Cosmo

Because golden blood wasn’t just rare. It was salvation. 

It could give them what they’d lost the right to: the taste of what being alive felt like again. One single drop could warm their cold bodies, wake their long dead hearts, flush their pale skin with heat and color. They could feel again, breathe again, and sleep peacefully again. But there was only one thing even your blood couldn’t grant: being in the sun without blistering. Because vampires belonged only to the night, because even a devil dressed like an angel still couldn’t enter heaven. 

It was enough for them, though. Pretending to be human while keeping their immortality intact. 

But the gift of life wouldn’t last long. A drop was barely enough for an hour of borrowing a warmth their kind was not meant to remember. The glow would eventually fade…and they would only want more. 

They became addicted quickly. The memory of warmth was worse than the cold. It clung to them like obsession, like starvation. 

Witches like you wouldn’t survive long once a vampire found them. 

Most were hunted. Tasted. Drained. 

Because the truth was cruel…vampires couldn’t stop once they started. The gift that made them feel again also stripped away their last shred of control. 

Witches were supposed to live for centuries, but one bite too long, and the fountain of life would be emptied too fast. 

So you had to be wise. You’d grown up surrounded by warnings from your coven, learning the rules young. You never let your guard down, because the one time you did, it almost cost you your precious life. 

It all happened the day you decided to stay outside a little later than usual. You knew they came when the sun came down; the village wasn’t safe anymore but you’d already been reckless with time, and you found yourself making your way back home in the dark. 

That was when the first vampire came for you. 

It was like he hit the jackpot, really, a little golden witch strolling around carrying heaven in her veins. You thought that was it, giving a vampire their life back while they drained it from you. 

Until Sue Storm found you. 

A vampire from the Baxter coven. An unlikely savior, but she was part of a family that called themselves “the good ones.” She saved you right before it was too late, killed the vampire whose heart had just started beating again, and brought you to their tower in the woods. You were scared at first, thinking she’d just grabbed you to be her family’s own fountain of life, but she was the only one home. All you knew was her husband was out on a mission and her brother, the infamous Johnny Storm, traveled too much. 

She put you in a room, ignored the drops of blood on your neck, even when her own fangs begged her to taste, and took care of you for weeks until you were fully healed and the color returned to your face. 

The day you were supposed to return to your house in the village, her husband Reed, arrived greatly injured from a fight with another coven, damaged by the sun as he made his way back. Sue never asked anything of you, but you owed her your life. Without giving it a second thought, you poured your golden blood into a goblet, and offered it to him. 

You could say you were even, but they had to express their eternal gratitude somehow, and a truce was born then. 

They gave you a castle from their land in the middle of the woods, where you could live safely. Where  they’d only ever reach you if they needed healing, and they would keep the bad ones away for you. 

It was a strange deal, because you weren’t supposed to trust creatures like them, but it was the only way you could finally live in peace. You perfected your protection spells, learned to grow your own food and herbs, and only went out to town in daylight when it was absolutely necessary. 

And now, after forty years of no contact, she's not asking you for a bit of your blood. She’s asking you to let one of her kind into the gates of your safe world. 

You stare at the parchment letter again. It arrived before sunset, dropped by an owl in your garden, sealed in blue wax with her family’s crest carved on it. 

The Four Emblem. 

My dear, I wouldn’t ask this of you if I had any other choice.

Her careful handwriting detailed the unraveling state of a conflict between her kind. A rogue group from the east, led by the Hydra coven, was not held back by boundaries anymore, and Sue was worried. 

They’re gathering faster than expected. Our allies are falling and we keep losing land to them. The Belova family lost their castle last night, and they are the closest to our side of the valley. We cannot afford to lose your border too, or have them find you. You’re too important, so you must remain hidden. 

Which is why I’m sending you Johnny. 

Please welcome him into the castle, all he needs is a place to stay during the day. He’ll protect your border, and keep your grounds safe at night. 

I do have to warn you about him, he’s…a lot. He’s loud, he flirts as easily as he breathes, and takes nothing seriously until he does. You’ll hate him at first, I know. But he’s the only one I trust to be near you. 

I don’t know exactly when he’ll arrive. He has a flair for the dramatic and never lets us know when he’ll show up, but it should be soon. 

Please don’t hex him, and don’t let him seduce you.

With love, Sue.

“With love,” you scoff, crumpling the parchment before throwing it to the stone ground. 

She says he’s the only one she trusts to be around you, to protect you. But any vampire near you is dangerous, even the “good ones”. Sue was the exception, not the rule. 

And Johnny Storm? Seduce me? Seriously? 

Of course you’ve heard about him. Gossip runs like water, especially between witches. Back when you lived with your coven, you’d hear stories about him. About your sisters who let themselves believe a man like that could care for more than just a wild night of pleasure. Still, they’d return with stupid smiles and a neck tattooed with hickeys. 

No fang marks, though. The Baxter coven didn’t feed from humans, at least.  

Does that mean you can trust him? Of course not. 

Your blood is not like humans, and you didn’t even know how long this arrangement would last. Even someone like him could lose his mind eventually. 

But still…you know you cannot fight whatever is coming alone. And maybe they are worse than just him. 

All you can do is take a deep breath, and prepare yourself for his arrival. 

You storm up the spiral stairs of the east wing, muttering fire charms to ignite the hallway sconces. The room at the end had been sealed for as long as you’d been there, dusty, unused, and dark enough for any creature of the night to brood in peace. 

Perfect for him. 

You flick your hand at the door, the golden spark from your fingers pushing it open, and you take a deep breath as you cross the threshold. 

The place is dark, and it smells like mold. You turn to the big arched windows, covered by heavy burgundy blackout curtains, and wave your hand for them to roll open. Dust flies everywhere, but the last rays of daylight seep through the glass, enough for you to see what you’re working with. 

Stone walls, a round bed front and center, a faded rug, a velvet settee and a fireplace that hadn’t seen flame in centuries. 

“If he wants shelter, he can have shelter,” you mutter. 

You peel the old bedsheets away, and replace them with the plainest ones you have. Dark blue, of course. You wouldn’t want to ruin his aesthetic. 

“Silk sheets,” you huff, crossing your arms as the bed builds itself in a glimmer of gold. “He’s going to expect silk sheets, isn’t he?”

I don’t even think he sleeps. 

Reluctantly, you add a second pillow. Whatever. 

After a couple more spells, the room smells better, feels warmer, and looks decent enough for your new guest. Though you considered adding a garlic charm just to test his limits.

You press your hand to the window, watching the ember sky turning the color of dying roses. The sign that you had to lock your castle for the night…and wait. 

Let him come, you think bitterly. Let him try.

You’ll burn him down before he touches your light.

I swore my loyalty to me, myself, and I Right before you lit my sky up

You should be nervous. Instead, you’re annoyed. 

Annoyed that you’ve been waiting for his arrival every night until the lamp beside you burns, as if you are expecting a long lost lover to return home. 

Sue’s letter was clear, of course. That he’d arrive “when he felt like it.” That he had a flair for entrances and you should be ready. And you had been. But days passed, and nothing happened. 

So tonight, when you sit in your bed to call it a day, grabbing a book and intending to enjoy the rest of your evening alone, you’re not expecting the sharp, impatient knocks on the ancient front door of your castle. The firelight in your bedroom flickers, the wards you’ve casted around warning you of his presence. 

You groan, shutting down your book and covering your silk nightgown with a velvet cloak. Your pulse betrays you as you run down the stairs and arrive at the door, where the thick wood echoes with his impatient knocking. 

Like you’re wasting his time. 

You roll your eyes, and finally open it slowly. No flourish, no smile, just your stern face showing the annoyance brewing in your body since you got the letter. 

It only got worse when you find him leaning against the archway, with infuriating nonchalance like he wasn’t just banging on your door seconds ago. 

But that’s not the worst part, no. It’s his looks. 

He is devilishly handsome, just like the stories you’ve heard. Blonde, of course, with the bluest of eyes to match. His almost silver hair catches the torchlight, and his pale skin glows in the moonlight. 

A long burgundy coat wraps his body, tailored to perfection in rich velvet. The collar is high, the lapels are sharp, the hem brushes against his polished boots. Beneath it, he wears a white blouse, tied at the throat with a cravat that makes him look like a prince instead of a bloodsucking freak. A black vest hugs his chest tightly, buttons fighting for their life from the apparent muscle under all that fabric. And his pants, God help you, his pants were black leather, smooth and sinfully tight, clinging to his legs like they were painted on. Next to him, lies a trunk, one you can only guess is filled with tighter pants. 

You stare at him. Actually, you gawk at him, but you have the good sense to do it silently. 

Because what the hell kind of vampire shows up looking like that?

Focus. You’re annoyed. You’re annoyed. You’re–

“You know, we can stand here all night, if you like. But I’m getting the feeling you want to know what happens once you let me come inside.”

His voice is just what you expected, as full of sin as his eyes. 

Your head snaps up, only to meet his stupid, knowing grin, completely delighting in the way your eyes just took him all in. And it makes your spine straighten just out of spite. 

“I’m Johnny,” he says, flashing a hand in greeting. “Storm. Sue sent me.” 

He’s not subtle about the way his eyes drop to your neck, to the sliver of skin of your collarbone the cloak doesn’t cover, his lips curving to the delicate lace trim of your nightgown peeking under, before meeting your gaze again.

“I know who you are,” you finally speak, arms crossing over your chest like a barrier against his prying eyes. 

“Oh good. Saves me a dramatic monologue,” he shrugs, “Did she tell you I was charming?” 

“She told me you were trouble.” 

He presses a hand over his unbeating heart. “Ouch. Four seconds in and I’m already being slandered.” 

You roll your eyes, and he finally straightens up from the archway, stepping closer to the entryway he can’t go through yet. No vampire can cross a threshold uninvited. Even if the castle had once belonged to his family, because now it’s yours.

Still, he grins. 

God, that grin. 

“You're gonna invite me in, love? Or are we doing this whole thing from the porch?” He glances behind you. 

“You seem very eager to come inside,” you accuse, but his smile doesn’t falter when his eyes meet yours again. 

“Technically, I was assigned to stay here. But I could camp outside like a wild animal if that’s what gets you going. I might die when the sun comes out, though, and then my family will come for you.” 

“Theatening me is not exactly the way to “get me going”, Storm,” you say flatly. 

“Oof, not the last name.” He pretends to stumble back, as if you’d pushed him with your indifference alone. 

Before you can say anything else, the wind picks up. Your cloak flutters slightly, the scent of what runs through your veins hits him, and the moment it does, he inhales.

Just a breath. Just one is enough. 

His pupils dilate. His fangs threaten to come out. You’ve seen it before. Right before they attack. You catch the way his throat moves. The way his body shifts getting ready to lunge. 

But only for a second. 

Because he’s quick to cover the hunger up, to mask it, you’ll give him that. Makes it fade into another smile. Another stupid remark already waiting behind his teeth. 

But his darkened eyes can never lie. 

“Sue warned me about your blood. Didn’t realize she was underselling it.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest, so loud he can hear it. You know he can. And gods, he likes it. 

“Never thought I’d meet one, yet here you are...”

“And what exactly does that mean to you?” You ask. 

“That you’re walking around with sunlight in your veins and still dare me not to look,” he says. “That makes you forbidden to me.” 

“Good. I want that to be clear.” You answer, deadpan. “If you need to feed you don’t do it in my home.”

“I don’t feed from humans,” he shakes his head. 

“I don’t care. I just don’t want blood on my carpets.”

His smirk fades just slightly, because he wants you to hesitate in your firmness. Because he wants to play. Because he knows he’s a monster and he doesn’t want to trick you into forgetting even if he’s a “good one” and you’re forbidden. 

“I don’t trust you,” you say. 

“Good.”

“And you won’t drink from me.” 

“Wasn’t planning to,” he shrugs. 

“You will not drink from me,” you repeat, harsher this time. 

“If I ever wanted to, I was thinking we could perhaps have dinner first, at least,” he teases. 

“Storm, if you ever even think about it–”

“You’ll burn me alive or drag a stake across my heart. Heard those ones before,” he cuts you off, chuckling under his breath. 

You narrow your eyes. “But I mean it.”

“Yeah,” he nods quickly. “I can tell.” 

For a long moment, you say nothing. Just stare at him, the magic in your bloodstream, golden and pulsing alive beneath your skin, warns you not to say the words. Because once you say them, there’s no going back. 

He just waits, because he’s got plenty of time before the sun comes out, or before you freeze. 

You sigh. “You may enter.”

He grins, wide and bright when you step away from the door to keep your distance. He lowers himself to lift his heavy leather trunk like it’s featherlight, and steps forward. One boot over the threshold, then the next, the burgundy coat fluttering behind him, and just like that he’s sharing the same space as you. Every candle in the room flares as the air changes. The heat shifts from the cold his dead body emits. 

“See?” he teases. “Was that so hard?”

“God, you’re impossible,” 

“Yet here I am…invited in.”

You sigh. You hate him.

You hate how good he looks in your lighting. You hate how suffocating he makes the room feel just by existing in it. You hate the stupid grin tugging at his lips from knowing how fast your heart’s beating.

He walks past you slowly, eyes drinking in the place he plans to misbehave in. The candlelight washes over the carved arches, the floral tapestries, the art on the stone walls, the shelves lined with ancient books. And he catches the faint, flying golden specks from your runes carved in the room. 

“Last time I was here I think I hadn’t even turned yet. I like what you’ve done with the place,” he whistles low, walking around impressed. “Charming. Feels expensive. Bit cold for me, though.” 

“I’d say the same about you,” you mutter, crossing your arms. 

He pretends not to hear, vampire hearing and all, and turns to you again with a smile. He lifts his arms up with a flourish, standing in the center of your entry hall.

“Well, love, where do you want me?” He asks excitedly. “I prefer towers, of course. But I’ll take a crypt if it’s nicely decorated.” 

You rub your temple, before snapping. “God, do you ever stop?” 

He doesn’t. 

“Uhm. Aggressive. I like that flavor,” he just wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the urge to not just stab him right now. “But really, I need to get my beauty sleep.”

You exhale. Again. 

“Follow me.” 

You walk through the grand stone hallways as he insists on walking next to you instead of behind, which in some way helps your nerves because at least you’d be able to see if he decides to try anything. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t. 

Soon you arrive in the room you’d prepared for him earlier this week. He stops just by the door, bowing too low and extending his hand for you to cross first. You roll your eyes, but do it anyway. 

You hear the loud thud of his trunk hit the floor, and all you have to do is give him your back for five seconds, for a cold gush of wind to ruffle your hair. 

Damn vampire speed. 

You turn around, only to see him already lounging across the velvet settee, looking like a damn painting. He’s half laying on his side, elbow propped up and holding his head, one knee bent and the other slung over the armrest. Boots still on, burgundy coat off, cravat undone at the throat, and his shirt open just enough to flash his pale carved chest. 

Damn vampire everything. 

“The room is…tolerable, at best–wait, are those silk bedsheets I see? In blue? Wow, you really went all out for me!” He praises mockingly, clapping slowly. “You know what? I’ll take ‘tolerable’ back, we’ll leave it at…decent.”

You blink a few times. 

“What else you got for me?” 

You take a deep breath.

“Listen. This is the east wing, you’ll be staying here. I’ve sealed all the windows on this side so you can be safe during the day. That is all I got for you. West Wing is mine. I’m very busy during the day and I like to keep my curtains open, so you’re not to wander, got that?” you say firmly. 

“But what if I get bored?” He pouts. 

Two thousand year old man and he fucking pouts.  

“Read a book,” you shrug, pointing at the shelves. “You’ve got plenty here.”

“And what if I want company?” He pushes. “I don’t see plenty of that.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you know where to find the showgirls in town.” You flashed him a condescending smile, already making your way out. 

“Hey, wait!” He called out, just as you were about to cross the door. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You stop, and turn frowning. “For what?”

“Not biting you the moment I walked in.” 

You look at him, still lounging, still pretending nonchalance. But there’s a flicker of something else beneath the smugness, and you see it. A very real, very sharp restraint even someone who’s been feeding from animals for centuries has a hard time keeping around someone like you. 

Your stance falters only for a moment, before you decide to turn on your heel and leave without stopping this time. 

“Goodnight to you too, angel!” He shouts, but all he gets is you slamming his door shut with a wave of your hand. 

His smile grows.

“God, I love a challenge.”

As legend has it you are quite the pyro

You light the match to watch it blow

Johnny is gone most nights.

You don’t ask where. It isn’t your business anyway. He’s here for protection, for patrolling the land, for keeping the border safe from what has started crawling up from the vale. 

You never step on his side of the castle. Not even in daylight, because the entire wing has been shut to darkness. Your side is the opposite, your spellroom is the only place in the castle that always glows. It’s your sanctuary. You’ve warded it with layers of light, and always kept the curtains open so moonlight and morning could always reach you.

Even if you were clear about him not stepping foot in it, you still expected him to test that boundary. To try to get near, tease you, get close enough just to prove he wasn’t afraid of a little sun.

And, as expected, he does.

He lingers by the door often. You feel him when you’re working, prying eyes on your back from the hallway. And he doesn't even care if you catch him there, if you get startled by his presence and turn around to find him leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, crooked smile. You don’t even have to ask why he’s there. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches you.

God, does he watch.

The way your fingers move when you cast. The way you tilt your head when you read. Every time he looks at you like he’s memorizing the length of your throat. Which is why you avoided passing him in the hall that connected both wings. But sometimes you’d stay up until late perfecting a spell or studying your herbs, so even when you didn’t mean to, you’d cross paths when he returned. 

The first few nights, he’d slip back just before dawn, eyes red and fangs still visible if you caught him off guard. The first time it happened, you’d frozen in the hall, caught mid step as you exited the spellroom. He stopped too, inhaled like he always did around you, veins under his eyes barely popping, before he shook his head and ducked into the east wing like a shadow fleeing sunrise…and the golden-blooded girl in the heart of sunlight that has him just one misstep away from ruin.

So most nights he settled for…distraction. 

The town isn’t far. Vampires don’t need permission once they’ve been invited to a place. And the girls down there? They’re eager for foreigners. But not just any. Those they’ve only heard about in whispers. 

You’ll never forget the night he passed by your spellroom with his shirt all wrinkled, hem untucked, collar and lips decorated with smudged red lipstick. 

“Rough night?” you asked casually, trying to mask an annoyance you couldn’t understand. 

“Wanted some company,” he shrugged, smirking smugly. 

This time you were the one who bolted like a shadow to run away from…whatever it was that you felt when you saw those stains. 

You leave the laundry basket for one second.

One. Single. Second.

It’s your own fault, really. You’ve lived too long alone in this castle. Too long without having to worry about wandering hands or vampire eyes peeking where they don’t belong. 

You’d become comfortable. Careless in your own company. 

So you don’t realize it’s a mistake to leave your freshly washed garments on the grand corridor table, just for a moment, just while you fetch the kettle to make some tea for bed while you take your clothes back to your quarters. 

Where they’re supposed to belong. 

Instead, you feel that familiar swoosh of speeding cold air around you. Startled, you drop the kettle on the counter, and whip around with hurried steps to the hallway, only to stop in your tracks when you find him there. 

Johnny. 

Leaning against a round column. No coat this time, just a white blouse half open, of course, with its loose sleeves pushed to his elbows, and an infuriating smirk that tells you he just came across the most interesting artifact in the world. One of your delicate lace corsets dangles in his fingers, freshly snatched from the pile of soft silks of your basket. He gives it a playful little swing, the silk ribbon flutters, and your soul leaves your body.

“So,” his cheerful voice echoes against the stonewalls, “just out of curiosity…are you trying to seduce the ghosts?”

“Put that down.”

“I mean–I’m not judging,” he continues, unwavering, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Maybe there are some lonely spirits floating around here. Had I known this is what you wore under those robes I’d become one myself.”

“Put it down, Storm!” You snap, marching toward him. 

But he straightens on the spot, still holding your corset in one hand as he lifts the other to stop you mid step. 

“No–wait, hold on. Talking about lonely spirits, now I have to ask...” He lifts the corset higher when you try to take it, away from your reach. “Do you ever bring anyone over? You know…company. Men? Women?” He tilts his head, mischief tucked under those lashes. “…Werewolves?”

“That–” you hiss, stepping on your tiptoes to finally snatch the corset from his ice-cold hands, “is none of your business!”

You shouldn’t have done that, because now you’re stumbling over your own gown in your rush to grab it. He quickly wraps his arm around your waist to stabilize you, and your hand flies instinctively to his chest. Once you realize what happened, you glare at him. Hard. But unfortunately for your dignity, you're now tangled way too close, while he stares down at you with the smuggest look known to man. 

“Let go of me,” you speak firmly, in an attempt to mask the erratic beat of your heart he certainly can hear. He doesn’t falter. “You really want to be hexed today.”

He only grins wider, adjusting his grip on you. “You really want to hex me while I’m imagining what you’d look like wearing that?”

“It’s just a corset. You’ve seen plenty.” 

“I have,” he nods. “But this is your corset. How can I not think about it?”

The silence that follows is unbearable. The hallway feels smaller. Chests almost colliding together, only separated by a scandalous piece of lingerie you’re still clutching to your chest. 

“You’re tense,” he whispers.

You’re not.

But gods, maybe you are.

“I’m just saying, if you ever need to take some tension off…I’m around.” His eyes flick lower to your lips only for a second, then, he shrugs innocently when his gaze meets yours again. “We could drink some wine…have a little fun...” 

Your breath hitches. He leans closer.

“We don't even need a bed–I’m a very versatile companion. And that little piece of lace tells me you know how to get your freak on too...”

That’s when you shove him off. 

By a mere miracle you don’t scream in his face. You just turn around, cheeks heated, heart pounding as you cross the corridor in sharp steps to shove the corset back into the laundry basket and snatch it to the safety of your hold. 

“Don’t you have something to kill?” You snap.

“Still early, I’m off duty.” 

“Then go haunt the cellar.”

“I prefer haunting you instead,” he shrugs playfully. 

“You’re in serious need of boundaries.”

“Never heard of her.”

There he is. Again. Flashing that stupid, maddening grin when his rage baiting gets the desired effect on you. 

You give him one last glare before storming back into the kitchen, basket hung on your hip, slamming the heavy tall door behind you.  

Before you can even breathe, from the other side, you hear a muffled: “You didn’t say no to the werewolf thing!” 

You mutter a spell to soundproof the room. 

You’re going to need something stronger than tea now. 

You light three candles just to blow them out again with a wave of your hand, then pace another lap around your quarters. 

Seething. That’s what you are. 

Because you had to give up the peace you’ve found, and your lovely days of solitude have turned into babysitting a vampire with boundary issues.

At least you’re alone now. He’s gone–finally off to do whatever cryptic vampire duty Sue sent him here for. 

That’s good. That means you can breathe again.

Except you’re not breathing. You’re pacing like a mad woman. Robe sleeves rolled to your elbows, jaw clenched, the stupid laundry spread on your bed as a reminder of what just happened. 

“Do you bring anyone over?” you mock under your breath, stalking across the room. “Werewolves??”

I mean, not that you haven’t–but that’s not the point! 

“Wine and fun, my ass.”

Your hands are shaking, and you tell yourself it’s the rage. Not the heat. Not the flustering. Not the way his eyes had darkened right before you’d shoved him. Not the way your pulse had skyrocketed when he suggested company. When he leaned in. When–

Stop it. 

You haven’t felt like this in a while. As a half immortal it's not like your dating pool is too big anyway. Sorcerers aren't that easy to come by, werewolves are too temperamental, and vampires…yeah they want to ravish you. And not in a sexy way. So feeling this way is like throwing yourself down a cliff. 

Okay. Maybe you’re being too dramatic. But still. 

You halt in your steps, and lean on one of the bedposts. You take one deep breath, then exhale slowly, in an attempt to calm yourself down. 

“He’s a vampire, for God’s sake,” you say aloud. “He is undead. He is not–damn it–he’s not allowed to look like that and sound like that and make me feel like–”

You cut yourself off with a groan, burying your face in your hands, as if that would help you hide from the real reason why you feel so frustrated. 

You let out a sigh, grabbing the bedpost again to let your forehead fall against the dark wood. And there, in the quiet of the night, with the moon slipping through the high windows and the golden runes pulsing gently across your ceiling, you finally let the truth sink in.

You liked it.

The teasing. The impossible nearness. The way he looked at you like…temptation.

And you hate that you liked it. 

Because no matter what Sue says, no matter how charming he acts, he’s still dangerous for you. So you vow to hex yourself next time you react like this. 

You will not think about his cold hands again. You will not think about his wide blue eyes. You will not think about how his voice sounds against your skin. 

And you will most certainly not fall for him.

You kneel at the edge of your moonlit garden, where herbs curl out of the soil. Your fingers brush over the violet petals of the lavandula blooms, a woven basket still empty next to you, because you're not just here for harvesting. 

You need air, and the calming fresh scent of lavender. 

After last night’s fiasco, you’d slammed every door you could find and kept yourself from hexing his smug face into stone when you crossed paths this morning, which you deserved a medal for. The least you could do is escape for a moment and pretend he doesn’t exist.

So you close your eyes, breathing in, enjoying the quiet of the castle grounds, and the soft buzzing of nocturnal insects. The full moon is out, so of course you hear the occasional howl in the distance. 

You managed to find a moment of that peace you used to have. 

At least until you feel that god awful cold gush of air as a blur of burgundy brushes past, making your cloak and the herb wall flutter. 

Of course he had to ruin it. 

“Are you out of your mind??” He shouts, standing a few feet away from you with his hands on his hips, but you don’t even budge.

“Oh good,” you say, without looking up. “The bat is back.”

“What in Dracula’s name are you doing outside the damn castle??” 

You don’t turn yet, but your hand stills over the blooms, because something about his tone catches your attention. He’s slightly out of breath, like he ran like hell to get here.

And it’s…interesting.

You finally clip a lavender bloom and hum as you place it in your little basket. “I’m just gathering herbs,” you say sweetly. “Technically the garden is still inside the castle grounds, and as far I know you’re the only one invited in. You’d be wise to calm down.”

He blinks bewildered. Scandalized.  

“Calm down? Calm–?” He blurts in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how far your scent travels when you're out here–at night–like a walking feast?” He flails his hands in the air dramatically. “If I can smell you from the edge of the valley, so can they. Even if they can’t get inside, they’ll still know you live here. You are being reckless.”

You shrug amused, absentmindedly clipping another batch. “Hmm. Well, I thought that’s what you were here for. Watching the border. Protecting your little golden witch from the mean vampires...” You chuckle softly. 

“This isn’t a joke!” He snaps. 

“I’m sorry, I thought everything was to you." You finally turn your head and tilt it at him with feigned innocence. 

Well, well, well. Look how the tables have turned. Look who’s the one seething now. 

Any second now he’s gonna start stomping his Italian leather boots on the stone path like an infant. And the look on his face? Even better. His hair is a little messy, nostrils flared, arms crossed. His frustration almost makes your lips curve into a smile. Almost. 

“Why don’t you just get back out there and do your job? I need quiet to do mine,” you say, waving your hand in a dismissive way as you turn your gaze back to the herbs. 

He actually stomps his boot on the ground this time. “Make me.”

You sigh. “For the love of Merlin, are you a child?” You cut another stem with a little bit more force. “You shouldn’t even be here, by the way, this isn’t your side of the castle.”

“Oh, pardon me. Didn’t realize I needed a special permit to touch grass.”

Okay, he’s getting on your nerves again. Your hand lifts instinctively, golden energy curling around your fingers before you can even think about it. 

“Oh no. Not your scary little glow,” he says, stumbling back mocking fear. “You’re gonna zap me, love?”

And…that’s how quickly the tables turned again. 

A part of you says you should probably do that. “Zap him” to oblivion so he could shut up at least once. But the thing is…you don’t want to. Fighting with him never gets you anywhere, anyway. 

The golden magic between your fingertips flickers from your doubt, until it fades away. You exhale in defeat, lowering your hand to fiddle with the flowers you’d picked. 

“I just…needed some air. That’s it.” You explain softly, bringing a small piece to your nose, closing your eyes and smiling into it. 

He watches the tension of your shoulders ease by the calming herb. He doesn’t say anything at first, but the smirk softens, and for a moment he tries to enjoy it too. He really does, but even the strong scent of lavender gets tainted by your own.

He takes a deep breath before breaking the silence. “I know, it’s just…you don’t understand what your scent does out here, you don’t know how strong it is…and I can’t focus if I don’t know that you’re safe, inside the wards,” he confesses, quieter now. 

That gets your attention. 

He hesitates, only for a moment, before he finds himself pleading, “Please just…go back inside.”

Slowly, you finally straighten up from your crouching position, and turn toward him, the basket forgotten on the ground as your gaze focuses on him. He’s not smirking anymore. He’s not teasing. He’s just standing there, looking tense, haunted, chest still heaving because he hasn’t quite been able to catch his breath.

Your cloak sways with the wind as you step toward him, boots crunching softly against the moss growing on the stone path. The breeze shifts again, and your scent reaches him one more time.

And he almost folds.

His eyelids flutter closed, his lips part as his fangs threaten to come out, and he exhales like it hurts to breathe. To contain himself with you so close to his reach. 

“God,” he whispers. “That’s not fair.”

You stop in your tracks, keeping your distance, but still close enough. Enough to see the way his throat tightens, the way his fingers curl into fists like he’s bracing himself for the unbearable storm of restraint he battles everyday. 

You tilt your head, studying him curiously. 

You’ve always known what the magic in your blood does. You know how tempting it is for his kind. Been warned about it for as long as you can remember. You know that part very well, and you know what follows. The hiding, the protecting yourself, or you’d end up like less lucky sisters who’d fallen at the hands of vampires who never cared to restrain themselves. 

And Johnny?

You tell yourself you’re not thinking about it often. Not wondering when he’ll break. Not imagining his fangs behind the tight press of his jaw, or how often his eyes always linger, not just on your throat, but your wrists, your collarbones, your mouth.

He doesn’t feed from humans, he made that decision himself long ago, when he still had something left to prove. But animals don’t give him what he needs. Not really. Not the heat. Not the rush. Not the thing your blood promises with every step you take near him.

Yet here he is. Telling you to go inside. Living within the same walls of your sacred home. Letting you live every day. 

Seeing someone like him, an undead, someone who is supposed to just take unapologetically until there’s nothing left, holding himself back that way, makes you feel something more powerful than the magic running through your veins. 

And it intrigues you. 

“What does it feel like?” you ask quietly. 

His eyes snap open. 

You don’t see the crimson glow you were expecting, not the danger, just those impossible blue eyes searing into yours. 

“It’s…everything,” he says, helpless. “Human blood doesn’t tempt me. Hasn’t in a long time–but yours? God…yours is like a promise of life. Of everything I don’t have anymore. And the warmth? I didn’t even know I could feel warmth anymore. Not really. But ever since I stepped in…I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to sink my fangs into your pretty neck and taste what the sun feels like.”

He chuckles bitterly. Pacing in his spot because that keeps him distracted from lunching forward to your throat like a fucking animal. 

“And it’s not just your blood, it’s you. Your skin, your magic, your light. I don’t even have to bite you to feel it–but I want to. God I want to.”

You watch him in silence. You should probably step back. Walk away before he decides to forget the restraint and take that promise of life. But he’s standing there so open, talking like a fantasy romance book, looking so stupidly beautiful while telling you all about how he wants to end you. 

It should be offensive. 

But the full moon has you reckless tonight. 

So it’s thrilling. 

Against every advice from your bloodline, against every warning your ancestors are whispering in your ear, you step even closer to him, until you’re nothing but a breath away, until he’s close enough to kill…or kiss. 

His breath hitches as he looks down at you, but he doesn’t step back. He puts both hands behind his back, careful not to touch, not to listen to the demons in his head telling him to hold you down and take take take. 

“Then why haven’t you?” You whisper, firm, daring. “If you want it so badly. Why haven’t you done it yet?” 

You’re not afraid when you look at him. Not when red waves start leaking over the blue of his irises. Not when the veins under his eyes darken. Not even when his fangs peek through his parted lips. You don’t understand why, but you’re not afraid. 

Even if he could do it any moment now, take take take. He should. He's got you right there. 

“Because I don’t want to feel alive…at the cost of you,” he blurts, and maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than you, because his face begins to tilt downward. 

You close your eyes, granting him the choice. 

Kiss or kill. 

He stops right over your face, hovering for a few seconds, cold breath clashing against your heated skin, and whispers, “Please go back inside, love.” 

And just like the wind, he’s gone in an instant. 

You open your eyes, and there’s nothing more than the moonlight, the lavender, the distant howls, and your heart threatening to come out of your chest. 

He doesn’t remember running that fast. 

One second, he’s standing in front of you, so close to your neck. The next, he’s crouched next to a thick tree beyond the valley, where he can’t smell you anymore, shivering, remembering he’s a monster who wants to steal the light from the sun.

Your light. 

He leans forward, holding himself on the trunk, he’s out of breath and his pulse–wait…what pulse? 

You twisted demon. Of course there’s no heartbeat. There never is. 

He presses one fist to his cold chest, right over his cravat, just to remind himself there’s nothing there but death. No thump. No warmth. No reason for the way he aches anyway.

He’d been so close. 

So close to doing what he was supposed to protect you from. He could blame it all on you. On the way you snapped back with your sharp tongue and carelessness, but he was just as reckless as you tonight. 

And he saw it, the flicker in your eyes, the curiosity that led you to stand just a breath away from him, unflinching. 

He shouldn’t have gone to you. Should’ve turned back the second he saw your silhouette in the garden. Should’ve stayed on patrol. Stayed away from the scent. From the heat. From you. 

He always knew this was a mistake. 

Sue warned him many times. Told him not to get close, not to touch, not to taste. Not to even think about it. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to sleep so close to you. Even through thick stone walls he can hear your calm heartbeat, sleeping soundly in the night even when you share a home with a monster. The same one you’d trusted enough to close your eyes and let him choose. 

Kiss or kill. 

But he was wise, and chose none, because both would result in the end of him. 

Never in his two millennia of life has he wished to not be what he is. He loves immortality. The things it allows him to do. The rush of never having to answer to anyone but himself. 

But tonight? When his dead heart is yearning to be close to yours, like a fool begging the fire to burn his sins clean, he stares up to the stars, and whispers a helpless plea. 

“Just one heartbeat,” he whispers. “That’s all I want. One heartbeat to match hers.”

You wrap around me like a chain, a crown, a vine Pulling me into the fire

You don’t dream often.

Witches are taught how to protect the mind, how to shield it with salt and sigils and spells. But some nights...some nights, the past breaks through anyway.

You're deep in sleep when it begins, the curse of remembering the worst night of your life. 

The vampire pressing you into stone, fangs deep in your throat. Your precious golden blood leaving you, your power draining, thread by thread, until the world goes dark with the weight of death sinking in, and the terror that no one’s coming to save you.

You relive it all with excruciating detail, so vividly it might as well be happening to you in real life. Your scream is so loud, so painful, that the walls of your room can’t hold it, ripping through the quiet of the castle into the dead of the night. 

Johnny hadn’t even made it back yet, when he heard it. Piercing across the trees, a scream of pure agony. 

Your agony. 

He’s moving before his brain catches up, across the woods, through the west corridors, every vampire sense screaming danger danger danger as he approaches your room. He can only think about the worst. 

Someone found her. Someone got to her. Please, no no–

He gets there in seconds that felt like an eternity. Your door slams open with a crack of wind and panic, and his eyes land on your bed. 

But it’s just you. Alone. No one’s hurting you. 

At least not in this realm. 

You’re still writhing in your bed, chest heaving, breath coming in broken sobs. The sheets are tangled around your legs like restraints and your hands claw at your neck, at your skin, trying to push something off, still trapped in the unforgiving claws of your nightmare. 

He crosses the room in a blink, reaching for your body in an attempt to calm you down. 

“Hey–hey, it’s okay, you’re okay–” His hands are cold on your wrists, trying to stop them from clawing at your neck, trying to ground you.

But that only makes it worse.

Because in the dream, in that cruel memory, it was cold hands that held you down. Cold fangs. Cold breath. Cold death closing in as your light drained drop by drop–

Your eyes fly open. 

Your gaze lands on his face, the sharp cheekbones, pale skin, inhuman eyes, and your breath stops because your body doesn’t know where the nightmare ends. 

And you don’t see Johnny. 

You see the other one. The vampire who almost left you limp and bloodless on a forest floor decades ago. The one Sue had barely saved you from.

You scream again. 

And before Johnny can say a word, a golden glow bursts from your palm, slamming into his chest and launching him across the room into the wall hard enough to crack the stone.

He groans on the floor, stunned, the hit knocking the air out of his chest. He pushes past the sting, and he’s up again in seconds, but he freezes when he sees the terror in your eyes. 

Because that fear is not just from the ghosts of your past, but for him. 

He lifts his hands in the air as a peace offering. “It’s just me,” he blurts in the silence, softer now. “It’s Johnny.”

You’re shaking, pressed against the headboard, eyes blurring with tears. Your hand still glows faintly, ready to strike again.

“You’re dreaming. Or…you were–but it's over now. I’m here,” he coaxes. 

He just stands there, letting you see him, and not once does he flinch at your magic still crackling like fireflies on your skin.

“You’re safe, love. It’s not real. Not anymore.”

His silhouette blurs in your vision; you recognize that nickname somewhere in the haze of your mind, but your body hasn’t caught up yet. You’ve been prey before and your blood remembers. It races and pulses and tries to get you to run, even when his voice is telling you that you're safe.

He notices, so he doesn’t take another step, and his hands stay raised, palms open to show you he won’t touch you–unless you ask. 

“I’d never hurt you,” he says again. “Not even in your nightmares.”

You blink the tears away, and the shadows finally start to soften. This time, the outline of his dark coat registers. The shimmer of his hair in the moonlight. The fact that he’s not baring fangs or red eyes. That he’s not even trying to get closer. 

You want to say something, but your voice gets stuck in your sore throat, a feeling of shame invades your chest. Because now you remember. 

This vampire has never hurt you. This vampire held himself back the other night. He left you hanging rather than risk taking what wasn’t his. 

You glance down at your hands. Still shaking. Still shimmering. But you’re safe now, so your magic fades away as you look up to meet his worried blue eyes. 

“Johnny…?” You ask, hesitant, his name is foreign in your lips, but you’re too far gone to care about formalities now. 

He exhales in relief. “Yeah,” he nods, stepping closer to your bed. “Yeah, it’s me. Johnny. You’re safe.”

You let out a shaky breath that sounds like a sob. “I thought– I thought you were–”

“I know,” he says quickly, cutting you off before you spiral again. “I know. I shouldn’t’ve touched you like that, I just–I panicked. I heard you screaming and I thought someone was…”

He can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence without his voice wavering too. So he lowers his gaze instead, and clears his throat, before doing what he does best to lighten the mood. 

“It nearly stopped my heart, you know? Which, considering…” 

He jokes, as the ghost of a nervous chuckle leaves his lips. This time he’s not doing it to get on your nerves. It’s the opposite, and it almost makes you smile. Almost. 

“You’re not there anymore. No one’s hurting you now. You’re in your room, in your warded castle. You got a mean swing, sent me flying back like it was nothing, left me like a kicked puppy on the floor while you held a lightning bolt in your hand,” he tries again, and this time he does get a sniffly laugh. 

It’s not loud, or exaggerated, but it’s the first time he’s able to get that heavenly sound from you, and he’s going to cling to it like oxygen. 

But it dies as soon as it appears, a furrowed brow taking place instead. 

“I–I’m sorry,” you rasp, barely louder than your laugh. 

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize, love.”

“I screamed like a maniac,” you say, gaze lowering to your lap. 

“You screamed like someone who’s been hunted,” he mumbles. “That’s not mania.”

You look up. His eyes are soft and…sad. He wishes he could erase the memory from your mind entirely.

“Still,” you whisper, “I looked at you like–like–“

“Like I was going to hurt you,” he finishes for you.

You nod. “I barely made it that day, if it wasn’t for your sister…” you pause, drying the new tears falling down. “I don’t actually remember when Sue got there. I woke up days later in your tower, wrapped in blankets, with her looking after me.”

You hiccup a little sob, and Johnny looks like he might shatter.

“That’s why I trust her. Not just because she took me in. But because when my light was leaking out into the dirt, she chose not to take it for herself. Not even when her husband arrived almost dead. She never looked at me like a source, she looked at me like a soul,” you smile sadly. “Which is why we have a deal. And why when she asked me to take you in, I said yes…even if it terrified me.”

“Even after what they did to you,” he whispers, and you nod. “Thank you,” he says.

He doesn’t remember the last time he said that unironically. Genuinely. But with you suddenly everything seems easier. And he means it. 

You fall into a comfortable silence after that. He can still hear your heart pounding in your chest, but at least you are not crying anymore, which means he can breathe right again. 

After a while he thinks you’re okay. He’s done what he came to do, coaxed you back and heard your story, and now it’s time to give you space. He turns to leave, and you watch him with wide eyes, still pressed against your headboard. 

When he steps back, something in your chest aches. You’ll be left alone again. And you don’t want to be alone. You don’t want the cold return of silence or past shadows creeping onto your bed. You don’t want to close your eyes and see fangs again.

Your voice slips out before you can stop it. “Wait.”

He pauses mid step. Turns back, brows raised.

You shift in your bed. The fear is fading, but your skin still crawls with old memories. You’re not even thinking clearly, you know that. But you are thinking there’s only one vampire who can cross the threshold of your room without hurting you, and he’s standing right there, half out the door.

“Stay,” you plead in a whisper, swallowing your pride. “Please, Johnny.”

He doesn’t make remarks, he doesn’t smirk or make you feel bad about it. He just nods.

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walks back to your bed. But he doesn’t climb in, doesn’t crowd, doesn’t assume what you haven’t offered. He rounds it instead, and lowers himself to the floor right beside you, his back against the stone wall, knees drawn up, velvet coat pooling around him in a circle. 

He reaches up, lifts one hand almost to the edge of the mattress, and looks up at you with a soft grin.

“You can hold it,” he says. “I mean, it’s a little cold–okay, very cold. Dead cold. But it’s all yours if you want it.”

Your gaze flickers to his palm, and you bite back a smile, but you still hesitate. You’ve always hesitated around cold hands. Cold hands almost took everything from you once.

But cold hands also pulled you out of the dark tonight.

You look at his eyes, so wide and so blue and so heartbreakingly earnest. And you choose to trust them. So you reach down, and lace your fingers through his.

He’s freezing, his hand is stiff, but you don’t let go. Instead, you tug his hand higher, just enough to pull it onto the mattress, to keep it close to you as your eyes start to close again. 

“It is cold,” you mumble. “Let me warm it up,” you add, barely audible.

Your eyelids get heavier, your heartbeat softer, and you don’t remember drifting off. But you do remember the weight of his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. 

And for the rest of the night, Johnny stays right there. Stiff on the floor beside your bed, his fingers curled into yours, your golden warmth pulsing through his skin where your hands meet.

A vampire guarding the only light he’s ever wanted.

And he’s never felt more comfortable. 

And if you'd never come for me

I might've drowned in the melancholy

Something shifted in Johnny after that night. 

It wasn’t the hyperfixation on you, because that had already been brewing for a long time before that. If anything, it just got worse. 

Maybe it was the hours spent next to you, with the pulse of your skin right under his. Maybe it was the high he got from your scent lingering so close to him, so close to his unforgiving sharp teeth. 

Maybe it was the fact that you trusted him despite all that. 

He kept you safe that night, yes, and as long as the dark of the morning allowed him to. But his mind kept wandering places it shouldn’t. And it’s only worse now. 

He doesn’t sleep, hasn’t since he turned, but lately? He doesn’t rest either.

The town is no longer a distraction. The night sky offers no peace. The wind carries nothing but the memory of your touch. He goes through the borders quicker. Further than necessary. As if sheer distance might scrape you from his mind. As if he could outrun the feelings. But it never works. Because the moment he stops moving, you’re still there.

In his lungs. In his teeth. In that aching hollow spot behind his ribs where a heartbeat used to be.

He tells himself it’s normal. That vampires get tempted. That you’re powerful and soft and intoxicating in every way. That anyone would crave you. That it goes beyond reasoning, and it’s simply his animal instinct kicking in that always tells him to take take take, until there's nothing left. 

But how could he do that after hearing you scream so loud? So scared in the middle of the night? How could he even think about you that way after everything you said to him? 

After you opened up about the night you almost…God, he can’t even think about it, yet here he is, battling the demons in his head that tell him to finish what the other vampire couldn’t. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? Why does Sue trust him? Why do you? 

He doesn't even trust himself, because his dilemma goes deeper than just thirst. Because your blood is not the only thing he craves.

He craves your laugh. That soft, heavenly sound you gave him that night even when you were terrified. 

He craves the way you said his name at sunrise. That terrifying, exquisite part of you that drew your curtains closed to shelter him from the light like he is something worth saving.

He craves your mouth. The way your lips move when you talk, even when you are telling him off–especially when you’re telling him off. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss them. To know if they’re as soft as they look. If they’d press against his like a saving grace or burn him alive. 

But what if that is not enough to calm his hunger? What if all he need is–

“Just one drop,” he whispers into the quiet of the night.

Kiss or kill, all over again.

What would it feel like?

To press his lips to your skin–not your mouth, not yet, but the delicate thrum of the pulse beneath your collarbone. Just once. Just enough to taste what’s been driving him mad.

Would it quiet the noise? Would it stop the ache? Would it finally let him breathe? Would he even be able to stop?

He doesn’t know. But the thought won’t leave.

You thought sharing your vulnerability with him that night would draw you closer somehow. Maybe you could finally put your differences aside and start living like two mature magical creatures sharing a castle for the greater good. 

But he is acting…different. 

You can feel it in the castle walls. It’s subtle, but magic is tuned to things like hunger. Like desperation. You feel it in the way the air shifts when he walks through a corridor. The way the candlelight stutters when he passes. The way your wards, the ones warning you from danger, start to shiver when he lingers too long in one place.

You probably would’ve preferred him to go back to his snarky remarks and inappropriate comments; those you could ignore, but not this. He’s moody, restless, quieter than usual. Like a storm gathering. 

And even if you try to deny it, it stings. 

Because that night your pain fit in the palm of his freezing hand, and the time spent apart only makes you crave what it’s like to be held like that even more. 

But he doesn’t speak to you. Just lingers in the corridor outside your spellroom like he’s pretending to stretch or study the stonework. You caught him once, eyes flicking away when you glanced in his direction. He does that more often lately.

Like he’s ashamed of something. Or trying not to look at you for too long. 

Tonight is no different. You don’t even look up when the pacing starts.

Again.

It’s past midnight. He's supposed to be patrolling already, but he's outside your spellroom instead, footsteps dragging across the old stone corridor wearing the floor down to dust. You’d ignored it for the first half hour, thinking maybe he’d give up and leave. But he doesn’t. Because he’s Johnny.

Restless. Annoying. Unbearably loud, even when he isn’t saying a word.

“Get in here already,” you snap toward the hallway. You stay with your back to the door, organizing vials on your desk that don’t actually need organizing. “You’re driving me insane.”

You hear him stop just over the threshold, lingering. You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning lazily against the frame, half in shadow, half in the golden glow of your runes suspended in the air like constellations. He’s dressed in all black. Not wearing a coat this time, just a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of pants threatening to rip at the seams right in the center of his–

Not that you would know. 

You turn back to the desk. “Is there a reason you're pacing like a lunatic?” You ask, fiddling with the glass containers. 

“I got lonely.” Is all he says. 

You scoff under your breath. “And suddenly I’m the cure for that?”

“No,” he chuckles. Lie. “But you’re good company.”

You finally turn to face him when the runes on your ceiling flicker, alerting you, and he’s closer than you thought. Just at the edge of the rug under your desk, standing with his hands in his pockets trying to look casual. But his eyes are fixed on you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask firmly, trying your best not to sound panicked. 

Yes, you’d trusted him enough to spend the night next to you. But this is different. He feels different. He steps closer, slowly, like a hunter to its prey. Golden light paints soft edges across his chest, his hands, the line of his jaw. 

“You’re getting too close,” you say, but he doesn’t stop, just keeps taking deliberate steps toward you. “Johnny–” 

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, bringing one finger to his lips, just as he stops a breath short in front of you. 

Your breath hitches, and you wait for the terror to invade your body, but just as his gaze sets on yours, something flickers under your skin. Instead of reacting, your magic eases without your permission. 

Your fear eases. 

You blink a few times, getting a similar feeling like that night in the garden. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid of him. 

And you listen to it. 

It takes you a moment to realize it’s his eyes that are doing it. They go soft first, heavy lashes adorning half lowered lids, as black pupils swallow color. 

Suddenly it clicks. Of course. You’ve read about this before. 

How vampires seduce, how their gaze, how their looks lure you in, and make you forget you were ever meant to run. You think he was already handsome before he turned, but now? Now that beauty is inhuman. Unfair. Made to make you trust. 

And gods, it feels so real. You can’t think straight when he’s looking at you like that. You forget about the warnings, the spells, you forget it all.

Still, you accuse, “It’s your allure…you’re using it on me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Not when the blue of his eyes is nearly swallowed whole.  

“You know you can fight it,” he tilts his head, the hint of a smile appearing on his face. “But it’s easier if you don’t.”

Your body tries. Your magic tries. But he’s pushing…and for one breathless second, you let it in. You let him in.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, barely in a whisper because you don’t trust your voice right now. 

His grin widens, he closes his eyes as he breathes in slowly. Breathes you in. “Just a little bit.”

“A little bit of what?”

“The warmth,” he mumbles. “The way it feels to be near you. I don’t even need to taste you, I just–I need to remember what it was like to feel alive.”

He reaches out, his hand hovering inches from your wrist. He doesn’t touch it, doesn’t grab it like that night. But it’s close enough that you feel the heat shift between your skin and his.

“One second, please,” he whispers. “Just let me be close.”

He looks at you, because he knows you can’t say no when he does. But the truth is deep inside, past the allure, past the logic, there’s a part of you that trusts him enough, so you don’t move. His hand is closer now. Close enough that your pulse skips, once, twice, and he hears it. You see the way his eyelids flutter at the sound.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“I’m not…”

You are.

His fingers finally graze your wrist. Just a faint brush of his knuckles makes your skin shiver. You flinch slightly, not from fear but from the temperature. He’s freezing like always.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to” he breathes. “God–you don’t know the way you feel this close.”

His fingers slide gently along the inside of your wrist. Just enough pressure to feel your pulse thudding against his touch. His eyes fell closed again, focused there. Focused on the blood beneath your skin.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Just silence and the sound of both your hearts. Yours pounding, his absent. 

“You can trust me,” he says, as if convincing himself more than you. “I won’t hurt you.”

“But you’re trying something…”

He grins. “I’m trying everything.”

Johnny’s hand is still at your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse, hypnotized by the rhythm of it. But then his other hand moves, lower, and lower, ghosting along the curve of your thigh until his fingers curl around the back of it, and then he lifts. He pulls your leg up, settles it against his hip, and in one fluid motion, he sits you on the desk. Your hips push the vials away as your dress pools on the table.

“Johnny–” Your voice is breathless on his name, letting out the faintest sound. A gasp, a moan almost. 

And it ruins him.

“Fuck,” he rasps. His hands tighten, one on your thigh, the other bracing your waist, steadying you as he settles between your legs. “Don’t make that sound again.”

“What sound?” you breathe, blinking up at him, dazed.

“That one,” he growls. “Like you want me.”

You don’t answer. Because maybe you do.

Because maybe his hand on your thigh is searing into you in the most perfect way. Maybe the pressure of his cold palm at your waist has you tilting forward without realizing. Maybe you’re too caught up in his voice, in the ruin etched into every inch of his beautiful face, to remember you should be afraid.

“I’m not even thinking clearly,” you admit.

“I am,” he says, almost ashamed. “And that’s the worst part.”

“Why? What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how soft your lips look...”

His cold fingers dig into your thigh, just slightly. Enough to make your heart skip again. Enough to draw another sound from you that he feels everywhere. His lips hover a whisper from yours. Close enough to steal your next inhale.

“You asked me earlier…” he whispers against your skin, “...if I was pacing for a reason.”

You nod.

“This is the reason,” he says.

He leans in, hands going from your waist to cradle your face, and his mouth barely brushes yours. Just a tease. Just enough to make your entire body light up like a flare. Just enough to make you chase a kiss that hasn’t happened yet. You grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. He chuckles under his breath, his thumb brushes your cheek, and you close your eyes. 

Your heart flutters when he shifts, but it's not forward, it’s sideways. And before your brain can register what’s happening, before your magic can react–

His fangs sink into your neck.

The searing pain is instant. A burst of fire runs under your skin as he drinks from you, his fangs feel sharp and deep and wrong. You let out a choked scream, your hands fly to his shoulders to push him back, but he’s too strong, gripping your waist tighter. Your instincts kick in, magic bursting in a golden wave right into his chest to throw him off you.

Johnny collapses to the floor as the blast hits him, his body slams hard against the cold stone, and it’s a sharp contrast against the warmth invading his veins from the effects of your blood. He holds himself up with his palms, his chest rises and falls in desperate heaves as he feels his body become alive again. 

There’s a smear of blood on his lips, barely a drop of crimson red, but enough proof of his sin. He presses a trembling finger to his mouth, wiping it off carefully, and holds it up to watch it shine under the candlelight.

You’re still catching your breath, pressing a hand to your neck, sparkling blood trickling hot between your fingers. Every nerve in your body is screaming, not from the pain but from the betrayal. 

Johnny can’t even look at you, so for a moment there’s just silence. Except for your heartbeat, it’s loud in his ears, but there’s something louder in his chest. 

His own.

He brings a hand up to cradle it, because the thump is so foreign that it hurts, and he gasps when he feels the unmistakable beat under his palm. 

It’s there. It’s real. All it took were just a few stolen drops.

You look at him, and it hits you, he feels warm again…and you feel cold. A muffled cry escapes your lips before you can stop it, and his head snaps up, red eyes going wide in horror when he realizes what he’d done.

“No,” he blurts, already scrambling upright. He stays on his knees, and lifts his hands in surrender, “No please, don’t–don’t cry. I’m sorry–”

“You bit me,” you snap, and he winces at your sharp tone. “You fucking bit me.”

“I know, I know–fuck. I didn’t mean to–” He tries to reach you from his position, but you stumble back to the desk behind you. Your bloody hand slaps against it for balance, and his eyes go straight to the stains. 

“You didn’t mean to?” You laugh bitterly in disbelief. “You waited until I closed my eyes. You–you made me think…you made me think you were going to kiss me.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” he says quickly. “God, I really wanted to–I was going to. But then I was just too close…and I could smell it, I could almost taste it, and…I–I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

You shake your head. “Yes, you were. You knew exactly what you were doing. You chose it.”

He lowers his gaze, but doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Because the worst part is you’re right. 

Between kissing or killing, he made the wrong choice. 

He can still feel your blood. That impossible golden clinging to the corner of his mouth, the leftovers still burning in his throat. And he aches for more. For the dried smears on your neck next to his marks. For the stains on the desk. For every single last drop.

Even now, even after seeing you broken, his body is screaming to finish what he started. And you know it, because his eyes hadn't gone back to blue, because he hadn't drawn his fangs back yet.

“You said I could trust you,” you whisper. 

“I know.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I KNOW.” His shout echoes in the walls of your spellroom. He lowers his voice to curse under his breath, then slams a fist into the stone floor.

He looks like he’s shattered. Like the fresh bruise on your neck hurts him more than it hurts you. For a second you want to believe it, but how can you? His allure is not working anymore. You don’t see the Johnny that offered you his cold hand like a saving grace that night. All you see is the monster. 

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. “I just needed to feel something–just a second, just a taste. I wasn’t going to take it all–”

“Why do you keep lying to me?” You cut him off, groaning. “You just wanted to drain me like the rest of them.”

He shakes his head, rising to his feet. “Don’t put words in my mouth."

“Then stop being a coward and say it yourself,” you say coldly, not flinching away this time.

He shuts his mouth. He’d rather be a coward than admit what the monster in him is telling him to do. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything else, the look in your eyes is enough to let him know this will stay with him for the rest of his immortal life.

His heartbeat–the one you gave him–hurts inside his chest. He is warm again, yes, but the real warmth slips out of his fingers every step he takes away from you. He stops right by the door, and gathers the courage to look at you one more time. 

He doesn't ask for forgiveness this time, just whispers, “I should’ve never come here.” Then turns away, and walks out the threshold. 

You’re alone again.

Johnny Storm is gone. 

And it’s worse than you thought it would be.

You miss him. God, you hate that you miss him, but you can't lie to yourself, you just…do. 

You miss the sound of his boots pacing at night when he thought you couldn’t hear. You miss the lazy, infuriating way he leaned in doorframes like the castle was his. You miss the terrible jokes, the compliments, the glances that lingered too long, the way he always said something just wrong enough to make your face heat before walking away like it didn’t matter.

You miss the things that used to drive you crazy before. 

His voice. His presence. Him. 

And it’s hard to wrap your head around it. Because if you’d lived alone in your castle for so long, completely fine with your own company, why does his absence feel like drowning? 

He was never light, but somehow it feels like it’s been taken away from you. The castle feels colder now. The golden candlelight doesn’t seem to stretch as far. The warmth you once swore to protect feels like it’s retreating from your own skin.

That night he’d taken his stupid trunk with his stupid tight clothes and disappeared from your life like it was nothing. 

Which, fair, you were hurt. He hurt you. 

So why the hell does it bother you that he left? 

Even his bruise was gone by now. Your fingers graze your neck one morning, half awake, half dreaming, only to feel your skin had finished healing. 

His twin puncture marks, the evidence of betrayal on your neck, faded to nothing as time went by. Like he never touched you. You sit up in bed, pressing your fingertips there again, harder this time. As if pushing hard enough will make the ghost of his pain come back.

Because somehow, focusing on the pain is easier than the emptiness. Because somehow, healing feels like forgetting.

And you can’t will yourself to forget. 

Because even though he’s been gone for weeks, even though there’s been no sign of him…you know he could come back.

Anytime. Any night.

He’s been invited in. The castle doesn’t forget that.

So now every time the wind gushes cold around you, your breath hitches. Every time the candles flicker too fast, your heart skips. Every creak, every shadow, every whisper of footsteps you might have imagined…it all feels like it could be him.

But love was a cold bed full of scorpions, the venom stole her sanity

A crashing sound wakes you up in the middle of the night.

A deafening noise of glass shattering and wood splitting, followed by the deep, harsh thud of something heavy hitting the floor in your spellroom.

Your heart rushes inside your chest as you throw the silk covers back, bare feet hitting the cold stone before you’ve even fully opened your eyes. A second hit follows, what you can only guess is your ancient bookshelf tumbling down, heavy tomes falling echoing on the floor, and more glass shattering.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t even cover your nightgown. You just run barefoot toward the noise.

The cold hits you first when you reach the door. The tall window’s half gone, there’s glass everywhere, the shards glinting under the flickering candles. But that’s not the only thing on the floor. 

You stop breathing when you make out the figure laying there. 

Johnny.

He’s slumped on his side, groaning, hands clutching his chest. There, a jagged piece of wood sticks out, threatening to stop his heart, and there’s blood everywhere. A deep red, almost black liquid pools under his body, soaking into the old rug, reaching across the fallen tomes scattered around him. His eyes squint in agony, and he’s paler than you’ve ever seen him. 

You don’t remember running to him. Only dropping to your knees beside him. The exposed skin of your legs scrapes across the floor, nightgown getting soaked with his blood, but you don’t care. Your hands reach out for him but they hover uselessly over his chest, wanting to help, but you don’t know where it’s safe to touch. He’s got wounds everywhere, his clothes are torn, his skin bruised and leaking.

“Johnny–oh gods, Johnny–”

His eyes flutter open at your desperate voice, and he forces a smile. “Hi, love…” he chokes through the blood in his mouth. “Miss me?”

You look at him with frantic eyes. “What the fuck happened??”

“It’s alright,” he chuckles. “Wouldn’t recommend the tavern, though–” He tries to prop himself up, but his body doesn’t obey. A groan comes out instead, one he tries to mask with another attempt of a grin. “Are those tears for me?” 

You don’t even realize you’re crying until his face blurs with your tears. “Johnny, this isn’t funny. You’re–” You look down at the shard, at how close it is above his heart. “You’re going to die if I don’t get this out.”

You try to reach for the stake.

“No–” His weak hand catches yours, firm enough to hold it in place. “Don’t touch that. It’s poisoned or cursed or...something.” 

“Cursed? Let me see it then.” You fight his grasp to reach it again, but he tightens it.

“No–stop it. It’s not safe. Even for you,” he insists.

And it’s his eyes that do it. Again. It’s always his eyes that won’t let you fight back. 

“Johnny,” you sigh, finally lowering your hand. He still doesn't let go. “Who did this to you?”

He hesitates, but your glare doesn’t falter. “It was an ambush. This vampire had a witch on his side. They were too close to the border…I–I couldn't let them find you, so I tried to get rid of them both, but she granted me this little gift before I could stop her,” he points at the stake, “I probably shouldn’t have come but–I needed to hear your voice one more time…”

He winces again, a sound escaping his throat that you’ve never heard from him. Pure agony. 

“It burns,” he breathes. “Feels like fire in my lungs. And not the good kind–not like yours.” He tries to laugh again, but it turns into a cough that makes more blood seep from the corner of his mouth. 

You blink through the tears, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak without breaking. Your nightgown is soaked at the hem, stained deep red and clinging to your knees. You have to do something.

“I won’t touch it. Just–Just let me try with my magic, okay? Let me.” You plead, and he nods. 

So you try.

Gods, you try. You mutter every counter curse, every healing incantation you know, Latin words wobbling on your lips as your hands shake over him. They spark. They glow. But nothing works. The spells bounce back. 

It’s dark magic you can’t fight with your light. 

“Why isn’t it working?” You sob between chants. “Why isn’t it–”

“Told you,” he rasps, barely audible now. “It’s cursed...like me.”

He shifts slightly and groans again, and that sound–that sound, it guts you. His whole body shivers from the effort, but he’s still trying to laugh it off. Still trying to keep it light while you feel like you’re losing yours. 

“Maybe this is it,” he whispers. “I’ll finally get to rest. You’ll miss me, right?”

“Shut up,” you choke out. “Don’t say that. Just–shut up and let me think!”

You decide to press your hands over the wounds, trying to slow the bleeding while you come up with something. You try again with the spells, you try it all, but he’s simply not healing. You have to get it out.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and before he can stop you, you reach for it and pull.

He screams when it rips out. The piece burns your skin instantly, you shove it aside quickly, hoping your blood protects you from it. 

“Okay, okay–there. It’s out. You’re supposed to heal now, Johnny.”

You look down and realize the wound it’s not closing. Not even a little. His chest is still wide open, the wound still deep and fatal. You cast again, harder, spells sparking from your fingertips but it does nothing.

“No. No, no,no.” You panic, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to heal.”

“Wish I could,” he slurs, blinking slowly. “You look beautiful like this, you know. All worried. In that cute little bloody nightgown...”

“Stop talking!” You’re sobbing now. You don’t even care. “What am I supposed to do, Johnny? Watch you die in my spellroom while I look cute?”

“I’m already dead, love.” He closes his eyes with a stupid little smile. “You are the last piece of heaven I’ll see before I get sent to hell.”

“Shut up! You’re such an idiot,” you snap. “Such a fucking idiot.”

You can’t stop thinking about how angry you were at him. How much you wanted him gone. How this is what it feels like to lose him for real. 

And how you’re still fucking angry at him for dying.

Your body feels cold from all the blood pooling around you, and your knees hurt from where the shards of glass poke at your skin, your blood mixing with his. 

That’s it. Your blood mixing with his.

You stare at your wrist, at the little pulse jumping beneath your skin. You don’t know if it fights curses, but it’s the only thing you have left.

You bite your wrist before you can think twice about it. The sharp pain stings fast, your skin splits and glistening blood pours out. The gold in it catches the candlelight. Johnny’s eyes snap open, looking straight at it.

His body reacts immediately. You see his body twitch, eyes getting darker, fangs dropping before he can stop them.

“No–” He turns his face away, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body screaming restraint.

“Johnny–”

“No!” He pushes himself farther from you, wincing from the pain.

“You need it–”

“I can’t–“

“You’ll die if you don’t take it!” You insist.

“I can’t stop!” He snaps. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what that drop did to me last time. I can still feel it in my bones. If I taste you again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. And I won’t hurt you–not again.”

You reach forward and grab his face to turn him toward you.

“You won’t hurt me. I trust you,” you whisper, “Please–just take it.”

He shakes his head violently. “Don’t say that. You can’t trust me. I’ll lose myself–” 

“You won’t. I’m not letting you die here.”

You hold your bleeding wrist to him. Hovering right over his lips. “Please, Johnny,” you plead. “Take it.”

Your eyes meet, and now it’s yours he can’t say no to. He leans in slowly to take your wrist in both hands, fingers shaking as they close around your skin, and pulls it gently to his mouth.

He presses a kiss to your pulse first. A feather light touch with his eyes closed. Cold lips to warm skin. 

“Forgive me, love,” he whispers.

Then he bites, not sudden, gently, right over the mark of your teeth. 

You feel the brush of his lips first, and the faint ache where his fangs sink in. Your mouth parts in a soundless gasp as warmth floods his mouth, as your magic pours gold inside him.

Johnny groans against your skin. He tries to keep it soft, tries to drink slowly, but it’s not long before his body is telling him to take more.

So he latches. His fangs sink deeper. 

It’s not delicate anymore, his hands locking around your wrist, holding you in place even if you weren’t planning on pulling back this time. 

Tears cloud your vision again.

Because it hurts. Because it doesn’t. Because something about this feels too intimate. Too much like being chosen. Like being needed by him.

You whisper his name once, “Johnny…”

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he pulls you closer. His fangs sink even deeper. He lets out another desperate groan, low, wrecked, addicted, as he drinks again and again.

You place your hands on his chest for support as you feel yourself getting weaker, and you can see his whole body coming back to life. His skin warming, color rushing back to his skin, chest’s wounds closing. His heart starts to beat again. You feel it right under your palm, wildly thumping against his ribcage with every drop he takes.

But your vision starts to blur. The light feels deemer, colder. Your limbs get heavy. Your breath slows.

“Johnny,” you whisper again, weaker now. 

He doesn’t hear you. Or maybe he does, but he’s too far gone. Too high on the warmth, on the taste of life, on the taste of you. 

Your body sways, but before you can call his name one more time, he rips himself away with a gasp, panting. His head jerks back, fangs dragging away from your wrist, lips stained deep red, adorned with flickers of gold. He’s groaning, red eyes blinking quickly, chest rising in stronger, steadier breaths.

“Oh my god,” he pants. “You taste like–”

He doesn’t even finish before your body gives out and you fall on his chest. He catches you just in time, cradling your head as he rises to sit against the stonewall, scooping your limp body into his arms.

“Hey–no, no, no. Open your eyes, love,” he gently nudges your cheek with his hand, but your head lolls against his shoulder and your breathing becomes faint. “Fuck. Fuck. Did I take too much? I told you I didn’t want to–dammit.”

His new heart is pounding. Yours is barely there.

He presses you close to his chest, sheltering you with the newfound warmth you gave to him. His wounds have already closed. The blood has stopped. But the guilt just started.

Because you let him take take take. Because you trusted him. Again. And now you’re unconscious in his arms, body cold, color gone from your cheeks.

“What did I do…” he whispers, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “What the fuck did I do...”

But you can’t answer. So he just holds you tighter, and prays the warmth comes back.

He carries you carefully through the castle, and lays you down softly on your bed and tucks the silk covers around your cold body. 

He rakes both hands through his hair, but it does nothing to calm him. The room feels suffocating, he can’t stay still, so he starts pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Wearing the floor down because that’s what he does best. Ruin things. He glances at you every few seconds, still expecting you to stir, terrified that you won’t.

He regrets coming back. 

He wishes he could undo what happened last night. Force his body to spit your blood back out, rip open his wounds again, die cursed if he had to…all in exchange for your safety. 

But he can’t. 

You gave it willingly. You trusted him. And he sank his fangs into that trust like a monster. Now he feels alive, while you lie there, looking like the one who’s dead. 

He drops to his knees beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress to keep himself from touching you. The room is dark except for the faint light spilling in through the cracks in the curtains. Morning is coming. And so is the sun.

Your breathing is uneven, but it’s there. He fixates on it, counting each rise and fall until time starts to blur. 

“I should’ve stayed away. I should’ve stayed dead,” he whispers. 

And for all the warmth running through his veins, Johnny Storm has never felt so cold.

The warmth on your face is what pulls you back.

Just a faint, soft brush of sunlight coming through the high arched windows of your bedroom. You feel it spreading across your skin, and it wakes you from the darkness of your sleep. 

Your eyes flutter open, and the silk canopy above your bed comes into view, painted golden by the morning light. It’s peacefully quiet, except for the few birds chirping in the distance, almost tricking you into thinking this is just another morning.

But then you remember.

Johnny. 

Dying. 

Is he okay? Did it work? Did he leave again? 

You snap upright too fast, hands instantly going to your head. A wave of throbbing pain hits you, threatening to drag you back down, but you move your hand to the bedpost to steady yourself. Your eyes search through the room, squinting, until you catch a glimpse of something...or someone. 

Johnny is in the farthest corner of the room, sitting on the floor behind the only space of shadow left by a sliver of drawn curtain. The rest of the room is bathed in sunlight, because he let the light in for you, drew open every curtain, except the one he needed to survive. 

He’s pressed against the wall, knees pulled up, arms settled on top of them. His head is thrown back, pressed to the cold stone behind him and his eyes closed. His shirt is torn all over, with dark patches of dried blood scattered across his chest and sleeves, but the wounds are closed. 

He’s fully healed. 

And more than that. Color has returned to his face. His silver skin now looks sun touched. He’d look even more alive, if it wasn’t for the look of torment in his face. You shift forward slightly, and his head snaps up when he hears the faint creak of your bed, his eyes finally meeting yours. 

And oh Gods, he’s been crying. 

“You’re awake,” he whispers, unable to hide the relief on his face. 

You smile softly. “You stayed.”

He shrugs, then his eyes lower with guilt. “You think I could leave you like that?” 

Your gaze lowers too, fingers inevitably tracing the fresh twin scars on your wrist, deep and dark compared to the faint marks of your own teeth. There’s a bruise forming around it, reminding you how he’d latched onto it. There’s also a mark where the cursed stake burned the palm of your hand. 

You glance toward the window, the sunlight creeping closer across the floor as the morning unfolds, nearing his feet, but he doesn’t move. 

“You’re going to catch fire,” you say. 

He shakes his head. He’s already burning inside. “It’s fine. Better that than…whatever last night was.”

You shift slowly, sliding your legs off the bed.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says. “You should rest.”

With a shake of your head, you still get off the bed. The stone floor is cold under your bare feet. You only manage to give a few steps in his direction when your legs wobble, and the floor tilts under you. 

Johnny’s halfway across the room before he can think about it, and breaks your fall just in time. The sunlight catches the edges of his torn shirt and burns in a bright flare against his arm and neck. He hisses, recoiling with a curse, but he doesn’t go back into the corner because he’s still holding you. Smoke rises quickly from his sleeve, his jaw clenches hard but his hands are firm on you. 

You act as quickly as him. You raise your hand and mutter a spell. A protective honey shimmer blooms around you immediately, shielding the entire room from the sunlight without extinguishing it. Enough to still enjoy it. Enough for him to be safe. 

You reach for him, cupping his face in your hands. “Are you okay?”

He chuckles, looking in disbelief at the sun grazing his skin without hurting. It’s been so long. “I should be asking you that.”

You shake your head. “I’m okay.“

Your hand hovers over his fresh burns, muttering the healing chants that didn’t work last night.

“You’re not recovered enough to cast more–”

“Shut up and let me fix you.” You cut him off, glaring at him with the same intensity as the first days of knowing him. 

Except this time that intensity came from a different place. 

He just looks at you, as your soft, careful hands grant him more of your magic. Your light. As you heal him…again. As you make the world stop burning…again. 

Gods, he’d break himself for a lifetime just to feel your gentle touch over and over again. 

He realizes it’s the first time he can see you so up close during the day, and the words escape his mouth before he can stop himself. 

“You look delightful in the sunlight,” he whispers, reaching to push a strand away from your face. 

Your eyes snap up, his warm hand grazing your cheek makes heat crawl up your face. You realize this is what he must’ve looked like before the turning. Rosy cheeks, tanned skin, glistening baby blue eyes. 

The beautiful bastard. 

“You…you too,” you whisper back. “As much as I love the pale moonlight, I think life suits you better.”

“Ah,” he grins. “I know the whole corpse thing I’ve got going on it’s not for everyone. I’m trying a different shade today, though.”

You laugh softly. Not bitter, not sarcastic. Genuine. And he clings to the little sound like oxygen. 

“I’ve always wanted to ask you something–and don’t be mad at me–it’s a pretty standard question in our line of work,” he jokes. 

You just nod, curious. 

“How old are you?” He narrows his eyes playfully. 

You blink a little surprised. “Pushing my second millennia,” you shrug. “And you?” 

“Wow. Around the same. We must’ve gone together in kindergarten," he jokes again, and it makes you laugh a bit louder this time. 

Oh he could get used to it. 

If only. 

He sighs. “This is not gonna work,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nod. “Probably not.”

He frowns, and tries to sound serious. “I’m dangerous.”

Another nod. “You are.”

“I’m starving every second I’m near you,” he says more dramatically, settling his hands on your waist. 

You giggle under his touch, and shrug playfully. “I know.”

He leans forward, and stops barely a breath away. “I’m not gonna magically stop wanting you.” 

That one hits different. You can’t fight your smile at this point. 

“Me neither,” you whisper against his lips. “Kiss or kill me, Johnny. I don’t care–“ 

He cuts you off with a kiss. One that kills you. 

Because he kisses you like he’s starving. But not for blood. For you. For every bit he’s been aching to have since the day he saw you. He kisses like he’s running out of time, memorizing every second, every little sound you make. As if you don’t have the rest of your lives to do just that. 

You moan into it. Can’t help it. His hands glide under your thighs and you let him guide you, shifting until you’re straddling him, pressed tightly against him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. His warmth, borrowed from you, wraps you entirely, and suddenly your whole body is on fire. 

And you can feel the restraint in him. Every uneven breath, every move of his lips full of desperation he’s taming by the second. Not because he doesn’t want you. But because he wants you too much. 

You’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be kissed like this. You’ve had ones you forgot, and ones you remembered for a week.

But this?

This one is for a lifetime. 

You split apart gasping for air. One of his large hands goes behind your neck, and the other cradles your cheek, but it’s his eyes that make you melt. Gods, those damn eyes.

They’ve gone soft again. Large lashes half lowered, pupils blown wide, irises barely blue. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a trick. This isn’t vain hunger. This is yearning. Want.

“You’re doing it again,” you whisper, biting back a smile. “Your face thing…the lure.”

He laughs, shaking his head softly. “I’m not trying to. It’s not that…”

“Then what is it?” You tilt your head, wrapping your arms over his shoulders.

“It’s you.”

He takes one of your hands, and guides it to press it tightly against his chest. His heart–your gift–beats rapidly under your palm. 

“You’re made of magic,” he praises. “All of you. And I’ve never felt more alive than I do with you on top of me.” 

He only takes your hand away to place a kiss on your palm. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but grind your hips forward. Testing. His grip on your hand tightens as his head drops back with a groan against your skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales. “That–okay. You’re unfair.”

You giggle. Then lean forward to press a kiss to his jaw, dragging your teeth lightly across his skin.

“Feel like biting?” You tease, going down his neck with faint kisses. “Is the vampire hungry?”

He lifts his head. “Oh love, you know I’m starving…but not for your veins,” he groans. His fingers pinch your chin, holding your face close to him. “I’ve wanted you since the second you opened that door…and every second since has been torture.”

“Then let’s stop wasting time–“

Before you can say anything else he kisses you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his head dips lower. You gasp when his open mouth drags across your jaw and down your throat. His sharp fangs poke you, but they’re not biting, never biting again. 

Unless you ask, of course. 

You can barely breathe when he splits apart just enough to look at you. Your hair is still wild from sleep, skin regaining color and glowing under the honey shimmer, the damn silk nightgown already slipping from your shoulder, stained with his blood and you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

A literal fantasy.

“You’re unreal,” he mutters, “Let me…”

He places his hands on the lace trim and tears the nightgown off your body, scraps of soft fabric pool on your legs, until you’re wearing nothing but panties and the sun before him.

“Even better now...” He goes straight down to the swell of your bare chest, pinching the delicate skin with his sharp teeth. “Sorry,” he mutters, when he draws a whimper from your lips.

“Johnny,” you moan, and as much as it hurts so good, you pull his head apart. “Stop apologizing and take off your clothes.” You whisper, breathless. 

He laughs against your nipple, giving it a soothing kiss before releasing it with a ‘pop’ sound. With one pull, the remnants of his torn shirt fall from his shoulders. You can’t help the gasp that escapes your lips. Because fuck, of course he’s sculpted like a god. Marble muscles, tanned and freckled, and that broad chest heaving for you. 

You reach for him. Your hands roam all over his abs, his biceps, every inch of warm skin.

And he reaches for you. One of his hands goes between your thighs, the other anchors your hips down just right, making you grind against his bulge. You start rocking back and forth, desperate for the friction of his pants against your core. His hand keeps you spread, working open the last of the fabric covering you. You moan into his mouth the second his fingers brush your heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, fingers making you shake under his touch. “You’re soaked, love.”

Your laugh is breathless. “What did you expect? Pinching my nipples like that–”

He chuckles against your mouth, as he lifts you higher with one arm under your thighs, angling your hips until he’s got enough space to tear his pants apart. Once they’re off he settles you on his lap again, your wetness pooling on his thigh, as his thick, throbbing cock slaps your stomach. 

Your eyes go wide when you look down to see him. When you realize what you’re about to take. He just laughs under his breath, tilting your chin up to meet his hungry gaze.

“Are you ready, love?” He asks.

You’re breathless at this point, so you just nod and bite your lip in anticipation.

He grins, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders and lifting you once again to align himself. And when he finally slides into you? You gasp softly into his mouth, and he swears against your lips. 

Oh, gods.

You cry out when he bottoms out, nails clawing into his shoulders, into his firm back. He’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way. He hisses through his teeth, head falling to your neck, to breathe you in, to find a way to last.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, “You’re–fuck…”

You clench around him, and he curses again, hips jerking up as you go up and slam down to meet him. The rhythm finds itself, fast and filthy, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off stone walls.

“Gods…yes…ride me just like that,” His fingers dig into your skin with every thrust, helping you lift and guide you. “Take all you want, love.”

You rock down onto him, again, and again. Riding him as every moment of anger he ever gave you crashes down in the form of pleasure. His head falls back against the stone with a thud, but with his eyes still locked on you.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Look at you.”

He’s watching like he’s starved for it. The sight of you above him, sweating and wild and whimpering, could keep his dead heart beating alone for decades. His hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing your waist, your ribs, your breasts. He cups one as you bounce, desperate, moaning with every thrust.

“You feel so good, Johnny.” You’re a mess above him, moaning his name, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his everything. 

You feel that lightheadedness again. But you don’t care. 

And Johnny? He can’t get enough of your sounds, your moans, your gasps. The way you say his name makes his hands grip your ass, to guide your rhythm. Deeper. Faster. Your hands scramble to his chest as he slams into you harder. The pants, the gasps, the low groans that fall from his mouth every time you clench around him, become overwhelming and soon your thrusts become sloppy.

“Johnny–“

He notices, of course he does.

“I know,” he groans, holding you up when he notices you can’t do it anymore. “Come on me, my love. Let me feel it.” He coaxes, lifting your head just enough to watch you unravel above him. 

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting in a silent cry, and it almost undoes him. His hand closes around your jaw, thumb brushing over your lower lip as you choke back whimpers of pleasure. 

But he can’t stay like that. Not when you’re falling apart above him, breasts bouncing with every grind of your hips as you ride your high out with everything you got, and that fucking look in your eyes that lures him in. 

Before you can think–before you can stop to breathe–he wraps his arm around your body, hauling you up with a groan, still inside you. He spins you around, pressing your back to the rough wall, your legs still wrapped around his waist as he continues to fuck you in a brutal, perfect rhythm, chasing his own high. 

“Johnny–” You gasp, biting his shoulder. 

You’re soaked. He’s deep. The stretch of him drives you mad, as he slides in and out easily. The stonewall is cold against your back, but he isn’t.

He’s on fire.

Hot hands in a rough grip around your skin. He moans into your throat, and you feel him twitch inside you. Once. Twice. You clench around him.

“Come on, Johnny,” you pant. “Fill me up, baby…”

That’s all it takes.

Johnny breaks with a growl straight from his soul, spilling into you as his hips stutter and his fingers dig deeper into your skin. He slumps into the wall, panting, holding you up. His eyes are barely open, lips swollen, hair an absolute wreck. He looks…wrecked.

“Fuck–you…you are like heaven.” He says breathlessly against your lips, barely grazing them. 

“I’m just using my lure.” You laugh softly, then whisper. “You know you can fight it…but it’s easier if you don’t.” 

He laughs back, then shakes his head. “I can’t fight it. I’m just a man.”

You chuckle. “I can tell…your eyes are still red.” You chase his lips for a quick peck, before teasing. “ I have to say, I thought vampires had a lot more stamina…” 

“Excuse me?” He huffs. “Now that’s unfair, love. I had a pretty rough night. Almost walked to the light...”

“Me too. Thank you for that, by the way.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. "Okay. Fair, but–you wanna talk about stamina?” He says, making you yelp when he hauls you towards the bed, hovering over you. “Give me five minutes, love. I’ll show you how many centuries I’ve had to practice.”

All that time I sat alone in my tower You were just honing your powers, now I can see it all Late one night, you dug me out of my grave And saved my heart from the fate of Ophelia 🤍

PART TWO: Pledge allegiance to your hands 🖤

Thank you so much for reading! feedback is always appreciated 🫶🏼