“Take a deep breath.”

Air rushed into your lungs and instinctively you shut your eyes, letting yourself surrender to the cadence of his voice. The low, rough timbre of melted honey surrounded you, filled up with the inhale and a second later there was the cold touch of his fingertips lacing up your spine. Gooseflesh appeared along every skimmed inch until he reached the back of your neck and delicately shifted the wisps of hair at the back away – just enough to expose the skin properly.

His lips met the juncture of your shoulder, just grazing the very last bump of your spine as he did, and you felt the warm wash of his breath that would betray the teeth hiding behind it. Taehyung purred a husky note, and you didn’t exhale, you couldn’t, you were too tense and your nerves felt like they were vibrating straight into your poor heart that would soon be pumping precious blood into his waiting mouth.

You felt his teeth. You felt the very tips of his fangs, and for a moment the earth stopped spinning, and–

“Just kidding. You’re so adorable when you’re panicking. Look at you! You’re shaking like a leaf, princess.”

The smile was rapidly wiped off Taehyung’s face when your tension peaked and your knees gave out. Reflex had him catching you without a second glance, but a mixture of embarrassment and indignation and a thousand other things left you wishing he had just left you on the floor.

You’d always been anxious. Such is life – crying over everything, shaking for no reason, constantly tongue-tied and stumbling over your own feet as well as your words. There was no reprieve to your permanent unease. The greatest moments of your life crumbled under the weight of fear and nerves, palpable in your body and heart and mind and soul.

And right now, you wished more deeply than you ever had, that the anxiety had not chosen you.

The room was startling in its beauty. You didn’t know what age it had come from – which great master had carved out the reliefs in the stone or chosen the massive marble pillars that rose from marble floor to towering ceiling – and didn’t dare fathom how old the deep velvet curtains ran. The chandelier alone intimidated you in its size and illumination – the candlelight ran through the crystals, genuine to be sure, like millions of dappled horses made of pure light, dancing around the room. You felt like you were in the ballroom from Anastasia.

Albeit, a sad, dark version, more horror than whimsical fancy. For the room was full of not ghosts, but vampires – true, real vampires, flitting about in gowns and fine silk and formal wear from a different century. A stale fragrance of copper filled the air, sickeningly sweet, and as another wave of nausea swept through you, you couldn’t help but look up at your date, as it were.

Taehyung was tight-lipped and quiet. It was unusual for him – unusual being a generous understatement. Despite yourself, you clung a fraction tighter to the arm he had proffered to you in some hilarious display of gentlemanliness, and swallowed gently down the lump in your throat.

“Taehyung,” you croaked, voice barely breaking.

At his name, his head swung down smoothly and a chill ran down your spine. You were certain, had been certain for quite some time, that you would never get used to the way he looked at you with all that black glassiness in his eyes. Like stained shards.

“Yes, dear?” he murmured back. Okay, that was weird. That was very weird. Taehyung was being too gentle. Something was wrong.

But he heard your heartbeat pick up, skittering wildly like a scared rabbit, and swept a thumb across the back of your exposed hand soothingly. He kept up soft, even strokes, forcing you to maintain eye contact in a way that made your head sleepy, less frantic.

“A-are you okay?” you still asked breathlessly.

Taehyung smiled a hard smile. His gaze flickered over the room and all its inhabitants for less than a second before returning to you, and you were wholly unprepared when he leaned in and let his mouth brush across yours in a soft, too-sweet kiss.

“I like your dress,” he whispered on your lips, head tilted and not even blinking once – though perhaps the curve of his own lips was a little more sincere now. “It looks good on you.”

It wasn’t an answer to your question, but you blushed anyway.

Somehow, stupidly, the sentiment made you calmer. It was why you loved and hated the vampire Kim Taehyung.

____________________________________________ well well if taehyung is really a vampire then we are like and hope you like it😁

This is a joke, right? It’s just some stupid, ridiculous, sick joke.

Taehyung is wearing a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, fitted slacks, and a black silk tie. He looks taller than you remember, and his hair is the color of Autumn, and his skin looks so warm but you know it’s not.

And he’s smiling at you with such a genuine, muted tenderness that you almost turn nauseous.

“You’re kidding me, right?” you croak out. Taehyung’s brow knits in the center, displeased with your response to his question.

“No, I’m not Kiddingme – I’m Taehyung,” he smooths over. Back to humour. He thinks he can make you crack like that, doesn’t he? The simple fact makes you feel even more horrendous than you already do in this stupid dress at this stupid function–

“I promise. Just one dance. No funny business.”

He’s standing too close. Your breath hitches instantly, and you want to look away but you can’t, and as the soaring melody of Strangers In The Night comes over the expensive speakers you know you’ve lost again. Taehyung is deceptively gentle in the way he takes your hand in his, the way his long fingers fit themselves over the junction of your hip and waist, and with hardly any strength he pulls you nice and close to hide you from the rest of the world in his arms.

But he hasn’t lied yet. There are no cruel, tormenting words – no backhanded compliments, no venomous taunts and crooning words meant to lure you in again. There is just the music and the way he rocks you back and forth, guiding you through minute footsteps like you’re his favourite toy.

When the song comes to an end, he doesn’t stop dancing, though. You both fall into a languid sway, and you’re sure this is the trap.

“There,” he murmurs along the cusp of your ear for only you to know. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

You don’t answer him. Another song has started up – one you don’t know the name of – and Taehyung has not let go yet.

“One more dance,” you whisper against his lapel. You feel his lips curve against your ear, and his chilly hand squeezes your faintly.

“Of course, my lady,” he purrs back.

You take a deep breath, and pretend this isn’t making you happy.

“Taehyung,” you begin gently, careful not to quite look at him and to stare out the window of the bus instead, “do you ever miss home?”

The vampire didn’t move, but he stared at you openly anyway. He was so shameless. You expect him, wholeheartedly, to ignore the silly, passing question; to come up with some ugly, condescending, dismissive reply that will leave you feeling dumb and small.

Taehyung scoops up your hand in his – it’s freezing, of course – and you jump slightly when he kisses your knuckles with surprising tenderness.

“I don’t know,” he says, smiling softly. But his gaze screams yes, a thousand times yes, I do, I am homesick and lonely and afraid.

It’s not the first time you’ve felt strong, visceral pangs of sadness, sympathy for him, and it won’t be the last. It’s not the the first time you shouldn’t, either.

But you squeeze his hand back, and press your forehead gently to the sleeve of his shirt, shutting your eyes in quiet comfort.

You hope your heartbeat soothes the sordid beast inside him. You know it will probably only make things worse.

You had never called Taehyung before. Despite everything, you had done your darndest not to give in, not to succumb to the temptation and torment and reach out to the creature that had invaded your life so brazenly. It takes a panic deeper than anything he’d ever instilled in you to reach into your purse and shakily bring your phone to your face, unlocking it as you walk a little faster down the sidewalk.

Taehyung’s contact card burns on the screen. The photo is a selfie he took in the flattering lighting of your bathroom, a dark glower in his seductive eyes as he pretends to smile for the camera. You hadn’t even known he’d stolen your phone from you.

You try not to look as you click the call, try not to think as you hold the device to your ear, glancing surreptitiously behind you.

He picks up on the first ring.

“What,” he sings, “a very pleasant and very surprising surprise. Hello, sugarcube.”

You viciously ignore the pangs of butterfly wings that the tone of his voice and endearment rouse in your chest. It doesn’t mix well with the adrenaline.

“T-taehyung,” you murmur into the receiver, and he goes silent all at once. “I’m walking home, and I feel like someone is following me.”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

There’s not a single tick between your words and his utterance. Taehyung lingers on the line for only a second longer, hesitating on if he wants to hang up or not, before ending the call and leaving you fidgeting and uneasy in your oversized coat. Part of you wants to look back properly, convince yourself that the stranger was just a nobody and not what your brain was worrying over, and another part of you wants to drop everything to scold you for choosing now of all times to rely on your questionable acquaintance.

You keep walking, though, and only peek back every now and then. You know you didn’t get the opportunity to tell Taehyung just where you even were, but that’s good in it’s own way – you shouldn’t have called him to begin with. Everything worked out in the end.

It’s only making you a bit more anxious that the figure has closed some ground, and that you–

“There’s my little runaway. Time to go home, ____.”

Your heart almost dies in your chest at the lacerating shock of the presence and words. You are afforded no time to think, process, identify your situation before a hand wraps snugly around your elbow and pulls you into the modest, arms-linked walk of any ordinary couple.

Taehyung is responsible for holding you up when your knees temporarily give in.

“Easy there,” he chides, and you just gasp for air.

“T-Ta… Tae… T-T-Taehyung?” Nothing about this makes sense. Taehyung strolls briskly past the towering trees of an unclaimed lot, ethereal under the streetlamps you pass underneath. You had gotten off the phone with him a matter of single-digit minutes before he was just, there, in your space, real and tangible and accompanying you home like it was nothing at all.

The smile he wore was anything but – it was hard and tight, making his features elegant and handsome but totally unfeeling where it reached his eyes. You’re taken aback at his sudden response, and even more so by the content of it.

“I’ll get you somewhere safer first,” he murmurs, a far-below room temperature hand stroking over your own and leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Then I’ll kill him.”

Seconds tick by that you can’t parse as your mouth goes slack.

“What?” you breathe out, almost soundless.

Taehyung just keeps looking straight ahead, patting your fingers in his own reassuring way and maintaining his apathetic smile. “He was just radiating all sorts of revolting things. I’ll kill him. I just need to get you safe first. I’ll probably rip his fingers off and put them in his ribs.”

“T-Taehyung,” you cry out, “n-no! No, no, no, please – please don’t do such a thing! Please! I’m begging you, l-let’s– can we go home, just home, nothing else? Not do anything else? No killing. Please. Please, please none o-of… none of that…”

He knows, deep in his bones, that there is really no reason to listen to you. Your words are that of a frantic human, a mortal with no concept of things and how they really work. The man that’s been following you and reeking of stale arousal and liquors signed his death sentence the moment the first inkling of doubt brushed your mind.

But Taehyung almost can’t think straight with you trembling so hardly beside him, your heart wild and unsteady as your gait. He’s never felt you willingly cling to him like this, never felt so much desperation – at least, not the kind that seeps into his skin like something warm and entrapping and sticky.

A wind ruffles his hair, and he idly pulls a leaf from your own as he finally glances down at your pathetic form.

“If you must insist on it,” he frowns, and strokes your flyaways back carefully. “But I don’t understand why. At all.”

But he’ll do anything to have you calm down.

You can’t even garner him an answer – you just squeeze your eyes shut, shutting away any tears and focusing on the way he smells like dried orange blossoms. Tight, twisted relief is the only emotion you can readily understand, and hope the way you bury your face against his shoulder implies your gratitude.

Taehyung walks you home in silence, and locks the door behind you. You don’t want tea, or water, or anything, but he brings you a bottle and then a steaming mug of chamomile a few minutes later. He sits with you patiently on your bed, fixated on you with a piercing gaze until you sip at your drink, and remains quiet all the way until you’re tucked under your covers and he’s drilling the desire to sleep, just sleep and dream of nothing if that helps you, and you’re out.

The next morning, a nearby hospital reports finding a local man in near-critical condition, and you are none the wiser.

For the first time in your life, you wake up to Taehyung in your room, hovering like a ghost by your window.

And you’re relieved. 

You can probably deal with the consequences of that later.