Akrasia

Chapter 1: Departure

Aimée hums under her breath, trowel in hand, thick gloved fingers buried in the dirt. A light breeze tickles her back and the hairs on her arms as she kneels amidst her flowerbeds, sleeves rolled up, her jacket, vest, and even her cravat long discarded. She pulls up another cluster of roots and tosses it onto the meagerly growing pile of weeds drying in the sun behind her. Then she pats the earth down, and begins to inspect the leaves of her petunias.

Drift watches her for a while, tucked in the shade of the neatly trimmed yew hedgerows, naught but two beady pinpricks visible amidst the twisting branches. The gentlewoman before her meanders about her garden of vibrant pink and blue blooms, inspecting each and every plant for flaws and muttering to herself notes about their care, occasionally plunging her fists into the soil again to pull some unwanted interloper out of the beds. A little huff escapes her snout. It's hardly a wonder that the illustrious Mr. Hawthorne is such a well sought after bachelor—the money is of course a big factor, but it is her face that you hear whispers of moreso than the depth of her pockets. And indeed, seeing her here in a frankly scandalous state of undress, sun catching on the beads of sweat forming at her brow making her glitter beneath its glow, Drift cannot help but concur—Aimée Hawthorne is incredibly handsome. Not that she would ever admit any of this aloud, of course—the gentlewoman hardly needs the ego boost, and god forbid she give further ammo to the gossip mill—but... there's no harm in a little private admiration from time to time.

However, she is not here to stalk her. After giving Aimée one last, slow once over, she springs from the hedgerow and carries her small bat body over to land on Aimée's shoulder.

"Good afternoon, Aimée, hope you can forgive the intrusion—I needed to speak wi—" Drift's greeting is cut off by an indignant squeak as Aimée full fist grabs her and hoists her into the air above her.

"Drift!" she exclaims, an ecstatic giggle bubbling out. "Oh I will never get over how cute you are like this~!"

"What?" Aimée croons, pulling her close and beginning to pet her with one finger.

"Aimée I swear to god if you don't get that finger out of my face I will gnaw it off." She bares her teeth as she says this, but unfortunately for her the teeth in question look less intimidating than a brass tack. One has to wonder if she can pierce the flesh of anything tougher than a grape in this form.

Aimée pouts at her. "But Drift..."

"Aimée," Drift growls, "you are going to unhand me. I am going to return to my typical self. And we are going to have a conversation without your fingers in my face."

Aimée laughs. "Oh, well, I can't exactly promise the last one."

"Ugh!" Drift throws her little bat head back and squirms in place again. "Just put me down or you'll never see me as a bat ever again!"

"What! Noooo!" Aimée whines like a wounded animal, and immediately sets Drift down in the shade beneath her magnolia tree.

Drift huffs, and in the blink of an eye the little bat is replaced with a disheveled Drift irritatedly righting her top hat and fixing her coat. "As I was saying, I need to speak with you."

Aimée smirks and lazily looks her up and down. "Well, I'm all yours, beautiful."

Drift sighs. "Yes, well, I am going away for a while and I need you to promise me to behave yourself while I am gone."

Aimée's face drops, and with it, her trowel—its sharp edge plunging into the mulch with a dull thud. "What?"

"I am going away, and I would like to know that you will behave. Please?" Drift says, meeting her gaze, eyes imploring.

"Wh—Why—Where—No? Don't—Why?" Aimée stammers back, eyebrows knitting together and head shaking slightly.

A slight frown crinkles Drift's brow. "Aimée."

Aimée's expression darkens, and she steps forwards, deepening it further with the shadows cast onto her face by the leaves above. "Where are you going?"

Drift eyes go cold. "I'm just going to visit some friends, and if you want me to come back you have to promise not to kill anybody."

The leather around her fists creaks and she takes another step forwards. "Who."

"Aimée, please," Drift says, exasperated.

"Who," Aimée growls through gritted teeth.

Drift groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Shelby and Scott plan to leave for Vienna soon. I am going to pay them a visit before they leave."

Aimée's eyes flash with rage. "Goldsmith?!"

Drift flashes her teeth back. "Yes, Aimée! He is my friend, and I would like to see both of them before they leave the country!"

Aimée shakes her head in disbelief. "Friend is not the word I'd use, Drift."

"Oh well good thing I am not you then, huh?" Drift exlaims, throwing her arms up, then she leans in and lowers her voice, teeth bared, "The original plan was for me to go with them, but I turned them down for you." She punctuates this by jabbing a finger into Aimée's chest. "If you don't promise to behave yourself then I'll tell them I changed my mind."

Aimée laughs bitterly. "No you won't. The guilt would eat you alive."

"I'll turn you in and leave the country, do not test me Aimée," Drift growls.

Aimée tilts her head. "If that was an option then why haven't you already done that?"

Drift whirls around and kicks the trunk of the tree. "Goddamnit Aimée, why are you being difficult!? Just behave while I am gone!"

Aimée crosses her arms. "No. I'm coming with you."

Drift laughs and slowly turns back around, the frustration in her face melting away into pure utter disbelief with the shake of a head. "No you're not. You piss me off Aimée but I don't particularly want to watch you do something stupid and get yourself killed."

"Oh how dare you. Of all people, you should know what I am capable of." Aimée glares at her, a disgusted sneer on her face.

Drift rolls her eyes. "Yes, I am. And he is over a thousand years old." She closes the gap between them again, looking down at her. "Do you really think someone who has lived as long as he has doesn't know how to recognise when someone is trying to kill him?"

Aimée scowls, but says nothing.

Drift leans in, her voice low and her lip curling back to show the sharp teeth underneath, "You may be dangerous to other humans, Aimée, but every time we meet I think of how easy it would be to pin you down and rip your throat out."

To Drift's irritation, she hears Aimée's heartrate pick up, and she doesn't need to see the flush rising into her cheeks to know it isn't from fear. Not that she should have expected otherwise, really—she heard herself as she said it.

She sighs and steps back. "Luckily for you, I have restraint. I cannot say the same for him. You are not coming with me."

Aimée huffs, her arms unfolding in defeat. "Fine. But I'll only behave myself under two conditions."

Drift narrows her eyes. "I am not going to marry you."

A hand flies to Aimée's chest and an expression of shock and horror spreads onto her face. "Why, Drift! I would never coerce you into an engagement!"

An unamused eyebrow quirks up Drift's forehead. "Our entire relationship is built upon the premise of mutual blackmail. You are actively blackmailing me every single time you propose."

"Well I'm not leveraging it while I propose," Aimée mutters.

Drift rolls her eyes and sighs. "What are your conditions."

Aimée smiles at her, tugging at the fingers of her thick gardening gloves one by one, then discarding the gloves at her feet and sliding her bare hands under Drift's coat to rest at her waist. "First," she purrs and steps forward, causing Drift to involuntarily step back until Aimée is pressing her up against the tree, "you fill yourself with my blood."

Drift's eyes flick to Aimée's very accessible throat, soft and inviting, tauntingly uncovered in Aimée's half undressed state.

"Then," Aimée lifts a hand to Drift's face and brushes a loose hair out of her face, pulling her eyes back to hers, "you let me mark you."

Drift laughs, her own hands finding their way to Aimée's sides. "Really? That's what you want? You do realise that having me drink from you is going to render your marks invisible within the hour, right?"

Aimée slips a finger into the pocket at her waistband, and pulls out her signet ring, lifting it in front of Drift's face. "What about a mark left by silver?"

Drift swallows, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling and standing on end. "Ah."

Aimée rolls the ring between her finger and thumb. "Do we have a deal, Drift?"

Drift eyes the ring, her fingers involuntarily tensing and flexing at Aimée's sides as she fights against the instinct to get away from the small silver thing. "You know, when you said 'mark me', I really thought you meant a love bite, not brand me with your family crest. I'd almost prefer the engagement."

"Oh!" Aimée's hand closes around the ring in an instant, tucking it away, a warm smile spreading onto her face. "Well we can do that instead if you prefer."

Drift shakes her head, unable to fight back the small smile of her own tugging at her cheeks. "I said almost. The brand will at least go away."

Aimée sighs dramatically, gazing off into the distance. "Worth a try."

Drift chuckles. "The answer will always be no, Aimée. I don't know why you bother."

Aimée's eyes snap to Drift's, all levity disappearing in an instant. "Because I love you Drift, and I want you to be mine."

"Yes," Drift says with a wry smile. "I must say if I had somehow missed the memo on that second part, the branding thing would have made that very clear."

Aimée's eyebrow quirks. "Well, may I?"

Drift's eyes cast skywards and she shakes her head, closing her eyes for a moment and exhaling. Then she opens them again. "As long as it's somewhere I can cover, then yes, I suppose I can agree to these conditions."

"Perfect," Aimée purrs, and leans in to kiss her—only to be stopped in place by a finger to her lips.

Drift looks down at her with a crinkle of mischief in her eyes. "I don't recall kissing you being on that list of terms."

"Three," Aimée says instantly, a little distorted as she does not remove her face from Drift's finger. "Three conditions."

Drift's finger taps Aimée's lips lightly. "Mmm, I don't know Aimée—inside your office is one thing, out here in your garden? Who knows what wandering eyes might see us."

"I rather think you find yourself in a compromising position already," Aimée retorts sulkily, then a thought flickers in her mind and she brightens. "Besides, your feeding on me will look far worse without the cover of a kiss."

Drift considers this for a moment, pressed up against the tree by a half dressed Aimée, a single layer of fabric separating the hand she has on her waist from the skin underneath. Her eyes fall to Aimée's neck, and then trail further along her collarbone and down into her open collar, catching a glimpse of the stays beneath her shirt before flicking back up to her face, her finger still resting on her lips. "Well, I suppose if it's to keep my cover, I can't possibly refuse."

"You can't," Aimée concurs with a pout against her finger that makes Drift burst into a giggle, then she hooks the finger under Aimée's chin and guides her into a kiss, the brim of her hat knocking against Aimée's forehead.

For a moment, the kiss is surprisingly chaste, and if Drift had not been so focused on the sound of Aimée's heart, she might have caught on the wind the whoop of joy that came from the kitchen windows. Then, Aimée presses her leg between Drift's thighs and the length of her body against hers, her hat falls to the ground as Aimée's hands take its place and pull her in, and if Drift had not been so caught up on the pleased noises Aimée is making and the warm touches enveloping her body, she might have then heard the chiding shouts and sheepish murmurs that followed.

Indeed, if she had heard any of that, she might have had the wherewithal to wonder what else they may have seen. But alas—she's too focused on near suffocating the woman in her arms with the depth of their kiss, drinking in the taste and sensation of her warm lips and tongue against hers, one hand sliding from Aimée's chin to the nape of her neck and the other to the small of her back, fingers digging in and savouring the feeling of her body on hers, the heady scent of Aimée's sweat and cologne mixing with the honey sweet fragrance of her garden and filling her lungs. Aimée's heart pounds in the chest pressed against Drift's, her pulse racing beneath Drift's fingertips, stirring a deep hunger within her—and Drift surprises herself with a possessive growl in her throat when Aimée attempts to pull away for air, choosing not to unpack the thrill of pleasure when Aimée whimpers in response with the little air she'd managed to grasp. It's enough to remind her of the self control she needs to maintain so as not to kill her, however, and she loosens her grip to allow her to breathe.

"Take me with you," Aimée mumbles breathlessly against her, and Drift laughs.

"You won't get me to change my mind by kissing me, Aimée," she murmurs back.

Aimée pulls back, hands moving to cup her face. "No." She brushes a thumb over her lips. "Drink me in and take me with you. Let my vitality become yours and carry me in your veins."

Drift stares at her, the pulse beneath her fingers suddenly all she can focus on, her vision coming into a strange sharp clarity centred entirely on Aimée, hands tensing in place, then huffs, "You're such a freak."

Aimée giggles and draws in close again, her hands moving to play with her hair. "You're one to talk, Drift, I watched your pupils dilate like a cat's when I said that."

Drift's eyes narrow, and she presses her face next to Aimée's ear. "That should not delight you Aimée. I'm fighting back the urge to kill you."

"Mmm," Aimée hums, stretching her arms out to embrace Drift and hold her there, tilting her head to replace her ear with her neck. "But you control yourself so well, Drift. I know you won't kill me."

Her jugular pulses inches away from Drift's mouth.

Drift exhales through her nose. "Not today, perhaps. But you are playing with fire every time we do this," she murmurs, placing a kiss against Aimée's throat, a giggle bubbling within it in response. "Tell me when the sensation goes," she continues, pressing her tongue against the warm flesh and tracing circles.

"I want to feel your teeth sink into me," Aimée breathes huskily, and Drift's tongue stops in place.

A deeply unamused frown settles on her face. "No, Aimée. If you convulse from the pain I really will kill you. Tell me when it's numb," she says, then resumes her ministrations.

"Hrrmph," Aimée grumbles, "you're no fun at all sometimes, Drifty."

"Don't call me that," Drift huffs, lifting her head and pulling Aimée's head back by her hair to glare at her, their noses practically touching.

Aimée scowls back at her. "Well it's numb already anyway—ow!"

Drift pulls her hand away from her sharp flick. "Don't lie to me, either."

Aimée sighs, long and heavy, and tightens her arms around Drift's shoulders to pull her back in, murmuring into her ear, "I can never get anything past you."

"If only that were true, then we wouldn't be here," Drift mutters, and presses her tongue to her throat again.

Aimée hums back, burying her face into Drift's shoulder, one of her hands lifting to mirror the circling of Drift's tongue by scraping her scalp with her nails. Drift shivers.

Before long, Aimée's fingers stop moving, and Drift feels her heart rate spiking even further. Aimée's hips shift against hers, the hand in her hair presses Drift's face down against her throat, and Drift goes rigid as ice against her. "It's gone," Aimée whispers, voice heavy and desperate.

Drift swallows, her limbs beginning to tremble in place. She grazes Aimée's throat with her teeth. No reaction.

Aimée clings to her, heart thrumming with anticipation. "Please, Drift."

The tension within her releases, accompanied by a sickening pop—her teeth plunge in and a thick, rich flood of delicious heat fills her mouth, ebbing out of the punctures with every frantic beat of Aimée's heart. She swallows, her own heart shuddering eagerly in her chest, a warm sensation streaking down her esophagus, and a pleased moan erupts in its wake, unbidden.

Aimée's scent and taste fill her senses and she only grows more ravenous—she needs her, all of her. Her fingers dig in, one hand locking her hips against hers, the other buried in her hair holding her head to the side, and she sucks, hard.

Aimée melts into her with an obscene groan—whether from the weakness brought by the sudden blood loss or the sick pleasure she derives from brushing up against death, Drift is not entirely sure, but the weight of her is equal parts intoxicating and grounding, and she fights hard against her every instinct and slows down, lapping at the wound instead and sucking just enough to keep the blood flowing, more involuntary noises stirring in her throat from the exertion of holding back in spite of the taste of Aimée on her tongue.

"Oh, Drift..." Aimée murmurs into her ear, a shiver erupting across her body, and Drift hums in response, forcing her hands to relax, her desperate grip replaced with soothing touches.

Aimée moans again, a sweet sound that makes her thoughts dull and her hunger sharper. Aimée's pulse skips and stumbles beneath Drift's tongue, and her gums begin to ache with an intense need to bite down, to tear her throat open, to gorge herself, to feel the resistance of her soft cartilage pressing against her teeth, to be touched by the rhythm of her heart's final shuddering dance as all of Aimée becomes hers. She pulls away instead, panting as she goes despite not needing to breathe, locking her bloodstained lips with Aimée's, swallowing back the violent urge alongside her spit and blood.

Aimée smiles against her, drawing back and cupping her face, her thumb stroking her newly flushed cheek, a shock of red slowly trickling its way down past Aimée's collarbone. "I love you, Drift," she says, a reverent note in her voice, eyes lidded and hazy.

Drift holds her gaze, then pulls her head out of her hand and leans in, slipping her tongue beneath the collar of Aimee's shirt, catching the blood and running up the length of its path to the side of her throat, making Aimée shudder. "It's your turn," Drift whispers into her ear.

Aimée giggles, her arms wrapping around Drift's shoulders again. "Are you sure you've had enough?"

Drift's own heart staggers, the rush of Aimée's blood giving it new strength, and it begins to pound in her ears. Enveloped in the scent of Aimée's sweat and blood, the ever insatiable hunger within her yawns like a pit in her stomach. Aimée's neck oozes inches away from her face, and her reawakened pulse thrums in her gums, saliva pooling in her mouth, her lips parting of their own accord. Her own words echo in her mind again—how easy it would be, to pin her down and finish her.

"It's your turn," Drift repeats through gritted teeth, swallowing hard, the tremble returning to her muscles.

"Okay," Aimée murmurs, kissing her jaw and releasing her, pulling back and taking Drift's face in her hands, a soft expression on her face that makes her stomach twist and her limbs shake with more than the exertion of holding herself back.

She screws her eyes shut and inhales deeply, trying to focus on the sweet floral fragrance of Aimée's sun warmed garden and not the metallic tang of her blood.

Soft lips press against hers, making her eyelids flicker, and as Aimée presses herself against her again and deepens the kiss, a noise she will never admit to being a whine escapes her. Aimée's hands leave her face and trail their way down her body, then she pulls away and lifts Drift's left hand to her lips, her dark eyes fixed on her, the softness gone and replaced with something infinitely more possessive.

Drift is once more struck by her beauty—her handsome face framed by the messy dark locks, now in a great state of disarray thanks to her. Her soft skin unblemished aside from her own mark, trickling another thin red path down into Aimée's shirt. The vision of pinning her down enters her mind again, but it is not her throat she is ripping open this time. The thought startles her, and she looks away.

"Drift," Aimée reprimands softly, "I want you to watch me while I do this."

Drift turns her gaze back to her, and goosebumps ripple across her body as Aimée once again brings out the silver ring. She places a kiss against its etched face, then releases Drift's hand momentarily to slide it onto her own little finger, seal side facing inwards, never once taking her eyes off of hers. As she takes her hand again, Drift feels as if her very bones are beginning to itch and crawl with the intense need to jerk her hand away from her. Aimée pulls her hand closer to her, unbuttoning the cuff and revealing the scarred skin beneath, tracing it with her index finger and creating a strange mixture of sensations as her gentle touch is chased by the oppressive presence of the silver inches away from it.

She lifts her hand to her lips again, kissing her palm, and closes her hand around her wrist.

The pain is immediate and intense—a white hot burning that makes her momentarily forget where she is, the warm comforting scent of Aimée's garden replaced by a memory of wet stone, rotten wood, and her own blood, her wrist torn open by sharp, uncaring teeth.

Drift is unsure what noise or expression she made, but suddenly she finds herself pulled into Aimée's arms and then into her lap as Aimée sits them both down, soothing murmurs and praises whispered into her ears, kisses peppered across her face and wrist.

The tension leaves her body, and her head drops onto Aimée's chest.

"Are you okay?" Aimée asks, her fingers carding through her hair, the ring safely tucked away again.

"Mm, I'm fine," Drift mutters, lifting her wrist and looking at the swollen red welt, the silhouette of a wolf barely visible within it. Then a thought strikes her and she lifts her head. "Shit. Sorry, I didn't mean to ruin your shirt."

Aimée chuckles. "It's fine—a memento for me to treasure in your absence."

"I'm moreso concerned about you having to explain the blood, Aimée," Drift says, assessing the damage.

Aimée waves her hand dismissively. "Oh don't worry, they already know you bite me."

"What?" Drift yelps, head jerking up to look at Aimée's face.

Aimée laughs again. "Drift, the cat was out of the bag with that the first time you did it and you passed me along to be dressed for bed."

Drift's eyes go wide. "Oh my god. And you didn't think to lie to them?"

Aimée just grins at her. "Well they don't know the whole truth—my staff are simply under the impression you and I have some curious habits and particular... tastes."

Drift groans and puts her head in her hands. "I think that's somehow worse."

"Well, as I'm sure you know, half the truth is a more reliable cover than a lie."

Drift lifts her head out of her hands, a deep knot in her brow and a flood of red reaching her cheeks. "That is not—I don't—"

"Driiift," Aimée teases, "have you heard yourself?"

"Shut up. Oh my god." Her face returns to her hands. Then she runs them down her face and groans again. "I knew they knew something because the kitchen always goes utterly silent when I walk past, but I didn't think—ohhh my god." She buries her face again.

Aimée pats her back. "There there, Drifty—"

"Don't call me that," Drift grumbles, muffled through her fingers.

"Really, it's nothing to worry about my sweet, you just have to keep kissing me and accept my hand in marriage, and they'll never suspect a thing!"

Drift lowers her hands just enough to glare at Aimée. "What happened to not leveraging my secret in your proposals, Aimée?"

Aimée giggles remorselessly. "Oops!" Her hand returns to Drift's hair. "You have to admit it would make for the perfect cover, though."

Drift sighs, and sets her head back on Aimée's chest. "I cannot marry you, Aimée. As a cover or otherwise, I will not be seen as married to a man."

Aimée pets her head silently for a moment. "I know," she murmurs. "But I won't stop asking. I've never wanted anything like I want you, Drift."

Drift just hums in response, and closes her eyes. Her shirt smells faintly of lavender. She's reminded momentarily of soft, irish linens and downy pillows, of surrendering herself into Aimée's arms. She sits up and clears her throat, reaching for her fallen hat, and starts to get to her feet. "Well Aimée, I have upheld my half of the bargain. Uphold yours and behave yourself."

"Wait." She grabs Drift's hand. "I have a fourth condition."

Drift's nose wrinkles. "Aimée. You cannot keep adding on conditions, especially not after I have already agreed and followed through."

Aimée encloses Drift's hand with both of hers. "This shall be the last one, you have my word."

Drift sighs, a growl rolling underneath it. "What is it."

Aimée rises to her own feet, dusting the mulch off her pants. "Your carriage, have you already hired it?"

Drift stares at her. "What? I'm not hiring a carriage?"

"Oh please, your little bat body can hardly carry your luggage with you." Aimée quirks an eyebrow at her.

Drift shakes her head, then sets her hat upon it and rebuttons the cuff of her sleeve. "Well no, I won't be flying either—I was going to join the mail coach on its route north."

Aimée's eyes go wide. "Don't be ridiculous Drift. The mail coach! The mail coach?" she utters it as if Drift had said she was going to walk there on foot. "No, my fourth condition is that I will be paying for your carriage."

"Wh—" Drift blusters, a baffled frown etching onto her face. "Aimée, I do not want your money—"

"If I have to imagine you jostling about on that unbecoming postal wagon, I will not behave myself," Aimée cuts her off with a sniff, arms crossed. "I am hiring you a carriage."

"Seriously?" Drift stares at her, and Aimée scowls back. "Ugh, fine, whatever."

"Right." Aimée nods, uncrossing her arms and bending down to retrieve her gloves and trowel. "When are you leaving?" she asks as she rightens again.

Drift exhales slowly. "Two days from now."

"Mm." A grimace flickers onto her face. "And how long will you be there?"

"...I'm not sure. A few weeks, maybe longer." An even fouler expression crosses Aimée's face, and Drift sighs. "It'll be the first time I'm seeing them since I came back here, and I don't know when I'll get to see them again after they leave. I'm not going to rush my visit, Aimée. It'll be as long as it needs to be."

Aimée flexes her jaw. "And you are adamant that I stay here?"

"Yes, Aimée." She shakes her head, and her face softens. "I'll write, I promise."

"Oh you better," Aimée huffs. "If I write to you and I receive no response within the week I will set off immediately and whittle a fresh stake on the way."

Drift laughs. "Alright, sure, I can live with that. If there's nothing else, though, I'll leave you to your gardening." Drift tips her hat, and turns away.

"Wait, no, there is!" Aimée grabs the back of her coat.

Drift frowns and turns back. "There is?"

"Yes." Aimée fixes her with a serious look on her face. "You have to kiss me goodbye."

Drift exhales a weak laugh. "Really?"

"Yes." Aimée sniffs. "Otherwise I won't behave."

Drift rolls her eyes. "Aimée, what did I just say?"

"This isn't a new condition," Aimée pouts. "My third condition was that you have to kiss me."

A smile creeps onto Drift's face, and she steps close to Aimée again. "Yes I seem to recall that I already did that."

"I never said how many times," Aimée says, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Mmm," Drift hums back, tucking some of Aimée's messy hair behind her ear. "Two can play at that game, you know. Will you continue to behave yourself as long as I keep kissing you?"

"Maaybe," Aimée croons at her, "you'll have to give it a try and see."

Drift laughs, her hand coming to rest at the nape of Aimée's neck. "I suppose I shall." She leans in and kisses her again.