Little Red One

I didn't know what to expect when I clocked in today, but him? Definitely not on the bingo card.

He had that straight-to-Blockbuster menace, broody, brooding, broodiest. Onyx hair with a hint of azule. Bronze skin. Long, thick, black lashes that felt illegal.

Ethnicity: unclear.

Problematic: certainly.

Nonetheless, he sported the energy of a man who'd treat fear like foreplay. The sort who'd corner you in an alley to hear you plead and decide, very calmly, whether to grant mercy.

Mercy, he wouldn't give.

His silver rings caught the light as he moved, all flash and clink against layered chains and a heart-shaped padlock. And he didn't just sit. He sprawled. All that dark energy coiled in the back booth like the Moulin Mug was his personal throne room.

I was halfway through cleaning the latte machine when he finally moved.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

His rings tapped against the counter.

"Flat black," he said, voice low, like treacle over broken glass.

I looked up.

He was taller than I'd thought, lean and broad-shouldered, draped in a black leather trench, with an aura that said he hadn't just wandered in from the street. He'd come from someplace more sinister.

His eyes were a warm espresso brown, but there was nothing warm about the way they landed on me.

"Why're you the only one dressed in red, legs?" He asked.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He tilted his head, just so.

"Everyone else, black as the grave. You? All red." His perfectly smooth lips curved into a smirk. "You like standing out, don't you?" He leaned closer. "Tell me, muñeca, do you dress for the attention, or for the reaction?"

Then he extended a hand, fingers cold, his silver rings heavy.

"Me llamo Alvarus Carmine."

I took his hand.

"Felicity," I said, leaning in just enough to give him a peek at my cleavage. "Ms Felicity Randone."

He paused, letting my name roll over his probably pierced tongue, his rings drumming softly against the countertop as he nodded. "Randone," he repeated. "You're Italian?"

"My ancestors were Sicilian." I winked.

"Sicilian, eh?"

I nodded, completely smitten already.

"Well, as for moi, I hail from the Kingdom of Castile," he drawled, hand to his chest, the smile on his heart-shaped lips far too amused for polite company. "Spain, if we must stoop to geomorphologies."

"I've heard about that place. Land of castles, right?"

"Bravo." He applauded softly. "Ten points for geography, love. And you, amor, are staring at the last, and by far the most gorgeous piece of its precarious legacy."

He winked, slid a few crisp notes across the counter, one black-lacquered fingernail tracing the lid of his flat black.

"Now tell me, muñeca, with those killer looks... are you dangerous? Because there's nothing sexier than a woman who might shiv me mid-thrust."

I let my smirk steep slowly, eyes locked on his. "Well, that depends, wouldn't you love to find out?" I leaned in, letting the heat between us settle. "Now tell me, Al, are you dangerous?"

He gave me the kind of death stare that could sour milk. "Only," he drawled, "to the ones who earn it." His tone dropped into a purr, sombre, smug.

He touched me.

Just one knuckle, glistening with silver, grazed my cheek. Cold. Worshipful. Then it slid beneath my chin, tilting my face up like I was supper and he fancied a bite. Our eyes locked. Brown on brown, but his were so much deeper, like a well, or a coffin.

"Qué guapa," he stated.

(how beautiful)

I forgot how to breathe.

"You wear red like it signifies something," he said softly. "You should."

And left, Java in hand.

No wave. No goodbye.

Just spun on a heavy platform heel and fucked off, cool as you like, as if he hadn't just demolished me with one look and the lightest touch. Now I can't get him out of my head, wondering what else his hands could do. Bet he'd have me by the throat, in a flawless grip, gasping for air while his lips scorched my neck, whispering filth in my ear and sweet praise in that sexy Castilian lilt.

I fanned myself with a pastry receipt.

"Get it together, slut!"

Before I could spiral too far into my vivid mental images, the door dinged, shattering the vibe. A gaggle of Alt-TikTok girls flooded into the Mug, all stomper boots, knockoff Shein corsets, glitter spiderweb eyeliner, and chokers that probably read daddy's girl or some shite.

"Oh my god, it's the girl in red!" one of them squeals. "Told ya she was real."

I jumped up like a barista possessed, plastered on my customer-service grin, and slipped back behind the counter like I hadn't just been in my head getting railed by a possible time-travelling vampire named Alvarus behind the bins.

"Welcome to the Moulin Mug," I said, voice sticky-sweet. "You here for coffee or just to stare at me?"

One of them giggled. "Both."

Great. My life was officially a fan-cam waiting to happen. I took their orders, posed for a few pictures, and sent them on their sparkly way. Lots of thank-yous, too many compliments, and way too many tips stuffed into the glass skull jar at the register.

By the time the lights dimmed and the last track on the Spotify playlist faded out, it was closing time and just like that, my thoughts slipped right back into the gutter.

Back to him.

I was stacking trays and handing them off to Cordelia for washing when she paused and gave me that look.

"Where's your head at, Lissie? You haven't seemed here all night," and turned off the water.

I shrugged, probably too fast. "I'm here."

She arched a brow. "Not since that decadent goth boy deigned to drop a few lines and vanish without so much as a proper farewell."

Decadent. Yeah, that was one word for Al.

I froze, tray in hand, heartbeat doing that faithless nominal skip.

Cordelia smirked, catching it instantly.

"Ohhh, so that's what's got you acting all puppy-eyed and gooey. That goth boy really got to you, huh?"

"I'm fine," I lied, which only made her laugh harder.

"And I'm old as dust..."

I rolled my eyes and went back to wiping down the counter.

"He touched your face, Liss. Seriously, who does that? What is this, Days of Our Lives?"

"He was just... intense."

"Uh-huh," Cordelia replied.

I cracked a smile. "He ordered a flat black."

"Of course he did. Brooding, basic, and likely cursed. Practically a walking red flag."

I bit my lip, because she wasn't wrong, but so help me, I wanted to climb that red flag like a pole.

"His name's Alvarus," I said, maybe a bit too dreamily.

Cordelia blinked. "Alvarus? Shiit. That's a name. You reckon he came up with that himself once he hit peak broodlord status, or is it actually printed on a birth certificate somewhere?"

I laughed under my breath. "Honestly, Cordelia, who knows? He probably emerged fully formed from a velvet-lined coffin with a trust fund and a poetry journal."

She snorted. "Sounds about right."

We finished washing the dishes in silence after that.

But my brain? My brain was anything but quiet.

It was late by the time I made it back to my place. Nothing fancy, just a little flat with neighbours below me. But it was mine, my sanctuary.

My favourite bit was the bed.

An antique iron frame with a red velvet canopy and silky sheets that felt like a kiss on the back of your knees. The sort of bed you'd have a filthy tumble in, either on your tod, or with a salacious Castilian with dark chocolate eyes.

Oh, I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Alvarus.

God, just saying his name gave me goosepimples.

And now I was feeling a wee bit frisky.

It'd been ages since I'd been on a real date, longer since anyone made love to me. My poor little rose vibrator probably had grounds for emotional neglect.

But tonight? I gave her the night off.

A hot bath. And my own damn hands.

Perhaps if I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was Al.

God. I should've given him my number. Could've been a late-night mistake.

It could've been my favourite one.

Damn.

I lit a few candles, red, black, and white.

Now, if I was going to come undone, I wanted spectators, silent witnesses to my unravelling.

I let the clawfoot tub fill to the brim, steam curling like cigarette smoke from a femme fatale's lips. I dropped in a bath bomb, the colour of arterial blood, and watched it fizz, staining the water crimson. Then I turned on the camera. Tripod steady. The ring light is glowing. Angle just right, intimate, unforgiving.

I made a new folder on my drive. Hit record. I'd probably tag it "Redhead Masturbates in the Tub, Dreaming of Vampires."

I slid into the water slowly, letting the heat slip up my legs and thighs, as steam swirled around my shoulders like a lover's breath. My hair floated around me like sacrificial fire. My fingers? Already twitching.

"Hope you like a little dark fantasy," I purred into the lens. "Because tonight I got one stuck in my head."

The water lapped at my skin as I leaned back, red curtains drawn open around the tub, candlelight dancing on the tile like some erotic séance. Both hands teased my nipples, pinching, rolling, coaxing them stiff before sliding down south, slow and syrupy, like I had all the time in the world to be lewd.

I was putting on a show for the voyeurs who paid good money to watch a redhead come undone. But this one? This one was for him.

"His name," I whispered, breath sticky with want, "is Alvarus Carmine."

And I let it melt on my tongue like honey from hell. Let it burn.

"Ohhhhh."

My fingers dipped lower, into the heat, into the ache, and I pictured his eyes, pitch-black with secrets. I could almost hear his rings scraping porcelain. Feel his lips on my neck, his voice a hazy murmur in my ear, whispering things no good girl should ever think about.

"I bet he'd make me beg," I moaned into the steam. "Choke me just right... leave little love-marks I'd powder over, and pray never fade."

My hips rocked. Water lapped the edge of the tub while I touched myself like it was his hands. I repeated his name. Right at the edge.

Right before the fall.

And then—

The candles flickered.

All of them. Like they were listening.

Like he was listening.

The air thickened. Heavy. Hot.

Like breath on my bare shoulder.

I stilled. Fingers wet.

Heart in my throat.

And then that sound.

Clink.

A flash of silver against cold tile.

I sat up fast.

Water spilt over the sides.

The bath bomb's scent had changed.

No more sweet.

Now it smelled like smoke.

Like burnt offerings.

Like him.

I looked toward the corner.

I felt something.

And then from behind me, a voice.

Soft as sin, velvet as midnight, deep as a fresh-dug grave, and rich as melted dark chocolate poured over plump strawberries.

"Feliiiiiciiiiityyyy..." Sing-song. Like a lullaby meant to drive me feral. Or tsking me because I'd been very, very naughty.

I froze.

"Fuck," I gasped, but it came out like a moan.

The water rippled. Then hands.

Not seen. But there. Touching. Claiming. Caressing. The hands crept up my thighs, cold as death. Rings grazing skin, lingering at my ribs, my neck, my throat.

I didn't scream.

My legs floated apart.

Head fell back, mouth agape.

My body? Greedy. Starved. Aroused.

My mind? A million miles away.

"Alvarus?"

Silence.

Only the worship of touch.

I gripped the tub's edge as if it were the last thing holding me in place. The camera light blinked once. Then died.

The room dropped ten degrees.

But I burned. God, I burned.

My body wasn't mine anymore, not in any bloody way I'd choose.

I was waterlogged with heat, baptised in steam, trembling under cold hands I couldn't see but felt everywhere. One curled around my throat. Another slid between my thighs. Bigger than mine. Stronger. Proper filthy.

"Please," I gasped

"Aye, hermosa," the voice rumbled inside me. In my skull. My chest. The hollow of my quim where my fingers had once been.

"All that fire... and you don't even know who it's for yet."

I spread wider.

Arched and offered up everything.

"Take me," I whispered. "Use me."

The bathwater surged. My back struck porcelain as my hips bucked into nothing and everything. My nipples grazed invisible teeth. A mouth. A tongue. Fangs?

I cried out.

My hands clawed the curtain. Legs shook.

My body moved to an unholy tempo.

"Say my name."

"Al—Alvarus?" I sobbed.

And then I was under.

The bath swallowed me. Hair spread like flame. Bubbles broke against my lips as I thrashed beneath the surface. Choked. Drenched. Weightless. Helpless. While something pulsed inside me, stretching my wee cunt until my sense of self bled quietly away.

My legs were useless. Gone.

And just when I thought I'd drown in it, I broke through the water, gasping. Moaning.

My orgasm hits like a full-body possession.

My back arched. My thighs quaked. The tub rocked beneath me as water crashed over, and my mouth hung open in a silent scream.

Shadow poured through me like smoke.

And then Silence.

Stillness.

I lay there, wrecked. Coughing up water. Fucked senseless. Shivering in the comedown. And there, carved in the condensation on the mirror, one word stared back.

Mine.