's good?"

The brawny bartender opens his mouth, but cuts his eyes up, following a wispy, purple smoke traveling along the ceiling.

He cocks his head, clearly listening to something, before he nods and refocuses on me.

"I can make a mix to...take the edge off."

His eyes glint with mischief, and I should know better than to tempt fate with a Dryad, but you know what? Fuck it. Tonight is the night and I am the one, apparently.

"Great. Lemme have it."

"Of course."

Oh, that devious Fae smile makes my undead heart shrivel. Maybe this is a bad idea. I'm a cunt hair from telling him never mind, when he hands me a simple gunmetal shot glass, full to the very top with an opaque liquid. Looks like blood, honestly, but smells like hell on earth. Do I know where he got it from? Nope. Do I care? Also nope.

He catches my gaze, tapping the side of the glass. "Were I in a sharing mood, I would warn you, for this to work in full, you need one dose a week until you don't need it anymore."

"Dose..." I tuck my chin in. "That sounds vaguely ominous. No clue what you're talking about, which means this is probably a terrible fucking idea. Awesome."

With a single chug, I down the whole thing, coughing as it burns the length of my throat. "Shit," I sputter, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth. "S'good stuff."

Once I calm down, Tucker nods and goes about his business, tending to other customers.

Whatever that is...it's strong. Like, mega strong. I feel a bit weird...wobbly? And I'll be damned, I think—yep, I'm queasy. Huh. Greaaat. Am I sweating? Can I still do that?

Should probably not tell anyone about this. They already think I'm worthless enough as it is.

While I'm fighting to keep my stomach on the inside, the front door opens, filled with a massive body.

He's easily seven feet tall, covered in bulky muscles and has slicked back, brown hair. Thighs the width of small mountains are barely held in by black slacks, and his white polo-style shirt is like a thimble trying to hold back a waterfall.

Fuck...me. My fangs ache, threatening to make an appearance. I squirm a bit on the stool, imagining his big, veiny hands wrapped around my throat, while he— My stomach lurches again, for a totally different reason.

Wolf shifter. The scent hits me like a tanker truck, wrinkling my nose on reflex, but then something else teases my senses. A sweet smell, like vanilla and...currants. The tremor in my stomach stops, and a shiver curls down my spine, wrapping my lower abs in a hug.

Of fucking course. Leave it to me to lust after the one thing I hate more than getting up early.

NP: Who else can relate? 😴😴
Next episode coming 5-29-23!
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