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Vanessa misses the key hole the first time she tries to unlock the door.
Her key scrapes against the metal of the lock, sharp and grating and way too loud in her ears. She swears under her breath and tries again, forcing her hands to slow down and blinking away the blurring at the edges of her vision. She gets it inside this time, blowing out a shaky breath and turning the key to unlock the bolt. It really takes everything inside of her to actually push the door open rather than sliding down the front of it.
She braces a shoulder against it and shoves, teeth gritting as the effort sends a hot wave of dizziness through her. She huffs once the door finally gives and stumbles inside, pushing it shut and leaning against it. She drags in slow, deep breaths, her lungs burning like they're on fire, and she presses her palms flat to the wood behind her like it'll help with her vision tunneling.
Her fangs are aching so bad that she wants to cry.
It's a deep, bone-rooted pressure that's crawling throughout her gums, pushing and pressing and insisting for something — someone — to bite into. She runs her tongue along the pointed edge of one hard enough that it pierces through, the copper taste of her own blood blooming warm across her mouth.
It doesn't help at all. If anything, it only makes things worse.
Her stomach drops so quickly that she lurches forward, swallowing the saliva and blood pooling in her mouth as the back of her head knocks against the door with a dull thud.
She hates getting this bad. It feels unfair, really — she has an endless supply of blood bags through her EMT job, and that should be enough, but it never is. The hunger — the real hunger — always creeps back in, claws at her chest and floods her mind with shades of scarlet until it drowns out everything else and demands to be dealt with.
She usually never lets herself reach this point. She sneaks out when the first signs hit, finds someone who can quiet it just enough — just enough — because she isn’t a killer, would never hurt anyone unless she had to. And if she can erase their memory afterward… then who is it really hurting, anyway?
She presses the heel of her hand hard against her chest like she can physically shove the hunger back down where it belongs. It responds by flaring hotter, a low, aching need curling through her stomach and up her spine until her knees threaten to buckle.
"Vanessa?"
She doesn’t answer.
Not because she can’t hear him — she can, painfully so — but because opening her mouth feels like it might let everything spill out. The hunger, the pain, the ugly edge she hates letting him see no matter how many times he tells her she's perfect how she is.
"Vanessa," he calls again. "Hey, I'm in the kitchen."
She pushes off the door then, because she can't really form the words in her mouth and she doesn't want him to wonder why she isn't replying, and she walks herself through the living room to the opening of the kitchen and leans into the doorframe.
It's all too loud.
The overhead light hums, the low, constant buzz digging into the edges of her skull. The food on the stove hisses and pops, the refrigerator clicks, and the faucet drips. Every noise swells and recedes, but she hardly notices any of it because beneath it all, beneath every other sound, there’s one that's louder than all of the rest.
Mike.
It's not just one thing, either — it’s the quiet draw of his breath in and out, the steady beat of his heart, the insistent thrum of his pulse, and the rush of blood coursing through his veins.
Her mouth floods again. She leans into the doorframe harder trying to remind herself that she’s still in control, that she can wait, and that she doesn’t have to collapse right here in the middle of the kitchen because that would be humiliating. She swallows hard, letting the saliva coat the dryness in the back of her throat. When Mike turns to look at her, his face immediately drops.
"Hey," he starts, already moving whatever he was cooking to the back burner. "Are you okay?"
She swallows again and nods, but it's shaky and makes her head feel even more dizzy, and she can't quite bring herself to look him in the eyes. "M'fine. Long shift."
The second she says it, she can tell that he isn't buying it. She can feel his eyes on her, and it makes her feel a little too exposed in the bright light of the kitchen. She straightens herself up a little more and drags her blurring vision from the floor up to his face, and he's looking at her with some mix of pity and sympathy that makes her face burn with embarrassment.
"I'm fine," she says again, clearing her throat this time so it doesn't come out as raspy and tired sounding.
Mike sighs and wipes his hands off on the dish towel slowly, like he's making an effort not to startle her — like he already knows the sound of cloth against skin would worm its way into her ears uncomfortably.
"Okay," he says quietly, dragging out the word a little because he definitely doesn't believe her, she knows it for sure now. "If you’re fine, then you won’t mind coming over here for a second."
No thanks.
She stiffens subtly — just a tightening through her shoulders and a clench in her jaw — but Mike notices anyway. His eyes soften even more, which somehow makes everything worse.
"I just wanna see you," he adds, and his voice is so quiet and soft compared to the loud of everything else. She hates that her feet listen before her pride does, hates that her body responds to him like he’s gravity and she’s already falling. She pushes off the doorframe and takes a few careful steps into the kitchen, stopping just short of him.
Up close, his heartbeat is even louder — a steady, heavy rhythm that fills her ears until it feels like it’s vibrating through her bones. She keeps her eyes locked on the rise and fall of his chest, because looking at his neck feels like a bad idea.
Not because she’d lose control and freak out and bite him — she never would with him, ever — but because the sound of his pulse there is thick and constant and inviting in a way that makes her stomach twist and her mouth ache and her head feel too light for her body.
"Look at me," he murmurs. He reaches a hand out and cups her face gently like she's something to be cherished — something to be revered, even like this — and he keeps his hand steady on her jaw until her eyes meet his.
She knows she looks as horrible as she feels. Can assume she's more pale than she already is, that her eyes are dark and glassy and her lips are parted in shallow, ragged breaths because everything inside of her burns.
"I'm fine," she forces out again, but it comes out a little strained and wobbly like she's trying really hard not to cry. Mike traces a thumb gently under her eye, slow and grounding against her normally cool skin, but the hunger has turned it hot and sticky and it only makes her feel worse.
"Have you eaten today?"
Like it matters.
She nods slowly, the motion delayed like she's moving underwater, and she blinks back the cloudiness in her eyes to focus better on him. "Had a bag at lunch."
He hums low in his chest, and she feels the sound more than she hears it. His thumb doesn’t stop moving, the small path back and forth igniting every nerve ending under her skin.
"Vanessa," he says firmly, and it makes her attention focus back on him a little sharper. "You’re shaking."
She notices it once he says it, can feel her body trembling and buzzing like something underneath her skin is trying to claw its way out. She didn't even realize how bad it was, and it makes her stumble a little closer until she's fisting her hand so tight in his shirt that her knuckles turn white.
It's unbearable up this close. His warmth presses into her front, radiating through her clothes, seeping into her skin. She can feel the exact shape of him without even trying — the steady movement of his lungs, the soft flex of muscle beneath his shirt, the living, breathing heat of him.
Her pupils blow wide. She knows they do, can feel the exact moment her world sharpens and narrows all at once, the way color drains except for the faint, imagined bloom of red beneath his skin. She feels tears prick at her eyes now and she pulls the inside of her lip between her teeth, biting down hard to keep the sound in her throat from turning into something humiliating.
It comes out anyway — a small, broken little whine, pathetic and desperate and wanting, and she hates how much it sounds like she can't control herself.
"Whoa, easy," he says softly, his hand moving to her neck out of reflex while the other comes up and settles on her hip to steady her. He digs his thumb into the skin where her pulse would be, not hard enough to actually hurt her, but enough that it refocuses her attention back onto him.
Her fingers curl harder into his shirt, and she can feel his heartbeat against her knuckles now, the insistent thud traveling up her arm and burrowing itself straight into her chest. It makes her dizzy — makes her hungry in a way that feels sharp and demeaning and endless.
"Don’t," she breathes, and she isn’t even sure what she’s telling him not to do. Don’t look at her like that. Don’t touch her like that. Don’t make it worse by being so calm about it.
"Don’t what?" he asks, his hand at her hip tightening just slightly.
She doesn't answer, only drags in another shaky breath and forces herself to swallow again, because she's salivating so much and she'd rather not drool onto the kitchen floor.
"When's the last time you fed for real?" he asks next — because of course he does — because he always goes straight for the one thing she likes to avoid most. Her throat tightens just thinking about it. She doesn’t want to answer — doesn’t want to admit how long it’s been — because it’s been too long, and the shame twists in her gut like a living thing.
"I told you," she manages, the defensiveness in her tone making her feel worse. "I had a bag at lunch."
His hand grips tighter at her waist. He's not doing it to be mean or to cause her any discomfort — because he would never — but because he knows how to handle her body better than she does in these moments.
"That's not what I asked."
He doesn't raise his voice — he never does when she's like this. She really wishes he would, wishes he'd yell or scream or give her something to latch onto that's not the quiet. If he yelled, she could push back. She could snap, bare her teeth, let the defensiveness carry her through like it always does — but she doesn't. The quiet strips her down and leaves her completely bare and exposed and gives her no space to hide.
"When," he repeats gently, thumb pressing into the skin above her hip bone, "is the last time you actually fed?"
She tries to calculate it through the haze — the last night she’d slipped out quietly, some stranger with a blurred face and loud pulse that had drowned out her restraint and better judgment — the last time she’d let herself sink her teeth into warm skin instead of plastic.
"…Last week," she says finally, sort of mumbles it out like he should know it already. When she manages to drag her gaze off the floor and back to his face, she can tell that he knows she's lying.
"Vanessa," he sighs, head tipped to the side like she's a child that broke something and didn't own up to it.
"What? That's— that's not that long."
His hand shifts upward then, gripping tight over her side.
"You're shaking so hard that your teeth are chattering," he starts, eyes raking over her face. "You can hardly stand up."
"I've been busy," she snaps suddenly, the words sharp and brittle and wrong in her own ears. "I’ve had work. We've been short-staffed. I don’t have time to just disappear whenever I feel a little hungry."
She wants to laugh at how ridiculous she sounds, because hungry doesn't even begin to cover this.
Hungry is five minutes in the supply closet with a blood bag. Hungry is a dull ache and a little irritability and maybe a headache if she waits too long.
This is something else entirely.
This is heat crawling under her skin and a hollowness so deep it feels like it’s carved straight through her ribs. This is Mike’s pulse so fucking loud in her head that she can't hear anything else, and beneath it all is a want that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with how good it feels to drink from someone she cares about — how different it is when it means something.
"Don't lie to me," he says, and his hand on her neck comes back up to cup her jaw, steady enough that she really can't look away from him anymore, so she blinks away the blur and focuses on the brown and gold and green of his eyes.
He's lucky he's pretty.
"I'm not lying," she mumbles, but her voice wobbles and she hates that it does.
"You are," he says, "I know when you're lying to me. You don't get like this after one week."
She hates that he's right. She hates that he knows her well enough to know the difference between normal hunger and this, the ugly mess she tries to keep hidden away because she hates what it turns her into. She leans into his hand without thinking, letting the warmth of it spread over her skin, and it only makes her fangs ache worse.
"Tell me how long," he says quietly.
Her throat works around nothing. She lets her eyes fall on the center of his chest because she doesn't want to see his face when she admits the truth.
"A month," she whispers, the shame and guilt of it all rising up in her throat and she blinks back the tears that are stinging in her eyes. "Maybe two. I don't know."
It sounds so much worse when she says it out loud. It makes her sound stupid and reckless, like she’s willingly letting herself fall apart. There's a part of her that thinks she deserves this, though — the ache, the gnawing emptiness, the hunger itself — because punishing her body is the only way to pay for what she is, like surviving it proves she’s worth more than this.
The silence presses against her, and she can already tell what he's thinking — that it's been too long, that she should've told him, that he could've helped way before she got to this point — and the shame crawls over her like fire.
“I didn’t mean for it to—" she starts, because she can't handle the silence and can't handle being looked at like she's something fragile. "I just kept putting it off and then it felt stupid to go out and— and I thought I could manage it with bags and I—"
Her voice fractures because another painful wave of hunger washes over her, and she thinks for a second that she might throw up.
"Jesus, Vanessa," he breathes out, and his eyes are full of so much worry that she really thinks she's going to be sick now. "You’re starving."
Starving.
She hates that word. It sounds so ugly, like she's desperate and out-of-control and feral. She wants to argue, to push back and tell him it's fine, that she can handle it, but his thumb moves over to the corner of her mouth before she gets the chance.
"Open."
"What?"
"You heard me," he says, gaze fixed on her lips. "Open your mouth."
She shakes her head, because when she's hungry like this her fangs get longer, like they need to sink deeper into flesh in order to be satisfied. She flicks her eyes away from his and clenches her jaw shut like it'll stop him from seeing her like this — like she's some depraved animal waiting to attack.
But then his hand catches her chin, holds her in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, and he tilts her head down a little more until she can't look anywhere but at him.
She hates how she only sees concern.
She slowly parts her lips then, opens just wide enough that a low whine slips from her throat as her fangs fully descend. They're so sensitive that even the cool air brushing against them makes her wince and try to jerk away from the sting.
Mike grimaces — not because he's afraid or thinks she looks bad — but because he knows she's in pain with just how sharp they are, and his thumb comes up from her chin to lift her top lip a little so he can see them fully. The ache in her gums is unrelenting, a hot thrum that seems to match the throb of the pulse in his hand, and it makes her stomach twist in frustration and need.
"God, Van," he breathes, tilting her head a little to the side so he can look at them better under the light. "They hurt, don't they?"
"So bad," she whimpers, the sound of it scraping its way out of her like it hurts just to admit it.
His thumb brushes over one fang lightly, like he’s tracing something delicate instead of something sharp enough to tear him open. The contact sends a jolt through her — not pleasure, not exactly, but relief-adjacent — like her body recognizes the feeling of skin in anticipation of blood.
"They’re so pretty," he murmurs, and his tone is honest and soft and reverent in a way that makes her chest ache almost as much as her gums do. "Do you know that? How pretty they are?"
She makes a small, broken sound — something embarrassed and needy all at once — because he says it all the time, and she's never quite gotten used to hearing it or dealing with how her body responds to it.
"They don’t feel pretty," she whispers, careful enough that she won't nick his thumb with the sharp point of the fang he's touching — though the thought of it is tempting and fleeting in her mind.
"I know," he says quietly, and his eyes flick back up to hers and he's staring in complete awe, like she's not one wrong move away from hurting him past the point of saving. "But they're beautiful."
His thumb drifts up just a little, barely grazing the sensitive skin near the root of her fang, and her knees almost give out. It's a little too much pressure and not enough all at once flaring hot underneath his touch, and it makes her breath catch in her throat.
He pulls away then, and she tries to follow the touch, but it makes her sway and stumble forward a little and she lets out a frustrated sound at the loss of warmth. He steadies her before she can tip fully into him, his grip firm on her waist and hand cupping her face, and her breath is coming too fast now because the loss of his thumb against her gum feels catastrophic, like something vital has just been ripped away.
"I hate this," she chokes out, swallowing hard because it feels like her throat is going to close up and her mouth won't stop watering, especially now that he's been near it. "I hate when I get like this."
"I know," he murmurs immediately, like he’s been waiting for her to say it. "You need to eat."
"Mike," she breathes, and it comes out strained — warning and plea all tangled together — because she knows what he’s offering before he even says it, because he's always offering, even when she's not hungry. It makes her skin prickle with anticipation and dread because she's terrified of how badly she even wants to hear it right now, even if she knows she'll deny him anyway.
"You can feed from me."
Her entire body reacts to the words before she can even help herself. Her fingers grip his shirt tighter, tugging him closer, and her breath stutters out in a thin, shaky rush that sounds embarrassingly close to a sob.
"No," she says automatically, but it comes out weak and tired because her body doesn't really agree with her mouth right now. It feels a bit like lying — like pretending she still has control when her body is shutting down and her fangs ache so badly it makes her eyes sting.
"Vanessa," he starts, moving to grip her chin again and tipping her head down. "You're hungry. You look like you're going to be sick. And I'm not letting you go out to find some stranger when I'm right here."
If she was more put together, she'd probably make some cunning remark about how possessive he sounds, would tease him about how eager he is — but she's not put together. She's completely unraveled, can feel it in the way her vision keeps tunneling and her head is throbbing.
"I don’t want to hurt you," she whispers instead, and it’s the most honest thing she’s said all night, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it softens further, all wide-eyed and head tilted like they're talking about something completely normal.
"You won’t."
"You don’t know that." Her voice cracks. "I haven’t— I haven’t fed properly in a while. I don’t know what I’ll do."
His thumb strokes along her jaw again, steady and gentle. "You’ll do exactly what you always do," he says quietly. "You’ll take what you need, and you'll stop if I tell you to."
He makes it sound so easy, like he trusts her so completely with his life — like there has never been a universe where she would ever hurt him beyond what he’s willing to give.
She shakes her head anyway, small and frantic.
"You don’t know that," she repeats, but there’s less fight in it now. "I’m not— I’m not steady right now."
"I know," he says softly.
That’s the worst part, really. He does know — knows her hands are shaking, knows her legs are weak, knows her restraint is stretched so thin it feels like it'll snap at any second — and he’s still standing here, still touching her like she’s something precious instead of dangerous.
His hand slides from her jaw down to her wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently. "C'mon."
"Mike—"
"We're not doing this in here," he finishes, slowly walking her backwards, moving her compliant limbs like she's something that would shatter if she fell.
He keeps one hand wrapped around her wrist and the other firm at her waist as he guides her out of the kitchen and into the living room. The lights are dimmer here, the lamp casting warm yellow instead of harsh white, and the absence of the kitchen’s buzzing takes the edge off the pressure in her skull.
He eases down onto the couch first, hands steady on her like he’s done this a hundred times before — because he has, because he knows exactly how to position her when she’s like this and she's a bit too cooperative for her own good. She lets him pull her forward until her knees bracket his thighs, and he guides her hips down until she settles fully on his lap.
It’s too much. It makes everything worse.
His heartbeat is everywhere.
It’s under her palms where they flatten against his chest for balance. It’s between her thighs where she’s straddling him, the solid heat of him grounding and overwhelming all at once. It’s constant in her ears like someone turned the volume of the entire world down except for him.
She makes a small, wrecked sound and drops forward before she can stop herself. Her forehead bumps into his shoulder first, then her face turns, pressing into the side of his neck. She doesn’t bite — doesn’t even open her mouth despite the overwhelming urge — just buries her face there and god, it's unbearable.
His pulse is right there against her cheek, hammering steady and strong, and the sound of it floods her head until she sees everything through a crimson haze.
"Vanessa," he says quietly.
"I can hear everything," she whispers against his skin, shaking her head against his shoulder. "It’s so loud. You’re so loud."
"I know," he murmurs, letting one hand rub up and down her back in a soothing line while the other brushes the hair off of her neck, cupping at the base of her hairline. "I know."
She inhales deeply before she can stop herself, and it's an awful mistake.
The scent of him fills her lungs completely — skin and salt and something that's just him — and her fangs throb in response, a sharp, needy pulse that makes her hips press down unconsciously into his lap. Her lips brush the side of his neck, and she can feel her fangs painfully descend into her bottom lip.
"Hey," he says, hand threading up to hold in her hair. "Look at me."
There’s something in his tone that cuts through the roar in her ears. Reluctantly, like it physically hurts to do it, she drags her face away from his neck. For a second she almost dives back down, chasing it on instinct, but his hand at her back guides her upright.
Her eyes are blown wide and rimmed red when they finally meet his, and she has to swallow before anything humiliating spills out of her mouth. He smiles softly like this is nothing new, like she’s not shaking in his lap over the smell of his blood.
"You're okay," he says, moving his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I’ve got you."
That’s the problem, she thinks.
Because he always has her, and she wants him in a way that feels unfair — wants the sound of his heart to quiet the screaming in her veins, wants the ache in her gums to finally ease, wants to taste him so bad that she thinks she's about to sob.
His hand slides down along her jaw until he pulls away, and turns his wrist upward, exposing the soft skin there — pale and vulnerable and so terribly tempting — and brings it up between their faces.
"Here," he says. "I want you watching me."
Her entire body goes still, and she stares at his wrist like it might vanish.
"Mike," she breathes, and her voice shakes so badly she barely recognizes it. "I don’t—"
"You do," he interrupts gently. "And you’re not going to hurt me."
He brings his wrist closer until she can feel the heat of his skin against her lips without actually touching. The scent of him blooms stronger, and her fangs throb in response so sharply that a whimper slips out of her.
"Look at me," he says again.
She forces her gaze up from his wrist to his face, and the trust there almost hurts worse than the hunger. He isn’t afraid — he never is. There’s no tension in him except for the natural anticipation of what’s coming. His thumb rubs slow circles into her hip like he’s reminding her that she’s present and in control.
"Take what you need," he says, "and keep your eyes on me. I'll tell you if it's too much."
Carefully — so carefully — she cups his offered wrist in both hands. She runs a thumb gently over his veins, feeling them jump under her touch, and she presses her pointer and middle finger to his pulse point like she needs a reminder that he's real and alive and that he wants this — wants her.
She presses an open-mouthed kiss to the skin, and the contact alone sends another dizzying rush through her. She lets her fangs graze him lightly, not piercing yet, just feeling the give of skin beneath the sharp points. She kisses his wrist again before pulling back to look him in the eyes.
When she sees no resistance — no fear or panic — she kisses his wrist one last time and finally, finally bites down, letting her fangs sink cleanly into his skin.
For half a second there’s nothing — just the warmth of him against her lips, the steady drum of his pulse under her tongue — and then his blood floods into her mouth.
It’s hot. Hotter than she ever expects, every single time, and she's not sure if she'll ever get used to it. It pours over her tongue thick and metallic-sweet, the first swallow nearly making her choke.
Relief hits her violently, a shudder tearing down her spine as the ache in her gums eases in the same pull that her stomach unclenches. The hollow cavern inside of her ribs fills with warmth, spreading outward in slow, molten waves. She makes a broken, involuntary sound against his wrist — half moan, half sob — because she hadn’t realized just how bad it had gotten until this exact second. She can feel a tear roll slowly from the corner of her eye when she blinks her focus back onto Mike, keeping her eyes on him just like he said.
Her hands tighten around his forearm as she drinks again, slower this time. She forces herself to pace it, to feel each swallow instead of drowning in it how she wants to. His blood slides down her throat like velvet silk, settling heavy and soothing in her stomach before blooming outward through her limbs, and her hips press down into his lap without her meaning to.
"Easy," he murmurs, voice rougher now, and she feels the vibration of it travel through his arm straight to her mouth.
She moans softly at that — actually moans — because even the sound of him is intoxicating layered with his blood on her tongue. She adjusts her mouth slightly, deepening the angle so she can drink more comfortably, and she can feel his breath hitch at the movement. His blood grows richer the more she takes, as if her body is coaxing it out of him, each throb of his pulse pushing more of the copper taste onto her tongue.
His hand slides up her side, pressing into the curve of her waist, then higher to her ribs as if he needs to anchor himself. The contact makes her body spark — every nerve ending awake now that the worst of the hunger has been fed. She drinks a little more — savoring the taste and the way his eyes haven't left hers once — until she finally forces herself to stop.
It takes so much effort to pull her mouth away from his wrist. A thin line of blood trails out before she leans down and seals the wounds with a slow sweep of her tongue, cleaning whatever had dripped out in the process. His skin knits closed beneath her touch, and she brushes her lips over the smooth skin, peppering the area with soft, apologetic kisses.
He's looking at her like she hung the stars in the sky just for him.
"Are you okay?" she asks softly, her voice deeper and more steady now, a little out of breath from drinking for so long.
He lets out a shaky laugh under her. "I was gonna ask you that."
His eyes are blown wide, pupils dark, his chest rising a little faster than before. There’s a flush creeping up his neck — but whether it's from blood loss or something else entirely, she’s not sure. She studies him for a long second, searching for any hint of strain — any hint that she’s taken too much — but she's only met with some mix of adoration and reverence.
"I'm okay," she exhales shakily.
He searches her face for a long second, like he’s measuring the difference — which there is one, she can tell without even needing to look. She doesn’t feel like she’s looking at the world through fog anymore. Her breathing is still deep, but it no longer scrapes its way out of her. She feels stronger now, like she can feel her muscles waking back up all throughout her body.
A faint smear of red stains the corner of her mouth — not much, just the smallest trace that she hadn't noticed — and his eyes flick to it.
"Hold still," he murmurs.
Her brows knit together. "Why?"
He doesn’t answer. He lifts his thumb instead, brushing the corner of her mouth, and her entire body stills at the contact. His skin drags gently over her lower lip, collecting the thin streak of blood that lingers. He pulls his hand back just enough to glance at his thumb — now stained faintly red — before his eyes return to hers.
"You missed a spot," he says quietly, and her gaze immediately drops to his thumb. It’s such a small amount — barely anything — but after everything, after the taste of him still coating her tongue and warming her body, it feels like too much — like he’s showing it to her on purpose.
He brings it closer to her mouth and her lips part automatically. She hesitates for half a second — just long enough to flick her eyes back to his face — and then she leans forward and lets her tongue slide out. She traces the pad of his thumb carefully, collecting the blood in one slow stroke of her tongue before wrapping her lips around him completely.
The taste is faint, mostly just him — skin and salt and warmth — but she keeps her mouth there, tongue sliding along the underside of his thumb as she draws it in deeper, bringing her hand up to his wrist to keep him there.
Because it’s not about the blood anymore, really.
It’s about the way he’s watching her.
She hums around his thumb, eyes fluttering for a second before forcing them open again to look at him. She keeps her fangs carefully tucked back, letting her tongue do the work instead. Her other hand presses flat over his chest so that she can feel the way his heart beats quicker as he watches her.
She pulls back just enough for his thumb to slide from between her lips, a thin string of saliva catching the light before it breaks. His thumb leaves her mouth slowly, not because he pulls it away fast — he doesn't at all — but because she lets it drag against her lower lip like she’s reluctant to give it back.
When he starts to pull away — when she feels the loss of contact against her lip — something panicked flares in her chest. Before she can stop herself, before she can even process how humiliating it is to react like this, she leans forward again and catches his thumb between her teeth. She doesn’t bite down hard, just applies enough pressure to stop him — just enough to say don’t without having to actually say it.
He fucking smiles when she does it.
She feels her face heat up because she can only imagine what she must look like — her lips stained red and pupils so blown they swallow all of the color — and he's smiling like he expected her to do it, like he only pulled away to see if she'd follow.
"Ouch," he teases, bringing the rest of his fingers to hook under her chin, forefinger resting along the line of her jaw. "Didn't think you were still hungry."
Like she isn't always hungry when it comes to him.
She tries to let go of his thumb so she can reply back with something smart, but before she gets the chance, he's tugging her closer. Not fast or aggressive, only pulls her into him just enough that she has to go with it.
Her hand shoots back to brace on the couch cushion behind him so she doesn’t fall into him, her other hand still splayed over his chest. She readjusts so her nails don’t catch in the fabric of his shirt, because the last thing she needs right now is to tear a hole through it — which already happens more often than it should, because she just can't help herself sometimes.
He keeps guiding her in, slow and steady until they’re too close and their noses are nearly brushing. She lets his thumb slip out from between her teeth before she accidentally bites down harder, and then — because of course he does — he drags it down her bottom lip again. He leaves it resting on her chin this time, wet with her spit, like he’s not even trying to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what he's doing.
She swallows slowly, pressing her tongue against one of her fangs as if that might distract her mind, but feeding has always made her over-sensitive in a way that makes everything feel amplified — like her nerves are sitting right at the surface of her skin, and every place where their bodies are touching feels like it's too much and not enough all at once.
The hunger isn’t clawing at her anymore, though — isn’t hollowing her out from the inside — but it’s changing shape. It’s settling lower, warm and coiling in her stomach instead of tearing through her ribs. She can feel the way everything slows down — the adrenaline tapering off, the tension bleeding into something thicker — and her gaze flicks down to his mouth before she even realizes it.
"You okay?" Mike asks quietly, thumb just barely grazing the line of her lower lip. She nods small, but she doesn't look up at his eyes when she does. She's still staring at his mouth, fixated on the way his lips move when he speaks and how they're still curved into the smallest smile.
"Vanessa."
The way he says her name makes her blink and drag her gaze up to him, eyes guilty and a little dazed. "What?"
His smile grows a little wider, and his thumb moves to her cheek now, rubbing back and forth gently across her skin.
"You were staring," he murmurs.
She feels her face flush. "No I wasn't."
"You were," he insists softly, all amused and fond. His hand slides to brush her hair out of her face before dropping to her waist. "At my mouth."
She curls her fingers against the cushion of the couch before moving them to grip onto his shoulder.
"I was not," she huffs, but her voice is softer and less defensive.
It’s hard to argue when she can still taste him on her tongue — when the warmth of his blood is settling heavy and sweet inside her — and it makes her thoughts go syrup-slow and body lean into his like the warmth in her veins is drawn back to its source. She's never been good at separating hunger from want, and right now they're wound so tightly that she can't find the edge of either one of them.
"Okay," he says, hands rubbing up and down her sides slowly. "Then you weren't."
She hates when he does that — when he just accepts whatever flimsy excuse she gives him and keeps touching her like she isn’t two seconds away from unraveling completely in his lap. His hands slide a little higher on her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs, and the slow, absent rhythm of it makes her want to crawl out of her skin.
"I can still taste you," she suddenly admits. She swallows and lets her gaze drop back to his mouth, because pretending feels pointless when he already knows.
His hands slow down against her sides, which almost feels worse than if he would've stopped altogether. "Yeah?"
She nods and lets her tongue drag lightly over her bottom lip as if to prove it, and his eyes follow the movement immediately. His thumbs press into her waist just a little firmer, her shirt doing nothing to stop the heat from seeping through.
"Is it good?" he asks quietly.
She huffs out a breathy laugh. "You know it is."
"I wanna hear you say it."
Oh.
Her lips part in a small, helpless sound before she can stop it. She knows she shouldn’t say it because the second she does, it’s going to unravel whatever thin thread of control she’s clinging to. But his hands are so warm and steady on her waist, and she can still feel the echo of his pulse under her tongue, and she wants to kiss him so badly that her hips rock into him before she can help herself.
The movement is small, but it drags a sharp breath out of him all the same. She feels it under her palm where it's braced against his chest, feels the way his heartbeat stutters and then pounds harder in response.
Her face burns.
"It’s good," she whispers finally, because he asked her to say it and she’s never been able to deny him when he uses that tone or when his blood is threading through her. "You taste so good, Mike."
"Good," he mumbles, eyes still locked in on her lips.
There’s something about the quiet pride in his voice — like he’s glad she enjoyed it, like this was always something meant to be shared between them — and maybe that's why she finally winds her hands into his shirt and pulls until his lips crash into hers.
Their mouths collide a little harder than she means them to, all teeth and breath and the faint metallic taste of his blood still lingering on her tongue. She kisses him like she’s starving all over again — like this is another way to take from him — drinking him in through desperate gasps and parted lips.
Her hand fists tighter in his shirt, dragging him closer even though there’s nowhere left to go. His back hits the couch cushion fully now, and she follows him without breaking the kiss, her hand sliding up from his chest to cup the side of his face. She licks into his mouth, chasing the taste of him that’s already there, and she lets out a breathy groan when her tongue brushes against his.
It doesn't take long for her to break away from his bruised lips, trailing hurried, open-mouthed kisses down the line of his jaw and towards his ear, letting her teeth graze the skin just beneath it. He tilts his head as she continues down his neck, giving her better access as she maps him out slowly with her lips.
She presses a kiss under his jaw, then another one lower, her breath turning uneven when she feels the steady thrum of his pulse under her lips. She traces over the line with her tongue, savoring the rhythm of it, and his hands grip her waist tighter in response.
Her lips move to the other side of his neck, alternating between soft kisses and slow drags of her tongue like she can’t decide what she wants more, and she doesn’t even realize she’s rocking against him until the friction hits just right and a broken sound spills out of her mouth.
Heat floods her face at the thought of him commenting on it, so she lifts her head just enough to find his mouth again. She kisses him like she’s trying to steal the moment back, like she's trying to swallow whatever smart remark he was about to say, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth and sucking roughly.
She releases his lip and slows down a little, like she’s trying to pour everything she’s feeling into it — the heat crawling under her skin, the restless ache low in her stomach, the way every small movement between them makes her want more.
"Bedroom," she suddenly breathes against his lips.
He huffs out a quiet laugh against her mouth — not really teasing or mean — just a breathless little sound like he didn't expect her to want it so soon.
"Bedroom?" he repeats, mumbling it into her mouth.
"Please," she whines, barely pulling back long enough to say it before her mouth finds his again. She can feel his smile grow bigger against her mouth, and it makes her nip at his bottom lip like she needs to remind him she’s serious. His hands tighten at her hips when she nips, fingers pressing in just enough that she rolls forward again, her kisses growing messy and rushed.
She doesn’t stop kissing him even as he shifts beneath her. It’s clumsy for a second — their mouths bumping and teeth knocking — because she refuses to give him space. If anything, she clings tighter, like she thinks he might change his mind if she gives him room to think or breathe.
His hands slide from her hips to the sides of her thighs, and she lets out a startled little gasp when he sits up fully, pulling her flush against him. His hands shift her so he can slide them fully under her thighs, gripping as he pushes up to stand, lifting her with him in one steady motion. She clings to him immediately, arms wrapping around his neck and legs hooking around his waist tightly so she doesn't fall.
He barely makes it three steps before she’s kissing him again, letting her fingers thread up into his hair to keep him close, and he huffs a quiet laugh into her mouth.
"Vanessa," he murmurs, trying to pull away from her lips. "I need to see where I'm going."
She makes a frustrated little sound at that, settling for kissing down his jaw and burying her face in his neck like that solves the problem. She barely registers the walk down the hallway, only knows they've made it to the bedroom once she hears the door click shut, the sound signaling she can drag her lips back to his.
She kisses him like she's making up for the lost time apart, like she only let him breathe so he could carry her faster. Her fingers slip back into his hair, dragging them over his scalp until she draws another low groan from him.
He finally manages to bump into the edge of the bed, muttering some swear into Vanessa's mouth as he tries to keep from dropping her onto the mattress. He lowers slowly her instead, hands still gripping tight at her thighs, the world tilting until her back softly bounces against the mattress.
Her hands are back in his shirt before he’s even fully caught his breath, fingers curling into the material as she drags him down to her again. Their mouths meet in another dizzying kiss, all heat and urgency, like she can’t stand even a second of space between them. He steadies himself with one hand braced beside her head, the other settling on her thigh, moving up and down in an unhurried motion that makes her back arch off the mattress and hips grind upwards.
She keeps her legs locked around his waist, heels pressing in just enough to pull him closer until she can feel the warmth of him between her thighs. It draws a soft, breathless sound from him, and she answers it by kissing him deeper, like that might somehow bring him closer.
She finally manages to untangle her fingers from his shirt, running them down his torso until they graze under the hem, dancing her fingers over his skin until the muscles in his stomach tense. She trails them to his back, trying to drag her nails higher, but the fabric gets in the way. She lets out a frustrated grunt and pulls away from his mouth just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere on the floor and immediately kissing him again.
She presses her palms flat against his chest now, nails digging in just enough that Mike hisses and breaks the kiss to look at her, his eyes a little wide and lips swollen. She chases him on instinct, but he manages to dodge her mouth and presses his lips to her jaw instead. She exhales sharply, head tipping back as his mouth traces the line of her jaw slowly — slower than the frantic pace she's trying to keep. She turns her face toward him, chasing his lips again, but he keeps just out of reach and brushes a kiss beneath her ear instead.
She huffs out a breath because she can feel the way he's grinning into her skin, tongue and teeth grazing like they have all the time in the world — which Vanessa very much does not. She busies her hands by sliding them down his front, impatient and a little uncoordinated from how worked up she is. She presses her palms flat to his stomach first, then drags them lower, fingers catching on the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Nessa," Mike mumbles, dragging his face from her neck.
She ignores him as her fingers hook into the fabric and tug. It doesn’t budge much with his weight still half over her, so she shifts her hips and squirms beneath him, trying to get enough leverage. The movement makes her brush against him again, and she inhales sharply, distracted for half a second before she remembers what she’s doing.
"Hold still," she mutters, breathless and bossy in a way she absolutely hasn’t earned.
He huffs a quiet laugh at that, leaning so she can actually tug them off instead of fighting against them. She pushes the fabric past his hips and thighs, and he shifts a little so she can shove them the rest of the way off.
She props herself up on her elbows then and lifts her hips, fingers fumbling for the waistband of her leggings. They cling stubbornly to her legs when she tries to push them down, and she makes a frustrated little sound under her breath because she's very clearly struggling and Mike is no fucking help. He watches her until she finally manages to wriggle them off, and when she meets his eyes again, he looks entirely too amused.
"You good?" he asks mildly.
Asshole.
He doesn't wait for her to respond — because she's glaring right through him and that's answer enough — only grabs hold of her hips and shifts her upwards closer to the pillows. He lowers his head back to her neck, cupping her jaw and tilting her head to the side so he has better access to run his tongue over her skin.
He goes even slower than before, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, humming when she lets out breathy moan. She's always been unfairly sensitive on her neck, and feeding from him has only made it worse. She can feel the way her mind goes hazy and her thoughts quiet down to just the feeling of him against her, and it makes her hips buck up against the strain in his boxers.
His hands drift higher now, grazing underneath the hem of her shirt, the feeling of his thumbs across her stomach causing her head to tip back. He brushes them along the lines of her hipbones, grazing the edges of her panties before drifting further up, dipping just beneath the band of her bra.
"Off," she whines, panting out as his teeth graze near the collar of her shirt.
He trails soft kisses back up to her mouth like he didn't hear her, like he has no intention of rushing just because she wants him to. His lips finally meet hers again, slipping his tongue over hers to coax another helpless sound from her throat. His hands keep moving over her stomach in lazy, unhurried patterns, dipping just beneath the waistband of her underwear before drifting away again like it doesn't make her writhe beneath him.
"Take it off," she says again, it coming out choked like the words are being pulled straight from her mouth. He smiles into her lips and pulls back just enough so that he can look at her.
"You're impatient," he teases, fingers gripping the hem of shirt and slowly pulling it up her body inch by inch, not tearing it off of her like she clearly wants him to do. She can feel the material as it grazes her stomach and ribs, then over the swell of her chest until she finally sits up for him to pull it over her head.
In the time it takes him to toss it to the floor, she's already reaching for her bra. She doesn’t look at him when she shrugs it off — doesn’t give him the slow reveal he was clearly working toward — just pulls it over her head and throws it somewhere behind him with far less patience than he apparently has.
The look on his face lasts all of half a second before she's dragging his lips back to hers. He exhales shakily into her mouth as his fingers spread over her ribs before sliding higher, thumbs brushing over her chest until they swipe over her nipples and pull a sharp breath right out of her.
She gasps against his mouth as her back arches off the mattress, chest pressing up into his hands to chase the feeling. Her fingers tangle in his hair again, gripping tighter, like she needs something to hold onto while he touches her like that. His thumbs keep moving, circling and brushing, not quite giving her enough pressure to settle the restless ache building under her skin.
"Feel good?" he mumbles against her lips, slowing the pace of the kiss so she can focus better on how his hands feel. She lets out an embarrassing whimper and nods fast because it's so good, even with the teasing amount of pressure he's using. He smiles faintly, tongue flicking over hers until her mind goes blank and her cunt flutters uselessly around nothing.
"Flip us," she manages, the words barely making it past the way his thumbs are still circling. His hands slow even more as he pulls back to look at her, breathing a little heavy against her lips. Then he smiles, presses a few slow kisses around her mouth — one at the corner of her lips, one beneath her cheekbone, one along her jaw — like he’s rewarding her for asking so sweetly.
He slides his hands to her hips, gripping firmly so that he can roll and tug her with him until she's suddenly upright, straddling his lap right over where his cock is pressing up.
It makes her overwhelmingly aware of how wet she is — the fabric of her underwear completely soaked through — and the pressure against her clit causes her to press down harder. Mike's grip tightens on her hips, thumbs pressing into the curve of her waist to hold her steady and let her adjust. She swallows, eyes flicking down between them before she looks back up at him and finally lets herself rock into him.
It starts slow, but the second the friction hits right, it’s like something inside her snaps. A soft, wrecked sound spills from her mouth before she can stop it, and she presses down harder, grinding against him with a needy, uncoordinated urgency.
Mike exhales through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on her waist. He’s affected — she can feel it in the way his head tips back and how hard he is — but he still drags her into him like he knows how bad she needs it.
Her hands don’t stay still for long, dragging down his chest then back up into his hair, fingers curling tight as she rocks again, harder and faster. The friction pulls another helpless sound from her throat, and she presses her forehead to his, their lips brushing every time her hips move.
She can feel how worked up she is as her rhythm grows messier, how every movement just feeds the ache instead of easing it, and how it only makes her chase it more. Her hips roll in hurried circles, Mike pulling her into him over and over as the pressure coils tighter inside of her.
She drops her mouth to his neck when he lets out a soft grunt and jerks his hips up, the sound of it shooting straight to her cunt. Her lips drag over his skin, and when her face settles into the curve of his throat, she feels the quick thrum of his pulse hard under his skin.
She presses her lips there, not even kissing — just feeling it. The rhythm startles her in a way that makes her head spin, something deeper and more instinctive curling low in her stomach. The heat between her legs tangles back up with the hunger in her chest, and for a second she can't tell which is louder.
Her hips slow gradually, her movements turning uneven against him until they almost stop altogether. The frantic grind that had her chasing her high melts into something distracted — shallow rolls that lose their rhythm halfway through like her body forgot what it was reaching for.
Mike notices immediately, his hands tightening at her waist and fingers tapping her side to get her attention.
"Hey," he breathes, "where’d you go?"
She doesn’t answer. Her mouth is still pressed to his throat, lips hovering right over the jump of his pulse. Her hips give one small, restless rock, but it’s almost thoughtless now. Mike's hand slides up her back, and he leans them back against the pillows, his other hand coming up to cradle her neck.
"Vanessa…"
She shakes her head faintly, like she doesn’t want him pulling her out of it. Her fingers curl into his shoulders, grounding herself there while her mouth drifts over the sensitive spot again.
"I need to—" she starts, swallowing hard and blinking against the red tint edging into her vision. "Can I feed again?"
Her fingers tighten against him when he doesn’t answer right away.
"I’ll be careful," she rushes, voice shaky. "I swear, I just— it’s right here. I can feel it. I can hear it."
Her hips give one faint shift against him, but she barely seems aware of it. All her attention is fixed on the rhythm under her lips.
"Please, Mike," she murmurs, almost a whine now. "I'll be good, I promise."
"Vanessa," he finally cuts in, smoothing down her hair. "You can feed, it's okay."
The relief hits her so fast it makes her dizzy.
"Yeah?" she breathes, like she needs to hear it again to believe it.
"Yeah," he repeats. "Just stay with me."
"I am," she promises. "I’m right here."
She cups the side of his neck then, kissing softly over the area where she plans to bite. She can already feel her fangs descend — shorter than before now that she's not starving — and she let's them graze his skin, letting him adjust to the sharp feeling.
She presses one more soft kiss there — a quiet thank you — and then she bites slowly until her fangs pierce through.
The taste of him floods her mouth, warm and familiar and indulgent, and she has to close her eyes for a second just to steady herself. Relief rolls through her in a slow, heavy wave, easing the sharp edge that had suddenly overtaken her.
She lets herself savor it, lets the warmth roll through her slowly instead of tearing through her like a storm. It spreads heavy and sweet in her chest, and she moans into his skin because it's everything at once — comfort and warmth and quiet and him.
That’s what makes it feel different. Not just the taste — though that’s familiar and grounding — but the trust. The way his hands stay on her, holding her like he'd rather bleed than let her feel bad. She doesn't really know what to do with the feeling of taking and still being wanted.
She takes a few more slow pulls, letting him coat her tongue and the back of her throat before finally pulling away, licking his wounds to seal them shut. She leaves a few more grateful kisses over the area before sitting herself up to look at him, drinking in the way his lips are parted and eyes are a little wild.
"Are you okay?" she asks quietly, because the fear of taking too much always claws at her, and she doesn't want him feeling light-headed or sick because of her. She can feel the way his blood drips from the corner of her mouth — because feeding while laying down is always messier — and she swipes at it with her tongue like she's almost embarrassed. "I didn't take too much, did I?"
His gaze darkens when she licks at her lips, and she can feel his hands grip tighter at her thighs. He swallows like he's trying finding his words again.
"You look unreal right now."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, something inside of her snaps. She surges forward and kisses him again, mouth crashing into his like she needs to inhale the way he said it — like she needs to shut him up before he can say anything else that makes her lose her mind.
The taste of him is still there, smeared faintly across her lips from where she didn’t wipe it all away. There’s a split second where he inhales sharply into her mouth, and she knows he can taste himself on her tongue — copper and heat and something that’s entirely them now. It only makes her kiss him deeper and messier, like she wants to ruin the clean lines of his mouth with it.
Her fingers knot into his hair, holding him still while she licks into his mouth again, sucking on his tongue like she's trying to taste whatever she can off of it. He makes a low sound at the back of his throat, and she moans at the vibration of it on her lips. For a second he lets her have it — lets her press him down and lets her mouth take and explore and linger — then his hands grip firmly at her waist.
She barely registers the shift before he’s moving, rolling them in one smooth motion that steals the breath from her lungs. The mattress dips under her shoulders as her back hits the sheets, and suddenly he’s above her, braced on his forearm, the other hand still attached to her waist.
His mouth is covered in blood.
Vanessa feels her cunt throb.
Heat rushes low and heavy between her thighs, sharp enough that her hips twitch upward before she can stop herself. Her eyes lock on his mouth — on the way the red stands out against swollen lips and flushed skin — and her thighs automatically fall open.
His gaze drops at the movement, watching the away her legs spread like an invitation before returning to her face. He drags his tongue slowly over his lower lip, smearing it a little like he knows exactly what it's doing to her and he has every intention of making it worse.
Without breaking eye contact, her hands slide down his chest until she hooks her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulls. He lifts his hips just enough to help, eyes dark and focused as she shoves the fabric down over his thighs and off completely, letting them fall somewhere near the edge of the bed.
She reaches down to herself next, fingers hooking into the thin fabric still clinging to her hips, lifting slightly to drag her panties down. The material slides over her thighs before she nudges them the rest of the way off with a small, impatient kick, letting her legs fall back open immediately after.
She brings his face down for another messy kiss, humming at the sweet metallic taste that still lingers. She holds his face before letting one of her hands slowly creep down again, nails dragging across his skin as she goes to reach for his cock. She makes it to the middle of his stomach before she feels his wrist wrap around hers, firm enough to stop her and pin her hand above her head.
Her breath catches hard in her throat.
"Mike—" It comes out thin and wrecked, more want than protest. He doesn’t break the kiss right away, letting it last a little longer before finally pulling back just enough to look at her. His fingers tighten around her wrist, pushing her hand further into the pillows.
"What?" he asks, lips curling into a small smile.
She tries to move her other hand then — because she’s stubborn and needy — but he catches that one too, guiding it up to join the other. She swallows hard, eyes flicking down between them and back up to his face.
"Don’t look at me like that," she mutters.
"Like what?"
"Like you’re about to make me wait."
He smiles bigger as he shifts his weight forward, settling more fully between her thighs, his cock pressing up against her. The contact alone makes her hips jerk up instinctively, a small, helpless sound slipping from her mouth before she can catch it. She squirms under him, trying to create friction any way she can, back arching as she grinds upwards.
He doesn't move, doesn't do anything helpful, letting the pressure exist without giving her any rhythm or pace. His grip on her wrists tightens slightly as she writhes beneath him, not to hurt — just to hold her steady while she works herself up.
"Fuck," she whimpers.
Her hips roll again, desperate and uncoordinated, trying to drag him where she needs him. The friction is barely enough, but she chases it shamelessly, hooking her thighs around his waist to try and pull him closer
"You’re tiring yourself out," he says, grin still playing on his lips.
"I know," she replies immediately. "I don’t care."
Her head tips back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut for half a second as she grinds up again. She’s beyond frustrated with her own body, mad that it reacts this strongly to hardly anything.
He leans down and kisses her then, not fast how they were and how she still wants to, but slow and careful like he's trying to ground her through it.
"Needy girl," he murmurs, one of his hands pulling away to trail down her front. He takes his cock and traces it through her, teasing her clit with more pressure before he lines himself up with her entrance. He teases a little more, circling through the embarrassing amount of slickness, just enough to remind her how close she is to getting what she wants.
"Mike," she whines, pulling away from his mouth to look at him. She knows she looks like a mess — her lips and chin smeared with his blood and hair tangled around her flushed face — but she can't bring herself to care when she's so close to relief that her fangs press faintly into her lip.
He kisses her again before she can spiral further — and thank god, because she was nearly on the verge of tears — and he finally, finally pushes into her, slowly sliding until he's pressed fully inside.
The stretch makes her gasp into his mouth, her fingers flexing above her head as her body adjusts around him. For a second she can’t do anything but feel it — the fullness, the way her body tightens around him on instinct, the way the air leaves her lungs in one shaky rush.
Her hips try to move immediately, chasing more, but he doesn’t let her. His grip on her wrists keeps her pinned, his other hand steadying her waist as he stays still — like he wants her to sit in it, to feel every inch of him settling inside her.
"Look at me," he breathes, voice a little strained but firm nonetheless.
Her eyes had fluttered closed without her realizing. They open slowly, glassy and wide, locking onto his, and the intensity there makes her squirm. He’s watching her too closely — like he wants to memorize every reaction.
"Keep your eyes open," he says.
He shifts then — just barely — a slow, controlled roll of his hips that drags a broken sound from her throat. Her back arches, thighs tightening around him, but she doesn’t look away.
The eye contact makes it better and worse all at the same time. She can see the way he reacts to her — the way his jaw tightens when she squeezes around him, the way his breathing deepens when her body moves beneath him — but the way he's looking at her makes her skin crawl. He refuses to let her hide — not behind closed eyes, not behind bitten lips, not behind that hazy look she gets when everything feels too good and she tries to disappear into it.
He shifts again slowly, like he’s proving that he can take his time because he knows she isn’t going anywhere. This time it's deeper, pressing into her just enough that her mouth falls open in a breathless moan. She stares up at him with her chest heaving, begging and pleading with her eyes because she's not sure she can even form the words anymore.
He smiles down at her and kisses her lips soft and quick, and he pushes her hands a little further into the pillows as he finally sets a steady pace, hips thrusting into her hard and deep. Her head tips back before she catches herself and forces it forward, choking out another moan and pressing her heels into his back as if that might drag him even deeper.
"Mike—" she gasps, voice breaking on his name.
His grip on her wrists keeps her anchored while his hips snap into her with a rhythm that makes the bed shift faintly beneath them, moving with less restraint and more want.
"That what you needed?" he murmurs, breath rougher than before.
She nods frantically, eyes glassy and unfocused for a second before she drags them back to his face. The faster pace makes it harder to think, harder to stay present the way he’d asked — but she tries, god she tries, because she can already feel the pressure building deep inside of her and she doesn't want to lose it.
"Yes," she breathes, the word barely there. "God, yes, don’t stop."
He speeds up a little at that, the quicker rhythm pulling more broken, desperate sounds from her mouth — little gasps and soft whines she doesn’t even realize she’s making. Her hips try to meet him now, matching the pace instead of fighting it, chasing every hard push with one of her own, and Mike lets out a soft whimper that runs right through her.
"Good," he breathes, leaning down to brush his mouth against hers between thrusts. "Doing so good for me."
She clings to his words like they're the only thing keeping her from slipping under. Her breath comes in short, uneven pulls, every thrust knocking another fractured sound from her chest. She can feel the pressure building, deep and hot and almost unbearable, curling tighter every time he drives into her.
The coil inside her pulls tighter — too tight — and she can feel herself teetering too close to the edge already. Grinding against him earlier had worked her up enough that she was already sensitive, and it didn't take much to get it back. He slows when he notices, not enough for her to lose it, just enough that he can lean down and kiss over her face.
His mouth brushes the corner of her lips first, then her cheek, then just beneath her eye. The pressure inside her stretches tighter, thinner, like a wire pulled to its limit. She makes a small sound, somewhere between a whine and a gasp, hips trying to follow the rhythm he’s deliberately easing back. He keeps one hand firm at her waist, relieving the pressure on her hands but still keeping them above her head.
"Y'know how pretty you look when you feed?" he asks breathlessly.
Her cunt pulses so hard that it nearly makes her cry out.
He presses another kiss to the corner of her eye, then up to her temple.
"You’re so pretty always," he continues, "but it’s different when you feed."
She swallows, eyes glassy and brain foggy as her breathing turns ragged. "Mike—"
"You get this look," he murmurs, brushing his lips along her jaw. "Your eyes get dark and you get all focused."
He kisses her nose softly, then the corner of her mouth where there’s still dried blood from earlier. Her hips jerk up instinctively, chasing friction, chasing him as desperately as she can. The slower pace feels almost cruel now, every measured thrust dragging against nerves that are already too sensitive.
"You get that same look when you’re close," he adds, finally speeding back up and pulling his mouth away so he can watch her again. "You have it right now."
Oh god.
Her breath stutters into a sob-like gasp. The pressure spikes sharp and sudden, and she feels herself tipping, no control left and no room to think. Her hands flex above her head, wrists straining, body arching up into him as if she can meet whatever he's giving her halfway.
"Mike," she starts, voice rushed and embarrassingly whiny, "Mike, I'm gonna—"
Her back arches off the mattress as the tension finally breaks, a raw, broken cry spilling from her mouth as she comes. Her cunt tightens around him in sharp pulses, hips jerking helplessly as the coil unwinds all at once, white-hot and overwhelming and ripping straight through her.
Her cry breaks apart into smaller, breathless sounds as she trembles beneath him, thighs clamped tight around his waist like she’s afraid to let him go. She can’t think — can barely breathe — just feels the aftershocks rolling through her in waves that make her eyes roll and her back arch again. She can feel Mike finish shortly after, hips stuttering and forehead dropping to hers, shaky exhales and soft moans falling from his lips.
For a while, everything is quiet.
Just the sound of their breathing — uneven and tangled together — and the faint rustle of sheets when she finally lets her legs loosen from around his waist and fall to the bed. Her body still trembles, nerves oversensitive and humming, and she presses her forehead more firmly to his like she needs the pressure to steady herself.
His hand finally releases her wrists from being pinned, bringing it to cup her face instead. The other stays warm at her hip, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles against her skin.
"I’ve got you," he murmurs softly, voice a little rough.
She inhales shakily, the breath catching halfway through before she lets it out again. Everything still feels loud inside her body — every touch amplified, every shift too noticeable. She nods faintly against him just to let him know she’s listening.
Her hands come down wrap loosely around his shoulders, and she focuses on the weight of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his skin where it presses to hers. He tilts his head just enough to brush a slow kiss to her temple, then another to her forehead.
"You okay?" he asks after a moment.
"Yeah," she manages, all quiet and tired.
Her voice sounds far away to her own ears, but she feels more present now — less like she’s floating and more like she’s settling back into herself. He shifts off of her then so he can lay beside her, pulling her flush against him with one arm wrapped around her waist and the other playing in her hair.
She presses her face into his chest without thinking, trying to get as close as possible before she finally notices his heartbeat again. It's slowing down, pumping less franticly than it was in the heat of the moment, and she lets the slow rhythm of it lull her into that half-asleep boneless state she always falls into after sex.
She traces a lazy line over his sternum with her fingertips, feeling the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It feels like a tether now — like something tangible she can hold onto rather than losing herself in the sound of it.
"You listening again?" Mike murmurs after a while, voice soft and amused.
She hums faintly and nods. "It’s steady."
"Good," he says, pressing a kiss into her hair.
She shifts slightly, angling her head so her ear rests almost directly over his heart. The thump of it evens out in a heavy, almost content way, and she lets herself count a few beats just to feel the rhythm of it. She exhales slowly, syncing her breath to it without even realizing.
His fingers continue their lazy path through her hair, untangling strands gently and smoothing it down against her head. The room is dim and quiet around them, sheets warm and twisted at their legs, the air still thick with the aftermath of everything.
"I like hearing it slow down," she admits softly. "Means you’re okay."
He gives a quiet huff of a laugh at that, hand squeezing her waist. "I’m more than okay."
She smiles faintly against his skin, pressing a kiss to his chest and curling closer. She lets her eyes drift closed fully this time, the steady beat beneath her ear pulling her deeper into that slow, content stillness.
The hunger will come back — it always does, especially with him — but it isn’t loud right now. Right now, it’s quiet enough that she can choose him without fighting herself for it.
She presses her palm lightly over his heart, feels it answer steady and sure beneath her touch, and lets that be the last thing she’s aware of before sleep fully takes her.