#spearb

He often wondered if you knew what you had done to him. How effortlessly you had rewritten every instinct he had spent centuries obeying.

Because before you, hunger was simple. It was a need, an instinct, something he satisfied and moved on from. He had spent centuries perfecting the art of taking without leaving a trace. Knowing what to say. Knowing how to make someone feel comfortable. Knowing exactly how much of himself to reveal and how much to hide.

He was always the one who made the first move.

Always the one who chose.

That night was supposed to be no different.

-

The music was loud enough to drown out the thoughts of everyone inside, but not their heartbeats. He let his eyes drift over the crowd, he already knew what he was looking for.

Someone careless. Someone alone. Someone whose disappearance would go unnoticed until morning. It was cruel, but it was simple. He had stopped pretending otherwise centuries ago.

His chosen prey stood near the bar, laughing too loudly at something someone had said, unaware of the attention she had already drawn.

Easy, drunk, and predictable. He had always preferred it that way.

There was comfort in predictability. Humans were easier when they wanted something from him. Smiles, compliments, and a little attention. They followed the path he laid out for them without ever realizing it.

He had just started deciding what face to wear to approach his prey when you appeared beside him.

"Hi."

He looked at you, not because he hadn’t heard you. He heard you greet him, as well as every breath and every shift in your heartbeat.He just simply couldn’t understand why you were standing there.

People did not approach him without wanting something. They wanted his attention, his approval, his charm, his power. There was always an intention behind their actions, a reason they stepped into his orbit.

But you only looked amused, "Are you always this intimidating, or is that just your resting bitch face?"

For the first time that night, he had no prepared response. He stared at you for a moment longer than was polite. Not because he was searching for a way to charm you. That part came easily. He was searching for the reason.

There had to be one.

Humans were not usually so bold with strangers, especially ones who carried themselves like he did. There was always an expectation attached. A secret desire. Curiosities that wanted something in return.

But you only leaned against the wall, waiting patiently for him to answer, "I was told I had to come talk to you," you admitted, glancing over your shoulder toward your friends.

His eyes followed yours.

A group of humans watching with far too much interest. He then looked back at you, "your friends sent you?"

You shrugged. "They said you looked like you needed someone to talk to."

That caught him off guard. It was the first time in a very long time someone had looked at him and assumed he was lonely instead of dangerous.

He studied you carefully, searching for the hidden intention behind your words. There had to be one. Humans did not offer kindness without reason, especially not to strangers.

"And you believed them?" he asked.

You tilted your head, confused by the question. "Believed what?"

"That I needed someone to talk to."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I mean....you are standing alone in the corner of a club. You don't exactly look like you're having the time of your life."

The answer was so simple that it almost bothered him.

He had spent centuries learning how to control what people saw when they looked at him. He knew how to appear charming when he needed something. How to appear harmless when he wanted to lower someone's guard. How to make himself unforgettable without ever truly revealing anything.

But you had looked at him for less than a minute and somehow noticed the one thing he had never intended to show. That he was alone.

The realization should have amused him. Instead, it unsettled him. Because beneath the pounding music and the countless voices surrounding him, he could hear your heartbeat.

Steady, calm, and unafraid.

He had walked into the club knowing exactly what he wanted. He had already chosen his meal. Already planned how the night would end. Yet somehow, this conversation had become more interesting than feeding.

And that was the first thing about you that truly frightened him.

Fear was not an emotion he experienced often anymore, not the kind that made him hesitate or forced him to question himself. But you had done something far more dangerous than make him curious. You had made him uncertain, and uncertainty was something he could not tolerate.

His gaze drifted back toward the crowd, toward the person he had chosen before you interrupted his plans. It should have been easy to return to what he knew. Find them, feed. then leave.

Simple.

Except you were still standing there, still smiling, still completely unaware of the war happening beneath his skin.

And suddenly, the thought of walking away felt impossible.

Except he had been hungry before. Countless times. Hunger had never made him forget the person he’d already chosen. Hunger had never made him linger. Hunger had never made him question whether walking away was the right decision.

So why was he still standing there? His gaze drifted back toward the woman waiting near the bar.

Easy. Predictable. Then it returned to you.

It was a foolish decision. He knew that even then. But if you had already managed to cloud his judgment, then perhaps feeding from you would put an end to it. Better to deal with the problem at its source than spend the rest of the evening wondering why a stranger had unsettled him.

So he stayed. He let you keep him company, telling himself it was only to lower your guard. That conversation made compulsion easier. Trust made feeding cleaner.

At least, that was what he told himself.

By the time you were nursing your third drink, he’d convinced himself the timing was finally right.

The alcohol had softened your shoulders, your laughter coming easier now than when you’d first approached him. You trusted him enough to stand close, enough to lean in whenever the music swallowed your words.

He glanced toward the corner of the club, away from the crowd and the flashing lights, before his gaze settled back on you.

“It’s getting a little packed in here,” he said, his voice low enough that you had to lean closer to hear him. “Want to get away from the crowd for a minute?”

That’s how you ended up in the alleyway next to the building, your back against the brick wall, with Changbin’s lips hovering over yours. Away from the noise of the club, everything felt quieter. Easier almost.

This was what he knew. The dim lighting. The privacy. The way your attention remained fixed on him. Every step had gone exactly as planned.

His hunger had guided him here, and now all that remained was to satisfy it. His hand lifted to your face, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek. The gesture was soft, almost affectionate, but it was one he had performed countless times before.

A touch to settle them. A gaze to hold them. A command they would never remember obeying.

"I need you to do something for me—"

But you didn't go still. You didn't fall quiet. Instead, your eyes narrowed slightly as you studied his face.

"Wait…"

He froze as your gaze flickered over him, searching.

"Why do you look different?"

The question was quiet, almost uncertain, but it stopped him completely. His hand remained against your face as he studied you, waiting for the confusion to pass, waiting for the moment your thoughts would fall back into place.

It never came.

You were still looking at him, not through the charm he had perfected over centuries, not through the carefully crafted version of himself he allowed humans to see. You were looking at him as he truly was.

His expression shifted before he could stop it, "What do you see?"

For a moment, you only stared at him. Your eyes moved slowly over his face, taking in the details he had spent centuries hiding: the sharpness of his teeth, the faint veins darkening beneath his eyes as his control began to slip, the subtle changes that no human should have been able to acknowledge after being compelled.

Changbin waited for the reaction he knew so well. The fear, the realization, the instinctive need to put distance between yourself and the monster standing in front of you.

But you didn't move. Instead, you continued to look at him, not with terror, but with quiet curiosity, as if you were trying to understand him rather than escape him. "You're definitely not human."

His expression remained unreadable, though his hand slowly lowered from your face. Most people would have panicked by now. They would have screamed, run, begged for their lives. You only looked at him, and somehow, that unsettled him more than fear ever could.

Your gaze flickered briefly toward his mouth before returning to his eyes, "you were going to feed on me, weren't you?"

You watched him carefully, waiting for him to deny it, to offer some explanation that would make this less terrifying than it should have been. But he didn't. He had no reason to pretend anymore. You had already seen through the illusion he had spent centuries perfecting.

"You were," you said softly. There was no accusation in your voice. No anger. No panic. Which unsettled him more than any reaction he had expected.

Fear was simple. Fear was predictable. He understood how humans reacted when they realized what he was. But you were standing in front of him knowing exactly what he was, knowing exactly what he had intended to do, and you were still looking at him like you were trying to understand him.

"You should be afraid," he said quietly, the words leaving him before he had a chance to consider them.

Your expression shifted slightly. "Should I?"

The question caught him off guard. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because you asked it with genuine curiosity instead of fear.

"Because I could hurt you," he said.

And for reasons he still couldn't understand, you didn't move. Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, "You're hungry." The words were quiet, but they affected him differently than he expected.

"If I let you….feed," you whispered, "you won't hurt me, right?" The question should have been meaningless. He could have tried to compel you again. He could have lied. He could have left. Instead, he found himself answering honestly.

"No."

Only then did you tilt your head, exposing your neck. The gesture was small, almost hesitant, yet impossibly trusting.

Which was somehow far more dangerous than fear. He knew how to take from frightened people. He had spent centuries perfecting that. But someone who offered willingly? He had no idea what to do with that.

He should have walked away.

He knew that. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to sever whatever had formed between the two of you before it became something he could no longer control. The hunger had always been a simple thing, an urge he could quell with calculated precision, a need to be satisfied and then forgotten.

Instead, he leaned in.

His lips brushed lightly against your skin, almost as if he was testing himself, giving himself one final chance to pull back. A part of him wanted to deny what was happening, to remind himself that this was just a fleeting moment; another transaction, another moment of hunger being fulfilled.

His fangs sank in with practiced care, a calculated move perfected over centuries. He was careful to avoid unnecessary pain, a slow, deliberate act meant to feed without harm. The first taste hit him like a shockwave, an unexpected jolt that vibrate through his entire body.

Feeding had always been instinct, efficient, forgettable. It was a need he had mastered long ago; a hunger that he could satisfy with a calculated glance, a subtle whisper, a measured bite.

But this? This was different.

Warmth flooded through him with every swallow, not just the physical warmth of your blood but a strange burst of heat that ignited all the senses he had spent centuries suppressing. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, a dangerous sweetness he had no blueprint for.

Your reaction was immediate; your breath hitched, a sharp inhale as you felt the sharp sting of his teeth, then a quiet gasp that betrayed a mixture of shock and something else. Was it pain? Or an inexplicable thrill? Your eyes widened, and for a moment, you seemed to forget to breathe.

It was not pain exactly, but an intense, almost euphoric wave that washed over your senses. Your heartbeat quickened; erratic beneath his lips. The world seemed to slow, your mind flooded with a strange clarity, as if every nerve in your body was suddenly alive. Instinctively, your hand found the sleeve of his jacket, your fingers curling into the fabric as you steadied yourself. You expected him to lose himself.

But he didn't. Every movement remained measured and deliberate. His grip never tightened, his hands, however, rested on your hips, anchoring you both to this moment. He drew only what he needed, holding himself back with a discipline that felt almost impossible for something driven by hunger.

As the initial shock faded, another realization settled over you; through it all, you remained aware, completely yourself, thinking clearly even as your body responded with a mind of its own.

Your pulse started to slow, as your thoughts stayed steady. You were amused at how this moment felt both dangerous and strangely beautiful. If you wanted to push him away, you could. Yet your hand remained where it was, clutching his sleeve as your breathing gradually steadied.

Your skin, already tender where he bit, prickled with a sensation that was both overwhelming and strangely soothing. You felt yourself drifting into a hazy warmth, a gentle glow that spread through your veins, making everything feel brighter, sharper.

Changbin noticed every change. The hitch in your breathing. The slight tremor in your fingers. The way you leaned into him instead of shrinking away. More than anything, he noticed what never came.

You never told him to stop.

When he finally forced himself to pull back, swallowing against the instinct urging him to continue, you didn't recoil. You looked at him, not with fear, but with a quiet, daring curiosity; knowing exactly what was happening, feeling everything and yet still whole.

The mark on your neck was small, little more than two crimson pinpricks against your skin, but the trust you'd placed in him felt immeasurable.

Changbin’s gaze lingered there, not because of the blood, but because of what it represented. You had known what he was. You had known what he wanted. And yet you had still chosen to let him bite you.

“You shouldn’t do that again.” The words came out quieter than he intended.

Your brows pulled together slightly. “Do what?”

The answer was immediate. “Feed me.”

You looked at him, almost confused. “Why?”

Changbin was silent for a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours. “You don’t understand what you just offered.”

“Then help me understand.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I have spent a very long time learning how to take what I need without thinking twice about it.“ His eyes held yours. “But you knew.” The words were quieter this time. “You knew exactly what I am, and you still let me.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of your answer unsettled him more than he expected. “You shouldn’t be so willing to trust something like me.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” you admitted. “But I am.”

Changbin had no response to that. He couldn’t understand how easily you said it. You weren’t naive. You weren’t unaware of what he was. You knew, and somehow, that made your trust feel heavier.

Your gaze dropped briefly before returning to his. “So what happens the next time you get hungry?”

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“The next time you need to feed.”

He stared at you, waiting for the hesitation that never came. “You mean…”

You shrugged slightly, as if the answer was obvious, “I mean… you can come to me.”

For a moment, Changbin said nothing. “You would let me?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in your answer. No fear or uncertainty. He's giving her a choice, something he never thought he'd be doing. That was harder for him to accept than anything else that had happened that night.

He had spent centuries knowing exactly how to take. He had no idea what to do with someone who willingly gave.

But he learned eventually.

-

That night became the beginning of something neither of you had expected.

There were rules, of course.

They hadn't appeared overnight. They were built slowly, shaped by conversations that lasted long after the hunger had passed. Changbin insisted on every one of them, not because he doubted your resolve, but because he knew exactly what he was capable of if he ever stopped respecting them.

You decided when he fed. You decided how much. If you changed your mind, he stopped. No questions. No persuasion. No compulsion. Those were the only conditions under which he would ever accept what you offered.

At first, he convinced himself it was nothing more than an arrangement. A way to satisfy his hunger without harming anyone. Something practical, controlled.

But routines have a way of becoming rituals before anyone notices. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about hunger.

At first, he still measured your time together by necessity.

The days between feedings. The amount he took. The color returning to your skin before he finally allowed himself to leave.

But routines had a habit of changing when no one was paying attention. One visit became watching the sunset through your windows, neither of you saying much as he waited for daylight to pass.

Another became teaching you the parts of the city that only existed after midnight. Then came the nights he stayed simply because neither of you wanted the night to end.

Somewhere between one conversation and the next, Changbin stopped keeping track of the hunger altogether.

-

The first time he realized you had begun to affect him was when he lied to you.

You had been gone for the weekend. Three days, that's all.

Three days was nothing to him. He had spent centuries alone. He had gone far longer without needing anyone, without relying on anyone. So when the hunger became difficult to ignore, he did what he had always done.

He fed, he told himself it was practical. That the arrangement between you had never been meant to make him dependent. That needing you was a weakness he could not afford.

By the time you returned, he had already decided it would never come up.

You greeted him the way you always did, smiling as you stepped aside to let him in. The apartment looked exactly as he'd left it days before, as though nothing had changed. "You must be hungry," you said, already reaching for his hand. "Give me a minute."

"I'm not." The words came too quickly.

You paused, your fingers still wrapped loosely around his. You blinked, "you're not?"

He shook his head. "Not tonight."

A small crease formed between your brows. It had been long enough that neither of you questioned the routine anymore. If he came to see you this late, it was because he needed to feed.

"Then why are you here?"

The question lingered between you, simple enough that it shouldn't have been difficult to answer. Yet Changbin found himself at a loss. He had already fed. By every rule he'd lived by for centuries, there was no reason for him to be standing in your apartment.

You watched him carefully, your confusion gradually giving way to something else. "You already fed."

He said nothing.

"From someone else?"

His jaw tightened before he gave the smallest nod.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply looked at him, your disappointment quiet enough that it unsettled him more than anger ever could.

"Why?"

"You were gone," he answered, his voice steady despite the unease creeping beneath it. "I wasn't going to interrupt your weekend because I got hungry."

You let out a slow breath, shaking your head. "That wasn't your decision to make."

His brows drew together. "You were with your friends."

"So?" you asked, taking a step closer. "Changbin, I told you to come to me. I didn't mean only when it was convenient."

He searched your face, still struggling to understand. "I wasn't going to ask you to come home just because I needed to feed."

"You wouldn't have been asking," you said gently. "You would've been trusting me to make that choice for myself."

The words settled heavily between you.

"I'd rather you call me," you continued, "even if it's the middle of the night, even if I'm busy, than convince yourself a stranger is the better option. I offered because I meant it."

Changbin looked at you in silence. He had spent centuries believing that wanting less from people made him kinder. That leaving before he became an inconvenience was an act of mercy.

You were asking him to do the opposite, to rely on you.

And somehow, that frightened him far more than the hunger ever had.

After that night, Changbin became more careful. Not with you, he already treated you with the utmost care.

With himself. He stopped pretending that every visit had a purpose. He stopped measuring the time he spent with you by the hunger that brought him there.

He simply found himself wanting to be near you. It was a slow, insidious change, an unspoken acknowledgment that his obsession had begun to shift into something more dangerous.

He memorized the cadence of your heartbeat until he could read your mood without even looking at you. The smallest changes became familiar to him: the quickened rhythm when you were excited, the slower pace when you were tired, the subtle hesitation that came whenever something was bothering you but you didn't want to say it aloud.

He could tell when you were happy before you smiled. He could feel when you were nervous before you admitted it. Every flicker of emotion, every shift in your breathing, became something he recognized instinctively, like an addict learning the subtle signals that tethered him to his fix.

It should have bothered him. For centuries, he had listened to heartbeats for one reason: to know when to take. To strike at the right moment, to feed when it was necessary, to control the outcome.

But yours became something else entirely. He wasn’t listening for weakness. He was listening for you.

For the way your pulse fluttered when you were near, the way your body tensed when he got too close, the quiet tremor in your voice when you tried to hide your feelings.

And that realization unsettled him more than the hunger ever had. Because your heartbeat no longer told him when to feed. Somehow, after centuries of avoiding attachment, he had found himself memorizing the rhythm of one person’s existence.

-

The first time you kissed him after he fed, he understood just how far things had already gone.

His body stiffened, muscles locking in place as if suddenly caught in a web he couldn’t escape. The faint taste of your blood lingered on his tongue; hot, metallic, intoxicating and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by it. The primal instinct to feed warred with something unfamiliar, something softer, more dangerous: the tenderness of your lips against his.

He had never deserved this. Not your trust, not your softness, not the way your hand cupped his jaw with a gentle, almost reverent touch. Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, lingering there as if to remind him that this was more than just hunger, this was you offering yourself to him, willingly and completely.

He kissed you back far more hesitantly than he had ever bitten you, cautious as if touching something sacred. His lips moved slowly, almost uncertain, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter what little control he had left.

His mind raced; part of him still haunted by the instincts that told him to claim, to dominate, to devour. But another part, a new, dangerous part, longed to hold onto this moment, to taste the vulnerability in you, to feel the tremor of trust that had blossomed in your eyes.

And in this quiet, fragile act, something shifted inside him.

He kissed you far less hesitantly after hearing you sigh, knowing that he was teetering on the edge of something darker, something that could swallow him whole. And yet, he couldn’t pull away.

He didn’t want to.

That was the part that unsettled him most.

For centuries, Changbin had been careful about every attachment he allowed himself to form. He knew exactly how close to stand, how much to reveal, when to leave before something could become a weakness.

But with you, every instinct he had spent a lifetime perfecting seemed to fail him.

Because leaving was no longer easy.

He found himself lingering afterward, even when the hunger had faded and there was no reason for him to stay. He would sit beside you in the quiet, listening to the sound of your breathing, memorizing the way your fingers absentmindedly traced patterns against his skin.

He told himself he was only waiting.

Waiting until he was certain you were alright, until the effects of feeding had passed, until there was a reason to leave. But the reasons became harder to find.

-

Somewhere along the way, Changbin stopped coming to you because he needed something. He started coming because, for the first time in centuries, he had found somewhere he wanted to be.

That was far more dangerous than hunger.

Hunger could be controlled, satisfied. He had no idea what to do with wanting. At first, he tried to treat it the same way he treated everything else. He searched for patterns, for explanations, for some kind of logic he could follow.

There had to be a reason he stayed longer than he intended.

A reason he found himself wondering if you had made it home safely after you left. A reason he noticed the things he once would have overlooked.

But there was no strategy behind it. No careful calculation. No instinct telling him what to do.

He simply cared, and doing so changed him in ways he hadn't expected.

It was the little things he noticed first. Things that would have meant nothing to him before you.

The way you walked home alone without thinking twice. The way you brushed off exhaustion because there was always something else that needed to be done. The way you trusted the world to be kinder than it often was.

Changbin had spent centuries seeing the worst parts of humanity.

He knew what people were capable of. You knew it too, but you refused to let it change the way you moved through the world. That both fascinated and terrified him.

He started walking you home without being asked. He started appearing when he knew you would be leaving somewhere late, pretending it was coincidence even when you both knew it wasn't. He memorized the streets you frequented, the places you felt safest, the faces of anyone who lingered too long around you.

Not because he doubted your ability to protect yourself. Not because he thought you needed him, but because the idea of something happening to you had become unbearable.

Before you, Changbin had never feared losing anyone. Loss was inevitable. People came and went. Centuries had taught him that attachment only gave the world another way to hurt you.

But now he understood why humans held on so tightly to the people they loved.

Why they worried, why they waited, why they prayed for someone to come home safely.

Because somehow, without realizing it, you had become someone he needed to return to. That terrified him more than anything else.

He had spent centuries believing that caring for someone was a weakness. Yet every instinct he had was suddenly built around protecting you.

But protection was something he understood. It had rules and purpose. He could convince himself that every late-night walk home, every extra moment spent making sure you arrived safely, every silent promise that nothing would happen to you was simply instinct.

He could call it responsibility. He could call it caution. He could call it anything except what it truly was. Because the hardest part wasn't wanting to protect you. It was realizing he wanted something in return. Not blood. Not gratitude. Not anything you owed him.

Just you.

Your time. Your attention. The moments you chose to stay beside him simply because you wanted to.

That was the part Changbin didn't know how to handle. He found himself wanting the opposite: more time, more conversations, more moments that existed only because you were there. And that was far more frightening than hunger ever had been. Hunger could be satisfied.

Wanting could only grow.

-

The first time you left and he found himself wishing you would stay, he didn't understand what was happening.

There was no reason for it. Nothing had changed. You had not pulled away from him, and he had not needed anything from you. The hunger had been satisfied, the night had come to its natural end, and by every measure he understood, there was no reason for him to want more. Yet when you reached for the door, he found himself watching you a little too closely.

Waiting. Hoping. For what, he wasn't sure.

He had spent centuries mastering the art of leaving first. Before anyone could grow too attached. Before anyone could see too much. Before he had to admit that there were things he wanted.

But now he was the one standing there, silently wishing you would turn around. Wishing you would choose to stay. That was the part he couldn't understand.

Because Changbin knew how to be wanted. He knew how to make people desire him, fear him, obey him. But he had never known what it felt like to simply hope someone wanted to remain.

The next time you reached for your coat, he found himself watching you more closely than he meant to.

"You're leaving already?" The question came out softer than he intended, and the moment it left his mouth, he regretted it. Not because he didn't mean it, but because he knew exactly what it revealed.

You paused, looking back at him, "Changbin..."

He looked away, already trying to retreat back behind the walls he had spent centuries building. "I know you have to go," he said quietly. "I know you have a life outside of this."

Your expression softened, "outside of this?"

He hesitated, realizing how wrong the words sounded. "I just mean..." He exhaled, searching for an explanation that didn't make him sound as vulnerable as he felt. "You don't have to stay because of me."

For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then you stepped closer and reached for his hand. "Binnie, I don't stay because I feel like I have to."

His gaze lifted to yours.

"I stay because I want to."

The simplicity of it left him with nothing to say. This was different.

You weren't staying because of what he could give you. You weren't staying because he had influenced you into wanting him.

You were staying because you chose to, and somehow, that was the thing he had the hardest time accepting. "You can ask me to stay," you said softly.

His brows drew together. "What?"

"You don't always have to pretend you don't want things."

The words struck deeper than he expected. Because wanting had always been dangerous to him. Wanting meant attachment. Wanting meant vulnerability. Wanting meant giving someone the ability to hurt him.

But you weren't looking at him like he was weak. You were looking at him like he was someone worth staying for.

And for the first time in centuries, Changbin wondered if maybe wanting something didn't always mean losing control. Maybe, with you, it meant finally letting himself have something.

He had lived long enough to watch cities rise and crumble beneath the weight of time. Yet somehow, the highlight of his evenings had become the moment you open your door and smile when you saw him standing there. He should have recognized then just how dangerous that was.

Changbin told himself there were still lines he wouldn't cross. Not because he didn't want to. Because he thought about breaking them everyday. More than he had ever wanted anything.

Feeding had already blurred boundaries he never imagined crossing. Kissing had unraveled whatever restraint remained, but he still believed there was one line he could keep between the two of you.

For a while, he succeeded.

Until one night, after another feeding, he looked at you and realized the restraint he'd spent centuries cultivating was hanging by a thread.

The room settled into a familiar silence, broken only by the sound of your breathing.

Feeding had always left you quieter for a few moments. The venom in his bite softened the sharpness of it, leaving behind a warmth that lingered beneath your skin before eventually fading.

But tonight was different.

Changbin noticed before you did, he always did. The subtle change in your scent. The shift in your heartbeat. The way your body seemed to linger in the aftermath instead of immediately returning to normal.

His gaze lowered briefly, taking in the way your hand remained tightened around his knee, as though some unconscious part of you still wanted to stay close.

That alone was enough to undo him. You had always trusted him, but this was different.

His breath caught, "are you alright?" The question came out quieter than he intended.

You blinked, slowly returning your attention to him before giving him a small nod. "Yeah." Your voice was soft, almost uncertain. "Feels different this time."

He already knew why.

He could hear it in the rhythm beneath your skin. He could smell the subtle changes in your blood, the shift in your body that made his instincts sharpen in a way he had never experienced with you before.

But it wasn't only that. That was the part that unsettled him, because the hunger wasn't what held his attention anymore.

It was you. The way you looked at him afterward. The way you still reached for him. The way you trusted him with every vulnerable piece of yourself and never once treated that trust like a mistake.

"Binnie?"

The nickname pulled him from his thoughts and his eyes lifted to yours.

You studied his expression carefully, your hand moving to rest against his wrist. "What're thinking about?"

The question was simple, but he felt the weight of it. The answer was somewhere he had never allowed his thoughts to be.

"I'm trying to understand how you can still look at me like this."

Your brows drew together slightly, "like what?"

He almost laughed, with everything that made frightened people run, he still couldn't understand why you weren't afraid. "Like I'm worth trusting," he mumbles.

The silence that followed was gentle. You didn't rush to reassure him. You didn't dismiss the confession or tell him he was being ridiculous.

You simply looked at him, "because you are." Your fingers tightened slightly around his wrist, "you know I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you right?"

Changbin swallowed. He did know, and that was the problem. He knew, and he wanted more. Not more blood or more of what you could give him.

Just more of you with more moments like this.

His hand lifted slowly, almost like he was still asking permission despite everything you had already given him. When his fingers brushed your cheek, you leaned into him without hesitation.

That was the moment Changbin understood just how far gone he was.

He had spent centuries mastering control.

Yet somehow, the one thing he could never bring himself to resist was the quiet certainty that you would choose him. Again, and again, and again.

His lips found yours softly at first, tentative, like a whisper of a promise he was afraid to break. The kiss was slow, almost reverent, as if he needed to remember how to feel without the weight of centuries pressing down on him.

Your lips responded instinctively, warm and pliant beneath his, and that tiny act of giving; so delicate, so genuine; sent a jolt through him.

He felt you surrender in that moment, your lips parting just enough to invite more, and he responded instinctively, deepening the kiss, eager yet trembling with a hunger that was no longer just physical but deeply emotional.

His other hand moved, fingers trembling as they traced the line of your jaw, anchoring himself in the moment. He could feel your heartbeat; soft, steady; like a gentle drum guiding him deeper into this fragile, intoxicating intimacy.

And in that shared space, beyond words and control, he found himself losing every ounce of restraint he’d cultivated over centuries. Because for the first time, he wasn’t just the predator.

He was someone who had finally given in to the quiet, unyielding certainty that you were his; his refuge, his weakness, his obsession. And he would drown in that truth; bit by bit, moment by moment; until there was nothing left but the two of you, intertwined in a reckless, desperate need to be close.

His lips traced a gentle path from your mouth to your jaw, then down the line of your neck again, savoring the soft pulse beneath your skin. His hands, trembling slightly, found your waist, pulling you gently closer as if he could somehow absorb your warmth into himself.

He hesitated for a brief, almost painful second, then whispered against your skin, voice thick with longing and restraint. “Can I....may I draw some blood?” The words tasted like ash on his tongue, and he hated himself for how needy they sounded, how desperate.

He pulled away, his eyes searched yours desperately, pleading a silent, please, as if that one act could tether him back from the precipice of obsession. His voice cracked slightly, trembling with the weight of his need, “Just a little. I need to feel you, closer. Please.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your breath catching as you looked into his eyes, those dark pools filled with longing and something darker, more desperate than she’d ever seen.

Then, softly, you nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady, “okay. Just…a little.”

He didn’t waste a second. He lifted you wrist to his lips and pressed gently against it, teeth grazing your skin with a tender, almost reverent touch. The moment he broke your skin, your body stiffened, a faint gasp escaping your lips.

The sensation was unlike anything you'd expected; an odd mixture of warmth, a sudden rush of euphoria, and a prickling sensation that spread from your wrist outward. He felt you shiver faintly beneath him, the warmth of your blood calling to his primal hunger, but also to the part of him that craved your trust more than anything else.

His bite was slow and more careful than usual; not driven by hunger now, but by the desperate need to connect, to anchor himself in you, to remind himself that even the most untouchable could surrender in the face of something real.

You could feel the subtle, almost electric pulse of your blood flowing into him, and in that moment, you realized it wasn’t just the physical act, there was something deeper, more primal happening between you.

He drew slowly, deliberately, each pull of his mouth a careful meditation. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks, and a low, shuddering breath escaped his nostrils. He could feel your life threading into his, your heartbeat aligning with his own rhythm.

Your hand rested on his head, not to pull his hair, just to rest there, grounding yourself in the reality of what was happening. The initial sting had faded into a deep, spreading warmth that radiated from your wrist up your arm, pooling in your chest like honey. Your senses sharpened; the scent of his skin, cool and faintly metallic, the sound of his soft swallows, the weight of his body pressed against yours.

As your pulse fluttered beneath his lips, he knew; he would never let go of this moment, or you, ever again. Because in this act of surrender, you had both found a fragile, terrifying kind of truth: that even in his darkness, he was yours.

He pulled back after a long, dragging moment, lips stained crimson, a single drop trailing down his chin. His eyes opened, and they were no longer the dark, guarded pools from before; they were luminous, almost feral, yet softened by something achingly vulnerable. He licked his lips clean, savoring the last trace of you, then lowered your wrist, cradling it in both hands as if it were something sacred.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice rough like gravel and silk. “I…I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

"M-me either," you stuttered out in a daze.

He brought your wrist to his lips again, but this time only pressed a kiss to the tiny wound, tongue brushing over it once more, sealing it with a faint, tingling coolness. The sensation made you gasp again, a tremor running through your body as the bite mark began to heal, leaving only a faint dark line like a secret kept just beneath the surface.

He let your hand fall, then cupped your face, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his. There was no hunger left in his gaze; only a raw, desperate devotion.

You pushed him back with a sudden, assertive strength that caught him off guard, your hands sliding from his chest to his shoulders to pin him against the mattress. He let out a low, shaky exhale, his eyes widening as he looked up at you. The power dynamic shifted in an instant; the predator had become the prey, and the look of sheer, desperate submission in his eyes only fueled your fire.

Your tongue swept into his mouth without hesitation, a bold, commanding stroke that made him groan against your lips. His hands instinctively flew to your waist, but you caught his wrists and pressed them into the mattress on either side of his head. He stilled beneath you, a low shudder rippling through his frame as he yielded completely to your authority.

You broke the kiss, trailing your lips down his jawline, your breath hot against his skin. You could feel him trembling beneath you, his muscles taut, fighting the urge to take control while simultaneously craving your dominance. You shifted your weight, straddling his hips and feeling the hard ridge of his cock pressing through his clothes against your heat.

He let out a whimpering sound, his hands gripping the sheets almost ripping into them. "Shh," you breathed against his mouth, pulling back just enough to look down at him. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, eyes dark and liquid, filled with a devotion so raw it made your own heart clench. "My turn to take what I want."

A broken, desperate sound escaped his throat, not to protest, it was him fully surrendering. He didn't dare touch you without permission. You reached down, slowly peeling away your clothes and his, until you were both bare, the cool air of the room contrasting with the searing heat radiating between your bodies.

You leaned down, capturing his lips again, but this time you dictated the pace, biting his lower lip just hard enough to make him moan into your mouth. His lips parted, a tremor ran through his jaw. For a moment, he looked almost painfully human in his vulnerability, centuries of composure crumbling beneath your gaze.

Then his voice came, rough and wrecked against your lips. "Please," he rasped, the word cracking. "Please, let me taste you. All of you. I need to feel you come undone on my tongue. I need to worship you until there's nothing left of me but the sound of your pleasure. Let me have that. I'll be whatever you need. Yours, all yours. Please, please let me prove it."

The raw edge of desperation in his voice sent a hot thrill straight through you. You released his wrists and sat back, your thighs straddling his chest. His gaze traveled down your body, hungry, reverent, as if he were memorizing every inch of skin you revealed.

"Then show me," you said, sliding off to lie back against the pillows, pulling him with you. "Show me how badly you want it. Show me how much you belong to me then."

He moved quickly, but not hurriedly. His hands found your hips as he shifted down your body, kissing his way across your stomach, his mouth hot and open against your skin. He dragged his lips lower, tongue tracing the sharp curve of your hip bone, then the sensitive crease of your thigh.

When he reached your inner thigh, he paused. He turned his head and pressed a reverent kiss to the soft skin, lingering as if he could absorb your warmth through his lips alone.

Then you felt it; a faint, deliberate graze of his fang. Just a whisper of sharp pressure, a tiny sting that made you gasp. Blood pearled against your skin, dark and vivid.

He moaned; a low, guttural sound of pure, desperate need; and his mouth closed over the wound. He sucked gently, drawing the taste of you into his mouth, his tongue laving the tiny puncture with careful, reverent strokes. When he pulled away, his lips were stained crimson, a single drop trailing down his chin.

He looked up at you, eyes wild and darkened with hunger, but softened by something achingly tender. He pressed his mouth to the skin beside the wound, leaving a blood-stained kiss. Then another, higher. A trail of scarlet adoration, marching slowly, deliberately up your inner thigh, marking you as his even as you held the reins. He kissed and laved and tasted every inch of your flesh, worshipping the mingled taste of blood and salt and you.

He looked up at you, his lips stained red, his expression one of absolute worship. He was shaking now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wanted more, but he was waiting for you to give it to him. "You taste like everything I've ever been denied," he whispered against your skin, voice thick with emotion. "Eternity isn't long enough to savor you."

His mouth hovered at the very apex of your thighs. You could feel the heat of his breath against your folds, the damp warmth of his lips, the faint pressure of his thumbs parting you. But he paused. He looked up at you, his expression raw with need and devotion.

"I'll put them away," he promised, his voice a shattered whisper. "I'll be so gentle. I just need to feel you. Please."

You watched as his fangs retracted, sliding back into his gums until his smile was entirely human, entirely soft. He lowered his head.

His first touch was slow, deliberate; a flat, warm stroke of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. The sensation made you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily. He groaned against your cunt, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed, tasting you again. "You're exquisite. You taste even better than your blood."

He licked into you, exploring every fold, every hidden crevice. His tongue curled, dipping inside to gather more of your taste before dragging it back up to circle your clit. He was methodical, worshipful, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open, but his mouth was nothing but gentle pressure and wet heat.

He worked you slowly, savoring each tremble, each gasp. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner lips, to your clit, murmuring broken praises against your slick flesh.

"So beautiful," he whispered. "So perfect. I could drown here. I could spend forever right here, tasting you, pleasing you."

He increased the pressure on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly, then slowing to draw lazy circles. He was building you carefully, deliberately, every movement designed to push you higher without rushing you toward the edge.

When your breathing hitched and your thighs tightened around his head, he sensed it. He doubled his efforts, his tongue pressing flat against your clit, his lips closing around it, sucking gently. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as you began to writhe against his mouth.

"Cum for me," he whispered against your pussy, the words muffled but clear. "Let me taste you, please. Allow me feel you fall apart."

Those words, whispered against your most sensitive flesh, sent a shockwave straight through you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tide; hot, relentless, consuming. Your back arched, a cry tearing from your throat as you pulsed against his tongue. He drank it down, moaning against you, his tongue working you through every wave, every shudder, every broken gasp.

He didn't pull away until your hips stilled, your breath ragged and uneven. He pressed one final, gentle kiss to your clit, then rested his cheek against your thigh, looking up at you with eyes that held nothing but complete, utter devotion.

"I could spend forever right here," he whispered, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. "Right where I belong."

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him up until he was level with you, his lips still slick with your arousal. You kissed him slowly, deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue; a perfect, intimate loop of surrender and claim.

"Good," you murmured against his mouth. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

You shifted your body, placing a hand on his chest so he could lay back down. The power dynamic had been shifted, and the look in his eyes; wide, dilated, and shimmering with a desperate need to be used; told you he loved every second of it. He looked like a man starving, and you were the only thing in the world that could sate him, yet he remained perfectly still, waiting for your command.

"I want you inside me," you whispered, your voice a low command that made him shudder. "But I want you to wait. I want you to feel how much I want you first."

A low, pained whine escaped his throat. He reached up, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your hips, but he didn't dare pull you down. He was fighting every instinct to simply seize you and lose himself in you, holding himself back out of a raw, obsessive desire to please you exactly how you wanted.

"Please," he rasped, his voice sounding wrecked. "Please, let me feel you. I can't...I can't stand the distance."

You smiled, a slow, predatory curve of your lips, and slowly lowered yourself. You didn't slide all the way down; instead, you teased the head of his cock against your opening, rubbing slowly, circling the sensitive tip against your slick folds. He let out a choked gasp, his hips bucking upward instinctively, but you pressed a hand firmly against his chest, pinning him down.

"Patience," you murmured.

He groaned, his head falling back into the pillow, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The sight of him; this powerful, ancient creature reduced to a trembling mess beneath you; sent a surge of heat through your core. You began to move in a slow, agonizing rhythm, grinding your clit against the base of his shaft, teasing the entrance of your pussy with the crown of his length.

"You're so wet," he whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut. "You feel so hot....so perfect. I want to be inside you so badly I can taste it."

You leaned down, your breasts brushing against his chest, and whispered into his ear, "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me what you'll do for me."

"Anything," he whined, his hands finally gripping your waist, though he still didn't push. "I'll do anything. I'll spend a thousand years just learning how to make you scream. I'll be your protector, your toy, your everything. Just...please...let me in."

Satisfied with his desperation, you slowly began to sink. You didn't rush; you took him in inch by agonizing inch. You felt the stretch, the fullness of him filling you completely, and you let out a long, shaky breath as you bottomed out. He let out a loud, guttural cry, his eyes snapping open, filled with an intensity that felt almost spiritual. He looked as if he had finally found the center of his universe.

You stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies adjust, feeling the rhythmic thrum of his heart, slow and steady, against your own racing pulse. He was shaking beneath you, his muscles taut, fighting the urge to thrust upward and take control.

"Move for me," you commanded softly.

He obeyed instantly, but his movements were tentative, almost reverent. He began to thrust upward in slow, shallow strokes, his eyes locked on yours. He wasn't seeking his own release; he was watching your face, searching for every flicker of pleasure, every hitch in your breath. He was treating the act like a prayer, each slide of his cock into your heat a gesture of worship.

"Is this....is this okay?" he whispered, his voice thick with anxiety and devotion. "Do you like it? Tell me what you need. Do you want it harder? Faster? Just tell me, and I'll give it to you."

"Slower," you breathed, throwing your head back. "I want to feel every single bit of you."

He let out a shuddering breath and slowed even further, his thrusts becoming deep, grinding rotations. He focused on the angle, tilting his hips to ensure he hit your G-spot with every slide. When you let out a sharp, sudden moan, he froze, a look of pure triumph and adoration crossing his face.

"There," he whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I found it."

He began to maintain that specific rhythm, a slow, punishingly deep pace that built the tension in your lower belly until it felt like a coiled spring. He was completely attuned to you, his hands sliding from your waist to cup your butt, lifting you slightly to deepen the connection. He was needy, almost pathetic in his desire to ensure your pleasure, murmuring broken praises against your skin as he worked.

"You're so tight....so warm....I can feel you squeezing me, feel you pulsing" he groaned, his voice dropping an octave. "I love how you feel around me. I love that I'm the one filling you. You're mine....please tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasped, "Binnie—fuck—I'm yours, baby," your hips started meeting his, the pace quickening as the friction began to peak.

The admission broke something inside him. His movements became more urgent, though still focused entirely on you. He began to thrust with more power, the sound of your bodies slapping together filling the quiet room. He was still looking at you, his expression one of raw, obsessive love, his eyes darkening as he felt you beginning to tighten around him.

"You're cumming," he breathed, his voice a ragged edge. "I can feel it. Cum for me, my love. Give it all to me. I need it."

He accelerated, his thrusts becoming hard and rhythmic, driving deep into you, hitting that sweet spot over and over again. You clung to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, your head tossing from side to side as the orgasm began to build.

As you peaked, your walls clamping down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses, he let out a roar of surrender. He didn't pull away; he pushed deeper, burying himself as far as he could go, wanting to be as close to your soul as physically possible. He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he came inside you, a long, guttural sound escaping his throat that sounded like a sob of relief.

He collapsed above you, his chest heaving, his eyes clouded with an overwhelming mixture of lust and devotion. He didn't move to pull out; he simply held you as he turned you both on your side, wrapped in his arms, kissing your neck and shoulders with a desperate, clinging hunger.

"I love you," he whispered, the words sounding like a vow. "I am completely yours," forever." He paused for a moment, breathing in your scent, then gently traced a finger along the freckles on your shoulder, his gaze flickering with something darker, something vulnerable.

“You’re ovulating,” he murmured softly, almost in awe. “That’s why you’re reacting like this….we’re both caught in something uncontrollable now."

A soft, teasing smile curved your lips, and you looked up at him with a playful glint in your eyes. “Well,” you said softly, voice tinged with humor, “if my period is starting soon, I guess I’ll just have to keep you here every day, huh?”

His eyes darkened with desire, but a flicker of relief crossed his face. He hesitated for a moment, then a small, crooked smile formed on his lips. “Then I’ll be here,” he whispered, leaning down to brush a gentle kiss across your forehead. “Every day, if I have to. Because I don’t want to miss a single moment with you.”

You reached up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, and your voice dropped to a tender, teasing murmur, “Good,” you said softly. “Because I plan to keep you busy, every single day. No breaks, no interruptions.”

He chuckled quietly, a low, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest, “then I’ll gladly accept the challenge,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing. “Because I want all of you, every moment, every cycle, until there’s nothing left but us.”

You kissed him softly as your eyes started getting heavy, "I love you."

He smiled into the kiss, "I love you."

And in the quiet night that followed, neither of you spoke again, only the promise lingering between you: this was just the beginning, a story of passion and devotion that would continue, unbroken, until forever.