Steve’s gaze travels up to the mirror to see low-lidded, gleaming red eyes staring back at him.

“Ah,” he manages, breath momentarily caught in his throat.

“I don’t suppose”—the stranger leans even closer, his nose now almost brushing Steve’s jaw—“you’ve been waiting for me?”

Steve quickly gathers himself and tilts his head, meeting the other’s slow smirk with one of his own. “I don’t know, might’ve been checking you out since I walked in.”

“Couldn’t feel your stare at all,” the stranger murmurs.

Steve hums in reply, distracted by the sudden touch of cool hands sliding up his arms.

“How many drinks have you had?” the stranger asks, his voice rumbling in Steve’s ear.

“Wasn’t keeping count.”

“Oh?”

The hands slide further upward, slow and deliberate.

“Might be tipsy,” Steve says, relishing the way the touches linger in a pleasant buzz on his skin.

It’s only a matter of careless ripping before both of them are shirtless, heat and iciness warring in the little space between them.

“I’ve heard,” Steve says, his own hands traveling over pale, smooth skin, “that blood tastes sweeter with wine.”

He leans forward, so close their lips almost touch—a dare. “Is that true, stranger?”

The stranger grins, lips pulling back to reveal sharp fangs glinting under the harsh light of the bathroom. “Would you like to find out?”

He presses closer, and their lips brush briefly before Steve feels something unfamiliar against the skin of his neck.

“They say those who’ve felt my bite become…” The stranger laughs—teasing, tempting, like a predator luring its prey. “Inhuman.”

He laughs again, breath cold as the winds of winter. “Are you not afraid?”

Steve tilts his head to look at him, smirking again. A challenge. “Try me.”

The fangs pierce Steve's skin, and the loud, ringing music from the bar outside fades to white noise as pain lances up the side of his neck. Warmth trickles from the punctures, closely followed by the sharp scent of metal.

He sucks in a sharp breath at the foreign sensation and hears an answering chuckle.

“I don’t even”—he gasps as the stranger moves away from his neck and works his way downwards with his mouth, nipping at the spot above his collarbone without breaking skin and smoothing over the sting of pain with his tongue—“know your name.”

The stranger stops and raises an eyebrow up at him. “Is it that important?”

“Yes,” Steve says, breathing heavily. His brain is currently too occupied to remember the exact reasons why, but he’s pretty sure knowing his name is important. Of course, the fact that a finger is tracing idly over his inner thigh is not helping.

“Hmm, whether you obtain that information depends on how happy I end up tonight,” the stranger says, giving him a sharp smile that bares his now blood-stained fangs.

Steve bites back a groan as the stranger’s hands start wandering again, lingering dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans.

Vampires. Stupid, picky, filthy vampires, one of which is gazing at him like a lion about to devour its prey.

Steve smiles too, baring his teeth in return.