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He remembers the boy in flashes, in dreams that plague him when they sleep in different beds. His small, perpetually young pussy. The little mosquito-bite tits. The way his mouth twists when sickness falls over him. The rungs of his ribs, at times so visible that Stack thought he could slide his fingers between them and into the boy’s body.
At night, when Remmick skulks around the Juke, blending into the shadows behind the bar, they don’t speak. Nothing exists between them when the boy is out on the floor, high on music and buzzed off of cheap liquor, usually scouting for customers.
Nothing. Not even when the boy’s eyes meet his over a faceless man’s shoulder, and neither of them look away until the crowd comes between them again.
It’s just something, and he’s gotten used to it. They both have. The way they don’t see each other until the wee hours of the morning, after everyone has cleared out, when Remmick comes to deliver Stack his cut of the money. He knows he should feel worse than he does about how he’s changed the boy, made him like a captive. But it’s difficult. So difficult, when he looks how he does when he’s doped up.
The ritual is a comfort to him, and he likes to believe it is to the boy, too.
“Open up. Attaaaa boy,” he’d say, not noticing how he groaned out the words as he felt the boy’s forked tongue brush his fingers, felt the softness of his nape-hair with his other hand.
Sober, he shies from Stack, likes to stay clothed, and takes care to make sure his voice doesn’t pitch too high. When he’s sedated, though, he seems to forget his condition, forget himself altogether. Laying belly-up like an animal, drugged-out, he lets his legs fall open and doesn’t seem to notice that he has a pussy at all. He doesn’t whine or cry when Stack takes his shirt off and twists and sucks at his nipples.
His fangs like to peek out, too, Stack’s noticed. It amuses Stack how useless they become when he’s fucked up, like some part of him, buried deep within the haze of ketamine and the lies he’s been fed, still wants to play at being intimidating when really, he’s nothing of the sort. Not when his pussy is sucking Stack in, and he’s tilting his head back, baring his milky throat to be held.
Right now, he’s delirious from a night shift, kissing the tips of Stack’s fingers as they draw from his mouth.
“Your brother beat me real bad yesterday,” he murmurs, looking up at Stack through his lashes and an eye that was, for maybe five seconds the day before, blackened.
Stack’s head tilts to one side.
“Poor thing. You musta been so afraid, huh?” he replies, hearing the words like someone else is saying them.
“Mhmm,” the boy hums, and there’s something unplaceable in his expression, something Stack thinks he might be making up but that he swears looks like giddiness.
“He hurt me,” he says, voice small in a way that doesn’t match his next words, “What do you think he did to me, Elias?”
The boy’s put-on voice is slightly ridiculous, like he’s playing a ravished farmer’s daughter in some soapy picture. Even so, it makes Stack swallow. Makes his cock swell in his pants.
“Did he touch you here?” Stack hears himself breathe, bringing a hand down to the boy’s pussy, to which he nods dreamily, eyes glassed.
“Yeah? Did he hit you?”
Stack is surprised how much it turns him on when the boy nods.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, pressing them both down onto the bed, “yeah, and you liked it, didn’t you?”
Remmick manages to hum along, his eyes fluttering open and closed. Stack arranges his limbs for him, making him sit back on his knees. Hands like white lily-flowers are moving uselessly at his belt, then, too clumsy to get it open, and Stack places his hands over the boy’s, helps him along.
Once Stack’s cock is out, though, the boy is adept at stroking him, guided by muscle memory and the rhythm of his own blood rushing in his ears. Stack groans gutturally.
“He made me touch myself, Elias. In fronna’im,” the boy says, all false sadness, and promptly licks Stack into his mouth.
The image of Remmick in some tiny storage room downstairs, froggying his legs open on a crate with his pants pooled around his ankles, flickers through Stack’s mind. He rocks his hips into Remmick’s mouth, hissing. Pulls back and slaps himself on the boy’s flat pink tongue.
“Made you, huh?”
“Mmmhm… pulled out… his gun,” he drawls between gags, “Put his switch in me, the sick bastard.”
He laughs, then, and the sound sends chills up Stack’s spine. It becomes very clear, at times, how little it all means to the boy; just how much he’s endured over the years for this to be nothing to him.
It was easy to believe that Remmick wasn’t as jaded as he was, with how well he played at ingenuousness. Stack remembers the first time the boy had taken a client, how different he’d seemed then.
The coolness of the boy’s quivering back against Stack’s front as Stack had held him there. On Bo’s part, fucking the demon was a nice favor; his familiar face a way to acclimate Remmick to this line of work— work that Stack found it hard to believe the boy had never engaged in before, given his condition. That first time, though, the tears had seemed real.
Now, Remmick was falling asleep as he fucked him, passing out from the drugs and exhaustion, his cold cunt warmed slightly from friction: evidence of a hard night’s work. Every few minutes his eyes, red and lightless, would flutter half-open as Stack made him come, then close again.
It isn’t until cold tendrils of daylight are skittering across the floor that he spills into the boy. When the demon is asleep, Stack notices, a peace washes over his face that is never otherwise present. He thinks, briefly, shamefully, of sleeping through the morning with Remmick. Of being there when he wakes up. Of a real life, one where Virginia is more than a passing dream.
He chances a last look at the boy, making sure he’s lying where the sun won’t reach him, and leaves the room.