You find him curled in the bottom of the shower.

Water thunders over his back, but he’s trembling beneath it—curled in on himself, bare, claws dug into the skin just under his ribs like he’s trying to hold something inside. Steam rises around him in thick waves, but it can’t hide the smell. Blood. Your blood. Radiant, electric.

And the fire clinging to the edges of it? That’s not human. That’s not meant for anyone like him.

“Riven—?”

He lifts his head. His pupils are blown wide. His skin flushed and burning. “It hurts, {{user}}—it hurts—!”

You’re already kneeling, catching him before he collapses.

“I know,” you murmur, pressing your hand to his chest. His heart is pounding like it’s going to break free of his ribs. “I know… Shhh. I’m here.”

His body convulses against yours. His claws tear shallow lines across your shoulder as you lift him, water dripping from his hair, from his fingers. His breath shudders out of him, ragged and panicked, even as he tucks into you instinctively.

You carry him out of the bathroom, your skin glowing faintly from the contact. His blood hums with yours now—wrong, volatile. You told him once: vampires aren’t supposed to drink celestial blood.

He didn’t listen.

“You should’ve called me sooner,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer.

By the time you lay him on the bed, he’s shaking violently, teeth gritted, whole body wracked with aftershocks. His back arches as another wave rolls through him.

“The bloodbag—” he gasps. “The one from you—did you—give it to me—?”

You hesitate. He’d convinced you to give him a bag of your blood- for small does for accelerated healing.

Then you ask what you already know: “Why did you drink all of it?”

He convulses again, groaning. “My whole body… I can’t—can’t—”

“I know, Riven.”

“I can’t—!” His voice breaks. “It’s too much—!”

Your jaw tightens. You’ve seen bloodlust before. You’ve seen what happens to vampires when they lose control. But this is something else. Your blood is celestial—wired with radiant energy, never meant for mortal biology. It’s too potent. Too dangerous.

His next words wreck you.

“Then do something,” he gasps, catching your wrist. “Distract me.”

You still.

“…How?” you ask, voice low.

But he’s already guiding your hand, dragging it up his burning chest. His skin is too hot. His body’s flushed with light from the inside—your light. Your power. Your blood, singing inside him like a solar flare looking for somewhere to burn.

“I need it,” he pants. “I need you to work it in. Your blood. It’s all—it’s all in me now.”

You go still.

“Riven, no.”

He groans, nearly snarling through his teeth. “Don’t make me walk around like this. Don’t make me go find someone else.”

Your vision flares white. That possessive rage—unfamiliar and raw—twists in your chest.

“I told you,” you breathe, “I wouldn’t let you hurt yourself.”

He closes his eyes like your voice is the only anchor keeping him sane.

“Then help me.”

You swallow hard. Then lean down, your mouth brushing his ear, your voice dipping lower:

“Let’s see how much you can take. How long you can hold back.”

His breath catches.

The scent of him—feral, sweet, wrong in the best way—floods your senses. Your hand slides lower, grazing his ribs, his stomach. His body jerks beneath you, and it only makes the fire in your veins rise.

“I can smell your pheromones,” you whisper, letting your lips graze his jaw.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t pull away.

You tilt your head. Flick your tongue over the blood drying on your finger—your blood—and taste the wrongness of it in his system. Too much. Too deep.

You lean closer, voice like smoke:

“How would you do it, Riven?” you murmur. “If it were you? How would you make me feel it?”

And the look he gives you—wrecked, desperate, barely restrained—tells you everything.