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delicrieux · 7 months ago

Text

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

#dark academia #the secret history #tsh #henry winter #henry winter x reader #henry x reader #henry winter smut #imagine #imagines #one shot #i always wanted to write smth for henry my beloved always and forever he did nothing wrong #💌 october #happy dark academia season everyone!#da

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stevie-petey · 23 days ago

Text

track three: you did me bad

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.” A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Summary: with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

Rating: mature, lots of swearing and sexual tension

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (max), excessive swearing, borderline smut, lots of alcohol use, and messy situationships

Words: 20.5k (the chapters only get longer from here)

Before you swing in: two things: 1) joe wearing a sleeveless shirt in pomona single handedly fueled half of this chapter and 2) all i can say is that i apologize for what youre about to read

The weight of the leatherbound book creases beneath your touch. Its edges have smoothed over from use, the pages yellowed with age and etched with stray pencil marks and dried up glue. Once originally a beautiful plum color, the leather cracks to a rust.

Unassuming on the outside, but the book itself explodes with images once opened.

Every inch of its pages are plastered with scraps of film, pieces of sketches, digital photos that shine in a light that you’re constantly trying to chase.

Reds, greens, blues, purples, pinks and whites and golds paint the photographs. The red of Robin’s favorite trench coat against Mike’s green electric guitar, both tossed onto an imperial purple couch after a show in Milwaukee. Max’s blue tie draped over Jonathan’s bone white drum set. A golden halo of stage lights that enshrine Steve’s pink, rosie face.

You bought the old leatherbound book at a small annex deep in the East Village. When you stumbled upon the book, it became a spur of the moment purchase that you hadn’t reflected much upon besides whether it could fit in your bag and if its pages were thick enough to hold glue.

You’d been looking for something to hold all your art, something physical to preserve your intangible, a portfolio for images you were never quite sure would become anything other than simply images.

Now the Februarys fill the once lonesome pages of your portfolio with a vibrance of life and color.

Gluing down a film photo from last night’s venue, you carefully smooth the delicate image of Mike’s cheeky grin onto the page. His hair sticks up at odd ends and in the background you can faintly see Max, mid-laugh, at something he’s said. It’s one of the only times you’ve managed to catch a smile on their faces these last few weeks.

August, 1989, Mike & Max laugh between rehearsals.

Your handwriting is a bit smudged and jagged due to the tour bus’ endless driving, but the detail of it only adds to the tenderness of the photo.

Setting the pen down, you close the book and carefully set it under your pillow. You’re not quite sure why you’ve kept your portfolio hidden from the band. It’s not like they haven’t seen your work already, but something about the images you choose for this collection, this assortment of art that is yours only, feels different.

You glance at your watch, follow the small hand with your eyes as it ticks by, and the moment it passes the hour hand, chords from Tease infiltrate the quiet of the bus.

“Do you really need to rehearse every hour, on the hour?” You poke your head down, looking under your bed to find Steve hunched over in his own bunk, curled into himself with his guitar nestled between his knees.

The only response you get is a gruff finger pointed at a sign that’s messily taped to his bed frame that reads, don’t talk to me. vocal rest. (even you, angelface).

“I really hate that goddamn sign.” It’d been drawn the night Leonard warned the Februarys not to fuck up, or else they jeopardize their entire career.

The threat struck a chord in the band, that much was clear by how pale their faces had grown in the phonebooth once Leonard hung up. Their fear was palpable, infecting your own bloodstream simply through proximity.

They cope with the fear in different ways.

Steve starts micromanaging every aspect of the band. What they wear, how they speak with fans, insisting upon hours and hours of rehearsals with hardly any breaks, and when he isn’t forcing his bandmates to rehearse, he’s plucking at the strings of his guitar until they cut his flesh.

Every performance from now on has to be perfect. Steve won’t accept anything lower than his dream-hazed need for perfection.

The only solace from his manic hysteria comes when he’s resting his voice.

Robin and Mike throw themselves into writing their album. Rather than follow Steve’s present-obsessed thoughts, they obsess over a future they have no control over. They engross themselves in lyrics and riffs and drum beats and tempos.

Though not as labor intensive as Steve’s coping mechanisms, Robin and Mike quickly become unbearable when they keep everyone awake at night whispering lyrics and ideas to one another.

The lack of sleep and Steve’s overbearing presence drives Max to start smoking during the day to survive. No one is sure where she gets the weed (she refuses to share her stash), but Steve loses his mind when he finds out.

“Are you fucking high?”

“Thank fuck I am,” Max giggled. “I mean, how else am I supposed to endure your fucking psychotic tendencies?”

“This isn’t some joke, Mayfield! You need to be as sober as the goddamn Pope before our gig tonight or I swear to fuck–”

“Y/N’s right,” she giggled again, eyes squinted at Steve. “Your face does get all pink. Like a pony.”

You had to drag Steve away before he started yelling. It carries on like this. Max antagonizes Steve to settle her own nerves, and he takes the bait every time. You’ve lost count of how many fights you’ve had to break up between them.

As for Jonathan, his anxiety gets so bad that he starts tapping his fingers and drumsticks on every surface he can find. Tables, beds, sides of venues, chairs, the floor, anywhere he can reach, and eventually he gets banned altogether from making any sound at all.

The tour bus becomes a war zone.

Stuck in a small space for three straight months with your closest friends, while fun at first, teeters on warfare with the added pressure of Leonard’s threat. Everything grows unsteady, heavy with tension.

Your job as a photographer is grim. With hardly any laughter remaining on the bus, the only photos worth taking are during the staged performances.

The only semblance of joy can be found in pieces of Robin’s laughter when Mike has thought of a particularly clever line. Steve’s proud smile, watching them. Jonathan’s quiet teasing in your ear and his shy chuckle when you pinch his side. Max and her wispy, rough voice crooning a country song that makes everyone giggle.

Even with the small pieces of joy, somehow the responsibility of keeping the quickly deteriorating band together falls on your shoulders.

The pressure of Leonard’s words are different for you. While your job technically hangs in the air as well, you’ve only just realized your dream of concert photography. While being with the band has been the best six months of your life, you know, eventually, you’d mend the broken pieces of your heart.

But the Februarys have been dreaming of this since they were kids. To have everything they’ve ever wanted stripped from their hands so suddenly, so close to the end, would ruin them.

So you force the band to participate in sightseeing parks and shitty roadside attractions. You keep a supply of Advil in your camera bag for Robin, knowing her migraines worsen the less she sleeps. You coax cold water down Max’s mouth for her chapped lips and smoke filled throat. You laugh at Mike’s jokes so that the relief of a pleased reaction can ease the sting of his exhaustion. You save some film for Jonathan so that he can slip away with your camera and get lost in the art he still adores.

You let Steve’s burnt out kisses soak your skin each night he crawls into your bed after crawling back from someone else’s, desperate to unwind from the pressure he can’t outrun. He tries to wash his sins with your warmth, and you become terrified that if you push him away, he’ll spiral.

One day, the Februarys will cite your presence as the glue that kept the cracks from shattering under the unbearable weight of finality.

–

Later that night, you’re crammed between Mike and Robin in a comically small dressing room. The Februarys have just completed their last show in Milwaukee, and though the hot, stuffy air is stifling, the heat doesn’t deter the band’s celebration.

“Three more shows!” Robin squeals, throwing her head back, knocking against your shoulder in her childish excitement.

“Chicago, here we come!” Mike’s lanky body hits yours next, his fist jumping into the air as his bony shoulder collides into you. “God, I can’t wait to be blown away in the wind.”

Max plops down on the couch the three of you inhabit, smothering your space even further, but none of you seem to mind. “We still have a show in Kenosha before we get to Chicago, dumbass.”

Mike waves her off. “Whatever. Wind is wind.”

Jonathan snorts at his response, though Robin makes a face. “Screw the wind, I’m just excited to finally be on the final stretch. I mean, Jesus. I was worried we’d lose someone by now. Homicide definitely isn’t a good image for the band.”

As if on cue, Steve flings the door open and stumbles inside, a handful of girls following close behind.

He throws his arms out, the shadows of his biceps rippling, no sleeves to hide them away. Robin was bored one day and cut off all the sleeves of his shirts, something that you haven’t quite forgiven her for. Steve gestures around the room as if it’s his kingdom and it’s hard to tear your eyes off of him.

“And this is where the magic happens.”

The girls fall into hysterics, giggling and clawing at Steve’s bare arms. Moles mark his tanned skin. Their fingers hide the beauty marks you wish you could kiss over.

“On second thought,” Robin narrows her eyes, scrunching her nose in disgust when one of the girls pulls down her top. “Maybe homicide isn’t so bad.”

“I know a good lawyer.” Max’s disgust mirrors Robin’s.

“No one is committing homicide,” you poke their chins, dragging their heads back so you can finally get up. You’ve kept to your own post-show ritual of leaving the dressing room as soon as Steve steps inside. “Anyways, can you guys help me find my extra film canisters? They were in my bag, but I couldn’t find them before the show started.”

Jonathan hops up. “Yeah, I’ll check by our equipment.”

“I’ll scour the dance floor.” Mike stands as well, saluting you. “And definitely won’t be looking for any money left behind.”

“You’re such a good samaritan, Wheeler.”

“I try to be.”

Meanwhile, Max wordlessly joins Jonathan’s side, ducked down behind his drum set to help. You thank them both, which they smile at, before you turn to Robin, who remains seated on the couch.

“And why aren’t you at my beck and call?” You ask her playfully, nudging her leg with yours.

“Because you indulge Steve too much,” she says, not taking her eyes off of him. She watches his every move, monitoring how unbalanced his coordination is, whether his pupils are too dilated, if the girls he’s with seem too incoherent themselves. “At least one of us has to tell you no.”

Her words upset you. Ducking your head down, you start looking through your bag again, giving your hands something to do.

“I don’t indulge him,” you can’t find your goddamn canisters. “Do you think I left the film on the bus?”

“I saw him crawling into your bunk last night.” Robin glares at you. “Again.”

“He’s under a lot of stress right now,” you remind her. “All of you are.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re sleeping with you as a shitty coping mechanism.”

You whip your head up, terrified Steve will overhear, but he’s too infatuated with the girls he surrounds himself with. “Will you shut up? We aren’t sleeping together!”

“Oh, my apologies. You just share a bunk bed like goddamn middle schoolers.”

“Look,” you set down your bag, crawl up onto the couch and kneel before Robin. Forcing her eyes on you, your hands clasp around hers. “I meant what I said about not wanting to be another girl Steve sleeps with.”

She doesn’t say anything; she’s seen how much more dependent Steve has become on you.

You sigh. “Whether or not you believe me, that’s your choice. But just because I refuse to sleep with him, it doesn’t mean I’ll abandon him, either.”

“Stubborn,” she says softly, her frail laugh almost pitiful echoing the warning from lifetimes ago. “Always stubborn.”

“Yeah, well,” you pinch Robin’s cheek. “I’ll be less stubborn if you help me find my canisters. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And though the conversation gets put to rest, it lingers on your mind the rest of the night.

Mike ends up finding the film canisters in the couch cushions, as well as a wad of fives that he pockets immediately, and you walk with the band back to the bus. Steve isn’t with you. The heat of his absence leaves a faint trace of smoke.

Jonathan falls asleep first. Mike follows, then Max, and eventually Robin. You’re left laying awake, staring at the bus’ ceiling, your conversation with Robin etching itself into the paneling, waiting for the stumbling of Steve’s footsteps to come home.

The anticipation draws into your chest like a tightrope. Taut, strung up high enough to hurt if you fall. The line tugs at your ribcage, coils in your stomach, its frayed edges a warning.

You’re afraid of what will happen when the tightrope snaps.

And it doesn’t take long to find out; the sting of its severance follows the morning after.

“It’s too nice of a day to stay inside,” you slam a pillow against Steve’s face, hoping the force of its collision will be enough to rouse him. He had come home late last night, crawling into your bunk at an hour that surprised even you. “Get up!”

Steve groans, rolling over as he pulls the blankets over his head. In the movement you catch a dark bruise on his chest, nail marks, before his body is covered again.

Seeing the bruises hurts. Smelling the perfume on his body twists your stomach. His exhaustion from girls who aren’t you infuriates you.

The remnants of Steve’s nights that he doesn’t bother to hide from you are enough to make you slam the pillow back down to his face, more forceful this time, childish, even, but his yelp of pain satiates the sting of his nights.

“Wake!” You hit him again. “Up!”

“Jesus, Y/N!” Steve shields his face from your attack, twisting in the blankets as he tries to escape. “Would you–” he ducks another blow. “Stop!”

When he’s finally on his feet, you drop the pillow and smile at him, innocent. “Good morning, rosie.”

“I’m not calling you angelface after you just maimed mine.”

“Don’t worry, you’re still a pretty boy.” Patting his chest condescendingly, you step past Steve and go wake the others. “Get dressed. There’s a park not even a mile away. Everyone is going. Mandatory band outing.”

“We pay you to take our photos, not to take us out on field trips.” He scoffs, though he grabs a pair of jeans and t-shirt anyways.

Pleased that he doesn’t put up much of a fight, you wink at Steve. “As if you don’t want to get me alone in a field.”

He trips over his jeans and you laugh, finally leaving him alone.

It takes about thirty minutes to get everyone awake and ready. Some are easier to convince than others. Max wakes up immediately and is the first one ready. Robin complains but lazily gets dressed. Jonathan has to be dragged out of his bunk, then Mike, but eventually you manage to get the Februarys out of their tour bus and into the open air.

The walk is leisurely. With only three shows left, the chamber of pressure slowly releases. They’re close to the end. Really close. And despite their hatred of Steve’s grueling schedule of rehearsals and practice and perfection, the band has never been as cohesive and amazing as they are now.

No longer on the brink of self-destruction, the Februarys are free to talk amongst themselves during the walk to the park, hopeful and optimistic of what’s to come. They’re laughing again, smiling, and Steve’s rough palm feels good in yours and the sun settles its rays on your skin like a lover’s lips, and for the first time in a long time, everyone can breathe.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mike kicks a rock in the path, turning towards you. “What do we pay you for, exactly? Like. I know you take pictures of us, but do you, I don’t know, sell them on our behalf or something?”

“I’ve been with you guys for months now.” You look at him in disbelief. “You seriously don’t know what I do for the band?”

“Nope.”

Steve shakes his head, laughing. “Where do you think our flyers came from?”

“We have flyers?”

Everyone groans. You manage to capture the collective disappointment on film, and you know before you’ve even developed it that it’ll be yet another image that goes into your portfolio.

At the park, everyone splits into their now habitual groups. Jonathan goes with Mike. Max with Robin. Steve with you. The groups formed after the first park you all went to, and no one has quite managed to drop the habit, though you don’t think anyone really wants to.

Steve finds a small patch of dandelions in the shade. The strength of the sun scorns just enough to make your skin blister, but in the sweet cold of the shade its rays are more kind, tender.

He’s brought his guitar with him, another habit instilled within him now, and soon you’re in his arms with the instrument against your chest. You’ve been working on the early strings of Rosie these last few weeks. Steve insists you learn the song you created.

The day passes in a slow, dream-like way that leaves saccharin in your bones. Chords float through the air. In the distance you hear Robin’s infectious laughter and see the flash of Robin’s red hair. Somewhere Mike rambles to his newfound brother, both sharing stories of Nancy.

For a moment, it’s just the six of you in this small, intimate world built only for one another.

That’s when you see a red Camaro park next to the tour bus. A figure gets out, the long limbs suggesting a man’s body. You frown, nudging Steve to get his attention.

“Do you know who that is?”

He squints, the distance far enough to mask the person’s face. “No, I don’t think so.”

You shrug it off, about to go back to the bridge of Rosie, when the man in the distance starts to wave his arms at you and Steve, friendly, though demanding enough to alert you to the fact that he wants you to come to him.

Looking at Steve, he mirrors your shrug. “Seems he knows us, though.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, but Steve is already grabbing your hand to stand the two of you up. He brushes off the grass and dandelions you plucked together and tugs at you to walk along with him.

Robin and Max must’ve seen the man as well, because soon they join.

“Who the hell is that?” Max asks.

“No idea,” Steve whistles to where Jonathan and Mike are, shouting, “Hey, guys!” He points towards the parking lot, silently commanding them to follow, and they nod, confusion evident on their faces when they see the unexpected company.

The first thing you notice about the man is the green of his eyes. Trapped behind thick rimmed glasses, there’s no hiding their beauty. They remind you of the emerald ring your mother used to wear. Deep, multicolored, a tint of blue that makes you miss the ocean.

“Hello,” he smiles at the group. His slightly crooked teeth only add to his boyish features of soft cheeks, a rounded nose, a bashful chin. Freckles splatter over the crest of his nose. You wonder how long it would take you to count them all. “My name is Gregory Clarke.”

“Cool,” Steve grips your waist, holding you behind him, protective, unsure what to make of the man before him. “Can we, uh. Help you, Gregory?”

The rest of the band stands behind Steve, following his weary nature.

Gregory senses the unease and brushes his hair out of his eyes, apologetic. It’s brown. Almost a lovely amber in the sunlight. Hints of gold that match his freckles.

“My apologies,” he says, his easy laugh reassuring, comforting. “I guess Leonard never mentioned me.”

“You know Leonard?” Steve is surprised.

“I’m his assistant, actually.” Gregory takes a cautious step forward, nodding at everyone. “Nice to finally meet you guys.”

No one moves. Steve pulls you tighter against him. You can tell by the curl of his fingers that he doesn’t trust the man, but the green of his eyes draw you in, his smile makes your heart pound in a pleasant, delightful way.

“I’m Y/N,” you step out of Steve’s grasp, closer to Gregory, and smile up at him. He’s deliciously tall, broad, and you stick your hand out, body buzzing at the idea of touching his. “Sorry that you’re Lenny’s assistant.”

“It isn’t so bad,” he says, hand intertwining with yours, softer than Steve’s, alabaster and freckled. He smiles politely at you, but his eyes betray him for a brief second, lingering on your frame, and you see it. Your stomach warms at the idea that he’s succumbed as well. “Especially when I get to meet talent such as yourself.”

Your face flushes in the August heat. “You’ve seen my photography?”

“Of course I have. Leonard really admires your work. In fact, he even told me–”

“Why are you here?” Steve’s voice cuts through clenched teeth, stabbing into the conversation. He’s next to you again. You’re not sure when that happened.

Guess you weren’t the only one who noticed the lingering gaze.

Gregory’s smile doesn’t falter at the disdain in the other man’s voice. He only fixes his glasses, grins back at you again, before facing Steve. “Right, I should’ve explained that sooner.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Steve.” Robin snaps at him, yanking his shirt as if restraining a dog. “Don’t fucking start.”

“Really, it’s no problem,” Gregory addresses her now, patient and understanding. “He’s right to be upset. It’s quite humid out here and I’m only keeping you in the sun longer than necessary. In fact, why don’t I treat you guys to an early dinner? That way there’ll be some AC while we talk. It’s nothing bad, of course, but it’ll take some time to discuss.”

The way Gregory talks, with a soft smile around his vowels and genuine interest in what you have to say, you’re struck by how different his charm is from Steve’s. It’s real, delicate, authentic where Steve’s is performative, and there is nothing hidden in the way he looks at you.

“I think dinner sounds great,” you tell him, answering for the band before Steve can shut the idea down. “Don’t you guys agree?”

Max looks around uncertainly, noting Steve’s clenched jaw and your hopeful smile. “I guess I could eat.”

“Can we order whatever we want?” Mike asks Gregory.

“Within reason, but Leonard did give me his credit card.”

“Then I’m sold.”

Robin forces a smile on her face. “I’ve never said no to free food,” she clears her throat, not so subtly kicking Steve’s shin. “Right, Steve?”

“Whatever.”

You pretend he sounds excited, that his resentful gaze doesn’t brand your skin. “Byers, I take it you’re in?”

“AC sounds nice.” Jonathan grimaces. He’s never been able to hide his discomfort. “I, um. Like AC.”

“Then dinner it is.” Gregory beams at everyone, not at all expecting anyone to return the smile, but smiling anyway because he’s truly happy to be here, to talk to them, to finally meet the Februarys, even if their reception to him is cold.

Your heart flutters again.

Almost as if he can hear the unusual cadence of your heartbeat, Steve grabs your hand, strokes the underside of your wrist. A silent plea to look at him, but instead you place your hand on Gregory’s arm, walking away.

“So, know any good restaurants around here?”

–

Dinner is unbearable.

The restaurant Gregory takes everyone to is a small, local diner that he’s been to a few times during his time as Leonard’s assistant. He promises that the food will be worth the shitty weather, and for a brief second you’re all hopeful that the dinner will go over smoothly.

Then Gregory pulls a chair out for you and helps you sit down before sitting across from you.

Steve bristles immediately, deliberately choosing the seat next to you as retaliation, and the rest of the band has to bite their tongues to keep quiet.

“So,” Gregory doesn’t wait to explain everything, having already ordered a round of drinks for the table. You wonder if he’s caught on to the group’s tension by now and purposefully selected alcohol as a buffer. “I’m basically here on Leonard’s behalf.”

Steve huffs. “Like his little pet?”

“If you want to look at it that way, sure.” The laugh that falls from Gregory’s chest only darkens Steve’s already shitty mood. He isn’t reacting how he wants him to. “As I’m sure you all know, there’s three shows left of your tour.”

“We can count.”

You pinch Steve’s side, harsh, and he flinches. “What he means to say is that they’re excited to finally be wrapping up the tour.”

“Well, Leonard’s excited, too.” The waiter comes and sets the drinks down. A simple round of beers, a safe option, and you think Gregory accounted for that as well. “But, Leonard being Leonard, he wants to make sure your final three shows are, well. Uneventful, so to speak.”

Don’t fuck up.

At least Gregory tries to put the threat in a lighter, more optimistic tone.

“‘Uneventful’ is one way to look at it.” Robin sips her beer, leaning over the table to get a better look at Gregory. “He practically told us not to fuck anything up or else he’ll fuck our lives up.”

The assistant winces. “He… certainly has a way with words.”

“No kidding,” Mike orders two ribeye steaks. “His money doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Wait, you said Leonard sent you to make sure the shows go well?” Max asks Gregory, who nods. “Okay, so what does that mean? Are you our babysitter or something?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no I hope you guys don’t view it as that. Leonard just… really, really needs to make sure there’s nothing that will jeopardize the future of this band. He wants the Februarys to be successful. Believe me. I’m just here as a sort of precaution. All I’m doing is attending the last three shows to tell him what he already knows: you guys are a fucking once-in-a-lifetime band.”

“Or you’ll be an annoying snitch,” Steve spits out. “I mean, how are we supposed to just trust that you won’t go spewing bullshit to him?”

Your face burns in embarrassment at his treatment towards Gregory. “Why are you being such an asshole right now?”

“I’m looking out for my band!” He argues, grabbing a beer and sloshing it around. “I worked too fucking hard to trust some guy named Greg. I mean, who the hell even names their kid that?”

“Your name is Steve.” Gregory points out, though not unkindly, and you’re not sure if you want to kiss him for his unwavering confidence or kick him for antagonizing an already unstable Steve. “But regarding your concern of trusting me, I won’t force you to. That’s entirely your decision. All I can say is that I haven’t heard music like yours since The Velvet Underground. You guys are special. I’m not here to tarnish that.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to say more, but the food arrives and suddenly the tone in the conversation shifts. Gregory eagerly thanks the waiter, charming as ever, and before his eyes Steve watches his band members warm up to the assistant.

“Leonard is really okay with paying for all of this?” Jonathan asks in disbelief, staring at the sheer amount of food that can’t possibly be finished by them. “I-I mean, this has to be at least a couple hundred dollars.”

“Technically, he told me to do whatever to convince you guys I’m not the enemy.” Gregory shrugs, takes a bite of his burger. “So this will probably be a tax write-off for him.”

“Is that… legal?” Max doesn’t know whether to start with the truffle fries or the salad.

Again he shrugs. “You’ve met my boss.”

The stoic, uncharacteristically dry response makes you snort. Embarrassed, you try to hide it behind a laugh, but Gregory catches the reaction and leans in close to you, as if conspiring, “I heard that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you flick your hair over your shoulder, relishing when Gregory’s eyes follow the movement.

“Don’t worry, it was cute.” He steals a fry, winks at you, before sitting back again.

Robin has to take the steak knife out of Steve’s tight fist.

You don’t see the exchange, too focused on the dimple in Gregory’s left cheek and imagining yourself kissing it.

“Besides music, tell me about yourselves.” He turns back to the group now, though his shoulders lean towards yours, an easy intimacy to him that eats away at you.

Robin tilts her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” He says. “I’m all ears.”

One by one, the Februarys start to laugh at Gregory’s jokes. They tell him stories from their early years, explaining how the band formed, where their name came from. Robin lets him try her milkshake. Mike splits his second ribeye with him. Max discovers they’ve both read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and talks animidly with him about it. Jonathan shows him a picture of Nancy and smiles when Gregory says she’s beautiful.

And you latch onto every word. A breath of fresh air, Gregory’s intelligence and honesty pulls you under the tide like the moon controls the current.

Steve doesn’t think he’s seen you laugh this much since the winter in the apartment together. The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he washes down with alcohol.

“You look like you’re trying to kill the guy with your mind.” Robin whispers in his ear halfway through the night.

“I fucking want to.” Steve watches you reach across the table to fix Gregory’s glasses. “I want him dead.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Can you save the melodrama for later? I actually like the guy. Don’t scare him off, please.” When the tension in Steve’s jaw doesn’t lessen, she sighs. “Steve, I’m serious. Don’t fuck this up for us. Lay off the beer. Plaster a smile on your face. Pretend you want to be here and that you have your shit together.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Harrington.” She grabs his arm, tugs him away from you, and whispers venomously. “I know you, okay? I know you and I love you despite that, but if you continue to throw a hissy fit with the guy who reports directly to Leonard Branham, I will castrate you.”

“I–”

“So, Gregory!” Robin throws a smile back on her face, releasing Steve. “You said you’re from Vermont?”

Steve gets the hint. He shuts up. Puts the beer down. He won’t pretend to play nice, but he at least softens his glare to a sneer, and it’s the most he can offer Robin.

Eventually the bill gets paid and Gregory walks the band outside. He’s perfectly civil, extending his farewells to everyone with his usual kind smile. “It was wonderful getting to know everyone tonight.”

Steve fucking hates that he seems to mean it.

“Thanks for the food, man.” Jonathan claps Gregory’s back. “It was really good.”

“I think Mike might puke.” Max points to the kid, who clutches his stomach with a red face. “How many steaks did you eat?”

“Not enough,” he pants out. “God, Jonathan can you carry me back to the bus?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Nancy you let me drink beer tonight.”

“I dread the day I marry into your family,” Jonathan bends down, instructs Mike onto his back, and then turns to Gregory again. “Sorry, but we should go.”

He laughs. “I understand. You two have a good night.”

“We won’t.” They both say at the same time, before Jonathan treks home with Mike on his back.

“We should get going, too.” Steve says, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. He looks directly at you when he says it, though, completely ignoring Max and Robin who remain. “Right, angelface?”

The name is purposeful, a way to mark you as his in front of Gregory, and the shame of it washes over you in sickly thick waves.

Your mouth opens, closes, no words come out. Steve stares at you, expectant in a way that isn’t demanding or cruel or even as a way to guilt you. No. He stares at you with the same expectant gaze that you frame on him every night he walks away with the girls he hides behind.

“Actually, Y/N needs to talk to Gregory about something, right?” Robin’s mercy saves you, giving you an out.

“Right,” you nod, finding your voice again. “I, uh. Needed to talk to him about some potential projects.”

The expectancy dies in Steve’s eyes the same way yours does every night. “A project?”

“Yeah.” Your throat squeezing at your lies. “I’ll see you guys back on the bus.”

Robin catches Max’s eyes and they exchange a brief look. They nod, grab Steve’s arms, and drag him away before he can say or do anything else, leaving you alone, finally, with Gregory.

Steve’s protests and yells can be heard deep into the distance, and you almost don’t want to turn back to Gregory, too ashamed to face him.

Only he gently grabs your arm, spins you around, and his head hangs low so that he can coax your eyes to his. “Angelface, huh?”

“It’s just a nickname.” The lie comes out fast, easier than you expect it to. You hate that it does.

If Gregory notices the lie, he doesn’t show it. “I think it’s sweet. Fitting.”

“Is it? I’ve always thought it was an exaggeration.” You brush off his compliment, not wanting someone else to agree with the name meant only for a boy with rosie cheeks.

“It’s not an exaggeration,” Gregory tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, stroking your cheek in the process. “You’re beautiful, Y/N, and, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner all night. A real, proper dinner, just you and me and Leonard’s credit card.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Then why haven’t you?”

Gregory sighs. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were already spoken for.”

Your heart sinks. "I…”

“I’m still not sure,” he laughs awkwardly, boyish smile strained. “I mean, I saw Robin hide the steak knives from Steve.”

“He’s just an idiot,” this time it isn’t a lie. “I promise you that that’s all it is.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, though he isn’t accusatory. Only curious, empathetic and understanding. “If there’s something more, I’ll happily back down. We can forget that dinner was ever on the table. I don’t want you or anyone else to think I’m here to cause any harm.”

Fear tightens your vocal chords. “No,” your hand falls to Gregory’s. “No, please listen to me. I’m not Steve’s, and he sure as hell isn’t mine. I want to get dinner with you, Gregory.”

He squeezes your hand. “I just don’t want to cause any problems.”

“You won’t,” you promise him. Another lie. “Now, walk me back to the bus, properly ask me to dinner, and maybe I’ll kiss you goodnight.”

Gregory smiles, and it’s like a thousand soft raindrops on sun-torn skin.

He holds your hand the entire way back. His grip isn’t as heavy as Steve’s, it’s lighter, easier, less sacred and sacrilegious. He tells you a story from his childhood, more soft spoken now than he’d been at dinner, as if only your presence requires this gentleness overflowing.

When you get to the bus, Gregory pulls you so that you lean against its side, and he settles both arms against the bus, encasing you, and his height only makes the sensation of the proximity more pleasurable when he looks down at you.

“Please, will you join me for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper up at him, standing on the tips of your toes, anxious to be even closer to him. “Pick me up after the show?”

His nose dips down to yours. “I’d love that.”

A grin eases its way across your lips, and before you can press them to Gregory’s, he cups your face, kisses your cheek once, twice, and then pulls away.

“Save the kiss goodnight for when I’ve earned it,” he tells you, hand trailing down your arm until he reaches your fingers to bring your wrist to his lips. Only he doesn’t kiss the back of it like Steve does. He kisses the front, the strip of flesh just above your watch. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The words are murmured against your skin.

“Goodnight, Gregory,” you exhale.

He feels your eyes on him the entire walk back to his car.

–

When you walk onto the bus, you find the band caught in a landmine.

Robin sits at the kitchenette with a deck of cards in front of her, untouched. Her stiff posture and tired eyes tell you that it’s been a long night without your presence.

Max and Mike sit at their bunks, hunched over together, pretending to busy themselves with songwriting. Only their instruments aren’t with them and Mike’s nervous fidgeting gives away everything.

Jonathan lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, a book propped against his chest that he doesn’t bother to pretend to read.

They all greet you with weak voices, afraid that any sudden movement will set off a stray mine. None of them acknowledge Steve in his bed, his knees drawn in tight, his guitar clutched to his chest, aggressive, almost destructive chords plucked from his fingers over and over again as if he can drown his anger in its melody.

The agonizing sound shrieks in your ears. Max flinches, Robin squeezes her eyes shut, and you know that you have to be the to cross the bomb-ridden field to quell its dull roar. It isn’t fair to your friends otherwise.

Steve doesn’t look up from his guitar. He continues to play a song that you think is from their EP, though the angry way he’s playing it almost makes the song sound foreign, unknown.

“I doubt Lenny will like this version of Lower East,” you sit at the edge of the bed like a bird perched in a barbed cage. “Might be a little too aggressive, even for him.”

His lips don’t turn upwards. His fingers don’t relent at the taut strings.

You try to relax your spine, moving your hands from your lap onto the bed. The blankets are familiar, worn, remnants of Steve’s childhood home in Hawkins. “I think he’ll love what you guys are working on now, though.”

You’ve heard the early stages of their album, catching snippets between rehearsals and late night writing sessions. You aren’t telling Steve this to appease him or placate him. You tell Steve that Leonard will love his music because you truly believe it to be true.

“Have you guys thought about what you’ll name the album?” You move so that you’re laying beside him, enough room not to make him feel trapped, but close enough so that your body heat kisses his.

Only Steve still pretends that you don’t exist. His white knuckles clutch the frail instrument and he strums so roughly that the bed shakes with every movement.

Swallowing back your anger, your eyes close.

“You have slept with every girl in every goddamn state.”

The screech of stopped chords tell you that you finally have his attention.

“You get fucking wasted and sleep with the first warm body you find. And then you crawl into my bed when you’re finished. Every single fucking night.” A cold laugh snags at your clenched teeth. “You don’t get to be a fucking asshole to me just because I smiled at someone who isn’t you.”

The vitriol that laces Steve’s laugh cuts your skin. “What, so you decided to try and make me jealous? Is that it? You think that’ll get you my attention?”

You stumble off the bed, exasperated laughter foaming over your fury.

“Oh, you think I want your attention? Please, a fucking mannequin with tits is enough to get your limp dick hard.” Steve’s lips part in shock, but you’re furious. “I-I mean, I’m already yours, Steve!”

You’re screaming now, uncaring of the fact that the rest of the band members are only a few feet behind you. Your body shakes, your throat burns, but Steve’s cruel, callous eyes blind you with upset and insecurity.

“Jesus fuck, I’m yours. All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about!” You’re laughing, only it comes out tight, incredulous. Steve sits in his bed and you bend down, eye to eye; you’ve always known exactly who he was. “But you can’t promise me that, can you?”

Steve doesn’t flinch at your vicious words. He stares straight back into your eyes, skin crawling when he feels everyone else’s gaze on him. He’s hyper aware of their presence. Their bodies are too close, he wishes he hadn’t started this argument with witnesses. He hates that he’s trapped himself on a bus that he can’t escape.

But he had. Now he pays the price for it, biting his tongue, biting back a promise he hates that he can’t give you. Not with them here. Not with anyone else present.

Steve thinks he sees tears rimmed around your eyes when your manic laughter dies and all you can say to him is, “Then it’s your fault if I mess around.”

And then you leave, throwing yourself into Robin’s seat at the kitchenette, as far away from Steve as possible.

He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

You end up sleeping in Robin’s bunk. Her body isn’t as warm as Steve’s, but it’s softer, plush, comforting to rest your head on as you cry. She pulls her blankets over the two of you so that no one else will see your tears. She hums random songs to disguise your sniffling.

“Steve’s a jackass,” Robin whispers into your ear, drying the tears that spill out. “Ignore him, alright? You’re allowed to flirt with cute boys named Gregory who drive hot Camaros.” A wet laugh, though Robin is happy to hear the shadow of your normally bright one. “C’mon,” she pokes your stomach, “tell me all about Greg.”

And you do.

–

Sometime in the morning, Steve wakes up before everyone else, grabs his guitar, and slips through the doors. He doesn’t leave a note, he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s gone, and though a part of you is worried, you can’t help but be thankful for his absence.

Robin heats you up some oatmeal and dabs your puffy eyes with a cold cloth. She sets coffee in front of you and kisses your exhausted cheek and sits down at the table next to you as if the weight of Steve’s cruelty doesn’t hang over her as well.

Everyone tries to go about their usual morning routines, though it’s difficult with the ever present worry that Steve has finally slipped through their fingers, gone for good.

You try to distract yourself with film. Claiming the kitchenette as your office, you carefully mix together the chemicals, spread out the rolls of film you’ve combed through a million times now, and get lost in the hypnotic sequence of developing the photos.

“I don’t think ‘running after a venom kiss’ lands well,” you hear Robin chastise across the bus in Mike’s bed with him next to her. “I get what you’re trying to say, but it sounds like a shitty Spider-Man villain.”

He frowns, furiously erasing what he’s written. “What about ‘fighting though vicious lips’?”

“Too sexual, and that’s not what we’re going for. Not for this song, at least.”

“‘Soothing words on velvet faux lips’?”

“Now you’re just stitching v-words together.”

You set a photo down. “What about ‘chasing vitriol with someone’s lips’?”

Robin doesn’t expect to hear your voice, but when she thinks through what you’ve said, she hums, nods, and quickly writes the lyric down. “Not bad, L/N.”

“Where’d that come from?” Mike raises an eyebrow at you, the closest he’s come all morning to asking about what happened last night.

Except you don’t want any pieces of it to remain. Rather than feed into his question, you simply shrug at him and go back to your work.

About midday, an hour before the bus is set to drive the final few miles to tonight’s venue, Steve slams through the doors, storms past you and everyone else, and locks himself in the bathroom.

Despite his aggressive return, there’s a collective exhale of relief.

–

The venue for Kenosha is bigger than Milwaukee's had been. A large lounge area encircles the dressing room, spacious enough to house a small crowd with floor length mirrors built into the walls. The reflective space borders on disorienting, but Gregory looks around in awe and endearing excitement.

“Oh, this is just fucking cool!” He stands before one of the mirrors, his reflection reflected in the dozens of mirrors behind him. He spins around, looks at himself from the other side, and laughs even harder. “God, this would be terrifying if you were high.”

“Stand still,” you aim your camera at Gregory, giggling when he poses like a comic-hero. In the corner of the frame, you spot Mike’s middle finger sticking up. “You’re in my shot, Wheeler.”

“Considering we’re in a mirror-hell, I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. You can practically see everything in here.”

Steve yanks at his shirt, undoing the first row of buttons with unneeded force. “Fucking tell me about it,” he mumbles, bitter, unable to look away from your eyes shining up at Gregory.

“Tell me, was the keyboard custom made?” The man in question points at Robin’s multicolored keyboard.

“I painted it myself, actually.” She beams in pride.

Gregory whistles, ignoring the steely glares he feels from Steve. “If I gave you my violin, would you paint something on it for me?”

Steve wants to bash his head against the mirrors. Of course he fucking plays the violin.

Asshole.

You haven’t looked at Steve since he got back earlier and he really, really misses your voice. This is the longest he’s gone without hearing rosie fall from your lips. Yet here you are, giggling at someone else’s jokes, wasting your film on someone who isn’t him, and Steve thinks that maybe it’ll always be this way.

Gregory’s presence reinvigorates the band, even if it enrages Steve. He’s able to get Max to smile for your pictures again. He poses with Jonathan, holds the drumsticks up like medals. He plays a game of rock-paper-scissors with Mike and the winner’s triumphant smile gets captured by you. Robin throws her legs across Gregory’s when they sit on the couch together and you take a picture of her purple skirt over his denim jeans.

With the endless mirrors surrounding him, Steve can’t escape any of the images.

By the time they’re called onto the stage, he’s never been more grateful to perform.

Gregory stands next to you in the security area. His height makes him impossible to miss in the crowd, and despite Steve’s best efforts, he can’t stop looking at the way your body seems to fit so well beside Gregory’s.

What burns the most, Steve thinks, is that for the first time since yesterday he has all of your attention, your viewfinder always on him, taking only his picture as he performs. The art is meant only for him, yet Steve knows that if you had a choice, you wouldn’t choose him to be your muse.

And what a cruel reminder it is.

The concert nears its end and you adjust your aperture in preparation of the pinks and purples that cloud Rosie’s stage for the finale. You fiddle with your camera, head down, not paying attention to what’s happening on stage, until you hear the click of a mic and Steve’s introduction of the song.

“I need to ask you guys something,” he says to the screaming crowd. “It’s a serious question, so bear with me, alright?” A variety of agreements and promises cheer through the audience, and Steve licks his lips. “God, I knew I could rely on you guys. Okay, when you hear the word ‘rosie’, what color do you think of?”

“Pink!” “Red!”

Back and forth the crowd debates.

Steve draws the mic up to his lips. “See, when I hear ‘rosie’, I think of red myself. But isn’t it ironic that red also makes me think of anger? I mean, isn’t it supposed to be associated with love or some other shit like that?”

A slight murmur of confusion washes over the audience. Steve’s charismatic performance slips, ever so slightly, and they’ve sensed it.

Max eyes him, unsure what to do, and none of the other band members seem to know what to do with Steve’s odd comments, either.

A long pause stretches, almost unbearably long, but Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything else. Robin assumes this to be her cue to start Rosie and begins the melodic lullaby keys for it, only for Steve to suddenly grab the mic and surprise everyone with a completely different song.

For the first time since the start of the tour, he doesn’t perform Rosie.

It takes you a moment to recognize they’re the lyrics to Cool it Down by the Velvet Underground. The song you once suggested the band cover, before a tour was ever on the table, before they even had any other songs to perform, simply because Steve had told you a story from his childhood.

Robin’s fingers fumble on the keys, creating a disjointed sound that clashes with Steve’s voice. She grimaces at the sound, her face red with embarrassment, and it’s Jonathan who’s the first in the band to recover from Steve’s sudden change to the setlist, following the beat to a song that isn’t theirs, while Robin and the others slowly catch up.

You better cool it down.

Oh, baby, cool it down.

Steve stares straight at you, never faltering in the song that he knows has just as much meaning to you as it does to him. He leans down, stares past your lens, a pink haze of smoke swirls around his disheveled hair.

Gregory’s hand rests carefully on your waist, blocking you in.

In this lighting, you wonder if you can hate Steve with the halo that shines down upon him through your camera.

–

Gregory doesn’t recognize the wreckage he runs into, face beaming, after the show. He’s ecstatic, running around from member to member, talking a mile a minute.

“You guys are fucking incredible!” He grabs Jonathan’s shoulders, shaking him, and you have to gently pry him off your friend.

“Try not to kill your boss’ talent, Gregory.” You tease, smiling.

He steps back sheepishly. “Sorry, I just haven’t seen a show like that since I was a teenager and my dad took me to see Springsteen. I mean, it was an almost perfect performance, just be careful not to play the wrong songs when Leonard gets here.”

The temperature in the room drops at the mention of the setlist change. Gregory doesn’t register it, he doesn’t understand that he’s in a minefield now as well.

But Steve does.

He clenches his jaw, hissing through his teeth, “It won’t happen again.”

Gregory’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected rage. Steve had been cruel to him last night, immature, but he had attributed it to his interest in you and his protectiveness of his band. Now, seeing the deep hatred in Steve’s eyes, Gregory understands that there’s more to his anger than he can ever know.

“Well,” he coughs awkwardly, knowing he’s overstayed his welcome. “I should get going, but I just wanted to say again that you guys were amazing tonight. Truly. I have no doubt that Leonard has nothing to worry about.”

Robin manages a small smile. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Not a problem at all,” then, salt in the wound, he turns to you, “I’ll wait outside?”

“Yeah,” your head jerks a nod, uncoordinated, aware of Steve’s eyes on you. “I’ll, um, meet you in a couple minutes.”

Gregory squeezes your hand and leaves with even more praise for the band, unyielding in his charm, warming the room before the inevitable storm comes. The second the door closes behind him, Robin rounds on Steve.

“You changed the fucking setlist?” She screams so loud in his face that everyone stumbles back, momentarily blinded by her fury.

“It was just one song,” he tosses his guitar onto the couch and rolls his eyes. “Why the hell does it matter?”

“It matters because you didn’t tell us!” Robin grabs at his shirt, pulling him back so that she can force him to look at her. “I looked like a goddamn idiot on stage!”

“You didn’t look like an idiot, Robin.” Jonathan reassures her, though when he turns to Steve, his patience slips into disappointment. “She’s right, though. You can’t just change the setlist whenever you feel like it.”

Mike flicks a guitar pick, watching it thud off of Steve’s head in pleasure. “Yeah, you’ve been a control freak for weeks, but now when Leonard’s freakishly tall spy joins you’re a selfish asshole?”

“You can act out when we’re alone,” Robin’s grip on Steve’s shirt tightens, they’re nose to nose as she spits in his face. “You can be a malicious bitch when Leonard isn’t watching, but that’s the last goddamn time you pull a stunt like that. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, for us.”

“Ruin it?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m the reason why Jonathan recovered so well from the setlist change!” He stabs at his own chest with every word. “Those were my rehearsals that prepared him for the change. I’ve been the one holding this fucking band together! For years it’s been me keeping us afloat, finding our venues, encouraging Jonathan to join, buying your goddamn keyboard, practically begging Mike’s and Max’s parents to let them live their dreams!”

He sucks in a harsh breath, eyes cold and face broken. “Everything I’ve done has been for the Februarys.”

“Then where have you been this entire fucking tour?” Max shoves Robin aside, sick of the hypocrisy. “Huh? Where the fuck have you been since we left New York?” She laughs in his face. “What, you don’t remember? Did you forget that every night you get drunk off your ass and fuck every girl you can find? Did you forget that you abandon us the second our shows are done so you can go get shitfaced with complete strangers who don’t care for anything other than your saggy dick? Did you forget all that?”

Something cracks under the surface of Steve’s indifference. A twitch of his mouth, a sting in his eyes, but Max sees it and cuts even deeper, no longer respecting the boy she grew up admiring.

“Did you forget that it’s been Y/N holding us together while you’ve gone and done fuck all else?”

He stumbles back, the lash of Max’s viscous words severing the last of his resolve. His body collides into Robin, only she doesn’t catch him. Not this time. He barely regains his balance, nearly deafened by the silence that follows Max’s death kill.

The mask falls. His head spins around in a dizzying manner, looking at his childhood friends like a little kid, lost in a grocery store, terrified and alone. His face bears no trace of the anger that marred it only seconds ago.

Steve would do anything for the Februarys. From the very first day you met him he’s made this evident. He’s bled himself dry for them, given everything he can for the chance to make them happy, to hold their hands through the journey, to be a rockstar with his best friends, to be their leader when they call out to him in need.

Somewhere along the way he lost sight of that.

He’s only now realized how far he’s fallen.

“Steve,” your breath comes out more like a plea, a conciliation. You turn to him like a hunter does an injured deer, aching to patch his wounds.

He’s all alone.

And he knows it. Steve pushes past you, pushes past everyone, and the slam of the door echoes the weight of grief that plagues the room.

No one sees him for the rest of the night.

Steve doesn’t return to the tour bus. In the end, you cancel your date with Gregory. You don’t have it in you to plaster a smile on your face when you’re wracked with guilt over what’s happened tonight.

You apologize over and over again, but Gregory frustratingly understands it all. He tells you it’s okay, that he doesn’t spite you for caring about your friends.

The hollow cavern in your chest rattles at the thought of Gregory referring to Steve as your friend, but you don’t correct him. It’s easier for you not to.

–

You’re up before everyone else in the morning.

The sun rises over the crest of mountains, pinks and oranges glisten in the distance. The stiff, humid air clings to your skin uncomfortably. The rest stop the bus resided in for the night lays deserted. You’re the only ones there.

You find yourself missing Dustin’s endless rambles. He would’ve loved talking with Gregory, both of them fond of mechanics.

Sitting outside the bus, picking at the dirt underneath, Gregory finds you. He doesn’t say anything. He simply sits down beside you and the sun continues to ascend the sky. He watches your side profile. You watch the skyline for any sign of Steve.

When you see his figure stumbling home, you run straight to him. “Steve!”

He doesn’t react to your presence. His bleary eyes can barely focus on you. The bridge of his nose is sunburned, his hair freckled with dirt and debris, his pants torn at the knee and his shirt reeks of booze.

“Oh, rosie,” you carefully touch his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

Steve’s cracked lips bleed a smile. “I know.”

You help him into the bus, careful not to move him too fast in fear of overwhelming him. Gregory stands back, aware that his presence will only provoke Steve. Once he’s on the bus, you turn back to the other man and smile apologetically.

“I should get him cleaned up.” A dismissal, one that Gregory nods at.

“Alright,” he turns to go, but hesitates. “You know, there’s almost a two hour drive to Chicago. Are you… sure you want to ride with them?”

Your mouth turns down. “Where else would I go?”

“You could ride with me?” He’s hopeful. Naively so.

“I��m sorry,” all you seem to do lately is apologize for Steve’s behavior. “But it doesn’t feel right leaving the band like this. They need me.”

“Steve needs you.”

Your body tenses. “If you see it that way.”

“I’ll see you at the venue, Y/N.” Gregory still kisses your hand before you leave.

Steve has thrown himself into bed when you finally close its doors. The rest of the band sleeps, the early hour still fresh. You make your way to him, quiet, no wanting to disturb the others. When you reach him, he moves to the side, silently asking you to lay with him.

You do.

He curls around you, a tight ball of shame and loneliness. Holding Steve, you can feel the ridges of his spine through his thin t-shirt. You’re not sure when he falls back asleep, or when you join him, but eventually you’re woken up to Robin’s morning chatter and Jonathan’s tired yawns.

“Good morning,” Robin says politely to you when she sees you awake. “I made you coffee.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, Steve’s soft breaths still asleep.

She nods, eyes only on the boy in your arms, before going back to her conversation with Jonathan. Mike and Max are in their own world, slowly waking up themselves. The usual morning routine remains undisturbed from last night’s fury.

Soon the bus starts to move and Kenosha fades into the distance. You let Steve sleep for the first hour of the journey. It’s a quiet drive, no one really speaks besides the occasional comment on the scenery. You’re left alone with him, which you’re thankful for.

It doesn’t take much to wake Steve up, and even though you brace for his unrelenting malice, he’s gentle when he awakens. He listens to your soft commands to shower. He doesn’t put up a fight or scream or demand his independence. Instead, he obliges.

He only tries to push you away after he’s showered and you try to soothe his burned face with some cooling lotion you stored in your bag.

“I’m fine,” Steve insists, scrunching his face to ward off your tender care.

Now it’s your turn to ignore his pleas, resting your entire weight against him on the bed instead. He craves the heat, he misses having you in his arms, and you use this weakness to get what you want. “You’re extra rosie today,” you smear the lotion on his nose, smiling when he shivers. “I’m just trying to help.”

He crumbles immediately, melting into the bed beneath him. He wishes he could melt completely into you. But the physics of it aren’t possible, so he settles for resting his hands on your hips. “Fine.”

You smile, victorious, and Steve doesn’t think he can believe in a heaven when there’s already an angel in his arms.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. In the safety of Steve’s bunk, there are no prying eyes. It’s just you with him and your soft scent of the soap you’ve stolen from him and your gentle, ever present warmth.

Here, with you on top of him, Steve feels the most human.

“I shouldn’t have treated you how I did the other night.” He confesses, nose pressed to your neck. Where it belongs. Where he hopes he can always keep it. “I was awful to you then and even worse last night.”

“You were pretty miserable to be around,” you twist his hair in your fingers, staring up at your mattress above. Tucked in the corner is a polaroid of you and Steve, laying in the exact position that you are now. “What you said really hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” You feel the graze of his eyelashes against your skin as his eyes close. “I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

Your fingers still in his hair, the strands wrapped around them. He’s offering you a piece of himself as he says this. Vulnerability where he normally exudes bravado. The action makes your chest ache even more. Swallowing, you tell him what you hope he’ll be able to understand one day.

“Then change who you’re becoming.”

He laughs, not cruel, not mean, but tired, exhausted. “It’s that easy, huh?”

“It is,” you flick his ear, turning his broken laugh into a true, Steve Harrington laugh that bellows in his stomach and coats his cheeks pink. “It’s that easy, Steve.”

“Alright!” His laughter turns to giggles when your fingers find his sides and attack him. “I-I’ll be nice to Gregory, stop! I-Christ, I’ll make it up to you once the tour is done!”

I’ve already forgiven you, you think, smiling down at his joyous face.

His laughter fills the cold bus with warmth once again. Jonathan sighs in relief at the sound.

–

Chicago is the biggest venue of the tour. The grand finale, as Leonard would say. With the largest capacity and two completely sold out nights, the Februarys step inside cautiously, staring up in awe at the ribbed ceiling and elaborate furnishings in the dressing room.

A long, white couch lines the stark black wall. On the other side, mirrors sit on top of vanities with every possible accessory needed. Lights shine along the mirrors’ edges, golden and honeyed. Every amp of every kind litter the floors, spare guitars hang above, excess instruments at their disposal in an almost greedy capacity.

“Holy fuck,” Max places a careful hand on a royal blue guitar. “This is all for us?”

“Leonard wanted you to have the very best for your final two shows.” Gregory sets down a crate of champagne. “This is for you as well, and don’t worry, it’s store bought.”

The smile Steve gives him is tight, strained, but at least he’s trying. He told you he’d be civil with Gregory, and at the very least he can thank him for the generous gift. “Thanks. We, uh. Didn’t necessarily enjoy the homemade stuff he sent us.”

“Jesus, did you drink it?” Gregory gags. “I’m so sorry. He told the NYPD he’d stop sending people his basement liquor.”

“He didn’t.” Jonathan clutches his stomach. The ghost of his pain from the liquor eminent. “He definitely didn’t.”

Mike pats his back sympathetically and Gregory shakes his head. “Well, I guess I have some phone calls to make when I’m back in New York.”

Everyone laughs, though Steve’s smile borders on a grimace. You can practically see him biting his tongue in a desperate attempt to remain polite. He isn’t his charming self, far from it, but his effort to keep his promise to you is more than you ever could’ve hoped for.

When no one’s looking, you quickly stand on the tips of your toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble against the skin, lingering for longer than you need, not quite knowing how many more times you’ll be allowed this small privilege of kissing the crest of his cheekbone.

Instinctively Steve’s hand comes to your waist and he holds you against him. The moment lasts less than a second, yet it feels like a lifetime passes before he finally lets go enough for you to pull away.

And when you do, you laugh at the lipstick stain that paints his face. Steve looks at you, confused, but you simply grab your camera and take a picture of the pink shimmer upon his tanned skin.

“What was that for?” He asks you, narrowing his eyes in teasing suspicion.

You wipe the lipstick off, saddened to see it go, but selfishly happy only you got to witness it. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

Something akin to intimate worship washes over Steve’s face, melting his hardened features into an oil painting of love and adoration. The painting before you catches your breath. There is no form of art that could ever capture his beauty.

“Y/N, can you help me with my hair?” Max’s voice breaks the moment.

Steve steps back. Your hand drops. “I’ll be right there,” you tell her, not quite ready to look away from him yet.

“Go,” he tells you. “I’ll see you on stage.”

Reluctantly you step away.

Max wants her hair in braids, so you help pin the mess of hair up and twist her red curls around your fingers. In the corner of your eye you see Robin and Gregory talking, laughing occasionally, while Jonathan and Steve stand in their own corner, heads low, discussing something you can’t hear.

Mike has a field day with the instruments. He fiddles with a bright gold electric guitar and Steve has to gently chide him that it wouldn’t be the best idea to try out a new instrument during the show.

A familiar energy returns to the room. Banter between Mike and the older boys. Max’s quick wit joining in. Robin dotting glitter onto Steve’s eyelids, giggling together like school children. The spillover of last night’s argument doesn’t exist at this moment, and you relish in the photos you take of the Februarys, whole again, at least for now.

“Alright, guys.” Steve gathers everyone around, minutes before the show. “It’s just us, okay? I mean it. It’s just the five of us. On and off the stage, we have each other.”

A deviation from the traditional just us just us just us mantra.

The Februarys look at Steve and he allows them to see his regret. He allows them to see his genuine love for the group and his nail-grip hold of success that he craves.

“It’s just us on that stage. It’s always been just us. It will always be just us.”

“Just us,” Robin repeats back to him, her smile rivaling the sun.

“Just us!” The others chant.

Steve’s eyes shine. Whether from tears or from gratitude, you aren’t sure. All you know is that he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe that his band is real, and says the words they’ve all been waiting for.

“Showtime.”

Despite everything, the Februarys best performance happens on their first night in Chicago.

Steve infects the lively audience with his endless charm. He leaves them wilted in his hands, leaves them screaming his name and everyone else’s. The roar of their demand for more vibrates the venue’s walls.

The biggest crowd of their entire career falls to their knees the moment Steve’s pretty mouth sings the songs he’s dreamed of creating since he snuck into his parent’s bedroom one day and listened to a rock album that changed his life forever.

Fans scream when Max and Robin do their handshake, never once missing a step in their sacred tradition. They scream when Mike’s electric solo comes up between the chorus of a song dedicated to his sister. They scream when Jonathan’s drumsticks break and he pulls new ones out from his jacket and they erupt into a frenzy when Steve’s shirt slips down his shoulder and his collarbones wink at them.

Each and every moment, your camera documents it all.

“Lenny’s going to fucking love them!” Gregory shouts in your ear in between songs, tall frame dancing to the beat that has already ended.

His words make you falter, camera half-raised to your face now dropping back down. It hits you, then, that tomorrow night will be the final performance. The show that will make or break the Februarys’ entire career.

One more night, and then it’s all over.

No more shitty roadside restaurants. No more walks through national parks. No more cramped bunk beds and Steve’s hot breath on your skin.

A deep sadness ebbs its way into your chest. You’ll miss the small moments from the tour more than anything else. Homesick for something that isn’t quite gone yet.

“I know he will,” you shout back to Gregory. It’s your only comfort, knowing that tomorrow night Leonard will see the band performing and finally sign them, finally give them the album they’ve always wanted. “He’ll fall in love with them.”

It’s impossible not to fall in love with the Februarys.

The sad ache in your chest dissipates when Steve takes center stage and basks in the pinks and purples of the stage light. Rosie is next. He opens his arms to it, he embraces the song, and you’re falling hard and fast.

“This next song was inspired by lullabies,” he says into the mic, his nose ring catching in the light. “I thought it was a nice contrast. They put you to sleep, but my girl keeps me awake all night long.”

Jonathan slams his drumsticks together and Steve cheers and suddenly the song starts and he smiles sickly sweet at you from the very first note. He sings the song to you like he used to, like the very first night when he ambushed you with such a raw devotion, and for this small fragment of time everything is rosie.

After the show you’re in Pennsylvania again and it’s the first night of a three month tour that will change your life forever. You’re running through twisted hallways, desperate and weak, searching for a boy that’s made of stars and strings, and when he finally finds you, you’re in his arms again just like that very first night.

Breathless laughter falls from your chest. Steve spins you around, his tired body alive with yours so close. He whispers angelface angelface angelface into your exhilarated skin and you’re sugarcoated in his love.

“Did you enjoy the show?” He asks after he’s finally set you down. He yearns for your approval, to hear your praise.

“You’re a fucking rockstar,” you grip his arms, needing something to steady your vibrating body. His flesh is soft beneath your tight grip and he doesn’t flinch at the way your fingers bruise it. “You’re-you’re incredible, rosie.”

Time is a fickle thing, because when Steve’s bashful smile crosses his face, for a moment you think you’re back in New York, laying in your bed with him promising you that he could never forget you, even when he becomes a rockstar.

But the present tears into you when Gregory’s arm falls over your shoulders. “Y/N’s right, Steve. You have such natural talent on stage.”

“Thanks,” he ducks his head, not uncomfortable, but not at ease, either. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Gregory smiles wide at the small compliment from Steve. He’s been eager to appease him ever since he stepped out of his Camaro at the park a few days earlier. “No problem, man,�� then, lost in his small win, he forgets the context behind the former animosity and says to you, “so, ready for our date?”

Without meaning to, your body braces for the impact of Steve’s upset. A wince slips from your lips and you close your eyes, preparing for the worst.

Except Steve surprises you. He claps a hand on Gregory’s shoulder, a jovial smile offered to him as he does so. “Good luck on your date, buddy.” Then he turns to you, endless in his surprises. “Get home safe, okay?”

You blink. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. “I will,” you finally say, timid smile gracing your own lips.

Steve nods, winks at Gregory, and then walks back to his bandmates. They wait for him by the stage door. Leonard has bought them hotel rooms to celebrate their final two shows. A luxury that they’ve been afforded. There are no girls who await Steve’s exit.

He goes with his bandmates, his friends, home.

–

Gregory walks you to a dive bar not far from the venue. A hole in the wall, the candlelit tables and soft jazz creates a quiet and intimate atmosphere. Lined in brick, the bar reminds you so much of the ones in the East Village that you can almost taste the homesickness on your tongue.

“This place is beautiful,” you say to Gregory as he pulls a chair out for you. “Have you been here before?”

He sits across from you. “A few times. I rarely get to do anything nice while running Leonard’s errands.”

“And am I an errand?”

“If you are, then you’re the best errand I’ve agreed to.”

You snort, grabbing the menu in front of you. Expensive wines and cocktails laced between craft beer and well shots. Something for everyone. “What do you recommend?”

An ease falls between you, then. Gregory recites his favorite drinks to you with detailed notes about each one. He makes you laugh, he shares his white wine with you to offset your red. Several times throughout the night he calls you beautiful. He asks you about your childhood, asks which artists inspired your work, asks whether you think you’ll ever settle down in New York.

Gregory’s pinky skims your hand when you reach over to fix his glasses, and for a brief second, your skin shivers pleasantly at the contact, delighted at the sensation of something new.

With his face illuminated in the candlelight, you watch the shadows cast over his delicate features and mourn the reality that you met him too late, under the wrong circumstances, in the wrong context.

Maybe if you had met Gregory in a coffee shop one day in Manhattan. Maybe if you had crossed paths ducking into the rundown shop to escape the rain. Maybe if your eyes had connected from across the room. Maybe if had introduced himself to you then with the shy smile you’re weak to. Maybe if you had never known Steve Harrington’s lips on your skin.

Maybe you could’ve fallen in love with Gregory had everything been different. Maybe you could’ve really loved him, been something beautiful together.

But you met him in a park in Wisconsin, far from Manhattan. Steve’s arms had been wrapped around you, his tattoo kisses already engraved under your skin.

Your heart already knows Steve. It didn’t leave space for anyone else.

And you fucking hate it.

Gregory tells you about Vermont and its snow. A vivid storyteller, the way he describes his childhood makes you feel as if you’ve grown up with it as well. He follows every anecdote with more drinks and, ashamed, you drink more than you should to mask the gnawing in your chest that Steve still somehow embeds himself in your skin. That he’s ruined something beautiful yet again.

Time passes. You’re not sure how long or if you’ve contributed anything more than polite hums to Gregory’s night, but he doesn’t seem to mind your unusual silence.

He pays the tab and walks you back to the hotel. He holds the elevator door open for you. His nails scratch tenderly on your hand, drawing small patterns into the skin while the floors pass by you one by one.

The elevator stops at the tenth floor. Gregory lets you get off first, ever the gentleman, and even this small act of kindness digs into the cavity that you call a chest.

He doesn’t deserve this.

Numb, you lead Gregory to your door. You try not to look at Steve’s door, his room nestled next to yours, as you walk past. The lights are off. You don’t hear anything from the other side.

“I had a great time tonight,” Gregory risks pulling you by the waist, drawing you closer, as he rests against your doorframe. His addicting height leans down to you. All you see are his green eyes that your mother would’ve loved. “I’m glad we were able to do this. At least once.”

Your head falls back, wondering if you've misheard what he’s said. “Once…?”

“I wasn’t the one floating through your pretty head tonight.” He looks down at you, a confusing mixture of regret and fondness dot along his face, just as his freckles do.

You hiss in a breath. “Gregory–”

“It’s alright, Y/N.” His lips land on the crown of your head. No one has ever kissed you there, not even the sun on days you’ve drowned in her warm. Soft intimacy that can never be yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” he wipes the tears that fall. You will never deserve him. “I’m so really sorry.”

Gregory must’ve envisioned meeting you in a coffee shop, too. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

He kisses you. Yet even this isn’t a selfish act. He kisses you because he knows that you would’ve loved being woken up to his lips each day just as much as he would’ve loved waking up next to you.

The kiss is soft, slow. He kisses you as if he has all the time in the world, and you suppose in this lifetime, he has to make up for the lost time.

Gregory doesn’t say anything when he breaks the kiss. All he does is look down at you one last time, memorizes the face that would’ve been his for a lifetime, before he finally leaves.

His footsteps grow quiet the further he walks. You stand outside your door, unmoving, listening to the sound of the elevator’s bell signaling its arrival, taking him away from you for good.

The moment Gregory’s gone, your numb body finds its way to a room that isn’t yours.

White gripped knuckles knock against the doorframe once, twice.

Steve answers. Of course he answers.

And he doesn’t seem surprised to see you.

He steps to the side, wordlessly offering you to come in. A moment passes where you hesitate, don’t allow yourself to move. It’s only when he reaches for your hand, bridging the chasm, that you finally give in.

“I take it the date went well, then.” Steve closes the door with a slight chuckle at his own joke. “Seeing as how you’re in my hotel room rather than his.”

A bottle of red wine glistens from the beverage cart in the room. Without thinking, you grab its neck and force it open. “You’re insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?”

Steve doesn’t react to what you’ve said. He stands before you and watches as your shaking fingers manage to uncork the bottle and bring it to your greedy mouth.

“I mean,” the tarte liquid burns. “I’m fucking furious at you. Gregory is a perfectly good guy and we had a perfectly good night where he asked me interesting questions and held my hand and called me beautiful,” you drink again, trying to burn away the guilt that settles in your stomach, “but when he kissed me all I could think about was you.”

You shouldn’t be telling him this. You shouldn’t be twisting the already tangled strings between you, but the wine coats your tongue and Steve’s brown eyes melt your integrity.

He doesn’t give you the reaction that you consciously aren’t even aware that you’re seeking. He simply shrugs at your fury, takes the wine from your hand, and tips it into his own mouth. Long, slow, sips drain from the bottle.

When he’s done, Steve sets the bottle down, grabs your unsteady hips, and falls against the couch behind him. You land on his chest, unphased by the inevitable fall. You’re used to his insatiable hands and you’re tired and confused and too angry to not fall back into the familiarity of it all.

The force of the fall brings the tip of his nose to your cheek. You can smell the wine on his breath, see the red that stains his lips. His calm expression admires you, studies the conflict on your face.

“What did you think about me while he kissed you?”

His whispered question follows the heavy weight of his hands. They start at the center of your spine, rubbing at the ridges, then down to the small of your back, to the exposed strip of skin that gets revealed to him when your shirt rides up, down the swell of your ass, until they finally hook over your thighs and he forces them open, pulling you so that you straddle him.

“Tell me,” he’s still so soft with you. Whispering, massaging your stomach with his tender fingers, hesitating just before your ribcage, right under your breasts. “What did you think about?”

All the wine you’ve had tonight settles in your stomach. The flush of the alcohol warms your body, the sensation of his patient hands sobering. Your dilated eyes look down at his chest that rises and falls in uneven patterns.

“Your lips,” your voice comes out wanting, gasping when his hands finally cup your breasts, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Thumb moving over your nipple, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t stop. “All I could think about were your lips.”

He sits up, pulling your hips deeper into his. You gasp out. He strains against his jeans and your thin skirt can feel every ridge. Steve laughs, husky and dark, a sound you’ve only heard through bedroom walls.

Needing more, you try to move against him, to feel him where you’re aching the most, but Steve’s strong hands prevent anything further.

A pathetic sound falls from your mouth. “What are you doing?”

His hands fall back to your hips, squeezing at the flesh that’s finally his. Your eyes fall shut, you try to steady your breathing, but when they open again Steve’s forehead rests against yours. His breaths become yours.

“Tell me.” He hovers over your lips, drawing a confession from them that he knows hangs on the tip of your tongue. There’s more. He knows there’s more. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Left for want and nothing.

“You did me bad.” It’s all you can say in your guilty lust. It’s the only way you know how to convey how deeply he’s settled into your veins, into the jugular that he’s kissed over and over again.

There will never be room for anyone other than him.

In the dim lighting of the room, the moon the only illumination, Steve’s eyes dilate. You watch them fall to your lips, just as they’ve always done, envisioning how you’ll taste.

“Tell me to stop,” he’s begging you. He doesn’t want you to become another warm body, he doesn’t want you to think that there’s never been more to his fixation on you than only lust. That you haven’t done him bad, either. He begs you to stop him because he knows that eventually this will burn as well.

“Tell me,” Steve begs again, his lips grazing yours. “Please.”

But you don’t.

Steve kisses the same way he performs. Needy, wanting, begging for your attention and for your heart to bleed into his. He draws melodies from your mouth, kisses choirs into your chest. His tongue flicks rhythms against your collarbones and his breaths beat symphonies into your lungs.

Over and over again he begs you to tell him to stop. He pleads when his mouth latches onto your breast. He pleads when your fingers find his belt and he begs again when you fall to your knees.

You answer his pleads with begging moans. You beg him for more, to carry you to his bed, to go faster, to finally ease the ache you’ve felt since his eyes met yours in New York and he called you beautiful.

Over and over again.

There is no end.

–

You wake up to Steve’s nose in your neck.

Loud, early morning traffic draws lazily through Chicago’s streets. His hot breaths fan your skin, mouthing at the dip of your collarbones, slow and sweet, littering love-sick pecks down to your chest, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Good morning, angelface.” Steve murmurs, a shy smile on his face. His legs are intertwined with yours. He holds you against his chest, skin to skin, no longer any boundaries between you. He plays with your fingers and paints such domesticity in his fondness.

The vulnerability in his eyes sends the room spinning.

Your stomach lurches. Tearing yourself out of Steve’s arms, you stumble off the bed as if it’s burned you. Cold air stings your skin and you realize, too late, the state of undress you’re in. Cursing, you fumble for the bedsheets and use them to cover yourself as you desperately search for your clothes and escape the consequences that will inevitably come.

“Where the fuck is my skirt?” You’re running in circles, looking everywhere while simultaneously trying to assess the damage of the break. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re so incredibly, unbelievably, fucked.

Steve lays naked in the bed. This time it’s him who’s left wanting.

You find the skirt under a pillow that somehow was thrown against the wall. Next to it you find your shirt, then your underwear, and quickly you put the discarded clothing on. “Fuck.”

“What’re doing?” The gentle tone betrays the hurt that resides on Steve’s face. He watches you stumble around, not understanding what he’s done wrong, but when he sees you reach for your shoes, his face hardens.

He realizes what this is. You’re leaving him.

“You just can’t bear to be another girl I sleep with.” He hisses out a laugh, slicing into the suffocating consequences. “Guess I still can’t fucking promise you, can I?”

I won’t be just another girl you sleep with.

All you have to do is tell me that I won’t just be some girl you fuck and forget about.

Words and their faulty promises.

“I know you can’t promise me,” you force your shoes on, heart pounding out of your chest. It takes you several attempts before you’re able to tie their laces, hands shaking too violently. “Goddamn it!”

“What, so you’re just going to leave?” Suddenly he’s next to you, throwing a shirt on and storming through the room that rivals your own anguish. “I mean, fuck, Y/N! You just expect me to be okay with that?”

You stand, finally meeting his eyes for the first time all morning. “I’m doing this to protect myself!”

I’m doing this to protect the both of us.

But Steve doesn’t want to hear your explanation, and you don’t want to hear his.

“What the fuck are you protecting yourself from?”

“This!” Your hands shove Steve’s chest, forcing him to look at the mess you created together. A catalyst that will leave no survivors. You gesture wildly between your bodies. “We should’ve never done this.”

He falls back at your force, dejected and furious. “Are you fucking kidding me? You came to my room–”

You’re not sure who starts yelling first

“I don’t want to do this right now!” You need air. Your pounding head threatens a wave of nausea, and when you try to step past him, Steve blocks your path.

“Would you just listen to me–”

“Let me go!” The sheer desperation in your scream echoes in the room.

The screaming stops. All that’s left is broken silence.

Steve searches your face for something that you can’t name. When he finds what he’s looking for, he laughs, laced with ice, “Fine.”

He grabs his keys first. Then his wallet, his shoes, a baseball hat from his father.

“What are you doing?” You echo his question from earlier, and you hate that you feel a sense of grief watching him flee the room that doesn’t belong to you. “Steve, what are you–”

The only response you get is the slam of the door.

He’s gone.

The finality of his absence rings in your ears. It’s only after Steve leaves that the tears come. They build in your chest, punch their way into your throat, and spill from your eyes faster than you can control them. You heave at the impact of the despair, the collision of it sinks so deeply into your bones that it brings you to your knees.

Robin’s frantic voice and comforting embrace find you on the floor.

“Y/N,” she cradles your face, looks for any signs of injury or cruelty. “I-I heard screaming. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.” There isn’t time for you to be consoled by Robin. You grasp at her arms, your force frightening her even more, but you don’t care. In between sobs you tell her, “but you need to find Steve.”

“Find Steve–?”

“He–“ You try to stand, but Robin forces you down. “He can’t be alone right now.”

Her grip tightens around you. She doesn't understand. “You can’t be alone right now, Y/N.”

“We had a fight,” you’re gasping for air. “He-he was so hurt and–”

“Y/N, I need you to breathe, okay?” She demonstrates an inhale, forcing you to breathe air into your lungs as well. Only after you’ve gasped enough air does she ask you what happened.

Through shaky breaths you tell Robin everything. The almost-kiss in Pennsylvania, how you pulled away, how you told Steve the very first night of their tour that you refused to be another girl he slept with. You tell her about the night Dustin and the others visited, how Steve had almost kissed you under the streetlights.

You tell Robin about the endless touches, stolen kisses to your neck late at night after Steve returns to you, smelling of the girls you try to forget. You tell her about Gregory, the way Steve’s jealousy edged into something more than just lust, into something softer, something akin to love. Your date with Gregory, how it was Steve’s room you ended up in.

Robin doesn’t react when you tell her that you slept with Steve. She doesn’t react when you tell her that he fled the room this morning to escape your dismissive terror.

And now he’s gone, and it’s all your fault.

“He’ll come back,” she promises you instead, rubbing the grief out of your body. “He’ll be fine, okay?”

You shake your head, more tears spilling over. “But what if he doesn’t–”

“He will.” She sounds more confident than she feels. “He’ll come back. Sure, he’ll be a pain in the ass when he does, but at least he’ll be back. He always comes back.”

Except this time, Steve doesn’t come back.

–

“Where the fuck is he?” Max barrels through the venue’s door, impulsively checking her watch every thirty seconds. “He should be here by now.”

The clock on the wall reads half past three in the afternoon. It’s been seven hours since Steve stormed out of the hotel.

No one has seen him since.

“He’ll be here.” Robin’s newfound mantra since this morning. She looks at her bandmates and tries to pretend that their concern doesn’t leak into hers. “He… he’ll be here, alright?”

Steve has never once been outside of a venue this close to their scheduled soundcheck times. Their last night of tour, their final show, the very show Leonard warned them not to fuck up, starts at nine.

Soundcheck begins at six.

And yet Steve still isn’t here. His absence alarms everyone. He’s always been obsessive about soundcheck, never running the risk of being late to a performance. He’s bled too much to jeopardize his career over something as trivial as a late arrival.

The screaming everyone heard from Steve’s room this morning and your bloodshot eyes don’t ease the band’s now frantic concern. You pace the room, unable to do anything other than bite your chapped lips and wring your anxious hands together.

“Robin,” Jonathan picks at his nails. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we go and find him.” She’s already setting her keyboard down, hopping over cables.

Mike scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Wheeler.” She yanks the guitar from his hands and snaps her fingers at Jonathan. “Go with him and look through every hotel and shitty bar you find. Every dive bar, every club, fuck, look through strip clubs. I don’t care. But find him.”

Jonathn doesn’t look convinced. “What about you?”

“Me, Max, and Y/N will take advantage of the fact that Chicago uses a grid system and search every goddamn street we find.”

“But–”

Robin claps, drowning out the protests. “We don’t have time to argue, alright? That asshole needs us right now and unfortunately he sings incredibly well and we have an insane manager who will quite literally take our dreams away like a villain takes candy from a baby if we don’t find Steve.”

“I can go look for him,” you tug at her overalls, pacing even faster to try and swallow down the guilty bile that lingers in your throat. “Alone. You guys stay here. Rehearse. Do whatever you need to prepare for tonight.”

“Not happening.”

You roll your eyes at Robin’s inability to listen. “Look, I’m the asshole who slept with your lead singer the night before the biggest concert of your lives. It’s only fair that I’m the one who looks for him.”

“You slept with Steve?”

“Not now, Mike.” Jonathan covers the kid’s mouth, which he protests at, but his muffled complaints go ignored by everyone.

“That’s such bullshit,” Robin sneers. “Steve is a grown man who can’t keep running away from his problems or drowning them in booze. And we can’t keep letting him.” She looks at everyone, the silent reprimand of the fact that Steve’s slow spiral went ignored for far too long. “We’re his friends, alright? For better or worse, the fucker needs us right now.”

Jonathan nods. “She’s right.”

Mike and Max murmur their agreements. Neither of them bother to hide their uncertainty and worry. You bite your lip. It bothers you that they take collective responsibility for your actions, but you’re wasting time arguing. Your heartbeat won’t settle until Steve’s voice soothes your skin.

Finding Robin’s eyes, you nod at her, silently backing down.

“Then it’s settled. We meet back here in two hours.” Her smile mimics a wince; you don’t miss the way her hands shake, the worry for her best friend evident. “We’ll figure the rest out from there.”

Soon your feet bleed into the soles of your shoes as you duck through every street of Chicago. Its layout reflects New York’s, only the black asphalt beats heat from the sun into your skin and you’re sick with exhaustion after the first hour.

“We’ll find him.” Robin repeats over and over again, but neither you or Max pretend to believe her.

The second hour draws to a close without any sign of Steve. Chicago’s endless city taunts your shaken body. Your heartbeat slams in your throat. Memories of this morning twist their way inside your guilt. Pieces of Steve’s broken eyes, his hurt expression, how you’d been ready to leave him, only for him to leave you instead.

This is all your fault.

With every dead end, Robin’s concern simmers into fury. When the two hours are up, her clenched fists shake with how tightly she presses her nails into her palms. There will be scabs where her skin breaks today.

Inside the venue, Jonathan sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Mike sits next to him. When they notice your arrival, the younger boy jumps up and runs over. Soundcheck starts any minute. “Did you find him?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

Robin stares at the ground. Her knuckles are white. “We rehearse.”

Max turns to her. “Without Steve?”

“We have to.” A dangerous calm resides in Robin’s words.

The other band members hear it, too. Jonathan exhales quickly, licks his lips, before taking a tentative step towards her. “Robin,” his softened voice alludes to his fear. “He’s our lead singer. We can’t just perform without him, not when Leonard will be here tonight–”

“He’s not going to fucking ruin this for us!” The dam breaks. “I-I refuse to let Steve ruin the one fucking good thing we’ve done with our lives.” Robin laughs hysterically. “Either he shows up or doesn’t. I don’t give a shit anymore, but if I can’t fucking control his temperamental meltdowns, then I can at least control how I perform tonight and force Leonard to accept that I’m writing a goddamn album whether he likes it or not.”

Her outburst rings throughout the room.

The silence burns tears into your eyes. This was never supposed to happen.

“I can sing the chorus for Lower East.” Max reaches for her bass, finding its tuning pegs and cord. “I don’t think my voice fits the rest of it.”

Robin nods. “I can do it.”

“Mike, can you do Back for More?” Jonathan finds his drumsticks. “If we’re doing this, then we can’t only have Robin sing. Not on such short notice, at least. Her voice won’t adjust to it.”

Mike shrugs. “Only if she sings the higher songs.”

“I can harmonize with you,” Max scribbles everything onto their setlist. “I think if we sing together we should be able to match the register it's originally written in.”

There’s a fluidity in the way the Februarys write out Steve’s absence. Within minutes they’ve come up with a new setlist and chord arrangement for their hour and fifteen minute show. They divide the songs into who can sing them best, even stretching the capabilities of Jonathan’s thin and wiry voice. Their options are limited.

As they work, they avoid your eyes. None of them blame you, not really, but there’s an underlying understanding that you’re the reason they’re here in the first place.

–

Leonard Branham has never once been on time in his life. He was late to his son’s birth, his second wedding, and even to his divorce settlement (unrelated to his second wedding, but related to his third).

It only makes sense that he shows up to the venue thirty minutes early, before the Februarys are set to go on stage.

He slams the stage door open in a grand manner, cackling as he steps inside. “There’s my moneymaker!”

Mike screams, Robin trips over her shoes, Max slams her head against the wall, and Jonathan’s chair flies back in his surprise, sending him to the ground in a pathetic crescendo, cymbals and all.

Leonard observes their reaction with disinterest. “What? Didn’t George tell you I was coming?”

“It’s Gregory, sir.” The assistant steps from behind him. He gives you a polite smile that you can’t return. “And I did tell them you’d be here.”

“Then where the hell is the kid with the hair?” It’s obvious to everyone that Leonard means Steve. When no one can give him an answer, he narrows his eyes. “Well?”

“He died!” Mike sputters out before anyone can stop him.

Max slaps the back of his head. “Dude!”

“I didn’t know what else to say!”

“What the hell is going on?” Leonard stalks towards the band, nicotine following his scent. He looks between them as if Steve is somehow hidden amongst them. “Did the kid O.D. or something?”

“Lenny,” you risk grabbing the man’s blazer, its expensive material soft under your fingers. “Listen, why don’t you and I go talk outside? Better yet, why don’t I show you around the city? Go for a nice, long walk–”

“Cut the bullshit.” The man snatches his sleeve out of your grasp. “Where the hell is your lead singer?”

A loud crash announces Steve’s arrival before the reek of alcohol and sex does.

His timing has always bordered on ironic.

“‘M here,” Steve stumbles through the door, feet dragging on the ground, hardly able to keep himself up. A melted smile bleeds onto his face when he realizes he has everyone’s attention. “S’it showtime?”

You rush towards Steve, relief flooding through you seeing him alive and safe. “Oh, my god–”

Only Robin’s faster. She gets to him first and punches him before anyone can react. You think you scream. Jonathan’s shoulder collides into yours when he runs over to grab Robin’s violent body.

“Asshole!” Her broken screams spit at Steve’s body, now sprawled on the ground from the force of her fury. She writhes in Jonathan’s tight grasp, kicking and twisting to escape. “Are you fucking wasted?”

Steve’s glossy eyes stare up at her, his half-lidded smile confirms what she already knows.

“I was worried about you!” Robin scratches at Jonathan’s arms, spits more venom at her best friend. “This band means so fucking much to me, you know that! This is my future too, and you’re fucking wasted and putting everything on the line for some fucking fling?”

Kneeling at Steve’s side, you wince at Robin’s vicious words. She’s right. He’s jeopardized everything for a single night with you.

And you let him.

“Take her outside,” Max shoves Jonathan towards the door. Leonard watches everything. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Fuck you!” Robin repeatedly screams at Steve. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–”

Max flings the door open and follows Jonathan outside, helping him contain Robin’s rage. The door slams behind them.

“Get him up.” Leonard commands you and Mike, snapping a finger towards Steve. The man doesn’t flinch at what’s just happened. “He has a performance in twenty minutes.”

Mike makes a confused sound. “Sir, I don’t know how to professionally say this, but Steve’s one drink away from a very expensive hospital bill.”

“He’s awake, isn’t he?”

Your fingers tangle through Steve’s hair. His forehead is overheated, he barely reacts at your touch. Looking up at Leonard, you don’t give him the satisfaction of obedience. “He isn’t performing tonight.”

Leonard’s mocking laugh infuriates you. “Sweetheart, if he doesn’t sing, there’s not going to be a goddamn show tonight. Do you understand?”

Mike pales. “You wouldn’t–”

“I would.” Leonard’s condescension drips into his laughter. “I told you my end of the deal. Don’t fuck up. It’s as easy as that. Not having a lead singer sounds like a bigger fuck up than my brother.”

Bile rises in your throat.

Gregory coughs, forcing his boss’ attention to him. “Mr. Branham, why don’t we leave them alone to sort everything out? I’m sure they’ll sober Steve up in no time.”

His blinding optimism squeezes at your heartstrings. Leonard squints at him, thinks for a moment, before he shrugs. “Whatever. Twenty minutes. That’s all you get.”

Gregory guides Leonard to the doors that lead out of the dressing room and into the venue. When the man isn’t looking, Gregory mouths a quick good luck to you before he leaves.

The second they’re gone, you and Mike drag Steve’s body up and throw him onto the couch.

“Get Robin and the others,” you quickly say to the kid, slapping Steve’s face to try and get his eyes to focus on you. You’ve never seen him this gone before. When Mike doesn’t move, you raise your voice, “Go!”

He scrambles to the stage door. You don’t hear what he tells his friends, too busy pinching Steve’s sides and hoping the pain will jumpstart his sobriety. Suddenly water splashes on you, and you spring off the couch.

“What the fuck?” You find Robin holding a water bottle above Steve’s head. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

“No time.” She dumps even more water on him, and though you know it’s meant to help sober him up, you can’t help but feel that a part of it is meant to punish you as well.

Meanwhile Jonathan and Mike run around the room to sort through their instruments. They scream at one another to collect certain cables, to find amps and missing drumsticks and where the fuck did the sheet music go?

Max punches Steve’s chest to make him more coherent. “Stop pissing me off!”

“‘M fine,” he slurs, batting her punches away. “Relax.”

Max only punches him harder after that. You don’t blame her.

The first five minutes Max and Robin switch between waterboarding Steve and bruising his chest. You manage to find pizza from a shop next door and shove the greasy food down his throat.

Jonathan manages to set the stage up, running in and out of the room in a dizzying manner. Mike sprints right behind him. Together, they prepare the stage for either their funeral or their rebirth. No one can say which will come.

The ten minutes that follow you’re able to coax Steve onto his feet. He can hardly walk, but Robin kicks his shins and forces his legs to remain upright long enough to take off his drenched t-shirt in exchange for a nicer one that Leonard won’t scoff at.

“Did you suck the blood out of him?” Robin cringes when she sees the hickeys that litter his chest.

You throw a shirt at her. “Is now really the time?”

“No, but I deserve to make fun of you right now.”

“Five minutes,” one of the stage crew members knocks on the door, pointing to her watch. “Get ready.”

A mad scramble follows. Max shoves bracelets onto Steve’s wrists, Robin pushes him onto the ground so she can force better shoes on, and you lace them up while Robin yells at Jonathan and Mike to come over.

“Okay, I’m gonna be honest,” she tells everyone once they’ve gathered around. Steve still lays on the ground. The Februarys have to stand over his desolate body. “Odds of us pulling this off are about twenty/eighty.”

She kicks at Steve. “Probably more like ten/ninety since this motherfucker is Midas with a shit touch.”

“Robin.” Jonathan warns her.

“Right. Okay. Anyways, the point is that right now I don’t think I can emphasize enough that it’s just us. No one else is on our side. It’s just us and the music, okay? We just need to focus on the music and have each other’s backs. The second things start slipping, we help each other, alright?”

“We’re gonna die.”

Robin’s head drops at Mike’s words. “Yeah. We are.”

The stage crew member returns. Their time is up. One by one the Februarys look at each other, taking in their final moments, and then leave Steve on the ground. They don’t explicitly tell you that he’s your responsibility to get onto the stage.

“C’mon, rosie,” you grab him by his arms. He’s dead weight, still more drunk than sober, and all you want to do is cry. Forcing down the tears, you pry Steve to his feet. “You can’t let them down like this.”

Somewhere in his clouded coherence, Steve nods at what you’ve said. He’s still unsteady on his feet, but he’s able to walk to the door on his own. “Can let ‘em down.”

There’s a pathetic naivety when he says this.

You walk behind Steve the entire way to the stage, terrified he’ll fall and be unable to get back up again. Just before the stage area you meet with Robin, who yanks at Steve’s hand when she sees you and gives you a quick, curt nod.

“Wish us luck?”

“Always,” you tell her.

The stage lights turn off. Hundreds inside the venue scream. The show is about to begin.

You run down to the crowd and find Gregory and Leonard quickly. They’re roped off in a separate section from the crowd, an obscene amount of security surrounding them.

“There are you!” Gregory sighs in relief when he sees you. Looking over at Leonard to make sure he isn’t listening, he ducks his head down and whispers, “should I be worried?”

Your heart beats out of your chest. “Depends. How often does Leonard watch his talent take the stage blackout drunk?”

“Oh fuck.”

Suddenly the crowd’s cheers increase in volume and the stage floods with blues and purples. Robin walks out first, her usual sly and playful manner dimmed. Her too tight smile flinches at the lights and she almost trips over a cable trying to get to her keyboard. She’s nervous. Anyone can see that.

Max follows, stiffly walking to her bass. She doesn’t smile at the crowd or wave at them. She straps her instrument to her chest and nervously taps her fingers on its neck.

Mike and Jonathan walk out together, each of them laughing too forcefully to be genuine. Jonathan knocks into his drum set and Mike can’t find his guitar for several painful long seconds.

You hold your breath watching them tear at the seams of the cruel pressure. Next to you Leonard’s mouth pinches into a thin line.

“Are they always like this?” He asks Gregory.

His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No, never.”

“It’s been a long tour,” you tell Leonard, careful not to overstep, but anxious to help. “They’re tired. That’s all.”

“And the brewery that was on Steve’s breath?” The man laughs humorlessly. “Let me guess. Daddy’s medicine to help him sleep?”

Gregory shifts from one leg to the other, clearly uncomfortable, and you squeeze a laugh out of your lungs to appease Leonard’s cruelty. He can’t know how terrified you are.

“How’s everyone doing?” Robin shouts into the mic, waving at the crowd. She’s still tense, but behind her keyboard she starts to relax. This, at least, she can control. “Are we ready for tonight?”

The crowd shouts back their responses, the energy infectious in the venue. Everyone smiles and cheers and push towards the stage for a closer look. A sold out show, all for the Februarys.

Robin’s face breaks into a genuine, excited smile. “Hell yeah, I like what I’m hearing!” She presses on some keys, playing a simple, nonsensical melody as she talks. “Now, I don’t know if you guys know this, but this is our second night in Chicago and our last show of our tour!”

More screams. More than you’ve ever heard before. The size of the crowd overwhelms you, yet Robin finally seems to be at ease.

“And in case you didn’t already know, we’re–” She’s interrupted by the screech of a mic.

The side stage curtains swing open and Steve fumbles with the stolen microphone. He squints harshly at the light, stumbles back when the spotlight beams down at him. Blind and delirious, he has to grip onto the mic stand to avoid falling over entirely.

“We’re the Februarys.” He says into the mic, no charm or humor in his voice. He doesn’t greet the audience, he doesn’t allow them to warm up to him, to fall to their knees as he’s always provoked them to do. Instead, all he does is rudely beckon for Jonathan to start their first song.

Unable to do anything but follow along, Jonathan bites his tongue and hits his drumsticks together.

“Steve looks awful.” Gregory breathes out next to you. It’s not meant to be mean or cold-hearted, not when you know he’s right.

Thankfully Steve’s voice sounds fine, albeit slightly strained. What worries you is the way his hair hangs in his sickly face. How his sallow eyes are red. The songs continue and Steve’s only able to stumble through jerky movements, half-following the rhythm that Jonathan provides.

His sloppy performance doesn’t go unnoticed by the audience.

Max and Robin don’t do their handshake between songs. Mike doesn’t go to Jonathan during his electric solo. Steve doesn’t praise his friends or laugh with them after every song. He doesn’t clap for them or share the spotlight with anyone.

The show passes in a slow, nauseating blur.

You don’t take any photos the entire night. No one will want to remember the reek of alcohol that can be smelled from the stage during the final night of the Februarys’ career.

Leonard stands next to you, stoic. It’s impossible to read his face and you’re too busy biting your lips raw watching Steve butcher a performance he’s spent weeks agonizing over.

When the only song left is Rosie, Robin finds your eye in the crowd. Her fear-struck expression confirms what you already know. The song will break Steve if he sings it. You mouth at her to stop him, to cut the show short, but somehow in his alcohol haze he finds your lips and reads the words not meant for him.

“I guess the next song is Rosie.” Steve’s teeth clack against the mic in a painful manner. Only the pain doesn’t deter him. His breathing hitches, the lights burn his face and his flushed face worries you. “I-I mean, what kind of shitty name is’that?”

Robin fumbles to unplug her keyboard and Jonathan throws his drumsticks down and they both lunge towards an incoherent Steve. “How’s it fair that rosie sounds so-so pretty from her lips?”

“Steve, give me the mic,” you hear Robin hiss at him.

Sweat pours from Steve’s face, he fights to keep hold of the mic, but Jonathan wraps both arms around him and forces him off the stage. In the mess of cords and equipment it’s a miracle that he doesn’t fall, but they only make it just past the curtains before the sound of Steve’s vomiting infiltrates the venue.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react.

Robin says something to them, laughing out a joke about food poisoning and how it wasn’t video that killed the radio star, but you don’t stay to hear it. You’re already rushing towards backstage, towards the dressing room that started it all, and Leonard trails right behind you.

Steve lays face down on the couch when you run into the room. Jonathan paces the floor, mumbling to himself about calling Nancy and telling her to somehow get Mike back into college. You sidestep his manic anxiety and focus only on Steve, completely forgetting that Leonard stands in the middle of the room, watching it all unfold.

“You’re burning up,” your palm stings at the heat on Steve’s face. His hair clings to his forehead in sweat and you’re terrified that he’s taken something he shouldn’t have. “Steve, rosie, look at me, okay?”

His unfocused eyes squint up at you. “Y/N?”

“I’m right here.”

“You left.”

“And then I came back.” You unbutton his shirt, hoping cool air on his chest will lessen his sickly state. Memories from last night flicker in your mind as your fingers trail his buttons, skim the chest your kisses mark. Not now. Not here. Not again. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

Steve makes a panicked sound. “Don’t leave again.”

“I’ll be right back–”

Robin slams through the dressing room, long past fury. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Robin, no–” Jonathan has to jump in front of her to keep her from gouging Steve’s eyes out. Mike’s help is needed to help him hold her back, dodging her violent nails and words with terror in his own eyes.

“She just scratched me!” Mike hisses in pain, almost letting go of her, and Jonathan hits his head to keep him focused. “Why the fuck is everyone hitting me?”

While they’re distracted with Robin kicking and screaming, Max walks past them with a drumstick in her hand, aimed right at Steve’s crotch, and you quickly jump up from the couch and yank the weapon away from her.

“Can we not castrate him while he’s incapacitated?”

“I have a spare drumstick in my pocket.”

You twist to reach behind her, the two of you now grappling at one another in a petty fight, Robin’s own fist fight the backtrack to the argument, and eventually Jonathan has had enough.

He tightens his arms around Robin and finally screams, “Stop.”

You fall limp in Max’s chokehold. She loosens her grip. Mike stops complaining and Robin pauses in her abuse long enough to snarl out, “Let me go, Byers.”

“No.” He squeezes her arms behind her back, dodging yet another fist. “In case you’ve forgotten, our boss is watching you have a fucking meltdown right now trying to kill his lead singer.”

Leonard smiles.

But the smile only infuriates Robin more. She tries to lunge at Steve again. “I don’t give a shit!”

You attempt to settle her rage. Leonard’s watching. “Robin, this isn’t helping anything–”

“Fuck you!” She screams at you. “Fuck Steve, fuck whatever the hell you guys have been doing for who the fuck cares how long, and fuck Steve for being having dicks for brains and an impulse control weaker than a ninety year old man’s erection!”

She’s always been so lovely with her words.

Leonard seems to think so, too. He starts to laugh, loud, bellowing in a stoic room that fills with dread at his presence. The laughter cascades throughout the man’s body, disbelief, joy, manic in a way only someone who’s lost their mind can recreate.

It’s a terrible, horrifying laughter that silences even Robin’s rage.

Everyone holds their breath.

Steve lays motionless under you, ignorant of his destruction. In the midst of Leonard’s callous laughter Gregory’s nervous gaze meets yours.

You close your eyes. You wait for the blow to land.

But it never does.

“Now that’s what I call rock and roll!” Leonard cackles with inappropriate glee. “Sex, drugs, fist fights between band members. Hell, I don’t think the first time I slept with a blonde was as glorious as this moment.”

The man’s ecstasy stuns everyone. He claps Mike’s shoulder like a proud father, pinches Max’s cheek and laughs when she slaps him away. He blows a kiss to Robin and shakes Jonathan’s hand eagerly.

“And him,” Leonard points at Steve repeatedly, shaking his head as if at a loss for words. “He’s a goddamn rockstar, you hear me? A rockstar.”

Steve turns his head, his cheek pressed against the couch beneath him. “‘M a rockstar?”

“You sure as shit are, baby.” Leonard cackles again. His white teeth bite into the air and when he finally notices the rest of the band’s stunned silence, he settles his laughter. Clearing his throat, he straightens his blazer. “You can have your album.”

Robin’s jaw drops. Jonathan almost drops her in his own shock while Mike and Max choke on air.

“Have the songs ready by the end of this month. Record it at my studio. Get your shining asses ready to tour the album once you’re done. You’re a part of Major Tom’s now.”

Somehow Steve is the only one who can react.

He sits up, feigning sobriety well enough to fool even you. His tipsy smile shines back at Leonard. “Thank you, sir,” he giggles, his head nods to the side like a child’s. “We-we’re honored, Mr. Branham. Sir. Thank you. Um, again.”

Leonard picks lint off his blazer, turns to him. “Why, it’s my pleasure, Harrington.”

Steve extends his hand, leaning to the side in an obscene manner that Leonard huffs in amusement at.

“But if you ever, ever, pull a stunt again like the one you did tonight,” Leonard says as he accepts Steve’s handshake. “I will make sure your name dies an insignificant death.”

The room becomes cold.

“No one will remember who you are thirty years down the line. Your name will be less than worthless.” Leonard’s grip tightens around Steve’s hand. He makes sure he understands the weight of the warning. Just how easily he can ruin their lives. “Remember that.”

Dropping the handshake, Leonard Branham adjusts his blazer one more time and snaps a finger at Gregory. “Take me back to my hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” Gregory can’t look at anyone as they leave.

In the end, it’s just you and the Februarys left alone in a venue in Chicago. Quiet follows the revelation that they’ll be able to record the album they’ve been longing for since they first played together in Steve’s garage.

There will be no celebration tonight.

Leonard’s words hang in the air long after he’s gone.

It’s only after he leaves that the last of the alcohol in Steve’s system oxidizes, sobering him enough to feel the bands in his chest snap.

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#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #rockstar!steve harrington #stranger things fic #m's writing #i wish i could say it gets better #but it doesnt #steve is so hot tho so theres that

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jeonluvz · 8 days ago

Text

VIRTUE & SIN

Dracula Jeon Jungkook x Sacrifice F!Reader

On the night of a rare blood moon, you return to an ancient, forgotten cathedral deep in the woods—drawn back by its haunting beauty, hoping to paint. But as you step through the crumbling archway, you’re seized by a cold, unrelenting grip. Jungkook stands before you: a vampire cloaked in flowing black silk, his crimson eyes burning through the dark. His long, wavy hair frames a face both beautiful and merciless. He doesn’t bare his fangs, but you feel the threat in his silence as his hand tightens around your neck, pinning you against the cathedral doors. The air around him is icy, his strength inhuman, his presence inescapable. You’ve stumbled into his sanctuary—and he’s not letting you leave.

WARNINGS: Read more, for mature audiences.

WC: 24k

It started days ago—maybe weeks. The stories had always been there, whispered between locals who never dared venture too far past the tree line. An old cathedral, they said, swallowed by the forest centuries ago after some unspeakable thing happened on its altar. A holy place desecrated. A godless place now avoided.

You didn’t believe in stories. You believed in light, and shadow, and form. You were just looking for somewhere new to paint.

That’s all.

You’d wandered too far off the trail, chasing the way the sun cut through the leaves like stained glass. That’s when you saw it—partially hidden behind a wall of ivy, a jagged spire breaking the treeline like a splintered fang. The cathedral. Real.

Your breath caught at its beauty, at the weight of silence pressing down around it. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt asleep. The kind of sleep that shouldn’t be disturbed. But curiosity held your hand tighter than caution did. You’d walked the perimeter, brushed moss off old stone, peeked through broken windows. You told yourself you’d return with your brushes. You even smiled, thinking it would be your secret place.

But something followed you out of the woods that day.

You felt it first on your neck—like someone standing too close behind you in a crowded room, except the forest was empty. Then, in your dreams: red eyes just beyond reach, long fingers slipping through your hair, the pull of a voice that never spoke. You knew something had noticed you. You felt it when your back was turned. When you left the lights on. When you started painting your own face without meaning to.

Still, you told yourself it wasn’t real. That you were being foolish. That you’d imagined the presence watching you through the branches.

And yet.

You packed your things and went back on the night of the blood moon.

You told yourself it was just for art.

But some part of you—a deeper, darker part—knew it wasn’t. You weren’t seeking beauty anymore.

You were answering a call. One you pretended not to hear the first time.

The trees part like curtains as you step into the clearing, breath caught in your throat. The abandoned cathedral rises from the earth like a memory no one dared to bury—stone blackened by time, vines clutching its bones, yet impossibly, impossibly alive tonight.

You push open the weather-worn doors with a creak, expecting dust and silence. But what greets you is something else entirely.

Light.

Hundreds of candles float midair, flickering without flame, their glow casting golden halos on the cracked stone floor. They hover in impossible stillness, lighting the nave like a dream—soft, sacred, and wrong. Your eyes widen in awe. You don’t speak. You don’t breathe. The world outside is forgotten.

And then the wind shifts.

Not a breeze—a presence.

It moves through the cathedral like a storm that doesn’t disturb a single flame. You feel it before you hear it, and you hear it before you see him.

The wind slams the great doors shut behind you. In the sudden echoing boom, he’s there.

The entity

He doesn’t walk. He arrives—as if the shadows built themselves into him. Long black silk moves with the whisper of death, molding to a body sculpted by something ancient and cruel. His hair is damp with mist, falling in dark waves around his face. Eyes like fresh blood in candlelight lock onto you, and you don’t have time to run.

His hand is already around your neck.

Not tight. Not yet. Just enough to steal your balance. Just enough to remind you that you are nothing but a guest in his forgotten temple.

“You came back,” he murmurs, voice smooth and cold as winter stone.

“You shouldn’t have.”

His grip doesn’t tighten—but the air does. Like it’s shrinking around your lungs. Your feet barely touch the ground, held steady only by the strength of his arm, which is cold as stone and just as unyielding. The flickering candlelight paints red into the hollows of his eyes, and it’s not a trick of the light.

He is furious.

Not loud. Not wild. But seething. His gaze cuts through you, slow and deliberate, like he’s deciding what part of you to curse first. A silent war burns behind his eyes—restraint vs. wrath—and wrath is winning.

Your breath trembles in your throat as your eyes meet his. You don’t speak. You don’t move. But he sees the fear.

And something dark curls through his lips.

“M’lady,” he says, the words soaked in disdain and old-world elegance. “How idiotic of you to come back.”

The cadence is regal, mocking, spoken in the lilting tone of someone centuries out of time. He says it like a verdict. A spell. A warning too late.

The candles flicker once—violently—and settle.

His eyes stay locked on yours, and though he has yet to bare fangs, you feel them. Waiting. Hungering.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like one might study a caged animal that wandered into fire. Amusement flickers across his face, but it’s razor-thin—too cruel to be called a smile.

“Humans,” he sneers, licking his teeth slowly, deliberately. The movement is fluid, predatory, and his tongue drags across where his fangs should be—hidden, but promised.

“So dumb. So terribly eager to die for wonder, for beauty, for stories they were warned never to believe.” His tone stays elegant, as if reciting poetry meant to insult. Then his voice drops lower, richer.

“It’s feeding time,” he says, almost purring. “And I so happen to have the feast of the century.”

Your eyes widen. Your breath turns sharp in your chest.

His face lowers to your neck—close enough that you feel the cold of him brush your skin before his mouth even touches you. You panic, heart pounding, instincts screaming for flight even though your body cannot move.

And he stops.

A growl simmers in his throat, not loud—but displeased. His hand presses you tighter to the stone door behind you as his breath ghosts over your neck.

“I don’t like my blood panicked,” he murmurs, and now there’s ice in his voice. “That’s child’s play.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his stare heavy with reprimand and threat.

“I like it obedient. Warm. Still.” A pause. “Willing… or broken.”

The candles flicker again—closer now, their flames bowing toward him like servants.

The silence shatters.

Behind you, the great cathedral doors groan, then snap shut with a sound like bone cracking. The lock turns on its own—ancient iron grinding into place. You flinch. The sound echoes like a death knell, final and heavy.

You’re trapped.

Jungkook doesn’t move away. His lips are parted slightly, glistening, his tongue sweeping slow across them as he tastes the air between you. His other hand rises—fingers brushing lightly down your arm, cold enough to make you twitch. He feels your pulse beneath your skin, just beneath your jaw.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He hums.

“’Tis a blood moon, dear,” he says softly, reverently, as if reciting a divine truth. “I am fourfold stronger than on any pitiful day.”

His eyes roll half-shut for a moment, savoring your fear like the scent of wine. His voice holds its ancient lilt, thick with restrained hunger. “Flesh is warmer under it. Blood runs sweeter. And yours…” His eyes snap open, red and ravenous.

“You’ve been ripening for me since the day you crossed my threshold.”

You try to speak—but no sound leaves you. There’s nothing left in your throat but breath and heartbeat.

He sees that.

His gaze drags slowly down your body. Not with lust—yet—but with hunger. As though he’s studying his next course, deciding where to begin.

“Speechless,” he murmurs, tone steeped in mock sympathy. “Good. You’ve finally learned the language of prey.”

He doesn’t sink his teeth in.

Not yet.

Instead, Jungkook lingers—his mouth hovering just above your neck, breath colder than any wind you’ve ever felt. But his hold softens slightly, his fingers no longer clutching but cradling your throat. Like he’s choosing to keep you alive.

And that’s what makes it worse.

He inhales again, long and slow. You feel the tremor ripple through him, not with restraint—but reverence.

“You smell of fear,” he whispers, voice low and heavy like smoke. “But beneath it…”

His nose brushes your skin—your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your neck. You shiver as his mouth opens, lips grazing—not biting—just tasting.

“Desire.” His voice wraps around the word like silk on steel. “As if some part of you wants to be chosen. Touched. Taken.”

His hand releases your neck only to slip down, fingers dragging along your side, then resting over your racing heart.

“You didn’t come here for art,” he murmurs, mouth now right at your ear. “You came to surrender. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He tilts his head again, long dark hair brushing your cheek. His voice is intimate now, coaxing.

“Do you feel it, my sweet little muse?” His lips ghost your pulse again, then pause. “The way the cathedral holds its breath with you inside it? The way your soul leans toward me, even as your body shakes?”

His other hand comes to your waist, slow, sure, possessive.

“You came to be devoured, and you will be. But not alone by teeth.”

He leans back just enough to look you in the eye.

“I want your mind first. Your obedience. Your warmth wrapped around the cold in me.”

He smirks—beautiful, merciless.

“Now tell me, m’lady… Shall I begin?”

You finally find your voice, though it shakes, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Who… who are you?” Your breath comes too fast, too shallow, still under the heavy weight of his presence. Your eyes flicker nervously to the side, but you can’t escape. Not even if you tried.

Jungkook’s smile deepens—dark, knowing, dangerous. He leans in just enough for you to feel the press of his body against yours, the icy chill seeping into your skin through the layers of your clothes. His red eyes gleam as if he’s enjoying your fear, yet there’s something else in them too—something ancient, something alive in a way nothing else is.

“You don’t know?” He muses, as if the answer were obvious. “Foolish of you, to wander into my lair without knowing the true name of the beast.” His voice is rich, dripping with the weight of centuries.

He steps back just enough to let you take him in—fully.

The cathedral’s dim, flickering light dances over him. The long, flowing black silk of his clothes clings to a body carved by time. Muscles shaped by centuries of power, eyes sharp and piercing, his jawline cut like it was made to be admired, worshipped. His hair falls like a dark wave around his face, catching the light with every slight movement. He’s perfect—impossibly perfect.

His smirk widens when he sees where your gaze lingers, reading your thoughts as clearly as if they were written on your skin.

“Ah…” He purrs softly, voice laced with quiet pride. “Centuries… and good blood, keeps this man young.” His old-world lilt stretches the words, making them sound like some twisted poetry. “And more than that, m’lady—alive.”

He steps closer again, his gaze locking onto yours like a spell, a chain. “I am Jungkook, or perhaps better known as Dracula. A name spoken with reverence and fear, passed down through your little human histories.”

His hand rises slowly, fingertips tracing the air between you as if caressing the invisible thread of connection that pulls you toward him. “I’ve walked these woods, these lands, far longer than your kind can dream. I’ve seen kingdoms rise, and I’ve seen them fall.”

The weight of his words settles on you. The way he speaks makes your blood run cold—and yet, there’s something else. You feel his presence seeping into your mind, erasing the fear, replacing it with a strange desire. His power wraps around you like a warm, suffocating blanket.

“Now…” His voice is a whisper, dangerous and intimate all at once. “You know my name. You’ve found your way into my world. Do you fear it, m’lady? Or will you let me show you just how good it can feel… to belong to me?”

Your voice barely comes out—thin, shaky, caught between fear and something you don’t dare name.

“So… you drink blood?” you ask, hesitant, eyes locked on his in the dark.

The change is instant.

Jungkook’s expression hardens, and for the first time, his fangs flash—long, pale, perfectly sculpted. Not bared in hunger, but in displeasure. A warning.

He steps closer.

“I do more than drink blood,” he says, his voice thick with contempt and pleasure. “I eat flesh. I fuck. I consume.”

Each word is spoken slowly, like a strike.

“I feel better than any man—human or fang—could dream of, m’lady.”

His accent wraps around the vulgarity like silk wrapped around a dagger, old-world elegance dragging filth into the divine.

“Why do you ask… my little sacrifice?” The last part is soft, cruelly affectionate.

His hand rises again, fingers cold as marble, and he rubs your neck—where his grip had been. You flinch. His thumb brushes over the skin, slow and possessive, until he finds it.

The bruise.

A smile curls at the edge of his mouth when he sees what he’s done—dark skin blooming beneath your throat like a mark of ownership. “Look what I’ve done,” he says, almost to himself. “So delicate. And already ruined.”

But there’s no apology. Just pride.

He leans in again, this time slower, mouth near your ear. “That bruise… is a promise, dear. Not of mercy. But of what’s to come.”

He grabs your arm—rough, possessive, his fingers like iron—and without another word, begins pulling you through the cathedral.

“Come, come now dear,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his voice still soaked in that elegant, archaic lilt. “I need to get you bare.”

His tone is decisive, like it’s not up for discussion. You stumble after him, his grip unrelenting, as he moves with inhuman speed—gliding, dragging, commanding the very air around him.

He leads you toward the left, past the shadowed pews and crumbling altar, toward a tall, narrow door half-covered in ivy and candlelight. It groans open at his touch, revealing a steep staircase of cold stone spiraling downward.

The air grows denser as you descend. The light shifts—no longer candlelight, but something softer, more unnatural. You feel the past pressing in around you, walls breathing memory and death. And desire.

At the bottom, the stairs open into a chamber carved from ancient stone—thick and quiet, like the inside of a tomb.

But it’s not empty.

There, set against the far wall, lies a bed—massive, low, draped in red velvet so deep it looks black in the low light. Thick curtains hang from the stone arch behind it, spilling down like blood, their fabric old, regal, untouched by time. Golden rings at the top gleam faintly. It’s all wrong in its beauty—too perfect for something hidden underground. Too clean for something dead.

Jungkook doesn’t stop walking until he’s nearly at the foot of the bed. Then he turns, finally facing you again.

Not a speck of dust on him. Not a thread out of place. The silk of his shirt clings perfectly to his chest and arms, catching the low light like polished obsidian. His hair falls in soft, deliberate waves. His eyes—still glowing, still red—drag over you.

He looks more god than monster.

And that, somehow, is worse.

He tilts his head slightly. “Surprised?” he asks, voice low, amused. “You thought I’d be rotting? Filthy?” His mouth twitches at the corner, not a smile—a dare.

“I am not a beast.” His hand rises, slow and graceful, fingers curling like he’s beckoning you to kneel. “I am something older. I ruin beautifully.”

He steps closer again, hand brushing the side of your face, then your shoulder.

“And you, little thing… You’ve already started to feel like a good feast.”

You stand frozen—your back to the stone wall, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. The air is too still, too thick. You can hear nothing but the echo of your own pulse and the faint shift of his silk clothes as he steps closer.

Jungkook watches you. No mercy in his eyes. Just hunger. And something darker—possession.

He licks his lips, slow and deliberate, tasting the air between you like it carries your soul on it. “Still frozen,” he murmurs, almost fondly. “Like prey.”

His fingers rise, brushing your collarbone lightly—tracing the line of your clothes. The cold of his touch sears into you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t tear.

He unwraps.

The first button gives under his fingers.

Then the second.

Then the third.

One by one.

He watches your face the whole time. Not your body. Your reaction.

“You’re not moving,” he says, lips curving into something wicked. “Not resisting. Not fleeing. And yet… your heart…” He presses his palm flat over your chest, right where it pounds. “So loud. So sweet.”

Another button undone. The fabric slips, exposing your shoulder.

“Let me show you something,” he whispers, stepping behind you now, his hands trailing the garment down your arms. “Your body may freeze in fear… but it answers me just the same.”

Your clothes fall to the floor in silence.

The cold air hits you. But it’s his gaze that burns.

He circles you once, slow, eyes devouring every inch with the patience of a creature who has waited.

“You wear mortality like a veil,” he murmurs. “But I see through it.”

He leans in, breath skimming your shoulder, lips brushing just beneath your ear.

“And tonight, I claim what’s beneath.”

Jungkook doesn’t rush.

He could—he’s strong enough to tear you open like paper—but instead he savors this. You. Your helplessness. The silence in your throat. The tremble in your breath.

His fingers graze down your spine, featherlight. Then up again. Just skin to skin, slow enough to feel your shiver roll through his touch. His body is so close behind you, and yet not quite touching—just heatless presence, taunting.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet. “Too soft for a place like this.”

His hand curves around your hip. Squeezes. Possessive. Filthy.

“I can feel the blood moving in you… thick and warm,” he whispers against your neck, not quite kissing you, just hovering. “Like honey in a glass jar. Slow. Sweet. Desperate to spill.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s low. Cruel. And somehow, even that is sensual.

“You’re trembling like a virgin,” he growls, his mouth so close now that you can feel his lips shape the words against your skin. “Is that it, little lamb? No man’s touched you right? Or are you just not used to being touched by hell, himself?”

His fingers glide across your stomach, then back down, then circle up again just beneath your chest, skimming everything he knows will make you squirm. “You humans are so fragile. So quick to break. And yet…”

He cups your jaw, turning your face toward him. Those red eyes blaze—burning through your soul.

“You walked into my cathedral like you wanted to be ruined.”

Then he leans in, lips just barely brushing your ear, voice dropping into a rasp.

“Tell me,” he growls, tongue flicking against your earlobe, “when I take you—do I rip you apart slow… or do I make you scream fast enough to echo off every holy wall in this tomb?”

“Please,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out. “Just… don’t make it painful.”

Your voice cracks like something inside you has finally given up the fight. No resistance. No denial. Just raw, trembling surrender. You weren’t pleading for mercy—you knew better. There was no tomorrow for someone in your place. Only tonight. Only him.

Jungkook stills behind you.

Then you hear it.

A laugh—quiet, low, amused, the sound of a predator entertained by how easily the prey gave in.

“Oh… my sweet little dove,” he breathes, voice soaked in mockery. “You beg so easily. It’s almost… disappointing.”

His hand slides around your waist again, this time lower, fingers spreading against the base of your stomach as he presses himself to your back. You can feel the hunger in his body now. All that cold, coiled tension.

“You think I’d hurt you?” he croons, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “No, no, no. You’ve misunderstood me, m’lady.”

His fingers drift upward again, ghosting under your chest. “I don’t hurt blood I intend to drink.”

Then his hand wraps lightly around your throat from behind—not choking, just holding, like he wants to feel every swallow, every panic-breath, every heartbeat thudding against his palm.

“I’m a vampire,” he purrs, voice thick with that ancient, formal lilt. “And blood is… precious to us. Sacred. Especially blood like yours.”

He moves, slow and deliberate, his lips dragging along your jaw. “And to me, it gives life. Power. Desire.”

He presses a kiss—cold and lingering—just beneath your ear.

“So be good, little thing,” he whispers darkly. “And maybe… just maybe I’ll think about sparing you.”

Then his tongue flicks out, tasting the throb in your pulse, and he hums with approval.

“But hell, you make it hard. You’re so warm. And you tremble like you want to be taken.”

He steps around to face you now, hand still at your throat, eyes glowing like coals.

“I could drink you slow. Lick every drop. Fuck the life out of you until there’s none left to scream with. But if you’re very good…” he smirks, cocking his head, “I might just leave enough for you to crawl out of here.”

Jungkook stands in front of you, towering—every inch of him hunger made flesh. His hand slips from your throat slowly, fingers dragging down the center of your chest as he steps back, just enough to look at you fully.

“You look like you’re praying,” he says, voice low and wicked, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then slowly—so slowly—down your bare form. “But prayers don’t reach this place anymore. Only I do.”

His hands rise to his chest, undoing the first clasp of his black silk shirt. The sound of it—quiet, deliberate, metallic—clicks through the cold air.

“I’ve worn this for decades,” he says, slipping the garment open inch by inch. “Silk from dead kingdoms. Threads soaked in centuries. And now, finally… I get to take it off for you.”

The shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing muscle that’s carved, defined, impossible. His body looks like it was forged by hunger, by time, by blood itself. Cold to the eye, but burning in its power.

You can’t look away.

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, stepping closer again. “So quiet. So compliant now. Like you want to be undressed by a monster.”

He slides a hand over his own stomach, then down to the laces at his trousers, voice thick and condescending. “Shall I keep going? Shall I show you what eternity builds, little sacrifice?”

Then he leans in, chest brushing yours, his hand snaking back around to cup your throat again.

“I could make you beg,” he whispers darkly. “Make you crawl. Make you thank me for what I take. Because you will feel it—my mouth, my cock, my fangs. Every inch of me that’s been starved of warmth.”

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes glowing redder now, closer to the edge.

“But you asked so nicely… ‘Just don’t make it painful.’”

His lips ghost yours, not kissing—just hovering. “I don’t do pain, little one.”

His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip.

“I do ruin.”

He doesn’t touch you again just yet. He stares.

Like you’re already naked beneath him. Like the very sight of you is making restraint a sin he’s barely managing to keep.

You see it now—clearly—what hides behind his control. The want. The ache. It’s written in the way his chest rises heavier with each breath, how his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from grabbing you and devouring.

His body is a marvel—impossibly sculpted, broad, powerful, every line and muscle more defined than anything you’ve ever seen. Not human. Not fair. It’s the kind of physique forged in deathless time, by hunger and discipline, by a need to be feared and worshipped.

And you can feel it. All of it. The cold radiating off his skin like a warning, but his eyes burn so hot it makes your insides twist.

He tilts his head just a little, eyes dragging over your bare form again, more lingering this time. More predatory.

“You feel it, don’t you,” he murmurs, voice dropping like honey turned to poison. “This… pull.”

He steps close again—so close his chest nearly brushes yours, but not quite. Just heatless air, just tension, just his stare raking over you.

“Your skin tightens. Your thighs press together. You can’t tell if it’s fear or want. That’s what I do, little mortal. I blur the lines until you’re begging me to cross them.”

His hand lifts, brushing your cheek—tenderly. Like a lover.

But then his thumb grazes your bottom lip.

Pushes in just enough for you to taste his skin.

And he smiles. Feral. Gorgeous. Dangerous.

“You want to know what I taste like, don’t you,” he whispers, voice curling around your spine like smoke. “You want to know if eternity’s hunger can be sweet.”

He leans in again—mouth near yours, breath just as cold and slow as the moonlight.

“But you’ll have to ask me for it, darling. Nicely. On your knees, maybe. Like the offering you are.”

Jungkook’s smirk widens at the thought, a wicked glimmer in his eyes as he steps back just enough to leave space between your bodies—but not enough to let you escape the intensity of his gaze.

His voice drops even lower now, huskier, a perfect blend of authority and temptation.

“You’ve been so quiet,” he taunts, eyes flicking down to your trembling form, that soft breath escaping your lips. “Almost as if you’re afraid to say what you really want. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

He takes a slow step forward, his movements deliberate, measured—like a predator playing with its prey before the final strike.

“I could make this easy on you, sweetheart. Just give in. Let me feel your blood—your body—just as I want to,” he whispers, running the back of his fingers lightly along your arm, then up to your shoulder, feeling the goosebumps rise under his touch. “But I won’t. Not yet.”

He steps closer, so close you can feel his body heat even through the air that separates you. His lips are so near, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

“You want to know if eternity tastes sweet?” His voice is a velvet rasp. “Then show me how much you’re willing to beg for it. I’m not giving you anything you haven’t earned, little one.”

A finger trails down your throat, softly. Light. The same path his thumb took earlier, but now it feels like a promise. “I could ravage you, take what I want, and leave you crumpled beneath me. Or…”

His voice turns teasing again, amusement lacing every syllable as he circles you, one hand trailing over your waist, the other hovering just behind you. “Or, I could have you begging me. Wanting me so badly you forget what it was like to resist. But no more of this silence, hmm?”

He finally brushes his lips against your ear, a teasing whisper. “Tell me, sweet thing, what do you want from me? If you’re not too afraid to say it.”

His hand presses at your lower back, guiding you toward the bed but stopping before you make contact. “Say it.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, laced with trembling hope. “It’ll be quick?”

For a moment, Jungkook stills—but only just. His hands remain where they are, exploring you slowly, confidently, like he already owns every inch of you. His thumb grazes your hip. His palm brushes over your stomach. Every movement is deliberate. Possessive.

Then his tongue swipes across the bottom of his lip, wetting it as he studies your face—your fear, your question, your fragile hope.

And he smirks.

That old, cruel, regal smirk of someone who’s lived too long and learned too much about how to break humans open without even trying.

“In truth?” he drawls, voice thick with that timeless accent, low and curling like smoke around your ears. “*I want to. I do. But this blood—your blood…”

He leans in, nose brushing just below your jaw, where your pulse flutters wild beneath your skin.

“…it feels like it needs to simmer some more.”

He says it like a chef eyeing a perfect meal not yet ready to be touched. Like you are a delicacy he intends to savor, not rush.

“You taste scared still. Raw. Untouched. And I do so hate to dine on something undercooked.”

His teeth graze your throat—not biting, not yet. Just a scrape, a warning, a promise.

“Let it warm. Let it plead with want.”

And his hands roam again, slower this time, but firmer. He’s not rushing you. He’s ripening you.

Jungkook pulls back just slightly, just enough to let your skin cool from his breath—and then he straightens.

His hands go to the waistband of his trousers, slow, like he’s showing you something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, even as his fingers tug the dark fabric down over those impossible hips, revealing the sharp V-line, the lean strength, the unholy beauty carved into every inch of him.

“Your eyes say you want to run,” he says quietly, tilting his head just enough for the candlelight to catch in his eyes, still glowing, still blood-moon red. “But your body? Your body says it wants to be wrecked.”

He steps out of the pooled fabric and brushes a hand through his long, dark hair, pushing it back from his face. It falls in elegant waves, wild yet regal. Ancient. Timeless. His chest rises and falls slow and steady, like he’s controlling every breath, every urge—barely.

Then he kneels.

Not like a servant.

Like a beast preparing to feed.

His mouth hovers just above the place where your shoulder meets your neck, his breath trailing cold over the skin. You feel every molecule of air between his lips and your body.

His fingers press lightly to your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the graze of his abs against your stomach. He groans—low, guttural, as if you make him hungry in ways even blood doesn’t.

“Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating into your throat. “You smell like trembling prayers and heat. I could keep you like this for hours… just trembling. Just ripening.”

He presses the flat of his tongue to the curve of your neck and drags it slowly along your pulse, tasting without taking.

And when he reaches just below your ear, he whispers, voice thick and devastating:

“You want me to bite, don’t you.”

His fingers flex against your waist again.

“Not yet. I want you sweet. I want you crying from it.”

He looks up from your neck, hair falling in front of one eye, and smirks.

“Be patient for me, little offering. The best things bleed slow.”

He feels it the moment your breath hitches—that quiet, involuntary quake that betrays you. The way your hips shift just slightly, your thighs pressing together as if instinct is fighting reason. And that’s what he wants. Not permission. Proof.

Jungkook smiles against your neck, a cruel, hungry thing. “There it is,” he murmurs, his voice warm and wicked like a silk noose. “Your body’s finally learning who it belongs to.”

His hands slide down your back, slow and sure, fingertips grazing your skin like he’s mapping it. Worshipping it. Claiming it.

“You’re softening for me,” he continues, voice like a spell. “Your skin’s getting warmer, your blood sweeter. I can smell it.”

He brushes his lips along the side of your throat, not kissing—tasting—his nose buried in the hollow just below your jaw as he inhales deeply.

“Mm,” he groans low. “There’s nothing like this. Nothing.”

His hands tighten suddenly at your hips, grinding you slowly into his body so you can feel just how hard he is—how much he’s holding back.

“See what you do to me?” he growls. “I’ve lived through centuries of blood and war and pleasure and death, and still—still—nothing tempts me like humans trembling in my hands.”

His voice slips into a rougher edge, a possessive sound under the smooth accent. “Do you know how hard it is for me not to ruin you right here? Against this cold stone, with your hands clawing at me and your voice begging me to stop?”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, hair tousled, lips stained from kissing your pulse.

“But you’re not ready yet. Not quite. I want more from you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, just barely pressing through what little fabric remains, teasing the heat gathering there.

“You’re starting to ache, aren’t you?” he whispers, licking his lower lip again. “You’re so close. Just say it. Say you want me.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath cool but ragged now, his control splintering with every second.

“Beg for it, and I might make you feel something no human ever has before.”

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper—fragile, cracked, but still there.

“Feel something no human ever has…?” you echo, wide-eyed, chest rising fast under his grip. “What do you mean?”

That grin. That cruel, ancient grin crawls across his face like a shadow catching flame. His laugh is low—genuine, dangerous, and devastating. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek as he speaks, his voice like black velvet dipped in sin.

“Oh, darling…” he murmurs, letting the syllables drag. “You poor, breakable thing.”

His fingers—those long, death-born fingers—trace your throat, featherlight at first, then firmer, circling your pulse like a predator playing with its food.

“I mean ecstasy,” he breathes, lips near your ear now. “I mean your soul clawing at the edge of your body because it cannot hold the pleasure I’ll wring out of you.”

His hands clamp harder now—one gripping your waist possessively, the other wrapping around your throat with exact, careful pressure.

“I’ll make you feel your own heartbeat through your spine,” he growls, dragging his fangs—still hidden, still threatening—along your skin. “I’ll tear pleasure through your nerves until you forget your name and remember only mine.”

His voice drops lower, eyes boring into yours with something feral underneath—something old.

“Have you ever been devoured, little mortal?” His thumb brushes your lips now, rough from restraint. “Because that’s what I do. I ruin. I consume. I take. And I make you thank me for it.”

He presses against you again, harder, undeniable now. He’s not just toying—he’s holding back a storm.

“Say the word,” he whispers, teeth flashing, “and I’ll give you something no man of flesh could ever dream of giving.”

He growls low when he feels you kiss him back with trembling need—your lips parting, your breath catching, your body no longer resisting but responding. That’s all the permission he needs.

In one swift, fluid motion, he grabs you tighter, lips never leaving yours as he starts moving—walking you backward, his body guiding yours with the kind of force only centuries of power could carry.

Each step has weight, dominance. His hand on the back of your neck, his other still gripping your waist like he owns it—because in his mind, he does now.

Your knees bump against velvet.

And then you’re falling—gasping as your back hits the bed, soft but firm beneath you. Before you can fully take in the crimson sheets, the old stone around you, the massive crimson curtains drawn like a stage, he follows—he pounces.

He pins you beneath him, a knee between your thighs, one hand on your chest, his body everywhere. He’s not just on top—he’s above, towering over you, hair falling forward in waves of inky black as he stares down at you, red eyes lit with unholy want.

“Look at you,” he purrs, hips slowly grinding into yours, just enough for you to feel how hard he is. “Flat on your back in my bed… trembling like a sacrifice and breathing like a lover.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your cheek, voice hot in your ear. “You taste divine. And now you feel darker.”

His hands roam again, slower this time—savoring. He explores like you’re something forbidden he waited too long to claim. His lips return to your throat, but this time they linger longer, more possessive, more dangerous.

You feel his restraint fraying. The way he grips your thighs tighter. The way his hips press into yours with more urgency. The way his teeth scrape along your skin like he’s tasting the line between worship and devour.

“You’re sworn by me now,” he whispers against your neck.

His breath grows heavier, colder—like mist curling through the cathedral air. You feel it right before his mouth dips, slowly, hungrily, down to your neck. His lips press to your skin first, soft—almost reverent.

Then he licks.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue up the curve of your throat, stopping just below your jaw. He groans, low and deep in his chest, like the taste itself stokes something feral in him.

“Mmm… this…” he murmurs, lips brushing where your pulse pounds. “This is what I starve for. Warm, willing… sinful. The church cries at this grave from your innocence”

His tongue flicks out again, slower now, tracing the fluttering vein like he’s savoring the anticipation more than the blood itself. You feel his breath against the damp trail, his nose brushing your skin as he inhales you like perfume.

Then he stills—mouth hovering.

“You’re trembling,” he says with a smirk, voice low and velvet-dark. “I adore when they tremble. It means the body knows before the mind ever does.”

His hand grips your jaw, tilting your head to bare more of your neck. “And your body, darling… it’s already spoken for.”

He sees it in your eyes—the fear mixed with something else. The way you look at him, desperate, vulnerable. It drives him mad

“Jungkook, please….be gentle.. W-with me”

He watches your pleading gaze and feels the weight of your words settle deep into him. Gentle.

His lips curve into a wicked smile, dark and full of satisfaction. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he feels your pulse race beneath his lips. His fangs graze your skin, teasing, not yet sinking in, but just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

With an almost lazy drawl, he murmurs, his voice thick with that haunting, old-world accent, “Gentle, you say?”

He laughs softly, the sound dark and rich with amusement. “Ah, my sweet little prey…” he continues, his fingers trailing down your side, brushing along the curves of your body as though he’s deciding what he wants to claim next. “You beg for gentleness now, but let me assure you, this… this will be nothing like what you’ve known.”

His hand moves to your throat again, just resting there, teasing the line of pressure, but not enough to cut off your breath completely. “You may beg, but I don’t listen to pleas. I give what I want, what you need… whether you ask for it or not.”

He dips his head lower, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, torturous kisses. Then he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes, his red gaze sharp, full of dark promise.

“Do you want gentleness, my little sacrifice?” he asks, voice like honey and fire. “Or do you want me to take you as only a creature like me can?”

The soft whine escapes you before you can stop it, a sound that drives him wild. He hears it—the surrender, the pull toward what you know he can give, whether you’ve fully accepted it or not. It’s a plea, but it’s something more: a signal that you want him to take control, to claim you in a way only he can.

He smiles, a dark, twisted thing that shows how much he enjoys it—the power, the control, the fact that you’re his now. His eyes flare with intensity, glowing like crimson embers as he watches you, feeling your surrender in every inch of your body.

“Good little one,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, and that single phrase makes a shiver run through you. “You wanted me to take you, didn’t you?”

His grip tightens around your throat just enough to make you dizzy, but not enough to stop your breath entirely. He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear, his voice now a dark promise.

“I’ll show you what it means to be the property of me,” he purrs, his other hand sliding down to your waist, his fingers pressing against your skin like he’s marking you.

His body presses against yours, hard and possessive, a reminder that there’s no escape now. His lips hover over your neck once more, his fangs just barely brushing the skin, teasing, knowing that the moment he sinks them in, everything changes.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, almost a growl now. “It’ll be a charm you’ll never forget. No turning back from this.”

He moves then, not slow, not gentle—he’s on top of you, fully in control, and you feel his power in every movement, every shift of his body against yours. He drags his mouth down your neck with purpose, his hunger a force of nature that overpowers everything.

The tension is unbearable as he stops just at the edge, his lips lingering for a moment. “Ready, little one?” he whispers, and you know it’s no longer a question. It’s a command.

And with that, he takes.

He doesn’t give you time to breathe, doesn’t give you time to think. His lips crash against yours, rough, demanding, as though he’s trying to brand you with the intensity of his kiss. His teeth graze your lip, sharp and hungry, and his grip on you tightens—like he’s trying to consume you in every way, pulling you deeper into the kiss, deeper into his world.

You can taste him, feel his need, his dominance pushing against your own. His body presses into yours, his chest hard and unforgiving, and you can feel every inch of him. There’s no tenderness here, no gentleness, just raw desire and a thirst that goes beyond flesh, beyond the physical.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth without warning, exploring, claiming. The kiss is possessive, and you can feel the burn of his desire in the way he holds you, in the way he forces you to kiss him back—his hunger is undeniable, and it’s all-consuming.

His breath comes in short bursts against your lips as he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low, almost a growl. “You’re almost ready.”

He doesn’t hold back any longer. His kiss turns feral, deeper, more urgent. His hands grip you harder, pulling you against him with force, as if trying to fuse your bodies together, as if he can’t get close enough. The passion burns hotter, darker, and you can feel the raw power of him, his hunger spilling over into everything.

His lips are bruising, teeth scraping against your mouth as he forces you to meet him, to give yourself to him. He doesn’t wait for you to respond; he takes what he wants, relentless and unyielding.

His hands move to your hair, gripping it tightly, yanking your head back to expose your throat, your skin quivering under the roughness. His breath is harsh against your neck, and then his mouth follows, leaving fiery trails of possessive kisses, harder than before.

You can feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, every movement sharp and precise, as if each second with you is a moment he’s claiming, marking, owning.

“my blood,” he mutters into your skin, voice dark and thick with lust. “All for me.”

His hands trail lower, exploring, rough and unrelenting, as though he’s making sure you’re fully his—body, mind, and soul. He pushes harder, deeper into the kiss, like he’s sealing his claim with every touch, every bite, every motion.

He grips your legs, effortlessly pulling them around his waist, and you feel the hard press of his body against yours, each inch of him a reminder of how much control he has. The heat between you is suffocating, overwhelming, and his body fits against yours with the precision of someone who has claimed you before, knows you intimately even in this moment of newness.

With a low growl, he pushes himself closer, forcing you back into the bed beneath you as his mouth trails down your neck once more, his hands roaming over your body with possessive urgency. You feel the shift, his dominance evident in the way he moves—never asking, never hesitating, only taking what he wants.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with hunger and a touch of mockery. “Feel that?,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “The way your body melts into mine? You’re already mine, in every way. I don’t need your consent to make it real. You’ll beg for me by the end of this.”

His fingers dig into your skin, pulling you even closer as he starts moving against you, the pressure building with every movement, the friction between you undeniable. He’s rough, raw—like he’s marking you, staking his claim in the most primal way possible.

“Tell me you enjoy this,” he demands, voice rough with desire, as his hands explore your body. “Tell me you want me to take you, to make you mine.”

His grip tightens on your legs, pulling you even closer as you resist, and that only seems to ignite something darker in him. The frustration in his eyes flickers, but it’s soon replaced by something far more dangerous. He leans in, his breath hot and sharp against your ear as he feels your resistance, his voice low and almost predatory.

“You don’t want this?” he growls, a twisted amusement in his tone, “How foolish.” His hand moves to your throat again, a steady pressure that reminds you just who is in control.

“Humans,” he sneers, the disgust evident in his voice. “You think you have choices. You think you have the power to deny me. But look at you, so fragile, so… easily shattered.”

His fangs glint as he smiles down at you, the cruel smirk only growing. “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Weak, fragile little creatures with your false sense of power.” His eyes gleam with red-hot fury. “You think you can play hard to get, but you’ll give in, just like the rest of them.”

With each degrading word, he leans into you, pushing his body harder against yours, forcing you to feel the weight of his hunger, his need. “I’ve lived for centuries,” he continues, his voice like dark silk, “and you’re nothing but a fleeting moment in my world. I’ll take what I want from you, no matter how much you resist.”

He moves against you, grinding his body into yours, his hands possessively roaming your skin as he forces you to submit. The pressure builds, and every movement from him reinforces the idea that he’s beyond your control, beyond any human limits.

“So go ahead,” he mocks, his voice dripping with disdain. “Keep pretending like you can deny me. But you’ll beg soon enough. Every human does.”

And with that, he presses harder, relentless, the heat of his body suffocating, his words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

His hands shift, fingers becoming claws, digging into your skin with an almost primal force. You can feel the raw pressure as he grips you harder, as though he’s trying to hold you in place, to mark you, to claim you in the most physical way possible. His body presses harder against yours, almost crushing, as his mouth hovers just above your neck, sensing the rapid pulse beneath your skin, like a heartbeat calling out to him.

He inhales deeply, the sound of his breath ragged with hunger. “So weak… so fragile,” he mutters, his lips barely brushing the skin of your neck as he feels your pulse racing beneath his fingertips, beneath his mouth. The tension between you is electric, and you can almost feel the hunger in his eyes as they flicker with dark delight.

He leans in, his fangs scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath cool against the heat of your body. “I can feel it,” he whispers, his voice a low growl, “the way your pulse quickens for me… How it speeds up when you’re fearsome.”

His claws dig deeper into your skin, and you feel a sharp sting as the sensation of being marked, being taken, surges through you. He’s toying with you, enjoying the control, the way you shiver under his touch. His mouth moves to your neck, his teeth grazing just beneath your pulse, teasing, testing.

“Don’t pretend,” he continues, voice dark, dangerous. “I know you want this… even if you’re too proud to admit it. You’ll break just like the rest of them.”

His grip tightens once more, his claws drawing a small line of blood, and as your pulse throbs beneath his touch, he presses harder against you, feeling the tremor of fear and desire in every movement you make.

He slides one strong arm beneath your back, wrapping it around you possessively, dragging your body flush against his cold, unyielding frame. The motion is swift and commanding—there’s no space left between you now. His muscles flex as he holds you there, his grip tight, as if daring you to even try and pull away.

Then his mouth is back on your skin—hot despite the chill of his body—pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then your throat. Each kiss lingers, lips dragging slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing the taste of your skin. He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your neck like a low warning of the hunger still brewing beneath the surface.

“Mm,” he hums, voice thick with dark pleasure, “your blood sings to me. Your fear, your heat… it’s intoxicating.”

He kisses higher now, along your jaw, then back down again, tracing your pulse with the tip of his tongue. You feel the sharp edge of his fangs graze you, but he doesn’t bite—he savors. Teases.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs between kisses, breath cool but voice molten, “what you’re making me exude.”

His arm tightens around you, and with every slow, hungry kiss, he pulls you deeper into the nightmare you can’t seem to wake from—one where danger and desire blur until you’re not sure which one you’re responding to.

His hand slides downward, slow and deliberate, the drag of his fingers over your skin sending a fresh wave of heat through your already tense body. His touch is cold, but his intent burns—every movement practiced, possessive, and deeply aware of what it does to you.

He keeps his arm wrapped tight around your back, holding you to him like he’s staking a claim, while his other hand moves lower, over the curve of your hip, then between your legs. He rubs there—firm, unrelenting—watching your reaction with a cruel kind of satisfaction.

“There it is,” he murmurs, eyes locked on you, voice smooth and dripping with hunger. “You feel that? That’s your body betraying you, sweet thing. So wet, so ready, and I’ve barely grazed you.”

His fingers work in slow, purposeful circles, teasing, pressing harder every time you flinch or gasp. The red in his eyes glows brighter, and his mouth finds your neck again, kissing rougher now, more desperate.

“This is mine,” he growls, rubbing harder, his words sinking deep into your skin like a curse. “Every drop of you—blood, body, breath—it all belongs to me now.”

His palm presses deeper, and he slows—just enough to feel it. The blood rushing through you. The throb of your pulse beneath his touch. His fingers drag lazily over the heat between your legs, and he exhales a low, predatory sound, eyes flicking down to watch the way your body reacts to every teasing motion of his hand.

“Ah…” he breathes, voice dipping into something darker, almost reverent. “I can feel it. Your blood… it’s moving faster now. Right here.” His fingertips graze just enough to make you twitch, and he grins as if he’s discovered something sacred.

He watches his own hand as he continues to rub you, the muscles in his jaw flexing with restraint. “So warm,” he mutters, mostly to himself, though his eyes flick up to yours. “So human. So helpless.” He presses a little harder now, drawing a slow, deliberate circle that pulls another reaction from you—one he drinks in like it’s just as sweet as blood.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, licking his lower lip again, watching the way you squirm. “Do you hate it? Or is it the fear that makes it feel this good?” His finger slips lower—barely a stroke, barely a touch—but enough to make your body jolt.

“Such a sensitive little thing,” he coos mockingly. “I could play here for hours. Just watch you fall apart on my fingers… until you beg me to take the rest.”

He dips lower again, dragging the wetness over your skin, staring at it with dark fascination, as if you were bleeding for him already. “You’re ripe,” he says, voice rough now. “And I haven’t even sunk my teeth in yet.”

His thumb slides into place with unsettling precision, pressing into that sensitive spot with slow, calculated pressure. He watches your body jolt beneath him, the way your hips shift involuntarily—like instinct has taken over and your body is answering him before your mind can catch up.

“There we are,” he mutters, eyes narrowing with wicked satisfaction. “You move so sweet when you think you’re not supposed to.”

He circles with his thumb, firm and unrelenting, and your legs tense beneath his body. He doesn’t stop—if anything, he sharpens the pressure, dragging out the movement just to feel every twitch, every gasp.

“That little shake,” he murmurs, leaning in so his breath brushes your cheek, “it’s the blood. Rushing everywhere. It sings to me when you’re like this.”

Your breath stutters, hips shifting again despite yourself, and he lets out a dark chuckle.

“Keep moving,” he says lowly, voice like velvet laced with threat. “Let me feel what desperation does to you. Show me where it aches.”

He presses harder, thumb slow and firm, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open—exposed. His red eyes lock on your face, drinking in your helplessness like it’s the finest wine he’s ever tasted.

“So effortless,” he whispers. “So very, very easy to unravel.”

His touch turns torturously slow—he’s no longer just teasing, he’s studying you. Reading the way your body pulses under his hand, how every twitch, every breath, every tremor answers him. His thumb glides through your slickness with practiced cruelty, circling, pressing, retreating—only to return harder when you shift or whimper.

“There,” he murmurs, almost to himself, watching the rhythm of your blood surge beneath your skin. “I can feel it building. Like a tide under your flesh. You’re trying so hard to hold still, aren’t you?” His voice is thick with hunger, low and reverent, like he’s savoring something sacred.

He leans closer, lips barely grazing your cheek as he works you with measured intent. “Every beat. Every drop. The blood rushes down when you’re like this… soaked and wanting.” His tongue drags lazily along the edge of your jaw. “You don’t even realize what you’re giving me.”

Then he slows again—too much—just when you start to chase his rhythm. His eyes flick to your hips, your thighs, how your body pushes toward his hand even now.

“You want more,” he says, smirking darkly. “Even if you’re afraid. Even if you should be running.”

His fingers slip lower, gathering everything your body’s given him, then he brings them back to your clit—pressing, slow and unrelenting—his gaze never leaving your face.

“I could play with this flow all night,” he growls, voice sharp with lust. “Watch it flood, feel it heat, make it scream. You’re already bleeding desire for me, little thing. And I haven’t even bitten you yet.”

He feels it—your body swelling under his touch, the heat rising, blood rushing thick beneath the surface like it’s begging to be claimed. His thumb doesn’t stop, but his eyes darken further, pupils blown wide with want. His nostrils flare slightly, catching the scent of your arousal and the pulse pounding in your veins, and his lips part.

“Ah,” he exhales, voice catching on something primal. “You’re ripe now. I can feel your blood blooming under my hand… swelling just for me.”

His mouth dips lower, hovering over your skin, and he drags his tongue slowly across his bottom lip—then licks the corner of his mouth, tasting the air, savoring the heat radiating off you like it’s already on his tongue.

“It calls,” he says, voice trembling with restraint. “Your blood sings, your flesh swells… and I—” he cuts himself off with a groan, mouth finally descending to the place just below your jaw.

He doesn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kisses first—slow and heated—right where your pulse pounds the hardest, letting his tongue flick out to taste the salt of your skin, the heat, the life. His fangs graze but don’t pierce, teasing you like everything else.

“Let me taste your sweet nectar,” he growls, muffled against your neck. “Let me drink the ache you’re trying so hard to hide.”

And his hand doesn’t stop. His thumb keeps rubbing, circling, coaxing more of that need out of you—more blood, more heat, more helpless want—for him to swallow whole.

His hand stills for just a breath—then he shifts, sliding down with liquid grace, eyes never leaving yours. His mouth finds the place his thumb had worked so mercilessly, and then—

He replaces it.

Warm lips parting, tongue slow, deliberate—he presses his mouth to you like he’s worshipping, like he’s claiming.

His thumb, slick with you, lifts to his mouth. He slides it past his lips and sucks, slow and deep, tongue curling around it as his eyes flutter shut in something close to ecstasy.

“Mmm,” he hums, letting it slip free with a wet sound. “You taste like heat and life. And you’re swelling for me.”

Then he lowers again. This time—mouth wide, tongue flat—he licks the swollen ache of you with long, dragging strokes. No mercy. No hesitation.

“So warm,” he whispers against your folds. “So full of blood… I could stay here for hours. Lick until your pulse breaks against my mouth.”

He groans into you, tongue flicking, teasing, then circling with the same relentless rhythm his thumb once had. His fingers spread your thighs wider, holding you open as if you were an offering—something sacred to be devoured.

And he does.

Slow, then faster. Savoring every movement. Every taste. Every swell of blood under your skin.

“Keep giving it to me,” he growls into your cunt. “Let your blood pour for me, little one. I want to feel you fall apart—on my tongue.”

He pulls off slowly, leaving you trembling, your body yearning for more of the pleasure he had just given. His breath is heavy, sharp against your skin as he looks up at you, a dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. He lets his tongue flick out, licking his lips with satisfaction, eyes still locked on yours as he drinks in your every reaction.

“Patience,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “It’s not time yet.” His fingers trace along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending small jolts through you.

He moves up, placing a hand on your chest, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a teasing motion. “You’re almost there, aren’t you?” he muses. “So desperate for me to finish what I’ve started. But it’s not just the blood, is it?”

He leans closer, lips barely brushing your ear. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

His fangs flash briefly as he smirks, then pulls away just enough to look you over, eyes dark with desire and amusement. He seems to savor every moment of your hesitation, knowing how close you are to giving in completely.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low and teasing. “When I’m ready, I’ll give you all of me.”

He watches you with an almost predatory focus, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement as you squirm beneath him. The way your body tenses and moves, desperate for him to continue, is an intoxicating sight. Each shift, each breath you take, only fuels his need.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. “Look at you, all squirming, trying to hold on.”

He leans closer, his body pressing against yours, but still, he holds back. His lips ghost over your neck, just enough to feel your pulse thrum beneath the surface, but not enough to bite. His hands move down your sides, gently caressing, but the slow, deliberate touch only seems to heighten the tension.

“You think you can take it, don’t you?” he teases, his voice rich with mocking pleasure. “But your body is betraying you.”

He watches as your body writhes beneath him, as if every inch of you is calling out for more, for the release he’s holding just out of reach. His eyes flicker to your face, drinking in your reactions, savoring the control he has over you, the way you’re teetering on the edge, unable to escape the pull of his presence.

“You want more,” he says softly, voice laced with amusement. “But you’re not quite ready yet.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he watches you squirm. His eyes, now darker with desire, flicker down to your body, his gaze almost possessive.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Like the finest wine… a richness I can’t get enough of.”

He moves his hand to your thigh, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin, tracing slow circles. His lips graze your neck once again, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss before he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Every inch of you is perfection,” he continues, his tone smooth, as though he’s savoring the words just as much as he savored every drop of your blood. “The taste… it lingers in my mouth, intoxicating. I could keep going. I could take my time and let it all flow into me, filling me with you.”

His hand moves lower, brushing against you with delicate pressure, enjoying the way your body reacts, how it trembles beneath him. “You’re nothing like any human I’ve had,” he whispers, his voice growing darker with possessiveness. “Your blood… you’re almost made for me, little one.”

He pulls away slightly, eyes flickering with hunger. “You feel it too, don’t you? The pull. The way my mouth just craves you.”

He moves in close again, his lips pressing against yours with a mix of hunger and tenderness, as though tasting you again is the only thing that matters. His kiss deepens quickly, his tongue slipping past your lips with insistent pressure, as if he’s trying to draw out every drop of desire that he knows you’re hiding within. His mouth is insatiable, each kiss more demanding than the last, his hands gripping you tighter as he feels the blood flowing faster beneath your skin.

As his lips brush against yours, he pulls back just enough to murmur, “I need to feel it…” His breath is shallow, ragged, his eyes dark and heavy with hunger. “I want to taste your blood again, feel that pulse…”

Before you can respond, he kisses you again, but this time, his mouth moves down your neck, lips finding the tender skin where your pulse beats strong and fast. He lingers there for a moment, feeling the flow of blood just beneath the surface, his fangs grazing lightly against your skin as he teases, savoring the warmth of you.

“Mmm…,” he hums into your skin, a low sound of pleasure. “You feel it too, don’t you? The way your body just responds to me.”

His hand tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, the pressure building between you as he continues to kiss your neck, feeling the rapid flow of your blood with every passing second. The sensation seems to drive him mad, making his movements more urgent, more intense. He can’t get enough.

He pulls back slightly, his lips still brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of heat as he looks down at you with a wicked grin. His eyes burn with a dark amusement, watching the way you react, how your body trembles under his touch.

“You’re so easy,” he murmurs, voice dripping with teasing mockery. “So eager to give yourself to me, aren’t you?”

His fingers trace your jawline, then slide down to your throat, feeling the rapid pulse of your blood beneath his fingertips. He presses just hard enough to make you feel the pressure, but not enough to hurt, his touch taunting.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice low and sultry, “do you want me to take it? Do you want me to taste that blood of yours again? Or are you still playing the reluctant little thing?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear as he nibbles lightly on the soft skin, savoring the way you flinch at his touch. “Don’t be shy now,” he chuckles darkly. “You can beg for it, if you want.”

He moves his hand lower again, brushing against your body, enjoying the way you flinch with each stroke, each movement of his fingers. His lips hover just over your neck, his fangs brushing against your skin as he waits, taunting, teasing—waiting for you to give in completely.

“I can make you beg, you know,” he growls softly. “All you have to do is ask.”

He kneels before you, his movements deliberate, his eyes dark with hunger and anticipation. His gaze locks onto yours, intense and possessive, as if he’s studying every inch of you, every breath you take. The air between you is thick, heavy with unspoken desire.

“You must taste me,” he says, his voice low and commanding, laced with the weight of centuries of power. “I only drink the strong blood, the blood that has been touched by desire, by fear, by surrender… like yours.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin, the intensity of his gaze never wavering.

His hands move to your waist, his touch gentle yet firm as he pulls you towards him, urging you to close the distance. “I have waited for this moment,” he continues, his voice a velvet growl. “To feel your lips on mine, to taste you, to make you part of me.”

The dark red of his eyes glows even more brightly as he watches you, waiting for you to respond. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers, his words dripping with dark promise. “I know you want it, want to feel me. To give yourself to me.”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing lightly against your skin, and his hands grip you tighter as if to remind you that there is no turning back now. His eyes are full of possession, and the desire to make you his runs deep in his veins.

“Taste me,” he says again, his voice now a growl, as he positions himself closer, ready to give you the dark pleasure he’s been promising. “Let me show you how a true vampire feeds.”

He helps you sit up with a firm yet gentle grip, his hands strong as they guide you, keeping you steady as your body trembles slightly. His touch is commanding, but there’s an odd tenderness to it, a contrast to the hunger in his eyes. The coldness of his skin brushes against you, sending a chill down your spine.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and deep, the accent heavy with authority. “Stay with me, don’t look away.”

He watches you closely, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light of the cathedral, a silent command for you to obey without words. His fingers trace the curve of your neck, feeling the pulse that races beneath your skin, sensing the tension in your body.

His lips curl into a small smirk, and for a moment, he just watches, enjoying the way you react to his every move. “Do not be afraid, dear,” he says softly, his voice almost soothing, though his words carry a darker edge. “I won’t hurt you… unless you beg for it.”

With a flick of his wrist, he gently tilts your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. His eyes flicker down to the vulnerable spot, and he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your skin.

“You must taste me,” he repeats, his voice now barely more than a whisper, a command wrapped in velvet. “You are spoken by me now. Let me show you what it means to belong to one.”

His lips brush against your neck again, but this time, you can feel the sharpness of his fangs just beneath the surface, poised to take what he desires. He waits, letting the tension hang in the air as his fingers tighten slightly around your waist, pulling you even closer, as though drawing you into his world completely.

He helps you sit on your knees, his hands firm on your shoulders as he guides you into position. His touch is almost possessive, but there’s a strange gentleness in the way he arranges you, as if he’s taking care to make sure you are perfectly placed for what’s about to come. The tension in the air thickens, and his eyes never leave yours, watching you with an intensity that feels both consuming and dangerous.

“Kneel for me,” he whispers, the words dripping with command, but there’s an undeniable edge of satisfaction in his voice as he adjusts you. “Show me you understand your place.”

The way he speaks, the power in his tone, makes your heart race. It’s as if every movement, every word from him is meant to remind you that you’re in his domain now. You feel exposed, vulnerable, yet something about the way he holds you in place makes you feel as though you can’t look away, even if you wanted to.

His fingers brush lightly over your skin as he straightens, his gaze flickering down your body before meeting your eyes again. “Such a beautiful thing, ready to be claimed,” he murmurs, his voice almost a growl.

He steps closer, the air between you thick with the tension of what’s to come. His eyes glimmer with hunger as he watches you, waiting, almost daring you to make the next move. His body is poised and ready, but it’s clear that he’s enjoying the control, the slow build-up as you remain in this position for him.

“You are mine now,” he whispers, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, a mixture of cold and desire. “And I will feed, whether you like it or not.”

His words are chilling, yet they stir something deep within you, a mixture of fear and yearning, as he waits for you to react.

As he moves behind you, his presence surrounds you like a dark shadow, and the coolness of his body presses against your back, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, gripping you firmly, but the pressure is steady and possessive, guiding you without a word.

“Stay still,” he commands, his voice low and thick with intent. You can feel his breath against your neck, the heat of his body radiating through his cold, silky clothes, adding a strange layer of tension to the air. His fingertips trace slowly down your back, sending a wave of chills over your skin as his touch lingers just a little too long.

He moves closer, his body pressing against yours as he shifts behind you, his chest brushing your back with a quiet hunger. The coldness of his skin contrasts sharply with the warmth of yours, intensifying the feeling of helplessness as he takes full control. His lips hover near your ear, and he whispers softly, “I want you to understand what it means to kneel before me. To be mine.”

His hands glide down your body, firm and possessive, feeling every curve, every inch of your skin, until they settle on your waist. You can feel the growing tension, the hunger radiating from him as his fingers flex, pulling you closer to him. Every inch of his touch is calculated, meant to remind you of your vulnerability.

“I don’t share,” he murmurs darkly, his voice thick with desire, as he leans forward just enough to let his lips ghost over the back of your neck, the cold tip of his fangs brushing against your skin. “You will learn what it means to serve me, and in return… you will taste what few have ever had the privilege to taste.”

His words are heavy with promise and threat, and the pressure against your back builds as he moves, shifting closer, until you feel his breath just behind your ear. There’s no escaping him now—he has you exactly where he wants you.

He presses his hips harder against you, letting the rigid heat of his arousal grind into the base of your spine, and leans his mouth close to your ear with a low, breathless chuckle.

“You feel that?” he murmurs darkly, voice thick with wicked satisfaction. “That’s craving.”

A cruel, slow smirk curves his lips as he lets the words linger, savoring the way your body tenses beneath his. His palm drifts up your front, fingers splayed, feeling your heartbeat thrum wildly against his cold touch.

“Not just for blood,” he adds, dragging his lips along your neck, voice softer now but laced with danger, “—for heat. For flesh. For every frightened little sound you make when I touch you here.”

His hand slides lower again, teasing, possessive, his breath hot against your ear as he drinks in the scent of fear, compliance, and something deeper—something you try not to admit is growing between your legs.

“That’s the blood moon, sweetheart,” he whispers, teeth grazing your throat. “It makes demons honest.”

With a slow, deliberate shift of his body, his hips grind forward—just enough to make you gasp—and he catches the sound with a wicked grin. His hands clamp down on your hips, firm and unrelenting, thumbs digging into your skin as if marking you as his.

“Ah—there it is,” he murmurs with dark amusement, voice curling like smoke around your ear. “A slip… how telling.”

He rocks against you again, this time slower, more intentional, letting the tension tighten like a noose. His smirk deepens as he watches your body respond, helpless against the cold, dominant weight behind you.

“You pretend to resist,” he continues, fingers tightening with every word, “but your body—it sings to me. A siren’s call… from prey who wants to be caught.”

His breath ghosts down the nape of your neck as he leans in closer, lips brushing your skin, never quite biting, always teasing. And with a growl low in his throat, he murmurs:

“Let’s see how long you can keep pretending.”

Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, knuckles white with the tension that runs through your body. The fabric crinkles beneath your grasp, but it’s no match for the force of his body pressing against you. You can feel every inch of him—his chest against your back, his rigid form, the heat of his presence that fills every space around you.

His movements are slow, deliberate, each one calculated to leave you trembling. As he presses further into you, his hips grinding against yours, the full weight of him sinks deeper, and you can’t help but feel him—whole—inside your every breath, your every thought. The tension between you is unbearable, the heat of your pulse mingling with the coldness of his body, a strange contrast that makes your skin prickle with both fear and need.

“Do you feel that?” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with desire, as his hands grip your hips, pulling you back against him. “Every inch of me? You’re so perfectly made for this…”

His breath fans across your neck as he moves with slow, agonizing precision, letting you feel the full force of him—his hunger, his dominance. And yet, in that moment, you’re trapped between fear and something else, something that pulls you deeper into his web.

“Inch by inch, m’lady,” he purrs, his voice dark and commanding, laced with an insidious pleasure as he continues to move against you. His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your body with a practiced precision, pulling you closer, inch by inch, until every nerve in your body is on fire, straining against the unrelenting tension.

His breath is hot against the back of your neck, each exhale a whisper of danger and desire. You can feel the weight of his body pressing down on you, the hardness of him digging into you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

“Every movement, every shift, a reminder of your place,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your skin as his hands move with possessive certainty. “Every inch of you calls to me.”

His smirk is sharp as he watches you squirm beneath him, his eyes darkened with lust and hunger. Every part of you is at his mercy, and he’s taking his time, savoring the effect he has on you, enjoying the way your body reacts to each push, each slow, deliberate motion.

“Slow and steady,” he muses with a dark chuckle, his voice smooth, almost melodic in its teasing. “Keeps the heart going, they say.” His gaze never leaves you, dark eyes tracking the way you lean forward into the bed, as though instinctively seeking support, seeking something to anchor yourself as he slowly, deliberately pushes you further into a place where resistance is no longer an option.

His hand grips your hip, steadying you, guiding you in the way he wants, the weight of his body pressing you deeper into the bed with each deliberate move. He enjoys the way your breath catches, the way you surrender to his pace, the way your pulse flutters and races beneath his touch.

“Your heart… so precious,” he continues, the words slipping from his lips like a slow, intoxicating poison. “I can feel it speeding up, eager for more. Every inch, every movement, you give yourself over to me.”

He leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “Slow… steady… but never still,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust and dominance. “That’s how I’ll keep you… until I’ve taken every drop of you, m’lady.”

He lets out a soft, almost satisfied growl, the sound vibrating against your skin as he continues to move, his hands still gripping your hips, guiding you into his every motion. “Heart so heavy,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a twisted mix of affection and amusement.

You can feel the weight of his words settle over you, the way your heart seems to echo his every breath, every shift of his body. He knows the power he holds over you now—your pulse is his to command, and he’s making you feel every beat, every thud that resonates through your chest.

“So full of life,” he continues, the heat in his voice growing darker. “But I can hear it, feel it… it’s heavy with desire. And fear.” His thumb presses harder into your pulse, watching you, feeling how your body trembles, caught in the pull of his dominance.

“Such a delicious contradiction,” he purrs. “Your heart races for me, even as you try to resist.”

The words hang in the air, thick with the promise of what’s to come as he continues to hold you in place, the tension building with each slow, purposeful thrust. His control over you is absolute—your heartbeat, your fear, your desire… everything he can feel, he owns.

He picks up his pace, the sound of his movements echoing in the quiet room as he listens to the rapid, frantic rhythm of your heart working beneath him. His sharp eyes remain locked on your body, sensing every change, every shift in your pulse. It’s like he can hear it—the desperate beating, the tension in the air, and the way your body responds to his every movement.

“I can hear it,” he whispers, his voice low and dark, filled with a twisted satisfaction. “Your heart… working so hard for me.” His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you, pressing you deeper into the bed with each deep, forceful push. His breath quickens, his fangs almost visible as he feels the heat radiating off your skin, the sweet anticipation building in the air.

“Such a beautiful sound,” he murmurs, smirking at the frantic beat. “I can feel it… racing for me. It calls to me.” He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, his voice almost a growl. “I can make it stop. Or I can make it burn. Your choice, m’lady.”

His movements become more urgent now, the sound of his hands gripping the sheets beneath you as he moves faster, the pace increasing with every beat of your heart. He’s intoxicated by the way you respond, by the way your pulse spikes, and he’s not going to stop until he’s made you feel every ounce of that tension, every ounce of the control he has over you.

His fangs, sharp and unmistakable, glint in the dim light as he becomes rougher. The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, a dark, primal desire as he feels the rhythm of your heartbeat quickening beneath him. Every thrust, every movement, is meant to break through your resistance, to claim you fully, as his.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he growls, the sound thick with lust, the air thickening with his dominance. His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he presses deeper, harder, each thrust deliberate and punishing.

The harsh, unmistakable slide of his body against yours matches the ferocity of his breath—slow, deliberate, but every bit as powerful as the hunger in his gaze. “Your blood, your pulse… everything about you calls to me,” he murmurs, voice hushed but intense, each word dragging out like a promise of something far darker.

His fangs graze your skin, teasing at the edges of your neck, tasting the air that swirls between you both, and his breath quickens, caught in the frenzy of his need. “I could sink my teeth in right now,” he hisses, voice raw, “but I want you to beg for it.”

His movements grow rougher, more demanding, as if he’s marking you with every inch, claiming your body as his own, pulling you deeper into the frenzy.

“Please, just drink it” you plea, words slipping out like curses under your breath.

He pulls back slightly, his lips slick with your blood, a twisted smirk curling on his face as he licks his tongue across them. “Mm… that’s gratifying blood,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. The words hang in the air, each one dripping with dark pleasure.

He watches you, his eyes dark, red, and full of hunger, as though savoring every drop that remains. The hunger is still there, but it’s mixed with something more—something dangerous and possessive. “I told you,” he continues, his voice soft but loaded with meaning, “it’s the strongest blood that keeps me going.”

His hand moves to trace the curve of your body, his touch lingering, almost possessive, as he watches the way your body responds to him. “You’re a rare find,” he whispers, his fingers brushing your skin, feeling the pulse beneath. “And I’ll be sure to savor you in every way.”

His gaze lingers on your form, his lips still tasting the remnants of your blood. There’s an eerie calmness in his presence now, the hunger still there, but now coupled with the satisfaction of having claimed you.

He smirks darkly, his eyes narrowing as he watches your body, the way it moves beneath him, the way your reactions come so effortlessly. “So easy to satisfy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hips roll slowly against yours, his gaze fixed on the way your body responds to each movement, as if savoring the power he has over you.

His hands trail over your skin, feeling the way your breath hitches, how every small touch, every motion, makes you shudder. “I could do this forever,” he whispers, his smirk widening as he watches you, the pleasure he’s giving you almost as intoxicating as the blood he’s taken.

The tension builds again, slow and deliberate, as his control over your body deepens. The slow pace, the teasing rhythm, it’s all part of the game for him—a game he’s winning with ease.

He looks down at you with a dark, satisfied smirk, his voice laced with twisted amusement as he murmurs, “Humans feel promising.” The words are almost a revelation to him, a reminder of just how easily your body responds to him, how effortlessly he can command pleasure from you.

His hands trace the contours of your body, each touch deliberate, measuring the way you react, the way your pulse quickens, and the warmth of your skin beneath his cold touch. “So delicate,” he continues, his voice soft but tinged with a dark edge. “So responsive… It’s almost a gift.”

His hips shift slightly, the rhythm slow but unyielding, as he continues to savor your every reaction, his smirk deepening as he watches you. You’re a plaything, something to be enjoyed, and he’s in no rush.

He picks up the pace, his movements becoming more deliberate and forceful, as he feels the tension in your body rise. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer to him as he begins to thrust with a stronger rhythm. His eyes never leave you, watching every small reaction, every slight change in your expression as you start to tremble beneath him.

“You’re so delicate,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, as he continues to move in and out of you with a deep, unrelenting rhythm. “So easy to claim, to break down…”

His breathing becomes heavier, and he leans down to bite at your neck again, feeling the warmth of your skin against his lips, savoring the intimacy and the power that comes with having you completely at his mercy. The hunger that had simmered before now flares up, and he becomes more relentless, a sense of urgency building as he moves faster, his body pressing hard against yours.

“Mm, hm… You make the crows flock,” he groans, throwing his head back with a low, wicked laugh, voice soaked in pleasure and mockery.

Outside, the wind howls faintly through the cracked stained glass, and somewhere in the distance, the eerie cry of crows cuts the silence—drawn to the blood moon, to the scent of heat and sin that clings to the cathedral air.

Jungkook’s muscles tighten as he snaps his hips harder, head still tilted back, his throat exposed in a rare moment of wild abandon. “They smell the death of innocence,” he purrs, lowering his gaze back to you with glowing red eyes. “And they know I’m feeding well tonight.”

His pace is ravenous now, primal, his cold skin blazing with heat from the friction and the thrill of it. The crows were just a warning—the real danger was right here, inside you, possessing you inch by inch.

A guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through your body as Jungkook slams deeper into you. The sound is raw—half pleasure, half hunger—as if holding back some ancient beast just barely chained beneath his skin.

“Fuck,” he hisses between clenched teeth, the moan that follows low and drawn out, dragged from his throat as your body clenches around him. His breath comes harder now, colder against your skin, sharp fangs glinting just beneath his parted lips.

“You feel…” he pants, voice rasping as he leans over you, the sound almost broken by lust, “divine.”

Another growl escapes him, louder, closer to a snarl—his control fraying. His nails bite into your hips as he rolls them into you, deeper, harder, more unrestrained, chasing that edge like it’s his last breath. The cathedral groans around you, as if it too bears witness to something unholy.

His lips brush your ear, voice thick with dark amusement and desire as he growls through a twisted grin,

“In the very heart of divine art… thou soundeth like the devil herself.”

With that, he drives into you harder, rougher, the force of it stealing the breath from your lungs. His body presses close—unrelenting, heavy with hunger—as his hands roam your trembling form, every touch a claim, every thrust a punishment.

“Blasphemous, yet beautiful,” he murmurs, fangs flashing. “A sound fit not for prayer, but for sin.”

Jungkook’s head tilts back again, a guttural moan spilling from his throat—hungry, elated, almost worshipful.

“Gods above, I do love it…,” he growls, hips slamming harder, his voice thick with heat and ruin. “Give me more. Cry louder for thy devil.”

His grip bruises as he pulls you back against him, body trembling from the force of his desire. His mouth lingers by your ear, breath cold and ragged as he speaks low and wicked:

“Let them hear what thou truly art—mine, ruined, taken… made for this.”

And he thrusts again, deeper, faster—every movement dragging you closer to surrender, every sound you make only fueling his madness. His hunger was far from sated—he wanted all of you. Over and over

He slams in—deep, unforgiving—bottoming out with a force that makes the air leave your lungs. The sound that rips from his chest is part growl, part moan, dark and guttural.

“Fuck—yes,” he snarls, his voice tangled in that strange mix of eras—half modern hunger, half gothic reverence. “Tight little thing… takin’ me like it’s thy sole purpose.”

His eyes flicker, glowing red beneath damp lashes as he grins down at you, breathless but relentless.

“So deep now, little lamb… ‘tis not sin if thou wert made for it.”

And with that, he rolls his hips again—slow first, then snapping forward harder, slamming into the end of you like he’s trying to brand it. Like he wants to ruin you for anything but him. Forever.

His head snaps back, hair wild around his face, and a raw, feral scream tears from his throat—ragged, echoing off the cathedral walls like a beast unleashed.

“AH—fuck, yes!” he roars, voice cracking with the force of it, a brutal mix of ecstasy and madness. The sound is ancient, primal, something that doesn’t belong in this world.

He looks down at you, eyes glowing, chest heaving. “You… you were made for this,” he hisses through his teeth, pounding into you so hard the stone beneath the bed groans. “Mine—by blood, by bone, by every cursed thing that keeps me breathing.”

And he screams again—louder this time, as if breaking, as if everything inside him has finally snapped.

Your scream rips through the cold air, sharp and broken—a cry torn from somewhere deep, where fear and pleasure blur into something primal. The cathedral seems to echo with it, as if the stones themselves remember what it means to be alive.

Jungkook shudders, body seizing for a breathless moment before a crooked, dark grin spreads across his face. His eyes blaze brighter—red like burning embers, lit with hunger and triumph.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice shaking, nearly laughing with twisted delight. “Scream for me—let the woods hear who owns you.”

He slams deeper, harder, using your cry as fuel, as proof, as possession. The sound drives him wild—like blood on his tongue, like music composed for monsters.

“Louder, darling—don’t go quiet now. The night’s still young, and so are we.”

His body tenses, muscles rippling under the pressure of his restraint slipping—every last ounce of control breaking away, replaced by pure, raw, unrelenting primal instinct. He growls low, deep in his throat, a sound that vibrates in your very bones as his thrusts become wild, uncontrolled, and ferocious.

“Taken gratefully” he snarls, his voice raw, primal, and dripping with hunger. “Every scream, every moan, every drop of blood—I own it all.”

His fangs flash, sharp as daggers, and his grip on your body tightens—his hands bruising, pulling you impossibly close, as if he’s trying to merge you with him, consume you whole.

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t think. He moves with pure animalistic drive, his hips slamming into you with brutal force, like a beast ravaging its prey. His breath is ragged, almost frantic, as he loses himself entirely in the madness of the moment. His eyes are wide, red, and burning with an insatiable need.

“I’ll take it all—every inch of you,” he growls, voice turning into something feral, untamed, as if he’s no longer just Jungkook, but something ancient, something far darker.

His back arches, powerful and rigid, as if every muscle in his body is drawn taut, stretched to the breaking point. His head snaps back, the long strands of his hair falling over his shoulders like dark waves, revealing the full intensity of his face—eyes glowing, fangs bared, a primal snarl escaping his lips.

A guttural moan rips from his throat, raw and unfiltered, as his body pushes against you with unrelenting force. He moves deeper, harder, the intensity of the moment overwhelming both of you. His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to fuse you to him, hold you in place as his pace becomes erratic, desperate, a frenzy of need and hunger.

“You’re mine… all of you,” he grinds out between heavy breaths, his voice low and dangerous, almost predatory. His chest heaves, and you can feel the sharpness of his breath against your skin as he continues, driven by an almost feral need.

Every inch of him moves with purpose, as if there’s nothing else in the world but this moment, this unrelenting need to claim you. His head tilts back further, eyes dark with desire, and he roars, the sound ripping through the silence of the cathedral, echoing off the stone walls.

“You were created for this,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as the rhythm between you becomes more frantic, more primal, like he’s fighting against something much darker inside. The sheer intensity of it all, of his body working against yours, fills the air with a heavy, almost suffocating tension.

And in that moment, he becomes something more than human—a beast, possessed by hunger, pleasure, and the need to dominate.

The sound of a heavy slam reverberates through the cathedral, shaking the stone beneath you. The force of it echoes, sharp and sudden, like a thunderclap in the stillness of the night. It’s as if the whole building trembles under the weight of Jungkook’s primal need.

His movements become more forceful, almost frantic, each thrust harder than the last, as if he’s lost all sense of restraint. His body presses into you with raw, unrelenting power—slamming against you in rhythm with the crescendo of his own hunger.

The sound of his body colliding with yours is drowned out only by his harsh breathing, the occasional growl escaping his lips as he loses himself deeper in the moment. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your skin as if to mark you, to claim you completely. His breath is heavy, ragged, a low, deep growl of satisfaction rumbling from his chest.

Every inch of him feels like a storm—unstoppable, wild, consuming. His back arches again, this time more violently, his head thrown back as his movements become more erratic. The cathedral, with its towering, silent presence, is filled with the echoes of his desire—the slam of his body, the growl of satisfaction, and the unmistakable sound of him claiming what’s his.

He curses under his breath, voice thick with frustration and hunger, barely coherent through the intensity of the moment. “So long… so damn long…” His tone is low, guttural, a raw rasp as his body pushes harder against yours. “You don’t know what you’ve awoken, do you?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you again, each movement a mix of desire and anger, like he’s releasing centuries of pent-up need.

“So long without…” He curses again, more to himself than to you, his body trembling, his fangs grazing your skin. “You, this… I’ve waited… I’ve needed this.”

The words are broken, rough, torn from him as his rhythm quickens, each thrust matching the fury of his emotions—longing, rage, and desperation mixing in a volatile storm. His eyes burn redder, darker, as if the very essence of his hunger is consuming him from the inside out.

“You were meant for this… you were meant for me,” he mutters in a near growl, still cursing as he feels the tension in his body build to something almost unbearable.

Your body slides down flat against the bed, every part of you feeling the heavy, intense weight of Jungkook’s body pressing against you. The force of his movements, relentless and powerful, leaves you breathless as you barely manage to keep yourself upright under him. His hands grip the bed around you, his knuckles white as he fights to hold onto control, though it’s clear he’s teetering on the edge of losing it.

“Stay with me,” he demands, his voice thick with desire, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. The pressure of his body pushing into yours is overwhelming, each motion sending a wave of heat through your veins, forcing you to feel every inch of him as he moves inside you.

His hips drive deeper, and you can feel him growl in pleasure, the sound vibrating through his chest as the slamming of his body against yours echoes like a punishing rhythm. His fangs scrape against your skin, and the coldness of his touch contrasts sharply with the heat building between you. His red eyes burn with an almost predatory gleam, and the primal need in him is now impossible to ignore.

You can feel every inch of his hunger, his rage, and his desire mixing together in a volatile, almost desperate frenzy as he goes faster, harder. His body trembles with the effort to keep control, but he’s slipping, losing himself in the moment, in the sheer pleasure of having you beneath him, claiming you in the only way he knows how.

He stops suddenly, his body still against yours, panting heavily, as though struggling to catch his breath. His chest rises and falls rapidly, the tension in his muscles taut, every inch of him shaking with the exertion. His eyes, glowing red, never leave you as he leans down again, lips brushing against your neck. You can feel the heat of his breath, the coldness of his fangs, and the predatory need that still pulses through him.

He gently touches your pulse, feeling it race beneath the skin, before he sinks his fangs into your neck with unbridled hunger. The sensation is sharp, sending a shock of cold pleasure down your spine as he drinks deeply, his hands gripping you tighter, pulling you closer as if to claim every drop of your blood.

He groans into your skin, the sound a mix of pleasure and satisfaction, his fangs brushing your pulse as he drinks, enjoying the taste. He pauses, pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you with a twisted, dark grin playing on his lips. Then, he leans in again, almost reverently, to drink even more, his thirst insatiable.

The sensation of him feeding, of his mouth on your neck, is a blur of pleasure and pain, sharp and intoxicating. His hands roam over your body again, feeling the way you react to him, and he growls in satisfaction, deepening his hold on you. He’s lost, only thinking of the blood and the feeling of power that comes with it.

“So sweet,” he murmurs into your skin, his voice low and rough, as he continues to drink, savoring each drop, as if he’s tasted nothing like it in centuries.

His fangs sink deeper into your neck, his voice low and dripping with a mix of satisfaction and dark amusement. He pulls back slightly, still feeling the thrum of your pulse beneath his lips, and whispers, “I may have been cast to hell, but heaven must still pity me to bring a body like this into my home.”

His words are as cold and contemptuous as the rest of him, but they carry a strange reverence, as though he’s claiming you not just for himself, but as something almost divine—a gift, a prize. His red eyes lock onto yours, full of unfiltered lust and pride as he sees you, breathing shallowly beneath him, completely at his mercy.

The room around you seems to pulse with his hunger, his desire, as he shifts his weight, grinding against you just slightly, reminding you of his strength and the control he holds over your body. His words are a reminder of the twisted world he lives in, and the way he sees you—both a temptation and a conquest.

His hands claw at your body, marking you, making sure you feel the full weight of his presence, while his lips press against your neck once again. The cold of his fangs contrasts with the heat of his breath, making every part of you keenly aware of just how much he wants you.

“Such a lovely thing,” he mutters, lips barely brushing your skin. “I would have made you mine, even if heaven had denied me.” His tongue flicks against the wound he’s left, savoring the taste, before he moves back to drink once more, his eyes never leaving yours, as though daring you to move, to escape, to fight.

But you know, somewhere deep inside, that escape is impossible.

He presses his lips to your back, the coldness of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine. His hands, firm and unyielding, glide along the curve of your body as he takes in the sight of you—broken and enthralled, caught in the web of his control. His eyes, glowing with an eerie red intensity, trace every movement you make, watching you with hunger and satisfaction.

As you remain frozen beneath him, his voice comes low, almost a whisper, but full of dark promise. “I could make you immortal, mortal.” His lips graze your skin again, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. “Your blood and body—an offering to hell itself.”

His words drip like molten honey, dark and heavy, making the offer feel tempting and terrifying at once. The thought of eternity with him, bound to him, devoured by him and yet kept alive in his twisted version of immortality is almost more than you can bear. He feels the tremor in your body as you process his words, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Would you like that, my little sacrifice?” he breathes, his teeth just barely grazing your shoulder. “To live forever, not as you are, but as mine. The blood of the damned coursing through your veins, forever feeding me.”

He pauses, his hands trailing possessively across your body, waiting for you to speak, to make your decision. “You would never age, never die,” he continues, “but you would never be free either. You would be bound to me, your very soul mine.”

His lips hover near your ear, his words slow and deliberate, full of dark affection. “All for me.”

You let out a soft huff, your chest rising as your breath shudders beneath him—and he stills, grinning against your skin like the devil sealing a pact.

“With blood sweet as that… full like that,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust and ancient power, “the blood moon above us, and this sacred ground beneath?” His tongue traces the line of your spine, slow, reverent. “A cathedral… abandoned by God but not by me.”

He presses himself deeper against you, his hips aligned, his breath heavy. “All I’d need—” he growls low, like thunder rumbling in a cave, “—is to release.” His hand wraps tightly around your side, holding you still as if claiming dominion. “And I could make… or happen… my sacrifice.”

A beat. Then his voice drops lower, almost intimate, “You, spread beneath me. Blood ripe. Altar warm. I could open the gates of hell right here with what’s inside you.”

His fangs flash, barely held back. His body tense with restraint.

“Shall I, my little lamb?” he taunts, “Shall I summon eternity with your ruin?”

He pulls out slowly, almost reverently, before guiding your body onto your back. The velvet sheets beneath you contrasts sharply with the searing heat left behind on your skin. His red eyes rake over your form like a wolf savoring its prize, and he smirks, fangs just barely showing as he hovers above you.

“Thankfully you’re arousing,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement and something darker, “I don’t need to throw your body out like the others.”

His hand glides down your side, fingers brushing your waist, your hip, your thigh—claiming.

“Pretty face,” he murmurs, leaning close to your cheek. “Curvy body…” his palm spreads over your stomach. “And heat… warm as the sun.”

He exhales a low breath against your neck, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. “It’s almost poetic. The sun never touches me—yet here you are. Burning under me like it never left.”

You look up at him—wide-eyed, lips parted, your breath shallow. There’s no hatred in your stare. No screaming. No fighting. Just… mercy.

That makes him pause.

His smirk twitches, falters for a beat.

“Mercy?” he scoffs, voice low and venom-laced. “After what I’ve done to you?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an unsolvable riddle. His hand tightens on your waist—not cruel, but possessive. There’s a war in his eyes now. Hunger. Guilt. Obsession.

“You pathetic, radiant little thing.” His voice dips, words trembling with a mad kind of reverence. “Even now… even ruined, used, bitten… you pity me?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor. Just something ancient cracking in his chest.

“You’re worse than the priests who blessed this ruin before I slaughtered them. They didn’t beg. They didn’t look at me like I could be saved.” He leans closer, lips brushing your temple, a whisper full of decay and longing:

“You don’t know what you’ve done… mercy is a curse to something like me.”

He stays still.

Too still.

His chest rises, but it’s shallow—controlled, unnatural, like he’s holding back something monstrous from slipping through the cracks.

His eyes trace your face again, slow, devouring. He doesn’t blink.

Then—

“You shouldn’t have looked at me like that,” he says, voice hollow, like it’s coming from a memory instead of the man in front of you. “Not with mercy. Not like her.”

His hand lifts, fingers trembling as they brush a lock of hair from your cheek. He lingers there, cold skin pressing into your warmth like he wants to feel alive again.

“They all begged. They all wept. She didn’t.”

A strange smile twists his lips, wrong and wistful, as if he’s seeing someone else through your face.

“She said I was damned. But she loved me anyway. She said I was still a man.”

His smile cracks—gone, shattered. A breath bursts from him like a sob strangled in iron.

“Then she ran.”

His nails dig into the sheets by your head. His eyes are wild now—too red, too empty.

“I drank her dry.”

The confession hangs in the air, cold and heavy, like a noose.

He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice drops to a whisper, raw, shaking with something unholy:

“You don’t understand what it does to a man to be worshipped and feared all at once. To be kissed… and called a monster in the same breath. To be touched… and still alone.”

He grabs your wrist, guiding it to his chest.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “Nothing. Not a heartbeat. Not a soul. You pity this?”

His smile returns—warped, glass-sharp.

“Maybe you’re sicker than I am.”

His shadow swallows the candlelight as he looms over you, body tense, breath still despite the heat rolling off him in waves. His eyes—bright, blood-red—pin you in place like a predator circling the last trembling heartbeat of its prey.

He doesn’t touch you yet. He just watches.

“Let’s see,” he murmurs, voice low and crackling like fire behind stone. “If you break like the rest. Or if you’re made to belong to me.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, restrained. Barely.

He leans in—slow, a ghost of movement—and his nose brushes yours. You feel the air stir as he breathes in your fear, your heat, your confusion, like it’s a scent he knows how to read.

“You’re shaking, little lamb. And yet…” His eyes flick down, lingering too long. “Your body hasn’t run. What does that say about you?”

One hand presses down beside your head. The other hovers near your throat—not touching, just threatening.

“Are you the victim here?” he hums, smile sharp as his fangs. “Or something darker pretending to be soft?”

He tilts his head, watching for your reaction. Watching for the crack.

“Answer me. Speak. Or I’ll decide what you are for you.”

The silence clings to the air like incense—thick, sacred, unbroken. Your lips part, but no sound escapes. Only breath, shaky and shallow. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, refusing to speak, refusing to give him what he wants—whatever that is.

His face doesn’t move. But something shifts.

The pressure changes.

His pupils dilate, swallowing the red for just a breath, and then it snaps back—brighter, angrier, hungrier.

“Silent?” he whispers, as though the word offends him. His palm finally lands on your throat—not squeezing, just laying there, cold and commanding. “Defiance in the form of nothing. Cowardice disguised as quiet. Or perhaps…”

He leans closer, mouth by your ear.

”…you’re begging in the only way you know how.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you again. His thumb strokes your jaw with a cold kind of tenderness that makes your skin crawl—and burn.

“You’re unraveling. Bit by bit. I like it.” He grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll either shatter… or you’ll become. And either way, you’re mine now, aren’t you?”

The candles flicker as the room tightens around your shared silence. He lowers himself slowly, until your foreheads touch.

“One more moment,” he says, teeth flashing beneath his breath, “and you won’t remember who you were before me.”

His lips crash into yours—rough, devouring, like he’s sealing something ancient with your breath. His hips grind forward, hard and slow, pressing into the cradle of yours with unbearable weight. There’s no patience in the way he moves, only intent. Possession. Hunger that’s tasted the edge of madness and decided it liked the flavor.

His hand curls around your jaw as he kisses you deeper, thumb brushing your cheek like a mockery of tenderness. The cold of him seeps into your skin, but his pressure—his need—is hot, overwhelming, primal.

“You’ll stay silent now?” he growls into your mouth, lips still grazing yours. “Even when I press like this?”

He rolls his hips again, slower this time, deliberate. Cruel. Testing.

Your breath catches—still no words. Just the helpless arch of your body, the shudder in your chest, and the silent surrender in your eyes. You give in, not with sound, but with everything else. Your silence screams, louder than any plea.

Jungkook growls low and feral, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest as he slams his hips harder against yours. The restraint in him finally snaps.

“That’s it,” he snarls, eyes glowing like dying embers ready to reignite. “You submit without a sound. How utterly divine.”

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, his body pressed flush against yours. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you? Driving me mad. Mad with your quiet… with your blood… with your keeping.”

The bed groans beneath the force of him, his pace unrelenting now, teeth bared just over your throat—danger trembling on the edge.

His voice is low, filled with dark promise as he speaks against your skin, the words sinking deep into your senses, twisting your mind as much as his body does. His grip tightens, his hold unyielding as he pushes into you, inch by inch, until you can feel every breath, every shift of muscle.

“Like an offering, a true one,” he mutters, the words vibrating against your skin as he continues. “I shall use it all, then. Your blood, your body, your soul. You shall be immortal. Bound to me, forever.”

He shifts again, a brutal push that makes your body strain, your pulse racing in spite of the silence. There’s no room for retreat now, just the weight of his dominance, the inevitability of what he’s making you become. His eyes—those deep red pools—burn into yours, watching as he claims you fully, watching the surrender written all over your face.

His breath hisses out, sharp, as he moves with renewed intent. Each thrust is slow, deliberate, designed to break you down. “You’ll never escape me now,” he growls. “Not when I’ve tasted what you are… what you could be. Immortal… a sacrifice and a queen in one.”

His lips brush your ear as he breathes against you. “Feel it, don’t you? Feel it all coursing through you… your blood… your soul… mine.”

The pace quickens again, ferocious in its finality, as if he’s determined to finish what he started, to bind you to him, to his dark desires.

No more silence—only the sound of his name in the air between you.

The words drip from his lips like venom, every syllable a reminder of the control he holds over you. His voice is smooth but cruel, taunting, almost as if he’s savoring the way you’re unraveling before him, piece by piece.

“That’s what a good offering does, M’lady,” he murmurs, the edges of his words sharp as he presses deeper. His gaze never leaves yours, dark and insistent, as if daring you to resist, daring you to break.

His body moves with calculated precision, the rhythm relentless, and each thrust forces you to feel the weight of his dominance, of what he’s taken from you and what he’s prepared to keep. “You belong to me now,” he whispers, his breath hot on your neck, his hands tracing the lines of your body with cruel intention. “Every bit of you… the blood, the soul, the heart… all of it, bound to me, to my hunger.”

The pressure builds in your chest, the weight of his presence pressing down on you as he takes, claiming you as if he already knows the inevitable conclusion. “A perfect sacrifice… so sweet, so willing… This is your fate now.”

His pace becomes more frantic, more urgent, his hands gripping you tightly as his body moves with a wild hunger, as if the very act of claiming you could give him more power, more control. “M’lady… there’s no turning back.”

He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, a low growl vibrating in his chest. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer as his body aligns with yours, feeling the heat, the tension, the weight of the moment. With a swift motion, he wraps his arm behind your back, anchoring you to him, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every movement as he presses against you.

“You are delicious,” he whispers in a voice thick with hunger. His lips brush your skin as he leans in, kissing the curve of your neck. The sensation of his teeth, his fangs barely grazing against your flesh, sends a shiver of both fear and desire through you. “And I will make sure you never forget the blood moon.”

The grip around your back tightens as he shifts, pulling you into him even more. His movements become more deliberate, as if savoring each moment, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat under his touch. His voice lowers, almost a purr, as he continues, “I’ve claimed you, body and soul. You’ll never be the same. You’ll never want to be human.”

The weight of his presence, the power he exudes, it’s suffocating, but in a way that makes it impossible to look away, to resist.

His name slips from your lips, soft and hesitant, and it makes him pause for a moment, his breath coming in slow, deliberate inhales. His red eyes flicker with something deeper, something more intense. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips hovering over the delicate skin of your neck, his fangs barely visible.

“You speak my name like that,” he murmurs, the words heavy with something unreadable, “it makes me wonder… if you’ve already accepted what you are to me.”

He leans down again, brushing his lips gently against the curve of your neck, trailing his kisses lower, as though savoring the moment, feeling the pulse beneath your skin. “You don’t know what you’ve started, m’lady.” His voice is thick, almost possessive, but there’s an edge of something darker, something that feels like an unspoken promise.

His hands slide to your sides, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours once more. The warmth of your skin against his coldness, the sharp contrast, makes him shiver with something primal. “Once you taste this life, you’ll never crave anything else.”

He rises slowly, towering above you now on his knees, his chest rising and falling with restrained hunger. The candlelight from the cathedral flickers across his bare torso—defined, pale, otherworldly—casting shadows that dance along the etched lines of muscle and collarbone. His dark hair falls partially over his face as he looks down at you, red eyes burning like coals beneath the veil.

“Look at you,” he breathes out, voice thick with indulgence, laced in that old, decaying elegance of another time. “Stretched below me like a relic waiting for worship… or ruin.”

He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back, then places it on his own thigh, framing the image of control and tension. The way he holds himself—shoulders pulled back, spine straight, body coiled—tells you just how much he’s restraining. Not for your comfort, but for the ritual. For the power in waiting.

“We’ve not yet reached the peak of this hour, my offering,” he growls low, eyes scanning you. “Shall I show you what it means to be devoured by something eternal?”

He leans in, his breath hot at your ear as he begins to rock his hips—slow, deliberate, claiming each inch with the weight of centuries behind him. His voice coils around you, thick with that archaic cadence, as if spoken from a different age.

“Sun or moon… doesn’t matter to me, lamb,” he murmurs, a cruel smirk ghosting his lips. “You’ll burn the same under me. Be it light or shadow, you were made to be taken.”

Your eyes stay closed, but he watches your body respond—each breath, each twitch, each surrender of muscle. He keeps the pace maddening, not fast, not gentle—just punishing enough to remind you this was never going to be tender. This was ritual. Sacrifice. Hunger wrapped in silk.

His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand braced near your ribs, feeling your heart beat faster with every rock of his hips.

His hand glides upward, slow and claiming, until his fingers find the swell between your thighs. Without hesitation, he begins to strum—methodical, almost cruel in precision. Every movement syncs with the roll of his hips, each touch designed to pull you deeper under.

“Tremble for me, little lamb,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, old, laced in something between a threat and worship. “Your body sings sweeter than any hymn I’ve heard in this cursed cathedral.”

His eyes burn red as he watches your reaction, fingers growing bolder, teasing the edge of your sanity with every flick, every grind.

You arch helplessly, breath catching in your throat—and he feels it, revels in it. His mouth lowers without pause, claiming the left nub between his lips like it was his birthright. Tongue circles, then sucks, slow and possessive, making your spine curve harder beneath him.

“Ah… still so responsive,” he growls, muffled by your skin. “Even after all this, you rise for me like the dead to their master.”

His hand doesn’t stop either—stroking lower, darker—while his fangs scrape gently across your tender flesh in warning and promise.

He keeps sucking—long, slow, relentless. His mouth latches harder, tongue swirling, pulling soft moans from you like confessions. Your nipple grows tight between his lips, and he groans against it, the sound low, reverent, wicked.

“M’lady, your body speaks sweeter truths than your tongue ever could,” he murmurs, before biting down just enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t stop. If anything, he feeds on your reaction—suckling harder, wetter, like he’s starving for the taste of you.

His hand spreads wider across your ribs, holding you in place as his mouth claims and consumes. Every flick, every pull, feels calculated—like worship twisted into torment.

He shifts, moving to the right with dark purpose, his thumb pressing harder against your other nipple, strumming it relentlessly. His mouth follows, trailing kisses and nips down to your skin, his movements urgent but controlled, as if savoring every ounce of reaction he pulls from you.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, eyes gleaming with an almost manic hunger. “Each part of you… such a sweet offering. How can you deny me?”

His thumb strums quicker, pushing you to the edge of sensation, teasing you with every subtle change, while his lips hover just over your skin, waiting for the next tremor to sweep through you. His hands, possessive and relentless, trace every curve, making sure you feel every ounce of him.

His voice is almost a hiss as he speaks, the words a mix of desire and disdain, his eyes burning with something primal. “Made for life these are, but cursed to death this is.” He strums lower, his hand dragging slowly across your body, down to where the tension builds in your core. The touch is electric, sending a shiver up your spine as he focuses on the rhythm, keeping you on the precipice of surrender.

His other hand slides down, gripping you tighter, his body leaning into yours, pressing with a force that leaves no space between you. “I will claim everything… and leave you nothing but the taste of me.” His voice is dark, thick with authority, as if he knows exactly how to unravel you, piece by piece.

He moves with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving your chest, watching each rise and fall of your breath. His gaze is hungry, yet controlled, as if savoring every second of the tension building between you. The air feels thick, heavy with his presence and the silent promises of what’s to come.

His hand moves to your waist, fingers tracing delicate patterns along your skin, teasing and leaving a trail of heat wherever he touches. “So delicate,” he mutters, his voice low, laced with a dangerous edge. The intensity in his eyes never wavers, his focus solely on you as he inches closer, making every movement feel like an eternity.

He shifts with sudden eagerness, his movements more urgent now, as if he’s been holding back for too long. His hands grip your body with a renewed intensity, pushing you closer, pulling you deeper into the moment. His breath is heavy against your skin, as if he can’t wait any longer, the primal hunger in his gaze flaring to life.

“I told you,” he breathes, “You make this unbearable, but oh—how sweet it feels.”

His pace quickens, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he loses himself in the rhythm, the hunger now consuming him fully. The once calculated and controlled nature of his touch gives way to something more desperate, more raw, as he takes what he desires, his body moving with a force that speaks of the centuries he’s waited for this very moment.

He leans over, his body still hovering above yours as his gaze drifts to the towering cathedral walls, the ancient stone structures casting long shadows in the dim light. The flickering of candles barely illuminates the cold, hard surfaces, giving the space an almost otherworldly feel. He inhales deeply, eyes narrowing as if he’s lost in the stillness of the space, caught between the centuries-old cathedral and the raw, primal need driving him.

“These walls,” he mutters, “They have seen more than any mortal could fathom. They bear witness to the blood of sacrifices, of souls entwined in ways even the heavens cannot understand.”

His voice lowers to a dark, haunting tone as his hand moves to your neck, his thumb grazing it lightly, feeling the pulse beneath your skin. His eyes darken as he locks onto your gaze once more, the hunger never fading.

“And now, you too are a part of this… legacy,” he adds, his voice almost a whisper, filled with a twisted satisfaction.

He looks down at the velvet sheets, the rich fabric pooling around you both, his grip tightening around you as his eyes burn with an intensity that could scorch the very air. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding as a low growl rumbles from his chest. The sight of the soft, luxurious sheets beneath you only seems to fuel the fire inside him, the contrast between the comfort of the fabric and the raw, brutal energy he exudes.

“This… this must be heaven! All of it!” he roars, the force of his voice echoing off the stone walls, making the cathedral feel even colder and more distant. His hands grip the sheets beneath you with enough force to tear them, the tension in his body palpable as he takes in the sight before him. “You think you’re the first to fall prey to this hunger?” His voice drips with venom, a twisted satisfaction in his tone. “This is the price of being chosen. You belong to me now.”

He leans forward, eyes flashing with possessiveness, his body pressing down on yours as the weight of his words hangs in the air, suffocating, all-encompassing.

The walls around you begin to warp, the once holy and ancient stone now tinted with a sickening red glow, as if the very cathedral itself was being consumed by the hunger he carries within. Jungkook’s breath quickens, his pupils dilating with a dark, insatiable need. The air thickens, as if the building itself is closing in on you, the weight of his presence overwhelming. His voice, now low and guttural, shakes with the intensity of what he’s feeling.

“Do you feel that?” he growls, his hand gripping your waist as he pulls you closer, his body practically vibrating with the force of his need. “The walls, the heat, the blood… everything is drenched in it. And you—” he pauses, his voice a rasp, thick with hunger, “you are the center of it all.”

His eyes flare with an almost supernatural fire, the red glow of the cathedral reflecting in his irises, transforming him into something inhuman, something ancient. Every inch of him seems to burn, his body pressed against yours with an almost frantic urgency. “I can taste it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his voice vibrating with dark promise. “Your blood, your essence… it calls to me.”

With each passing second, the air grows heavier, the red glow intensifying, as if the entire cathedral is aligning with his desire, his hunger. “You belong to me now. In every way.” His words are both a promise and a threat, his hunger driving him forward, and there’s no turning back now.

His voice turns colder, the warmth of his hunger replaced by a chilling, almost detached tone. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression hardening, becoming more predatory.

“You think this is a gift?” His words hang in the air, sharp and devoid of mercy. “You’re wrong. This is not some offering of kindness. This is fate. And you’re trapped in it.”

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine, your stomach turning as the weight of his words sink in. His gaze doesn’t soften, his eyes colder than ice, and the intensity of his stare makes you feel small, like prey. His grip tightens, a reminder that you are no longer in control, that your fate has already been sealed.

“Your blood, your life… it’s not mine to cherish,” he continues, his tone flat, as if stating a fact. “It’s mine to take. To use.”

He lowers his voice even more, so low it almost vibrates through your bones. “And you? You’ll beg for it, because you won’t have a choice.”

There’s something deep and unsettling in his words, an overwhelming sense that whatever happens next, there’s no escape from this twisted fate he’s weaving. The room feels colder still, the air pressing down on you, and a sinking feeling takes hold in your stomach.

He pulls out, craving another sensation.

He helps you sit up, his hands firm but almost possessive as they guide you into position at the edge of the bed. The movement is deliberate, as though he’s ensuring you remain in his control, your body now fully exposed to his gaze.

Once you’re sitting, he steps in front of you, his figure towering over you, the darkness of the room accentuating the sharpness of his features. His eyes—still glowing with an unsettling intensity—pierce through you, as if reading you, studying every reaction, every breath you take.

There’s a quiet, heavy tension in the air as he doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he observes you, the silence between you both thick with unspoken meaning. His presence alone feels like an inescapable force.

Slowly, he leans forward, bringing his face close to yours, his breath warm against your skin as he speaks, his voice low and commanding:

“Do you feel it?” he asks, almost a whisper, though there’s no doubt that the question holds more weight than just a simple inquiry. His eyes flicker to your lips, and his smirk returns—this time colder, sharper, as if he’s savoring the control he has over the situation. “The hunger… the power… it’s mine, and you will understand that soon enough.”

He pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but the suffocating presence of his dominance remains. His hands hover near you, just out of reach, teasing you with the promise of contact but withholding it for now, letting the tension build.

“You’ll cum for me another night, tonights. My night,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the words carrying an unsettling certainty.

He guides your hand lower—slow, precise—until your palm rests against the thick muscle of his thigh. The heat of him seeps into your skin, and his hand doesn’t let go. Instead, he presses your hand harder against him, making you feel the tension coiled beneath the surface. His thigh is stone—taut, strong, every line carved from need and restraint.

“Feel that?” he says lowly, eyes half-lidded and watching you like prey. “That’s control. That’s patience. And both are running thin.”

He moves your hand slowly, dragging it upward along the hard line of his thigh, closer to where his desire pulses hotter, heavier. His breath catches as your fingers graze higher, and he smiles darkly—teeth just barely showing, the glint of something possessive in his gaze.

“If you’re going to touch me,” he mutters, voice edged with gravel and heat, “then touch me like you understand what I rule, sin, filth and death.”

His hand doesn’t leave yours. Instead, it folds over your fingers, guiding them with slow, deliberate pressure. You feel the weight of him under your palm, the way his breath shudders through his chest as your touch drags along the thick line of him—hard, hot, and pulsing with restraint that’s barely holding.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice deep and full of warning. “Nice and slow. Let it ache.”

He watches your face, red eyes glowing like embers in the dim light, feeding off every twitch of uncertainty, every hint of surrender. His grip tightens slightly, helping you stroke again—longer this time, the motion slick and obscene between your joined hands. His jaw tenses, hips subtly pushing into the rhythm you’re building together.

“You’re doing well, lamb,” he says, tone mock-gentle but laced with hunger. “But this isn’t mercy.”

His hand slips away from yours, slow and reverent, as if this moment deserves to be witnessed rather than controlled. He steps back half a pace, enough to let you work him alone, but close enough that his heat still coils around you like smoke. His eyes don’t leave your hand—not once. They’re dark and wild, glowing red, like he’s watching a sacred ritual unfold.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in awe and hunger. “Bare on your knees, hand wrapped around me like it’s your calling. Do you even realize what that looks like?”

He doesn’t need to answer—his expression says enough. His chest rises and falls heavily, each breath edged with restraint and lust. His thighs twitch under your touch. Still, he doesn’t move. He lets you do it. Lets you touch him like an offering laid at the altar, each stroke a kind of prayer. Your pace—hesitant at first—finds a rhythm, and he groans softly, head tipping back, throat exposed like he’s submitting in return.

“It’s devotion,” he growls, looking down at you again. “You worship without even knowing you do. That’s what I like. Not obedience—belief.”

His abs tighten, hips subtly rolling into your hand again before he forces himself still.

He grips your wrist, stopping your hand mid-motion, his eyes locking with yours—dark and commanding, yet intense with a predatory hunger that hasn’t faded. His touch is firm, possessive, like he’s claiming every inch of your attention.

“Not yet,” he growls, voice low and full of tension. “You think I’ll just let you have it all this easily? No. Not until I’ve had my fill.”

His grip tightens slightly as he leans forward, his breath hot against your skin, hovering near your ear.

“You’re mine to play with now. But you will wait.”

The way he speaks—it’s not just a command, it’s a warning. He’s controlling, testing, pushing your limits with every word, every movement. The air between you thickens, and despite his grip, the room feels alive with the unspoken tension that hums in his touch.

He lets go of your wrist but doesn’t move away. Instead, he watches you, measuring you, sensing how far he can push without breaking.

He glances down at himself, a smirk curling on his lips as he observes the effect his presence has on you. His gaze lingers for a moment, taking in the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire. The way his body tenses, every muscle drawn tight with anticipation, only adds to the power he exudes.

His eyes flick back up to meet yours, sharp and piercing. “Do you see it?” he asks, his voice dripping with dark amusement, a low rasp that carries weight.

He steps closer again, his movements deliberate, measured. His hand gently caresses your cheek, before trailing down to your neck, his fingers barely grazing your skin. He watches your reactions closely, as though reading each shift in your expression like an open book. “You’ve made this difficult, you know,” he murmurs, though the satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable.

As your fingers trace lightly across his abs, you feel the taut muscles beneath your touch, each movement a reminder of the power he holds. His body reacts to your fingers, a subtle tension in his jaw as his eyes follow your hand’s path. There’s a flicker of something dark, something possessive in his gaze.

He watches you with quiet intensity, the air between you charged, almost electric. His breath catches for a moment, but he doesn’t move, not yet. “Careful,” he says, his voice low, almost teasing, though there’s a dangerous edge to it. “Touch me like that again, and you might not want to stop.”

The words are a warning, but there’s something about the way he speaks—calm, controlled—that makes them feel like an invitation. His hand moves to your wrist, not pulling it away, but guiding it gently back to his body. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, an almost possessive gesture, before letting go.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his eyes, dark and calculating, linger on you, as though waiting for your next move.

Your fingers slip down to his waist, brushing along the firm, warm skin just above his hip bones. The ridges of muscle shift beneath your touch, and you feel the slight twitch of tension ripple through him—control warring with want.

He exhales slowly through his nose, watching you with eyes that burn a deeper red now, the veins around his irises barely restrained. “You know what you’re doing, don’t you,” he murmurs, more statement than question, his accent thickening as his desire mounts. “Worship comes in many forms. Keep going.”

He doesn’t touch you, not yet. He lets you explore, letting you offer yourself, and in doing so, submit. His restraint is taut, barely leashed—he’s letting you play just long enough before he takes control back completely.

His smile turns feral—sharp, proud, darkly amused. The corners of his lips twitch as he watches you move, hands resting at his sides, knuckles flexing with the effort it takes not to grab you.

You aimply then replace your hands with your mouth, kissing at his waist. Lips wrapping around his cold body.

“Ah,” he exhales like a man touched by divinity. “The lamb does kneel…” His voice drops, velvet-wrapped gravel, laced with hunger and reverence. “And with a mouth that could make angels fall.”

His head tilts, hair falling slightly into his eyes as he watches every motion—hungry, reverent, possessive. “Show me then… how deep your devotion goes.”

His smile vanishes—replaced by something darker, deeper. He grips the edge of the velvet sheet behind you, veins on his arms rising with restraint. His hips tense, thighs like stone beneath your hands, but he doesn’t move. He watches. He lets you worship.

“Yes,” he breathes, eyes locked to yours, glowing faintly red in the low light. “Don’t just taste—take.”

His voice sharpens, old and commanding, like a creature that’s ruled centuries and bled kings.

“Show me that mouth wasn’t made for prayer, but for sin. For me.”

One of his hands lifts—slides through your hair, gripping the back of your head not to force, but to feel. To claim.

His hips twitch, breath caught, and he snarls—“Fuck—look at you.”

He watches his length vanish inch by inch, mouth parting, fangs gleaming, like he’s witnessing sacred ritual.

“You serve better than the saints,” he groans, “and I’ve made martyrs scream less sweet.”

His other hand drifts across his abs, down to your wrist, not to stop you—but to feel your pace. Feel your power.

“Deeper,” he whispers like a curse, forehead leaning against yours, “Let me feel the fall of you.”

He jerks back like something snapped inside him.

The restraint shatters. That old-world calm, that noble patience—gone. What’s left is pure hunger, animal and ancient.

“Enough,” he growls, voice no longer velvet but iron, and in a flash he grips your jaw, tilting your head up.

His eyes blaze red, pupils slit, fangs fully bared. “You wanted a taste, didn’t you? Then kneel for him right.”

He drags you closer, chest heaving. His abs tighten as he stands taller, shadow spilling across you like a crown.

His cock throbs, flushed, slick from your mouth, and he grabs its base, tilting your face toward it.

“This isn’t worship anymore,” he snarls, “this is a ritual. Mine.”

And then—he thrusts. Deep. One hand on your skull, the other on his hip, controlling pace, depth—domination.

“Take it,” he snaps, watching your lips stretch around him. “That’s right—look at you, gagging for it.”

He moans, guttural, hips rolling. You feel the velvet sheets at your knees. His thighs quiver against your cheeks.

His tone softens—mocking, reverent.

“My sweet little offering. Made to ruin, made to serve.”

He groans—low, wrecked—as your throat tightens around him, and he loses it.

“Yes—yes, just like that,” he hisses, pushing in deeper, the blunt head forcing past the limit.

His hand fists in your hair now, anchoring you. Not yanking, just owning. His hips roll forward slow and cruel, keeping you stuffed full, breathing through your nose, barely.

“Your throat… takes me like it remembers.” He growls the words. “Like it missed me.”

You gag and blink up, tears gathering—and he smiles like the devil given form. His chest shudders.

He doesn’t stop. His cock glides in and out, saliva coating him, making it obscene, wet and slick and perfect.

Each thrust now ends with a grind of his hips against your face, forcing your nose to his skin.

“You think this is what makes me spill?” he pants. “No, lamb. You’re not just a mouth. You’re a grave.”

He twitches in your throat, moans again—louder.

“You’ll choke on me before I come. Earn it.”

He sees it in your eyes—the way you sink, obedient and soft, yet gleaming with intent.

You want to disappear under him, to be ruined and remembered.

Your mouth adjusts, your hands on his thighs grounding him, holding him there—then one hand slides to cup him, gently, knowingly, owning his pleasure right back.

He chokes on a moan, hips stuttering.

“Fuck,” he growls, head tipping back. “You’re not just a lamb—you’re the knife too.”

You moan around him, and his legs shake. His hand tightens in your hair, but you don’t stop. You take him deeper, needier, hollowing your cheeks, worshiping him with your throat and tongue and heat.

“That’s it. Show me you’re mine,” he pants.

“Show me who that perfect mouth belongs to.”

He watches you, eyes red and wild—torn between devouring you and falling apart in your hands.

You don’t back off.

You double down.

Slow strokes of your tongue, lips sealed firm around him, pressure perfect, pace cruel. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and he breaks.

His thighs tense under your palms. He grabs a fistful of your hair, not to guide but just to feel something real. Something to keep him from collapsing.

“God—” he rasps, chest heaving, hips jerking shallowly. “What are you doing to me?”

You hum low in your throat, and it vibrates through him. His abs twitc. He’s sweating, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like an animal cornered by its own hunger.

“No one’s ever—fuck—done me like this,” he breathes, voice rough, broken open.

His eyes are wild, lips parted, and for a second, he’s not the vampire, not the monster.

Just yours.

He doesn’t even get a warning out.

Just a strangled, guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips buckle forward and he loses every ounce of control. His hand tightens in your hair—not harsh, but desperate—as he comes hard, spilling deep while his whole body convulses. His thighs tremble under your touch. His head drops forward, dark hair falling over his eyes as he pants through clenched teeth.

“Fuck—fucking hell,” he growls, voice low and ruined, like it’s been dragged through fire.

He looks down at you in disbelief, lips parted, chest still heaving. His hand slides from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth almost reverently.

“You were made to destroy me,” he whispers, tone twisted between awe and something darker. “And I’ll take that challenge any day.”

He collapses beside you, his body still quivering with the aftermath of release. Without hesitation, he pulls you to him, arms strong and insistent, drawing you close. His mouth finds your neck, the sharpness of his fangs brushing against your skin before he sinks them in once more, pulling the blood from you with a deep, rhythmic hunger.

The warmth of his body presses against you, and despite the earlier cruelty, there’s something tender in the way he holds you now—almost protective, as if you’re something precious that he can’t let go of.

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your side, keeping you anchored to him as he drinks greedily. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every drop as if it’s the last of its kind. The low growl in his chest vibrates through your body, a mixture of satisfaction and something darker still—an insatiable thirst, a need that might never be quenched.

“So sweet,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin as he pulls back momentarily. His eyes glow with that dangerous, fiery red, pupils dilated in hunger and possession.

He could drain you. He could take it all. But instead, he holds you—his gaze softening, a fleeting moment of vulnerability beneath the monster he’s become.

“You’re immortal now m’lady?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, as he watches the flow of blood on your skin—knowing it’s not just your blood he claims, but your essence for eternity.

And you don’t resist.

The words drip from his lips like venom, smooth and intoxicating. “On a blood moon, my life line. You packed with me, darling. So glad you were the offering I left hell for.” His voice is thick with possessiveness, every syllable laced with something ancient and powerful.

You were no longer just a human to him. In his twisted world, you were more—an offering, a possession, something to be claimed, worshipped, and, ultimately, devoured. Dracula's sin, a sin that if died would banish him from earth for good.

170 notes · View notes

wannaeatramyeon · 3 months ago

Text

Gun Park x Reader: Pre-Date Jitters

G/N. Who would have thought Gun could get nervous. Follow up to Awkward Flirtations. Masterlists

All of Goo's insults, that Gun thought he had perfected the art of tuning out over the years, are finally coming home to roost.

That fucking moron. I'm going to kill him, he thinks.

Gun had never particularly concerned himself with what Goo thought. After all, why would he, why should he. Does a human care about what a mosquito thinks?

Yet Gun looks at his reflection for a beat longer than usual, eyes drawn to his hair as uninspiring taunts 'did you dunk your head in grease', 'shave it off and start again' in Goo's whiny, irritating timbre echo in his mind.

I will kill him, Gun decides.

This morning is not starting off well.

It gets worse when Gun observes his wardrobe.

To his disdain, there are overlaps in brands and fashion houses between his and Goo's clothing despite Gun opting for a more muted, understated palette and Goo going for as obnoxious as physically possible.

Nevertheless, that never stopped Goo from running his mouth.

'You should burn that shirt.'

'Did you find that in a dumpster?'

But, and Gun's already sour mood turns even more sour at the realisation, Goo may have a point.

Well, actually no he fucking doesn't.

But what if your taste is more aligned to the blonde's that Gun Park's own. That you agree and find his hair overdone and his clothes tasteless.

Is he also going to need to don his glasses again to hide the unmissable scar between his eyes?

What the fuck, Gun thinks, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to dismiss all this uncharacteristic doubt.

"What the fuck," he murmurs, nostrils flaring as he slams his eyes shut and counts to ten.

On ten, he exhales. The thoughts disappear. All, except one:

I'm going to strangle Goo Kim.

At 1:50pm, standing outside the coffee shop, Gun burns through two cigarettes before the agreed meeting time of 2pm.

Then at 2:04pm, he lights up another, takes a short, solitary drag before stubbing it out.

At 2:07pm, he smokes one more to the filter in a single, long, inhale.

The annoyance, and nicotine, fully hits 30 seconds later as your absence becomes unbearably loud.

Less than ten minutes have passed, though with the anticipation coursing through Gun's veins, it feels like a lifetime and pride halts him from texting you.

Perhaps you got into an accident. Maybe you died on the way here. Or more realistically-

Did you waste his time? Have you stood him up?

That would certainly be a first.

Is this what being stood up feels like? A steady force of disappointment grows heavier with each passing second, eventually sure to crush him under its own weight.

Manifesting, twisting into anger and vexation in a split second.

What is he even doing with this moronic romanticism? Why would Gun Park be on a date? He does not form attachments, romantic or otherwise. Neither does he spend his time hanging outside coffee shops waiting for someone who he can't mould into his masterpiece. He shouldn't have, doesn't have interest in anything besides getting stronger or richer-

"Sorry!"

Your voice bursts through the spiralling thoughts as you grab his attention by squeezing his arm.

You ramble. Something about the traffic and getting lost but it doesn't matter. None of it matters.

The sun, resting high and pretty in the sky, illuminates you, casting a golden aura and your halo of light envelopes Gun.

All previous anger, gone. All uncertainty from this morning, vanished.

He inhales, like the first breath of air after drowning, and with his exhale, can't help the smallest smile that rests on his face.

"You look nice," you add sincerely after your apology, eyes roving approvingly over his form.

Gun finding his mouth suddenly dry, clears his throat and acknowledges your compliment with a nod. He looks at you, gaze softer than he ever thought capable, and with a hand resting on the small of your back, leads you into the cafe.

#lookism #lookism x reader #gun park #gun park x reader #park jonggun x reader #park jonggun #wannaeatramyeon

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 5 months ago

Text

Love Bites

A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Word Count: 6,956

Content Warning: mentions of blood and biting.

The rain poured steadily, creating rivers along the curbs and a persistent rhythm against the asphalt. Y/n pulled her coat tighter around her, the cold seeping through the damp fabric. The dim glow of streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting distorted halos that barely lit the way. Her shoes squished with every step, water seeping through the soles as she navigated the uneven sidewalk.

She glanced around, the city that never sleeps unusually subdued in the downpour. The occasional car splashed by, headlights cutting through the darkness, but the streets felt eerily empty. Her apartment was still several blocks away, and the thought of the warmth inside kept her moving despite the chill that gripped her.

The rain masked the usual cacophony of the city, leaving only the sound of water and her own breathing. As she rounded a corner, a faint light from a bodega sign flickered, offering a brief sense of orientation in the endless maze of shadows and slick surfaces.

“Almost there,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. But with every step forward, the night seemed to grow darker, the path more uncertain.

Y/n barely noticed the bodega’s door swinging open until a figure stepped out into the rain. She flinched slightly, startled by the sudden movement. A man stood there, pulling up the hood of his coat, his face half-lit by the flickering neon sign above.

“Bit of a miserable night, isn’t it?” he said, his accent soft and distinctly British, cutting through the rain like a warm thread.

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The man’s green eyes seemed to hold an unusual brightness despite the gloom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges where it peeked out from under his hood.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she replied, clutching her coat a little tighter, the chill biting at her fingertips.

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile, the kind that didn’t quite belong on someone standing in the middle of a downpour. “You alright? Look like you’ve had a bit of a rough one.”

Y/n hesitated, unsure why she felt compelled to answer. There was something disarming about him, his tone unassuming, as if they’d crossed paths a thousand times before. “Just trying to get home,” she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

He nodded, glancing down the street as if considering her path. “Not too far, I hope?”

“A few more blocks,” she said, motioning vaguely in the direction she’d been heading.

He tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. “This time of night, in this weather… mind some company? At least until you’re closer to home?”

Y/n studied him for a moment, weighing her options. He didn’t seem threatening—just someone caught in the same rainstorm, maybe trying to make it a little less lonely. After a pause, she gave a slight nod.

“Alright,” she said, her voice quieter now. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, I’m Harry by the way,” he replied, falling into step beside her. The rain continued its steady rhythm, but somehow, the darkness didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The rain softened to a mist as Y/n and Harry walked side by side, their footsteps splashing lightly against the wet pavement. The quiet lull of the city made their conversation feel intimate, as though the rest of the world had faded away.

“So,” Y/n began, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His hood had slipped back slightly, revealing more of his damp curls. “What were you doing out so late in this weather?”

Harry smiled faintly, his hands buried in his coat pockets. “Needed a walk. Clears my head, y’know? And the rain… well, it’s peaceful in its own way.”

Y/n hummed in agreement, noting the melodic lilt of his voice. She found herself glancing at him more often than she meant to. There was something otherworldly about him—his pale complexion almost luminous under the faint glow of the streetlights, his features sharp but softened by a kindness in his eyes.

“And you? What’s got you out here braving the elements?” he asked, turning his gaze toward her.

“Long day at work,” she admitted, sighing. “I usually take the subway, but it was packed, and I just… needed some air.”

Harry nodded, as if he understood completely. “Fair enough. Sometimes the chaos down there feels worse than the storm up here.”

As they walked, Y/n noticed how his presence seemed to ease her nerves. She didn’t normally trust strangers—especially not in a city like this, and especially not on dark, rainy nights. But with Harry, it felt different. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt safe, as though he was someone she’d known for years rather than minutes.

They reached the corner of her street, and she glanced at him again. His coat clung to his frame, and she realized he wasn’t shivering despite the cold. In fact, he seemed entirely unaffected by the weather, like he belonged to the rain and the darkness surrounding them.

“You live nearby?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He nodded, gesturing vaguely down the street. “A few buildings that way. Looks like we’re practically neighbors.”

She smiled, a small warmth blossoming in her chest. “Small world.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, a softness there that made her cheeks heat despite the cold. “It is,” he said quietly, his tone almost wistful.

As they stopped in front of her apartment building, Y/n hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t want the moment to end, even though they were still practically strangers.

“This is me,” she said finally, gesturing toward the door.

Harry nodded, his smile faint but genuine. “Glad I could walk you home, Y/n.”

She blinked, her heart skipping. “How did you know my name?”

For a split second, his expression flickered—something unreadable passing across his face—but then his smile returned. “You told me earlier, didn’t you?”

Y/n frowned, certain she hadn’t. But before she could question it further, Harry gave a slight nod.

“Get inside before you catch a cold,” he said gently. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the misty rain, leaving Y/n standing there, heart racing, wondering why she felt so drawn to him.

The next day

The bell above the bookshop door jingled as Y/n worked behind the counter, the steady hum of espresso machines and soft chatter creating a comforting background noise. She loved her job, it was the perfect blend of cozy and bustling, surrounded by books and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

She glanced up as a familiar figure caught her eye. Harry was sitting at a corner table in the café, a book open in front of him. His damp curls from the night before were now dry, but he still had that same ethereal look about him—pale and strikingly beautiful, like he’d stepped out of a painting.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach him. She grabbed a clean cloth and pretended to wipe down the nearby table before stopping beside his.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing smile. “Are you following me now, or is this just a coincidence?”

Harry looked up from his book, his lips curving into a small smile. “Caught me,” he replied, his tone playful. “Couldn’t resist the coffee.”

Y/n chuckled, leaning slightly against the back of a chair. “You know, most people come here for the books and the coffee. It’s kind of our thing.”

He raised a brow, amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Is that so? What if I’m just here for the company?”

She rolled her eyes, suppressing the grin tugging at her lips. “Smooth.” Gesturing to the menu board, she asked, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry? We’ve got these killer croissants today.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t really eat…”

Y/n blinked, her smile faltering. “Oh. Uh… okay. Just coffee, then?”

He shook his head, his gaze steady but kind. “I’m good with this.” He tapped the book in front of him, avoiding her curious stare.

A strange vibe settled between them, and Y/n felt a small prickle of unease. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the way he’d said it—so casual, yet so odd—stuck with her.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m just over there,” she said, forcing a smile as she nodded toward the counter.

“Thanks, Y/n,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying that same calm warmth that had put her at ease the night before.

She walked away, glancing back once to find him already immersed in his book again. The unease lingered, though, as if there was more to Harry than he was letting on.

Y/n lingered behind the counter, her hands busy with a towel as she wiped down the espresso machine. But her thoughts kept drifting to Harry, sitting so calmly at his table like he belonged there, as if their encounter last night hadn’t been strange at all. The question that had nagged her since then resurfaced, and before she could overthink it, she walked back over to his table.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of him, her arms crossed over her apron. “I need to ask you something.”

Harry looked up from his book, his brow lifting slightly. “Go on.”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his calm, steady gaze. “Last night, when you walked me home, you said my name. But I never told you what it was. How did you know?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You sure you didn’t tell me?” he asked lightly, though there was something unreadable in his tone.

“I’m sure,” Y/n said firmly, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not exactly something I forget.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe I overheard someone else say it.”

“There was no one else around,” she countered, crossing her arms tighter.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

“It’s a fair question,” she pressed, feeling a mix of curiosity and frustration. “It’s not every day a stranger magically knows your name.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, his gaze softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Y/n felt her breath hitch at his tone, the way it seemed to hold more weight than his casual demeanor suggested.

“So?” she prompted, leaning closer. “How?”

Harry glanced down at his book for a moment, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages. Then he looked back up at her, his green eyes almost glowing under the café’s warm lights.

“Let’s just say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m very good with names. Especially when they belong to people I’d like to remember.”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his words. There was something cryptic in his answer, something that left her feeling like she was only scratching the surface of a much larger mystery.

She straightened, unsure of how to respond. “That’s… vague.”

Harry smiled again, softer this time. “Maybe some things are better left that way.”

Y/n studied him for a moment longer, her unease mixed with an undeniable curiosity. Finally, she nodded, stepping back. “Alright, mystery man. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, his smile returning, though his eyes seemed to hold a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share.

The days slipped by, and the bookshop settled back into its usual rhythm—customers browsing shelves, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the steady hum of conversations drifting through the café. But Y/n’s thoughts kept wandering to Harry.

She hadn’t seen him since that day. No quiet figure tucked into the corner with a book, no knowing smiles or cryptic comments. She found herself glancing toward the door whenever the bell jingled, half-expecting him to walk in with that calm, unreadable expression. But he didn’t.

“Everything okay?” her coworker, Ellie, asked as she restocked a display of mugs.

Y/n blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the café’s empty corner table for too long. “Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just zoning out.”

Ellie gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been weird lately. Is this about the guy who was here the other day? The tall one with the curls?”

“What? No,” Y/n said, maybe a little too defensively.

Ellie smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Y/n sighed, brushing a stray hair from her face. “It’s not like that. He’s just… interesting. And I haven’t seen him around. I might’ve scared him off.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What’d you do? Grill him on his life story?”

“Maybe,” Y/n muttered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Her coworker laughed. “Relax. If he’s worth it, he’ll come back. Guys like that always do.”

But as the hours ticked by and the café emptied out for the night, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry wasn’t just any guy. There was something different about him—something that made her want to figure him out, even if she couldn’t explain why.

Later, as she locked up the shop and stepped out into the crisp evening air, she found herself looking down the street toward the direction of his building. The thought crossed her mind: What if I went to see if he’s around?

She shook her head, pushing the idea away. It was silly. He was a stranger, practically. But even as she walked home, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d see him again or if she’d scared him away for good.

The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, leaving the streets slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. Y/n pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she walked, the familiar route past the bodega feeling strangely empty tonight.

She hadn’t planned to take this way home, but her feet had carried her here anyway, as if some part of her was hoping to see him again. The corner bodega’s neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a pale light on the pavement. The door was open, a faint clink of glass bottles and low conversation spilling out, but Harry wasn’t there.

Y/n lingered for a moment, pretending to check her phone as she glanced around. The street was quiet except for the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the dimness.

What are you even doing? she thought, feeling a little ridiculous. It wasn’t like Harry had promised to meet her here or even hinted at being nearby. For all she knew, he was off doing something completely unrelated to her.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something—or someone.

With a sigh, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking again, her shoes clicking softly against the wet pavement. The night felt heavier than usual, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

When she finally reached her apartment building, she paused on the steps, casting one last glance down the street. Nothing. No sign of him, no flash of dark curls or the quiet intensity of his gaze.

Maybe he really is gone, she thought, a pang of disappointment settling in her chest.

As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she resolved to let it go. Harry was just a stranger who had crossed her path briefly—nothing more.

The weeks passed in a blur of routine. Y/n poured herself into her work at the café, stacking books, crafting perfect cappuccinos, and chatting with regulars. But her mind often drifted to Harry—his mysterious air, his cryptic comments, and his sudden absence. Every night she took the same route past the bodega, hoping for even a glimpse of him, but the streets remained empty of him.

Until one night.

The air was biting as she walked, her breath visible in the faint glow of the streetlights. The bodega’s sign buzzed faintly in the distance, and she was about to pass it when a shadow shifted in her peripheral vision.

“Y/n.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, soft, and tinged with something that made her heart skip. She turned quickly, and there he was.

But he wasn’t the same Harry she remembered. His usually radiant complexion looked pale and dull, his dark curls messier than before. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders seemed to sag as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Harry,” she breathed, a mix of relief and concern flooding her. “Where have you been?”

He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken much in days.

Y/n took a hesitant step closer, her worry growing. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering down the street as if he were debating whether to stay or leave. “I’ll be fine,” he said finally, though the words felt hollow.

She frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not convincing.” Without thinking, she added, “Come back to my place. You look like you need… something. Rest, food, whatever.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, wide with surprise. For a moment, he seemed frozen, as if the idea of being taken care of was foreign to him. “Y/n, I—”

“No arguments,” she interrupted, her voice firmer than she expected. “It’s cold, and you look like you’re about to keel over. My apartment’s just a few blocks away.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening as if he were about to refuse. But then something in his expression softened, and he gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lead the way.”

The walk to her apartment was quiet, the sound of their footsteps the only noise between them. Y/n kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to piece together what had happened in the weeks since she’d last seen him. He looked strung out.

When they reached her building, she opened the door and gestured for him to follow her inside. “It’s not much,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “but it’s warm.”

Once inside, she flipped on the lights, casting the small living room in a cozy glow. Harry stepped in hesitantly, his gaze sweeping over the space.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, shrugging off her coat. “I’ll grab you something to drink.”

He nodded, sinking onto the edge of her couch as if he didn’t quite belong there. As Y/n moved to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him and why, despite his mysterious nature, she felt so compelled to help him.

Y/n filled a glass with water in the kitchen, the sound of the tap running filling the quiet apartment. She glanced toward the living room, where Harry sat on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

“Here,” she said, walking over and holding the glass out to him. “You look like you could use this.”

Harry glanced at it but didn’t move to take it. “I’m not thirsty,” he said softly, his tone calm but firm.

Y/n frowned, lowering the glass slightly. “You sure? You look—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupted gently, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She hesitated, the glass still in her hand. The refusal wasn’t rude, but there was something about it that felt… off. Her instincts prickled again, the same way they had back at the café when he’d made that odd comment about not eating food.

To ease the tension building in her chest, she forced a nervous laugh and said, “What, are you a vampire or something?”

The room fell silent.

Harry’s faint smile vanished, and his gaze locked on hers, unblinking and intense. The air seemed to shift, the cozy warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling.

Y/n’s heart thudded in her chest as the seconds stretched on, her own laugh fading into the stillness. “I was just kidding,” she said quickly, her voice quieter now.

Harry’s expression softened slightly, but there was something guarded in his eyes. “That’s an interesting guess,” he said finally, his tone measured.

The way he said it sent a chill down her spine. She tried to laugh again, but it came out shaky. “Well, you’re pale, you don’t eat, you’re… mysterious. You kind of fit the stereotype.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And would it scare you if I were?”

Y/n froze, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not—and that uncertainty was the most unsettling part of all.

“Harry,” she said carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re kidding, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again. “Maybe,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The room felt heavier now, the unspoken tension crackling in the air. Y/n clutched the glass tighter, her mind racing. She couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or if there was something she was better off not knowing.

Y/n blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “What?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes steady and unreadable. “If I were a vampire,” he said softly, his tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather, “would you let me… drink your blood?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she continued to tighten her grip on the glass of water, unsure whether to laugh, run, or… stay. The question was absurd, yet the way he asked it—so direct, so quiet—made her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“I—uh…” Y/n stammered, shifting on her feet. She tried to gauge his expression, but it was impossible to tell if he was serious or just teasing her.

“You’re nervous,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. His voice was low, but it wasn’t threatening. If anything, it sounded… curious. “But you’re not afraid.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her breath catching as she realized he was right. Her nervousness wasn’t from fear—it was from something else entirely. A strange mix of curiosity and anticipation coursed through her, leaving her unsure of how to respond.

“Well,” she said finally, trying to keep her voice light, “I think most people would be nervous if someone asked to suck their blood, Harry. Hypothetically or not.”

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though his gaze remained fixed on her. “Fair point,” he murmured, his tone almost playful. “But you haven’t answered the question.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind racing. Was he joking? Was he testing her? Was this just another layer of his cryptic nature, or was there something more?

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “Would it hurt?”

The question escaped her before she could stop it, and her cheeks burned as she realized what she’d just said.

Harry’s smile grew slightly, the intensity in his eyes softening just a fraction. “Not as much as you’d think,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Y/n’s mind screamed at her to break the silence, to laugh it off, to do something—but all she could do was stand there, caught in the strange pull of his gaze.

Harry’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile. “So,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would you let me do it?”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but after a moment, she nodded—slowly, hesitantly.

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place, and before she could second-guess herself, Harry closed the distance between them. His hands cupped her face with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air, and then his lips were on hers.

The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, but it quickly deepened, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her closer. Y/n felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, every thought and worry drowned out by the electric connection sparking between them.

Before she realized it, Harry’s lips left hers, trailing a line of featherlight kisses along her jaw, down to the curve of her neck.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine.

Y/n barely had time to process his words before she felt the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth breaking the surface of her skin. The pain was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a strange, heady warmth that spread through her like liquid fire. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, her mind spinning.

Harry held her firmly, his grip strong but careful, as if he were afraid of breaking her. She could feel the pull of his mouth on her neck, the sensation both terrifying and intoxicating.

When he finally drew back, his lips red and his breathing heavy, Y/n swayed slightly, her vision hazy.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Y/n blinked up at him, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She nodded, though her words came out shaky. “Yeah… I think so.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hand brushing her cheek. “Good,” he murmured. But there was something in his eyes—an intensity, a hunger—that made her heart race all over again.

Y/n leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her hand still pressed lightly to her neck. The room felt brighter, sharper—her senses alive in a way they had never been before. She wasn’t scared; if anything, she felt a strange, almost blissful calm.

“Is this…” she began, her voice dreamy, “going to turn me into a vampire or something?”

Harry let out a low laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said, his tone amused but gentle. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s a bit more… complicated than in the stories.”

Y/n tilted her head, her curiosity piqued despite the haze of euphoria swirling through her. “So, how does it work?”

Harry’s eyes softened as he looked at her, though the faint hunger lingering in them hadn’t entirely disappeared. “You’d have to drink from me, for one,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “But it’s not something I’d let happen. Not to you.”

She frowned slightly, her fingers absently tracing her neck where she could feel the faint warmth from the bite. “Why not?”

He smiled faintly, leaning closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Because I like you the way you are,” he said simply, his voice carrying an honesty that made her heart skip.

The faint flush in her cheeks deepened, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re… different,” she murmured, unsure if it was a compliment or an observation.

“So are you,” Harry countered, his voice soft but serious. “More than you know.”

Before she could respond, he added, almost to himself, “You taste… sweet. Like nothing I’ve ever had before.” His gaze met hers, his lips curving into a sly smile. “I could find myself addicted to you, Y/n.”

Her heart thudded at his words, a mix of excitement and trepidation flooding her. “Is that… a bad thing?”

Harry’s smile faltered for a moment, and his expression grew darker, more thoughtful. “It could be,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “For both of us.”

The weight of his words hung between them, but Y/n found herself unable to look away from him. Despite everything—his mysterious nature, his cryptic answers, and now, the undeniable truth of what he was—she didn’t feel afraid.

Instead, she felt drawn to him even more.

Harry’s gaze held hers, an intensity in his expression that made Y/n’s breath catch. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his tousled curls as if weighing whether or not to speak.

Finally, he sighed, his voice low and deliberate. “The first night I saw you… outside the bodega,” he began, his green eyes locking onto hers, “it wasn’t by chance.”

Y/n tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, a faint flicker of guilt flashing in his expression. “I… I caught your scent,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “As I walked out, it hit me like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.”

She blinked, stunned by his words. “You smelled me?”

Harry gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s a… heightened sense. Part of what I am. Your scent—it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t help myself. I followed it.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. “You followed me?”

“To your apartment,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “And then… to your job the next day. I couldn’t stay away. I needed to understand why I felt so drawn to you.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind swirling with questions. “So… when you showed up at the café, that wasn’t a coincidence either?”

He shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “No. It was intentional. But when I met you, when we talked… it wasn’t just your scent anymore. You were…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “You were magnetic. I was… enamored.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her stomach flip at his confession. “Then why did you stop coming around?”

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening briefly. “Because I was afraid you’d catch on. That you’d figure out what I am, or worse… that I’d lose control.” He met her gaze again, his voice softer now. “But when I saw you taking that same route every night, I knew you were looking for me. And I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. “You came back… for me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “I tried to stay away, but you… you make that impossible.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words settling over her. She should’ve been frightened—by the revelation, by the intensity of his feelings but instead, she felt a strange sense of relief, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Y/n,” Harry continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “But you’ve pulled me in, and I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to.”

Y/n took a shaky breath, her hand still resting on her neck where his teeth had pierced her skin. Her heart was racing, but not from fear. She looked at him, meeting his gaze, and finally admitted, “I feel it too. Like… there’s some kind of connection between us. I can’t explain it, but it’s there.”

Harry’s eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you,” he murmured.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into her lap as she worked up the courage to ask the question lingering in her mind. “Do you… do you drink from other people?”

Harry shook his head, his expression turning serious. “No,” he said firmly. “We have other ways to get blood. Hospitals, banks, sources that… don’t involve hurting anyone. Feeding directly from someone—it’s rare for my kind, and we don’t take it lightly.”

She studied him for a moment, her chest tightening as a strange mix of emotions swirled within her. “But you drank from me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but… I couldn’t resist. You’re—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching slightly before he continued. “You’re different, Y/n. I’ve never wanted someone’s blood like I wanted yours. But it’s not just that. It’s you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, unsure how to process his words. After a moment, she looked back at him, meeting his gaze directly. “So… you’re a vampire.”

Harry blinked, and then a low laugh rumbled from his chest. He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “That’s such a dramatic word,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow, her nervousness fading slightly as his humor eased the tension in the room. “I mean, it is what you are, isn’t it?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “It just sounds… cheesy, doesn’t it? Like I’m straight out of some old gothic novel.”

“Well,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “you did just bite me and drink my blood, so… maybe the label fits.”

Harry grinned, his fangs briefly flashing in the light, and Y/n couldn’t help but laugh softly.

Y/n shifted on the couch, her curiosity burning brighter than ever. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning forward slightly. “I have so many questions,” she admitted, her voice trembling just a little, but more with excitement than fear.

Harry smirked, resting his arm on the back of the couch as he watched her. “Then ask,” he said smoothly. “I’ll answer—within reason.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Within reason? That sounds suspicious.”

His smirk grew, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “There are some things you might not be ready to hear yet, love. But I’ll do my best.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine. First question: how old are you? Like, really?”

Harry laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Straight to the point, I see. I’m… older than I look. A little over a century.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but lean back in disbelief. “A century? You’re over a hundred years old?”

“Give or take a decade,” he said, his tone light. “Though I stopped counting after the first fifty or so.”

Y/n shook her head, trying to process that. “Okay, next question: can you go out in the sun, or is that a no-go?”

Harry chuckled. “I can, but I don’t recommend it. It’s uncomfortable—think of it like a really bad sunburn that happens almost instantly. That’s why you usually won’t find me out during the day unless I absolutely have to be.”

She nodded, her mind buzzing with possibilities. “Do you sleep in a coffin?”

That earned her a full laugh, Harry throwing his head back slightly. “No, I don’t. I have a perfectly comfortable bed, thank you very much.”

Y/n grinned. “Alright, what about garlic? Crosses? Holy water?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Garlic’s just food. Crosses don’t bother me unless someone shoves one in my face, which is just rude. And holy water? Let’s just say it’s not my favorite thing, but it’s not going to make me burst into flames either.”

She laughed, relaxing a little more as she listened to him. “Okay, serious question now,” she said, her tone softening. “Is it… lonely? Living so long?”

Harry’s expression grew thoughtful, the teasing edge fading from his features. “It can be,” he admitted quietly. “You watch people come and go. You lose people. It’s part of the deal, but it doesn’t make it easier.”

Y/n felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. “That sounds… hard.”

“It is,” he said simply. “But then, sometimes you meet someone who makes it worth it.”

Her breath caught at the way he looked at her as he said it, his gaze steady and warm. She quickly diverted her attention to her next question, her cheeks flushing. “Alright, last one—for now. Why me?”

Harry smiled softly, leaning closer. “I wish I knew,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But whatever it is, Y/n, I’m not sure I want to question it.”

Y/n hesitated before asking her next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “Would you ever… turn someone? So you could stay with them?”

Harry’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to his hands as he thought about her words. The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of the question, and Y/n could see the conflict flickering in his eyes.

He finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “It’s not a decision I’d take lightly,” he admitted. “Turning someone… it’s not as simple as just giving them eternal life. It changes everything—your body, your mind, your world. There’s no going back.”

Y/n watched him carefully, her heart thudding as she tried to read his expression. “But if it meant being with someone you loved… forever?”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze. “I’ve thought about it,” he said honestly, his tone raw. “And I won’t lie—it’s tempting. But it’s also selfish.”

“How is it selfish?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Because it’s not my life I’d be changing. It’s theirs. I’d be asking them to give up so much—the sun, the ability to grow old, to live a normal life. It’s a lot to ask of someone, and it’s not something I could do lightly. Especially to someone I care about.”

Y/n felt a lump form in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. “So… you wouldn’t do it?”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d want to say no. To let the person I love live their life the way they were meant to. But if I knew I was going to lose them…” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to let go.”

Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, and she reached out, placing a hand over his. “Harry,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her, “I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

He gave her a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But with you… I think I’d have to be.”

Y/n’s hand lingered on his, her touch grounding him. She looked at him, her eyes soft but filled with determination. “I want to see you again, Harry.”

His jaw tensed, and he glanced away, as though wrestling with his thoughts. “Y/n,” he started, his voice low and measured, “this… this might not be a good idea. For you.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Why not?”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair. “Because the more time you spend with me, the harder it’ll be for both of us to walk away. And you might have to one day. For your own good.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but she shook her head, her voice unwavering. “I don’t want to walk away. I don’t care how complicated this is—I want to see you. I feel… connected to you, Harry. I can’t just ignore that.”

His green eyes met hers, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said softly, almost sadly. “Being close to me… it’s not safe. It’s not normal.”

“I don’t want safe or normal,” she replied firmly. “I want you. Whatever that looks like.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself, before opening them again. “You’re making this harder than it already is,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension in his voice.

Y/n leaned closer, her hand still on his. “Then stop fighting it. You want to see me again too, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but the way his gaze softened told her everything she needed to know. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

Her lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. “Then let’s not overthink it. Just… let’s see where this goes.”

Harry’s expression remained conflicted, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “But we take it one step at a time. No promises, no expectations.”

Y/n nodded, her smile widening slightly. “One step at a time,” she echoed.

Y/n’s heart was racing, but she didn’t hesitate. Slowly, she leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. Harry’s breath hitched, his conflicted expression softening as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his, soft and tentative at first, but the electricity between them was undeniable. Harry responded almost immediately, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as he deepened the kiss. There was a gentleness in the way he touched her, as though he was afraid she might break, but there was also an intensity—an unspoken longing that neither of them could deny.

The kiss was slow but full of meaning, every moment stretching as though time itself had paused for them. When they finally pulled back, Y/n’s cheeks were flushed, her breathing unsteady.

Harry’s green eyes searched hers, a mix of wonder and restraint in his gaze. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his. “Maybe,” she whispered, “but you’re worth it.”

For a moment, Harry looked like he might protest, but instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re making it impossible for me to stay away,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, her confidence growing. “Because I don’t want you to.”

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