Ashley goes out to lose her virginity, and finds a vampire. These things are not mutually exclusive.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sanctuary, we'd be up to season fifteen by now.

and rest our savage bones

So maybe sneaking out hasn't been her brightest idea.

It wasn't exactly sneaking out so much as it was extending her stay in Miami to a little longer than it should have been. Her companion had jumped on a plane this morning to escort the griffin back to the Old City Sanctuary. By all rights she should have been on that plane, too, but rumours of new and never before seen tech has her here one more night. Or so her mother thinks.

Ashley's gonna get laid.

It's about fucking time, she thinks. She's sixteen, and she can't exactly do it like most other girls, lose it in the back of her boyfriend's car on the way home from junior prom. No prom for her, no back of a boyfriend's car - she spends her nights tracking abnormals and taking out her frustration in the shooting range. No more. She's going to do this as normally as possible, unlike most everything else in her life.

She can't talk to her mom about it, either. Say, "Mom, I took down my first kill when I was ten, I think it's about time I lost my virginity?" Slam the brakes on there, sugar. Her mother would turn pale and set her lips in a fierce, hard line, and then never let her out of the Sanctuary on her own again. Well, until the next time she needed something bagged. God forbid Ashley skip out on the mission and go screw the first halfway decent guy she stumbles across.

It's not that she's angry at her mom, per se. It's just that sometimes she feels so big she could burst out of her skin. Her mother just smiles and calls it adolescence but Ashley can't imagine her calm mother ever feeling this way, like the world is throbbing at her fingertips, calling her name. Helen is calm and restrained, a cool idol of a woman - she's Ashley's idol, at least. She loves her mom. It's normal to get angry at your parents though sometimes, she thinks. At least, that's what she's heard.

And so she strolls into the shabby hotel bar, feeling every inch her age and certain all the other patrons can tell she's barely out of the cradle. Her ID says twenty-two, which is a hell of a stretch but she can manage it, with not too much make-up and just enough bravado (and her fingers crossed behind her back). She orders tequila and the bartender glares down at her ID for a full thirty seconds, his ancient wrinkled face suspicious. but it passes muster and he slaps a shot glass down in front of her, the clear liquid within deceptive.

It burns like battery acid on the way down, and so does the second.

The third is easier.

She's well on her way to happyland when she feels a presence behind her. Suppressing her natural instinct to attack before attacked, she turns, and finds a tall, brooding man behind her, dark hair and clear, penetrating eyes and a clever, calculating mouth. He examines her glass, and smirks.

"Tequila," he drawls. "Not what I would pick, my dear, but I suppose it gets the job done." His expression, his demeanour, they all should have her wanting to smack him one - except tonight, she is not herself, and she can let it be.

"It does," she replies, and toasts him with it. "I have to warn you, I'm not in the mood for conversation." It's true; despite her original aim, the alcohol's depressant qualities are working their magic on her.

"Let me see if I can change that," he retorts, and offers his hand. "Nikola Tesla," he croons, and she grins in return, finding an answering smirk on his face.

"Like the scientist." She's half expecting for him to kiss her hand as he lingers over it, but one last firm shake and she's released.

"Very like," he agrees, reaching across her to the bartender who offers him a glass of wine from a dusty bottle. He doesn't have to ask; evidently he's a regular. "And one for the lady, of course."

She would frown over his presumption but hey, who cares, free drinks are free drinks after all. The wine is heavy and full on her tongue, the crimson liquid hiding subtle notes that surprise her; the only other wine she's ever had was cheap stuff, scoffed with Henry late one night, both of them giggling.

Still, she finishes the glass, and motions for another. Never mix your drinks, she hears her mother say in her head, and she giggles. Nikola raises an elegant eyebrow. He's been keeping the flow of conversation steady, with barely any need of input from her, which is good because her head is starting to spin.

"Something amuses you, Ashley?" he asks, and she shakes her head as he refills her glass.

"No," he replies. "Not really. Just thinking what my mom would say if she knew I was here."

"A strong woman?" he queries, and she nods vigorously.

"The strongest," she replies emphatically. Nikola looks down, tapping the bar with one polished fingernail.

"A lot to live up to," he replies, voice completely neutral.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Sometimes I think I'll never be as good as her." Tears prick at her eyes and suddenly all she wants is to be home with Helen. Nikola's voice brings her back.

"I think you already are," he says gently. "I have not known you long, but I can see a spark in you. A fire. You have your own path, Ashley, and by God, you will blaze."

Maybe it's the drink, maybe it's the fact that he's said something no else ever has, but she reaches up and kisses him, kisses him electric, feeling sparks shoot down to below her waist. He is still as if stunned but just when she is about to draw back he shifts, a hand into her hair, his lips hard against hers.

She pulls back, horrified. What if he has a girlfriend - hell, what if he's gay? But he's smiling, wiping his lips delicately. "The sweetest surprise I have had in many months," he proclaims, and she blushes hot.

"Sorry - I mean…"

"Do not apologise," he replies imperiously. "Not for such a sweet gift as you have just given me. I am very flattered, my dear girl, and very interested indeed. So there is no need for you to apologise." And so, she doesn't.

She watches him as they drink in silence, examining, weighing up. So, yes, he's far older than her and yes, OK, she'll admit it, she has a thing for older guys. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to work out why, her absent father and strong mother and blah blah blah. For long minutes she watches him, seeing something at war in his eyes, in the press and then relax of his lips. Finally, he drains his glass and she follows suit, and he leans forward, locking her eyes with his.

"I have better than this in my room," he says quietly, and she's conscious of a line drawn in the sand, all at once aware of what he's proposing. she could laugh it off, tease him about taking advantage, but the truth is, she wants him to. Wants his steady hands and sharp mouth and deceptively vulnerable eyes.

He's far too old for her, occasionally frightening and probably has issues up the wazoo. But she's drunk, and he's better than anything else that's ever come along.

She knocks back the last of her glass and grins at him. "Then what are we waiting for?"

His room is nice, number three on the ninth floor, and below she can see the people traversing the night tiny around like ants, the lights of the city. She can hear the clink of glasses and the pop of a cork, and he reappears from the tiny kitchenette. "Libations, my lady," he murmurs, clinking his glass with hers, and she leans against the desk in the bedroom and they watch each other. It's almost, she muses, like two predators circling one another waiting for the moment to strike, and as she settles her glass down and licks a drop of wine from her lips, she throws down the challenge.

His eyes darken, and he crosses the room to her in broad strides, the expression on his face she can only describe as hungry.

And without a word, he pulls her into his arms, kissing her deep, and the only word she can think of to describe his kisses are 'ravishing'. He ravishes her with old-school class, kissing her sweetly first and then darkly, flicking his tongue against hers and nibbling lightly on her lower lip. It's intoxicating, and she's all to aware of every inch of him pressed against her.

If her mother saw her right now, she'd flip.

The thought makes her stiffen in his embrace, and Nikola releases her instantly, still keeping one hand gentle on her upper arm. "Have I done something wrong?" he questions, and she shakes her head, unable to meet his eyes. He pulls her back to him with a grim smile, tilting her chin up to look into her eyes. "Ashley," he purrs in that silky smooth voice, the one that makes her racing mind relax and her tense body unwind. "I will not hurt you, my dear."

"I know," she manages. "It's just... I've never done this before." It feels oddly like a confession.

Shock flits across his face. "You are a..." He doesn't need to finish the sentence for her to be blushing, painfully aware of her inexperience. It's humiliating, and for the life of her she can't work out why. She's sixteen, for God's sake, not exactly forty, but Nikola's finger lifting her chin to meet his eyes derails her self-flagellation.

"No need to be embarrassed," he croons. "But it is a precious thing, my dear. Are you sure you want to give it away now?"

Give it away... God, what is this, the 1800s? She turns in his embrace and kisses him hard, tongue parting his lips, legs twining around his waist. This, at least, she knows how to do.

"I'll take that as a yes," he agrees.

And that is how she finds herself flat on the bed, Nikola on top of her, licking and biting at her skin. "Condom?" she manages through his assault on her throat, and he grins, a shark grin of a smile, all mischief and trouble.

"God yes," he replies, holding up the small foil square. "You're too young for babies."

"You have no idea," she replies, and he laughs as he deposits her on the bed.

He flips the light off, and in the darkness she feels his lean body cover her own. And she is not afraid.

The next morning she wakes to sunlight and to bruises on her skin, teeth marks on her throat. He's skipped out on her and for a moment she's angry before she realises how damn good she feels. Sore and kind of tense but good, and in one fierce burst she realises she's no longer a virgin. That she's been fucked and thoroughly too, and despite the initial pain it was kinda fucking awesome.

She stretches, looks around. There's a glass of orange juice on the bedside table, still cold, and a muffin, apple and cinnamon, and a note. His suitcase is gone.

Ashley, it reads, thanks for a great night. N.

It's very him.

She laughs, and falls back on the ample pillows.

Years later her father will tell her Nikola Tesla (yes, the) is trying to kill her mother and she'll feel a sinking feeling that's nothing to do with her father's identity of Jack the Ripper. And yeah, OK, she might have had sex with a fucking vampire. Someday she's going to have to deal with all of that.

But not yet.