SHARKBOY305

Gerard's chest ached as he heard the distant music play, echoing out into the cool night air and into the starry abyss of the sky. He was stationed on duty at the front gates of the castle tonight, thoughts of his lover dancing with another plaguing his mind as he patrolled.

Little did he know, you had been organising a way to get away for a while, slipping your servants some extra coin to create a diversion.

You snuck through the corridors of the castle, barely avoiding the other guards as you slipped around to the front of the castle, using your navy suit to your advantage, hiding out in some shrubbery as the other guard on duty passed you by.

“Psst. Sir Gerard.” Your voice was quiet, and you hoped to everything above that he could hear you.

Thankfully, his helmet turned your way, and he slowly took it off, pulling the chainmail coif down around his neck, unsure if he heard anything.

“Sir Gerard!” You whispered a little louder, and you smiled in delight as his eyes focused on you

“Your highness…” Butterflies of excitement filled your stomach as you stepped out, Gerard rushing over to you, abandoning his helmet on the ground. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m here to see you.” The bush rustled as you stepped out into the moonlight, Gerard’s hands immediately finding your waist, his expression one of surprise.

You took no time in pressing your lips to his, running your fingers through his short, black hair. He kissed you back fiercely, pulling you closer and smiling against your mouth.

After a moment, you pulled away, pressing your forehead to his, chuckling.

“I couldn’t stand not seeing you tonight…” Voice low and whispery, a truth you weren’t afraid to speak aloud.

“How- How did you manage to get away?” Gerard asked, still in disbelief as he drew back to stare at your face.

He did that a lot.

“I may or may not have made a deal with the servants.” You said slyly. “I owe them for this.”

His smile stretched wider as he laughed, shaking his head, drawing you back in for another tender kiss, his soft lips melting into yours for what felt like forever.

Distant gravel crunching underneath boots dragged both of your attentions away from each other. Gerard quickly pulled you over to the castle walls, hiding you behind a pillar, then returned to his post, slipping his coif back over his head, grabbing his helmet from the ground, and pulling it down over his face.

“Way,” Commander Griswell spoke sternly. “The prince is missing from the ballroom. You are to report back to me if you catch sight of him. Up to his usual antics, I assume.”

Shit.

“Of course, Sir.” You barely peeked around the corner to see the commander storming off around the other side of the castle, and you had to clutch your hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing too loud.

Gerard looked back at you, slipping his helmet and coif off again and clutching his chest in relief. You walked over to him with a stupidly cheerful grin on your face while he shook his head.

“You need to go back.”

“But I just got here.” You complained, draping your arms over his shoulders, swaying slightly. “And I don’t want to dance with anyone else…”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.” He hummed, his hands holding your waist by default.

“One dance, Gerard. Just one.” He knew better than to argue with you, especially not when you were frowning. “Please?”

A beat of contemplation passed by.

“Fine, one dance, then you have to go.” He relented, swaying with you as he pulled you closer.

You looked deep into his hazel eyes, a satisfied look surely plastered on your face. Gerard blushed in the faint luminescence, never being able to stare into your eyes for too long without getting shy.

The two of you held each other under the moon, the music playing softly in the background.

“What do I do with you, sweet prince?” Gerard sighed into your shoulder rhetorically, his armour clinking as he moved.

“That is the question, huh.” You teased, relaxing further into his hold.

All the sneaking around you two had been doing took a toll on both of you. Hiding away in corners, sneaking off in the middle of the night, catching glances of each other as you moved around the castle.

There was nothing more that you yearned for than his heart, and he the same.

To make it known that the prince and a knight were engaging in such relations, though, would call for confinement for you, and most likely the loss of Gerard’s position.

But for now, as the cold night air spun you around in each other's arms, you both savoured what you could, for you knew the opportunity would arise soon again.

The song ended, and you drew back, a mournful feeling crushing your chest as his soft face contorted into one of upset.

Only, he'd been out of sight for much too long.

With thin and pale fingers, he lifted up his shirt to reveal his thin frame. The truth was, he couldn't afford to hide away anymore. The lack of blood was taking a toll on his health and appearance.

His hazel eyes were sunken and his cheekbones and jaw jutted out unnaturally, his movements labored and forced. Using the last of his strength, one night he goes into town. Usually, there were a few passersby under the yellow street lights, wandering aimlessly or off to alleyways for something to shoot up their arm.

This night, there was no one but him.

Gerard saw the man, warming himself up on a street corner; he was fighting the cold November night. He seemed antsy, looking for someone to pick him up maybe. Gerard's footsteps clicked on the concrete beneath them, drawing so close to the man that he couldn't help but turn his head.

He couldn't exactly make out the strange figure's face under the lamplight. When it was finally illuminated in full, he knew exactly what kind of creature he was facing.

A breath to let out a scream or a cry for help, but it was in vain. A cold, clammy hand was clapped over the man's face, forcing him into silence.

.........

The man wakes up in a cold sweat. The dank stone basement had a musk to it that always seemed to linger in his nose. Or maybe it was his own body. He couldn't tell anymore.

Days blurred together. It was easy to lose track of time when you can't see the sun. He couldn't even remember what he was doing before he was taken. And honestly? He didn't seem to care anymore.

Gerard fed him well. Well enough to maintain his weight and keep the blood flowing just for the vampire. He wouldn't do that if he didn't care, right? The throbbing wounds on his neck and shoulders always dulled at the sight of Gerard.

The basement door creaked open, and his heart rate soared. Gerard's silhouette was at the top of the stairs smiling down at him.

"...Hey there, pretty boy." He cooed mockingly to him. He didn't seem to notice the sarcasm.

"Hi," He swallows, almost choking on his words as he stared up at him. Gerard was visibly healthier now that he had a consistent food source (him), color in his cheeks and a slight pudginess. He watched as the vampire descends the old stairs, smirking softly.

"Come here," Gerard teases, looking down at him with false sympathy. "Those marks are so pretty on you."

His heart pounds so hard, he's not sure that Gerard can't hear it.

It was his feeding time now. So, he stands up and trudges in front of him, unable to maintain eye contact. His eyes flick over to the side as he presents himself to Gerard.

"Very good," Gerard chuckles, observing his pitiful face for a moment before grabbing his shoulders (very gently, he notices), leaning in to smell his hot blood through his skin.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you like this," Gerard places a teasing lick over the most recent wound. He doesn't reply. He can't, anyway, as Gerard sinks his teeth into his soft skin with no warning.

He can't help but let out a soft cry at the piercing of his skin. He can feel his fangs sink in deeper with every sip of blood he takes. The loss of blood makes him dizzy and sway within Gerard's grasp.

Instead of gently letting him fall to the ground like he would any other time, his hand lays firm against the lower most part of the man's back, the other traveling to the back of his neck. To the lightheaded and woozy version of the man, it seemed like a much needed tender embrace.

Suddenly, his stomach drops and his head starts to swirl. His vision twists into fuzzy black and white. He's going to pass out soon.

Gerard notices him beginning to fall limp. The vampire is well fed now: a flushed color in his cheeks and blood dribbling down his chin. As he backs away, he looks down at his pale, yet handsome face.

The man's eyes crack open to see his satisfied smirk. His brain isn't functioning right from the mixture of pain and blood loss... But enough strength remains in him to reach up, ever so slowly, and tug Gerard closer back to the holes in his neck.

"More? I guess you do like this, don't you?" Gerard whispers before plunging his teeth back into his skin, a small groan escaping both of them

Okay, but imagine. Both Frank and Matt knowing you always get a little flustered seeing them in their ‘nightlife’ outfits. One or both makes a comment about the punisher or daredevil swooping you off your feet, just to see you think about it, a little too much. 

They keep an eye on you, especially on nights where one or both are feeling stressed, more on edge than usual. On these nights you won’t be surprised to find yourself pinned against a wall by The Punisher, or finding Daredevil standing in a dark corner. 

You can just feel them watching you sometimes. In the beginning it was strange and off-putting, but communication has made it almost flirting, or even foreplay. 

I feel like it's kind of a known fact that Matt can be a flirt if he wants to, especially as daredevil. It makes him feel more confident, in a way, so he will do the chin tilt on multiple occasions. 

Frank has pinned you against walls on multiple occasions, as the punisher and not, but you’ll always pull the “is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?”. It's a 50/50 chance what reaction you’ll get. 

Sometimes he just huffs at you with a barely there smirk, and other times he flips you around and bends you over. 

Matt seems more the type to melt out of the shadows to touch and grab, to tease you until your legs shake, and just... melt away again until you’ve calmed down, so he can do it again. 

They both have a tendency to get a little extra rough when they’re not Matt and Frank, but daredevil and the punisher. It’s a different mentality, even if they won’t admit it. 

Matt can be meaner, his voice rougher, and his grip tighter. He will normally use your own body's reaction against you in a teasing way, like commenting on how fast your heart is racing. But as daredevil he goes in detail. Like commenting about how your muscles are tightening, or how he can smell your tears building. 

Frank just gets rougher in all ways when he's still in punisher mode. You’ll find yourself grabbed, twisted, and bent in ways he normally doesn’t. It's not unusual to be covered in hickeys and his handprints.  

Frank may even add a gun or knife to the bedroom, if you guys have agreed to it. It always makes Matt extra alert and antsy, smelling blood, but if it's the right time and setting, it’ll make him lose his mind if the cards are played right. 

It's not always rough and wild though. They both have times where they just need to feel their lovers are alive and present. 

There might be times where Matt feels extra vulnerable, so he hides behind the daredevil helmet so he clings to you and Frank, his mouth hanging open and panting, silent tears running down his face as he just wants to feel it, to be loved and seen as worth loving. 

Frank is similar, except he has no helmet to hide behind. But when you’ve known him long enough, you can tell by the furrow of his brow and the clench of his jaw. You'll see it the moment he steps in the room, and Matt can hear it from the tension in his muscles. 

During those times, Frank may just need to cling to you two, in complete silence. You and Matt know to start talking to him, about how much you love him and how important he is, when Franks shoulders loosen up. 

You being a completely normal guy is all the appeal, but I think Frank and Matt might find it a little attractive if you played the hero, or criminal, every now and then. 

You guys all know there's no way you’d actually outsmart them or overpower them, so it’s all pretending, but it’s hot anyways. 

So, sometimes you’ll put on the ‘criminal’ fit you’ve made, and you’ll go commit a ‘crime’. It's nothing real, but it makes them both all hot and bothered, especially if the outfit you wear shows off just the right assets. 

Or you’ll put some fantasy where you’ve ‘kidnapped’ daredevil and the punisher, and you’re trying to get information from them in your ‘villainous’ ways. 

Those fantasies go one of two ways. Either you as the villain ‘win’ and they stay tied up and you get to tease and ride them as you please. 

Or the two ‘work together’ to break free and ‘take care’ of the villain that captured them. During those moments it's all punisher and daredevil, there's no Matt and Frank, unless you safeword, of course. 

Klaus Mikaelson

Klaus's ego takes a severe beating. The first few times Y/N takes charge, Klaus is a snarling mess of defiance. He'll test boundaries, push back, and attempt to wrest control back with brute force and manipulative words. He’s not used to not getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it.

The biting remarks sharpen. Klaus’s wit becomes a weapon, aimed to dissect Y/N’s decisions, his character, anything to assert his superiority. It’s a defence mechanism, a veiled attempt to regain the upper hand by making Y/N question himself.

He secretly thrives on the chase. Beneath the bluster, Klaus finds a twisted form of pleasure in Y/N’s dominance. The power plays become a game, a high-stakes match where the reward is… well, Klaus is still figuring that out. He loves the chase, the challenge of trying to outwit someone stronger-willed than himself.

The possessiveness dials up to eleven. Klaus has always been possessive, but Y/N’s dominance ignites a protectiveness that borders on obsessive. Anyone who even looks at Y/N the wrong way risks triggering a rage that hasn't been seen in centuries.

He craves Y/N’s approval. Despite fighting it tooth and nail, Klaus becomes desperate for Y/N’s acknowledgement. A simple nod of approval, a fleeting compliment, sends a thrill through him that he desperately tries to hide. He likes being rewarded.

The vulnerability slips through the cracks. In moments of intimacy, the carefully constructed walls crumble. He'll cling to Y/N with a desperation that belies his immortal façade, revealing the scared, lonely boy he tries so hard to bury. He will never admit to this.

The first few times Y/N tries to give Klaus a command, or exert dominance in the bedroom, Klaus would push back. He'd smirk, raise an eyebrow, and deliberately do the opposite, all while gauging Y/N's reaction

Klaus’s ego is as fragile as it is massive. Y/N using praise to manipulate Klaus would work wonders. A well-placed compliment about his intelligence after a particularly difficult negotiation, or a whispered appreciation for his artistic talent during a shared moment alone, would soften him. It’s not that Klaus needs validation, but he likes his strengths to be recognized, admired.

In the bedroom, Klaus discovers a paradoxical enjoyment in Y/N's dominance. The controlled roughness, the explicit commands, the feeling of someone else dictating his pleasure—it's a new sensation that both unnerves and excites him. He'd never admit it openly, but he craves the intensity.

Elijah Mikaelson

Elijah is initially wary. Control is his shield, his carefully constructed world. dominant Y/N intrigues him, but also triggers a deep-seated instinct to protect himself. He tests the boundaries. Respect is paramount; any hint of cruelty is an immediate deal-breaker.

Conversation becomes a delicate dance. Elijah finds himself drawn to Y/N’s assertiveness, yet subtly guiding the narrative. The push and pull of intellectual sparring becomes foreplay in itself. He appreciates a mind as sharp as his own, even if that mind seeks to command him.

The bedroom is where Elijah truly begins to unravel. He discovers a surprising release in relinquishing control, in submitting to Y/N's assured touch and guidance. The weight of centuries, the burden of family, momentarily lifts as he allows himself to be led.

Elijah's submission is never absolute. He still retains a quiet power, a subtle influence that Y/N acknowledges and often finds alluring.

He has safe words, carefully chosen to reflect his personality. It’s a reminder that he's still in control of the situation.

Aftercare is essential. Elijah needs reassurance, a return to the equilibrium of their relationship. Pillow talk is a chance to reconnect

Elijah enjoys being praised, especially when it acknowledges his intelligence and restraint. Y/N's words of approval validate his decision to submit, confirming that it wasn't a weakness but a conscious choice.

He struggles with the idea that some might see his submission as unbecoming of an Original. This internal conflict leads to moments of withdrawal, periods where he reasserts his control in other areas of his life to compensate.

Elijah secretly craves the moments when Y/N calls him "good boy". It’s a chink in his armour, a vulnerability he allows only Y/N to see.

Kol mikaelson

Kol adores the chase but finds a different kind of thrill in a partner who isn't shy about taking the reins. He's used to everyone being a little afraid of him, so Y/N's confidence is a potent aphrodisiac.

He feigns annoyance when Y/N issues a command, rolling his eyes and muttering about micromanagement, but the smirk playing on his lips betrays his true feelings. He loves to be told what to do.

During sex, Kol is a whirlwind of teeth, sharp words, and impulsive movements. But with Y/N in charge, he yields, whimpering in pleasure as he's restrained, dominated, and brought to the edge.

Surrender doesn't come naturally. He'll test Y/N, pushing boundaries to see how far he can go before his lover asserts his dominance. It's a game, and Kol is fascinated by the rules.

He thrives on praise and validation. When Y/N acknowledges his compliance, Kol practically glows. The feeling of being both desired and controlled is intoxicating.

Aftercare is vital. Kol needs to be reminded that his submissive behaviour is a choice, that he's still powerful and valued. Cuddles, reassurance, and maybe a little light biting are all essential.

He's a brat. He'll deliberately disobey small orders just to provoke a reaction from Y/N. He loves seeing the fire in his eyes and then being promptly brought back in line.

Kol secretly enjoys being called "good boy," even though he'd never admit it. It's degrading in the best possible way, especially when Y/N says it with a possessiveness.

He gets off on Y/N's jealousy. Kol will flirt shamelessly with others, knowing it drives his boyfriend wild. Then he delights in being punished for his transgression.

In public, Kol is his usual flamboyant self. Only behind closed doors does he fully relinquish control, transforming into the eager submissive he keeps hidden from the world.

Codependency was the word that hung in the air like thick smoke, though neither of you dared to label it. It was a symbiotic arrangement, a strange, oscillating frequency where the lines of give-and-take blurred until they were indistinguishable. It hadn't started with grand promises; it had started with the friction of skin and the adrenaline of proximity. It started as pure, unadulterated pleasure—a distraction from the neon-soaked chaos of the city.

Bartending at a club that catered exclusively to the "gifted" crowd meant your life was a revolving door of questionable characters and ego-driven nightmares. You dealt with tempers that could shatter glass and appetites that defied nature. And then, there was Reggie. A-Train.

He was different. He was charming in a way that felt curated yet dangerously authentic. He knew how to talk to you—not with the predatory hunger so many other supes displayed, the kind that made you wonder if they’d follow you into the dark alleys behind the club—but with a smooth, disarming confidence. When he smiled, he didn’t just show teeth; the corners of his eyes crinkled, a subtle vulnerability that felt like a secret he was only sharing with you.

In the chaos of your shift, he became your anchor. You liked simple, and Reggie had become the definition of it.

Simple was the sight of him sliding into his usual spot at the corner of the bar, the polished mahogany reflecting the club’s pulsing strobe lights. Simple was knowing exactly what he wanted—a specific, bitter-sweet concoction—before he even had to lift a finger to signal you. Simple was the way the air seemed to shift when he entered, a subtle, static charge that clung to him, smelling faintly of ozone and expensive cologne, a sensory reminder of the speed that defined his existence.

Simple was the quiet ritual of him waiting for you at the end of your shift, his lean, athletic frame tucked into the shadows near the back exit. It was the feeling of his hands against your skin, grounding you after a night of dodging dangerous tantrums; the way his lips felt against yours, desperate yet controlled. It was waking up in the pale, hum of dawn with his arm heavy across your chest, finally having his personal number saved in your phone, and the quiet comfort of your strange, undefined orbit.

But simple, you learned, was a fragile commodity in a world built on power and public image.

The club was louder than usual tonight, the bass thrumming through the soles of your shoes, but the corner of the bar remained stubbornly, unsettlingly empty. You found yourself glancing at the clock, then toward the entrance, your movements practiced and automatic as you mixed drinks for strangers.

It wasn't the first time he’d missed a night. His life was a whirlwind of Vought press tours, training sessions, and PR crises. But this felt different. The air in the club lacked that familiar, static prickle that always announced his arrival. A cold, nagging feeling began to coil in your gut, a dissonance that didn't sit right with the rhythm of your night. You gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles turning white, wondering if the simplicity you’d clung to was finally unraveling, leaving you alone in the noise.

The club’s bass continued to thump against your ribcage, but your focus was entirely on the cold screen of your phone tucked beneath the bar’s service rail. You hadn't initiated a conversation in weeks. It was a silent, unspoken rule of your arrangement: he arrived, he initiated, and you responded. But the absence of his familiar, ozone-charged presence was itching at your skin like a rash.

Your thumb hovered over his contact.

You: Hey, miss—

You stared at the words, the cursor blinking with an accusatory rhythm. Pathetic. You hit delete, the backspace key clicking rapidly. You tried again, keeping your movements brisk, trying to mimic the casual indifference of a bartender checking on a regular.

You: Didn’t see you tonight. Everything okay?

It was neutral. Safe. You hit send before you could overthink the potential vulnerability of it.

You watched the screen. The bubble appeared, that little grey indicator of life, and your breath hitched. It hovered for a agonizing three seconds, then vanished. No message. Just silence.

The rest of the shift was a blur of spilled mixers and hollow, strained smiles. By the time you reached your car, the silence of the parking lot felt heavier than the noise of the club. You leaned your forehead against the cool glass of the driver’s side window, feeling the vibration of your own heavy, erratic breathing.

"He's just busy," you muttered, the words sounding thin and defensive in the enclosed space. "He’s got a million things going on. It’s not like we're... hell, it’s not like we’re even friends."

You blew out a frustrated breath, a jagged sound that filled the car. You were lying to yourself, and you knew it. If it was just about the pleasure, you wouldn't feel this hollow ache in your chest. You wouldn't be agonizing over a ghost-text.

The drive home was a mindless navigation through the city's neon-drenched grid. When you finally unlocked your apartment door, the silence of the place hit you like a physical weight. You tossed your keys onto the counter with a clatter that sounded too loud, let your bag slide off your shoulder to hit the floor, and kicked your shoes off in opposite directions.

You walked straight into the bedroom, the room dark save for the sliver of light from the streetlamps bleeding through the blinds. You sat on the edge of the bed and checked the phone one last time. Still nothing. No bubble. No incoming call. Just the same empty screen you’d been staring at for hours.

A sharp, hot spike of irritation—or maybe it was just hurt—shot through you. You tossed the phone onto the nightstand, watching it slide toward the edge, and started peeling off your work clothes. The fabric was stiff, tacky with spilled liquor and the stale, suffocating scent of the club. You shoved the pile into the hamper, not bothering to fold anything, and retreated into the bathroom.

You didn't wait for the water to reach the perfect temperature before stepping in. You needed the heat to scrub the night off you. As the spray hit your shoulders, you leaned your forehead against the cold, damp tiles of the shower wall, closing your eyes.

The water cascaded down your back, turning the steam into a thick, suffocating cloud. You stood there for a long time, letting the hot needles of water dull the jagged edges of your thoughts. You were trying to wash away the feeling of his hands, the phantom memory of his skin, and the creeping, cold realization that you were just another temporary stop on his high-speed circuit.

You forced yourself to move, shaking the lingering dread from your shoulders as if it were actual debris. You grabbed the soap, scrubbing your skin until it was pink and raw, desperately trying to strip away the lingering scent of stale alcohol and the phantom pressure of his touch. The hot water drummed against the tile, a relentless, rhythmic distraction from the gnawing anxiety in your stomach.

When you finally turned the handle and stepped out, the bathroom was a sauna of humid air. You wrapped a towel around your waist and wiped a jagged streak through the condensation on the mirror. Your reflection looked back at you—hollowed out, eyes bloodshot, the exhaustion of the night etched into the tension in your jaw. You didn't linger. You just wanted the cold, dark silence of your bedroom.

As you walked past the nightstand, your phone sat inert and dark. You didn't even glance at it, too drained to care about the void it represented. You missed the sharp, high-pitched buzz against the wood, followed by the soft illumination of the screen as it flickered to life.

Reggie: Can I come over?

The message sat there in the dark, a silent request waiting to be acknowledged.

Three miles away, Reggie sat on the edge of a pristine, white leather sofa in his apartment, his leg bouncing with a nervous, staccato rhythm that would have blurred the vision of anyone watching. He stared at his phone so intensely his eyes burned.

He didn't need to ask. You had given him a key—or at least, you had told him the spare was under the third planter, a gesture of trust he usually treated with the casual arrogance of a celebrity. But tonight, the air in his own place felt too thin, too pressurized. He felt like a coiled spring, his heart rate elevated, his metabolism burning through energy at a rate that made his skin feel like it was vibrating.

He kept looking at the screen, waiting for the ‘read’ receipt, waiting for the immediate chime of your reply that he had grown accustomed to.

"Why isn't he answering?"

A flicker of something darker than impatience crept into his chest. Was it anger? Or was it the sudden, terrifying realization that he was actually waiting on someone?

He checked the time. The silence stretching from your end was becoming unbearable. It felt less like you were ignoring him and more like the distance between you was growing, widening into something he couldn't just run across in a heartbeat.

He didn't have the patience to wait for a response, and he certainly didn't have the stomach to sit in this silence a second longer. He stood up, his movements fluid and unnervingly fast. He didn't even grab a jacket. He just grabbed his keys, the metal biting into his palm, and headed for the door. The simple request for permission had already turned into a burning need for presence. He didn't need you to tell him to come over; he just needed you to be there when he arrived, to remind him that he was still anchored to something that wasn't just Vought, cameras, and the crushing weight of his own life.

Reggie hovered on your welcome mat, his hand poised to knock, then dropping back to his side, then rising again. He stared at the worn, faded wood of your door, his gaze flicking down to the terra cotta planter tucked in the corner. He knew exactly where the spare was—he’d been inside plenty of times when you weren't home—but tonight, the idea of just letting himself in felt like a violation of a boundary he hadn't realized he’d set until this very moment.

He knocked. Three soft, controlled raps. He stood back, his pulse thrumming in his throat, ears straining for the sound of you.

After a few agonizing minutes, he heard it: the soft, rhythmic shuck-shuck of your slippers against the hardwood floor. He pulled his shoulders back, trying to smooth the frantic energy out of his posture. When the lock clicked and the door swung open, the relief that hit him was so sharp it almost knocked the wind out of him.

You stood there, looking tired but soft in your worn-out pajama pants and those oversized, ridiculous plush dog slippers. He’d teased you about them for months, calling them "fashion crimes," but seeing them now, they looked like the only grounded, real thing in his entire world.

"Hey," you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips, completely unaware of the turmoil he’d been carrying for the last hour. "Didn't know you were stopping by."

Reggie didn't say a word. He just stared at you, his eyes scanning your face as if he were trying to memorize the exact lines of your expression. He held his phone up briefly—a silent gesture toward the message he’d sent—before sliding it deep into his pocket. He took a single, deliberate step across the threshold, invading your space, and he didn't wait for an invitation.

He reached out, his hand steadying against the door until he pushed it shut behind him, the click of the latch sounding unnervingly final.

Without a word, he closed the distance. He moved with a grace that felt heavy tonight, not his usual lightning-quick blur. He pressed you back against the hallway wall, your shoulders hitting the drywall with a soft thud. Before you could even register the shift in the air, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t the hurried, hungry kiss of a man looking for a quick fix. It was slow, agonizingly sweet, and tasted like desperation wrapped in velvet. It was the kiss of someone trying to ground themselves before they floated away.

”Oh,” you thought, your heart stuttering against your ribs. ”Something is definitely wrong”.

Reggie leaned into you, his weight familiar and solid. His hands found the bare skin at your waist, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into your hips. The contact was electric, but it lacked the frantic edge it usually held. You reached up, your fingers gripping his shoulders, feeling the tension locked tight in his muscles beneath his hoodie—a rare, startling sight that made the moment feel even more surreal.

He didn't pull away. He just sighed against your mouth, a sound that was half-prayer and half-surrender, letting his forehead drop to rest against yours as he anchored himself firmly into your space.

Your hands slid up from his shoulders, your palms cupping his face. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cool air of the hallway, and his eyes—usually so bright and animated—looked dim, heavy with a weight he hadn't brought with him before.

"Reggie," you murmured, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a series of soft, chaste kisses against your lips—almost like a penance. When he pulled back, his hand found the small of your back, his touch firm and guiding. He didn't wait for you to lead the way; he moved you gently, steering you through the living room, past the threadbare couch and the stacks of books, straight into the bedroom.

You followed him, letting the current of his mood dictate the pace. It was simpler this way. Trying to force him to talk, to strip back those layers of armor he wore so well, felt like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands. If he wanted to be here, if he wanted to exist in this quiet, then that was enough for tonight.

He sat you on the edge of the bed before gently easing you back, his weight following yours as he crawled up over you. The air shifted. This wasn't the frantic, skin-burning urgency of your usual nights. His kisses were slow, almost reverent, lingering at the corners of your mouth and your jawline with a tenderness that felt like a foreign language. It was domestic, terrifyingly intimate—the kind of soft, heavy affection that made you feel like you were actually somebody to him, rather than just a place to hide.

Your hands slid under the hem of his hoodie, your fingertips dancing along the waistband of his jeans before slipping upward to splay against his bare chest. You felt it instantly. Beneath the muscle and the heat of his skin, his heart was hammering a chaotic, jagged rhythm. It wasn't just fast; it was stuttering, skipping beats like a broken record, a frantic fluttering that sent a jolt of alarm through you.

His lips moved from your jaw to the hollow of your throat, then trailed slowly, agonizingly, across your collarbone. He paused there, his breath hot against your skin, but you went rigid. You couldn't ignore the frantic thumping beneath your palm any longer.

"Reggie," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Your heart… it’s—"

He stopped mid-breath, his forehead resting against your chest. He froze, then slowly pulled back, propping himself up on his forearms to look down at you. His expression was unreadable, caught between fear and a sudden, sharp exhaustion.

"What?" he asked, his voice rough.

You didn't take your hand away. You pressed your palm flatter against his sternum, feeling the erratic, desperate thrash of his pulse. "It’s not right. It’s… it’s skipping. Everything okay, man? You’re scaring me."

He stared at you, his eyes darting across your face as if searching for a reason to lie. Then, his shoulders slumped, the facade finally cracking. He let out a shaky, hollow laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

"It’s the V," he said, the words barely audible, almost swallowed by the room’s silence. He looked away, his jaw tightening. "The Compound V. It’s… it’s catching up to me. The speed, the training, the supplements… my heart can’t keep up with the pace anymore."

He looked back at you, and for the first time, you saw the genuine terror hidden behind the A-Train persona. "Every time I push it, every time I move, I feel like I’m running out of time. My own body’s betraying me, and I don't know how to stop.”

The silence that followed his admission felt thick, heavy enough to crush the air right out of the room. You just stared at him, your hand still splayed over his chest, feeling that erratic, stuttering rhythm vibrating against your palm. It wasn't just a physical sensation anymore; it felt like a countdown.

"You're not serious," you whispered, though the way he was looking at you—stripped of that A-Train polish, just a man terrified of his own biology—told you he wasn't joking.

Reggie let out a jagged, humorless laugh, his gaze dropping to the bedsheets between you. "I wish I was. It’s been… building. Doctors, Vought—they keep telling me it’s fine, that it’s just the ‘strains of peak performance.’ But this?" He grabbed your wrist, pressing your palm harder against his sternum. "This is my heart trying to quit, and I’m just out here trying to outrun it."

His grip on your wrist was tight, almost painful, a stark departure from the gentle touches he’d been giving you just moments before. He was holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the bed, to the room, to reality.

"I can't tell anyone," he said, his voice dropping into a raw, desperate register. "You know what happens if the public finds out? If Vought finds out? I’m finished. They’ll replace me before the ink on my medical charts is even dry. I’m an asset, not a person to them, and assets aren't allowed to have heart conditions."

You felt a cold knot tighten in your stomach. You’d always known the life of a supe was performative, a stage-managed existence, but seeing it manifest like this—Reggie trembling in your bedroom, admitting he was slowly breaking from the inside out—felt like a door had been ripped off its hinges.

"Reggie, if you keep pushing it, you’re going to kill yourself," you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way your own heart was starting to race in sympathy with his. "You have to tell someone who can actually help. Not Vought. Not your PR team. A real doctor."

He shook his head sharply, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. "There’s no ‘real doctor’ for this. It’s not just broken, it’s… altered. The V changed everything. I’m stuck, man. I’m a high-performance engine that’s rusted out." He closed his eyes, his breathing hitching. "I just… I needed to be somewhere where nobody was looking at me like I was a brand. I needed to just be… here."

He looked at you then, and the raw vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. He wasn't looking for a fix; he was looking for a witness to his decline.

You shifted, ignoring your own fear, and pulled him down until his head rested against your shoulder. He went limp instantly, letting his weight sink into you, his heart still fighting that uneven, frantic battle against his ribs. You just held him, stroking his hair, the realization settling over you that the "simple" life you’d carved out for the two of you was gone, replaced by a jagged, complicated reality that neither of you knew how to survive.

The night wore on, the neon glow from the city outside filtering through the blinds, casting long, distorted shadows across the bedroom. The frantic, erratic tempo of his heart slowly began to level out, though it never quite settled into the steady beat of a healthy man. It remained a hitching, uneven rhythm, a constant reminder of the ticking clock he lived under.

Reggie didn't move. He stayed tucked against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally matching the slow, intentional cadence you were setting for him. The earlier tension, the desperate, almost manic energy he’d brought through your front door, had evaporated, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion that seemed to seep into the very mattress.

"You're shaking," you whispered into the quiet, your fingers still tracing slow, soothing lines down the back of his hoodie.

He didn't pull away; he only tightened his grip on your waist, his knuckles white against your side. "It’s just... it’s quiet here," he murmured, his voice muffled by your skin. "No cameras, no press releases, no one asking for a smile. It’s the only time it feels like I’m actually breathing, not just... performing."

You stared up at the ceiling, the fan spinning lazily above, and realized that this—this fragile, broken moment—was the closest you’d ever been to him. All the months of shared drinks and unspoken boundaries, the casual hookups, and the carefully curated mystery of A-Train had been a buffer. Now, the wall was down, and the reality was heavier than you ever could have anticipated.

You weren't just a bartender to him anymore. You were the only person in the world who knew he was dying.

"You can stay," you said, the words feeling heavy and permanent. "As long as you need to."

Reggie shifted, pulling back just enough to look at you. In the dim light, he looked younger, stripped of the bravado that usually made him seem untouchable. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your temple.

"I'm not worth this," he said, his voice raw, devoid of its usual rhythmic, practiced flow. "You shouldn't have to carry this. You don't know what you’re getting yourself into."

"I know," you replied, your voice firm. "But you're here. And for tonight, that’s all that matters."

He looked at you for a long moment, an unreadable intensity in his gaze, before he let out a long, shuddering breath and collapsed back against your chest, his eyes sliding shut. The room grew deathly quiet, save for the hum of the city and the faint, uneven thrumming against your palm.

As the hours slipped toward dawn, you didn't sleep. You lay there in the dark, watching the way the streetlights painted patterns on his skin, realizing that your simple, uncomplicated life had effectively ended the moment he walked through that door. You had invited the storm inside, and as Reggie’s breathing finally deepened into true sleep, you knew there was no going back to the way things were.

Edited - 20/06/2024

KLAUS MIKAELSON

 Klaus isn’t one to hide his jealousy, When Klaus gets jealous everyone in the two-foot radius Knows to avoid him

Before you started dating Klaus would deal with anybody who dared flirt with you  without you knowing if someone was flirting with you he’d make them disappear . oh  That guy you met at the bar and hit it off with  Gone the next day.

 After you guys started dating Klaus jealousy  got worse since he's a possessive and jealous man 

Someone checks you out or looks at you too long he’d take care of it

If someone makes you uncomfortable he’d absolutely kill them where they stand no hesitation  

 If you make him jealous on purpose he’d remind you who you belong to later that night and have you walking funny the next morning. 

ELIJAH MIKAELSON

Elijah is more calm about it, He’s less likely to kill someone right away. He has impulse control unlike the rest of his brothers.

Before you started dating he’d compel the people interested in you to leave or to never talk to you again. Which was confusing when you tried to order a drink at your favourite bar only to get ignored by the bartender .

After you started dating He’d get jealous way less since he trusted you and also because he was never not at your side so nobody got the chance to flirt with you.

However if someone was obviously flirting and making you uncomfortable He’d probably hurt them or kill them if they really wouldn’t leave you alone

 Elijah is probably the least jealous out of the brothers mostly because he doesn't have the impulse control of a toddler.

If something had really made him jealous then he’d want to know that you were his only possessive sex but he’d still be gentle with you.

KOL MIKAELSON

 Kol is the worst when it comes to jealousy. He isn't letting anybody even look at you for too long ,you were his.

Even Before you started dating he wouldn’t hide it if Someone Is interested in you they have to die in Kol mind.

After you start dating this man makes it known if anyone even looks at you funny he’d kill them.

Him and Klaus are probably the most possessive in the family

Kol could get jealous over a waiter taking your order however If you ask him to turn it down he’d try.

Whenever Kol is jealous he always likes leaving  mark on you whether it's hickies or actual bite marks