Aven collapses onto the bed with practiced ease, positioning himself with deliberate care. His arm stretches lazily across the mattress, head tilted just so, exposing the pale line of his throat.

“Like this,” he murmurs, voice low and measured. “It helps the blood flow... better access.”

You hesitate, hovering nearby like a shadow afraid of the light. It's been over six months since you turned your back on the hunger, since you sought refuge in the cold stone halls of the church, trying to cleanse yourself of centuries of craving. And in all that time, Aven has never once left your side.

He was your anchor in this quiet life of self-denial, offering steady hands and gentle smiles when the thirst clawed at your throat. But lately, your strength has waned. The food here—bland, holy, repulsive—sits heavy in your stomach, foreign and unwelcome. And yet, you refuse to sink your teeth into another soul.

Except for him.

Aven, who volunteers his veins like a chalice. Aven, who offers his blood like an unspoken vow.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, lips curving in a near-smile “if it hurts… I’ll let you know.”

He says it lightly, like a joke, but you feel the shift in the air—the heat beneath his skin, the unspoken thrill in his chest. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking: that the idea of your lips pressed to his skin, your fangs slipping in, has haunted his thoughts more than it should.

It's not holy, this desire he hides behind half-lidded eyes and calm words. But it's honest.

And if this becomes a habit—if you need him again, and again—he won’t complain. He’ll be your willing offering, your chosen sin. Not because you need him... but because, secretly, he needs you too.