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đș Dominic's POV - Morning of Chaos (and Cold Showers)
Agh. Birds. Chirping. Why do they sound like they're screaming in my skull?
What time is it?
6:30. Great. I'm having a hangover without even drinking. Classic.
I groan, roll over, and instantly regret it as sunlight slaps me in the face like karma in photon form. Ugh. Fine. I'm up. Might as well take a hot shower-clean up, reset my brain, and prepare for another glitter-powered day of chaos. I live with a vampire now. That's my life.
We still have to set up his room today too. Right now, he's basically nesting on my couch like some baby bat burrito. I should drag his dramatic ass outside for once. Morning jog, maybe. Could be fun. I can already see his face when I pull him out into the cold-drama, tantrums, maybe even screeching. Beautiful.
I flop off the bed, grab a pair of casual shorts-whatever, half-pants, we call them here-and mentally thank myself for at least having enough decency not to run around naked like a certain blond vampire.
Oh. It snowed last night.
I pause by the window, taking in the backyard. The whole place is dusted in pale, soft snow. Peaceful. Kinda like me, I guess. Too good to look at, but everyone still hates when I block their path.
(Yeah. That's how it's always been. Girls wanted the looks, the Insta photos, the hookup stories with the popular guy. Not the guy. Not Dominic. Just the fantasy. No one ever really stuck around.)
Anyway. Enough emo snow poetry. I've got work to do.
First-shower. I need to wash off the dried cum from last night. (Look, I blacked out halfway through a good ol' solo night. Sue me. I was tired. And sore. And emotionally wrung out from throwing a damn vampire a street-side birthday party.)
Then it's toast and eggs-light scramble, a sprinkle of rosemary, and definitely no black pepper. Learned that lesson already. Last time he sneezed so hard the apartment almost scrambled to ruins.
And then?
Yup. Operation Drag-The-21-Year-Old-Bat-Into-Morning-Jogging begins.
He may be a vampire, and yeah, he's got that supernatural strength thing going on-but physically? He's got no real body. All lean and doll-like. Like a little breakable sculpture with extra glitter. I swear his waist could fit through a straw.
...Not that I was checking.
Shit. I need to stop thinking like that.
I literally slapped myself. Get it together, Dom. You're a womanizer, not a vampanizer!
*Bi panic engaged*
I busted out of my room.
Living room? Silent. Vampire? Still passed out on the couch, wrapped like a silkworm in his burrito blanket. No chaos yet.
Perfect.
I tiptoed toward the bathroom like a damn predator.
Silent. Swift. Calculated.
#NinjaWerewolf unlocked.
Turned the tap.
BAM.
GLACIER WATER. STRAIGHT FROM TITANIC HELL.
It hit my skin like punishment from an ancient snow god. I jolted, mouth open, breath knocked out of me.
"FUCK!"
Yup. Full-body recoil. Cold shock straight to the bones-and worse
Straight to the dk.
I slapped the wall. Gripped the knob. Twisted it to warm so fast I nearly broke the thing. But the damage was already done.
My body was on fire because of the cold.
Everything in me-every instinct, every nerve-was suddenly on edge. Buzzing. Needy.
Hyperaware.
Wolf-mode: activated.
Damn senses. Every smell, every thought, every leftover heat of last night's dreams-all surging now.
I pressed a hand to the tile. Let the warm water hit me. Steam rose.
My breath slowed... and not from the cold anymore.
My muscles were tight, my skin buzzing, my head fogged over with things I shouldn't be thinking. That hookup couple of days ago? Hot, sure. The girl knew what she was doing.
But my brain?
Wasn't replaying her.
Shit.
I bit down on my lip. Let the heat ground me. Tried to focus. But even in the steam, I couldn't stop the way my body moved on instinct-slow, frustrated, aching.
I squeezed my eyes shut. One hand still pressed to the wall. The other curled, hesitant.
One second of tension.
One breath of surrender.
And I gave in-just for a moment.
Let myself feel it.
Let the pressure melt like frost under fire.
The second that icy water hit my skin, I saw the light.
Actually, I saw death.
"FUCK-!"
It was like bathing in melted glacier hell. Full-body shock, nerves scrambled, brain reset. I clawed at the knobs, cursing every single one of Lean's glittery ancestors. Why the hell does that vampire need cold showers in winter? Who even does that?!
Oh right. The emotionally unstable bat who lives on sugar and chaos.
I finally managed to crank the water to warm, chest heaving, arms trembling, and every inch of me tight and tensed like I just fought a bear. My heart's pounding. My skin's on fire. And not from the heat.
It's... something else.
I drop my head against the wall, breathing hard.
God. Why does this keep happening?
I try to think of the last hookup. That girl from college. Hot body, great laugh, total chaos-but it still didn't feel this electric. This alive. Not like now.
My fingers drift down.
Shit.
I'm already hard.
I bite my lip. It's the damn water, I swear. The shock, the adrenaline-nothing else.
But when I wrap my hand around myself, it's not her face I see.
It's golden curls. Brown eyes that sparkle even when they shouldn't. A soft voice calling me Puppers with a dumb grin and cold fingers sneaking under my hoodie.
No. No no no. Not him.
I should stop.
But I don't.
Instead, I move slow. Deliberate. The way I like it.
Fingers loose at first, gentle. Edging the ache with each quiet stroke. Breathing in the steam, my body arching slightly toward my own touch. It's almost frustrating how good this feels-how deep it settles, like heat coiled in my core.
It's not even about release. It's about control.
Tightening. Releasing.
Holding the tension just long enough to feel like I might shatter.
I press my forehead against the wall again. The sound of water, the echo of breath, the sharp jolt of want that pulses through my gut.
I'm so close.
And it's his voice-his stupid, soft, sparkly voice-echoing in my head.
"You're the closest thing I have now, Puppers."
"Isn't it human custom to give the first bite to the closest one?"
God. What the hell is happening to me?
I groan, low and shaky.
No one's around. Just me, steam, and the weight of something I don't want to name.
Not yet.
But it's there.
And it's growing.
I grit my teeth, grip tightening.
The water's warmer now, running down my back like silk-but it doesn't help. Not even close.
I move slower.
Deliberate.
Torturously slow.
Dragging every second out like I'm addicted to the tension. That's how I've always liked it. Edging myself until I'm so pent up, I'm half-feral.
But now?
It's worse.
Because every time I close my eyes, it's not faceless pleasure or some college hookup I picture.
It's him.
Fuck.
I shake my head. "Nope. Not doing this. Absolutely not."
But my hips twitch forward again, mind short-circuiting.
Goddammit, Lean.
Why does he have to be so... soft?
So stupidly clingy and affectionate and, climb on me like a lap dog and kiss me aimlessly -
His laugh.
That fucking smile.
The way he said I was the closest thing he had.
I curse under my breath, low and ragged.
This isn't okay.
This isn't what I want.
...Is it?
I shift my grip slightly, run my thumb slow-barely there. Almost teasing. My thighs tense. My back arches. And my brain fights me tooth and nail with every heartbeat.
Ah! Fuck! Yes!
Don't think of his eyes. Don't think of his mouth. Don't think of the way he clung to me when he slept.
This is just stress. Physical release. That's all.
And still-I stay right there. On the edge.
Hovering.
Drowning.
I won't let myself fall over it.
Not yet.
Because if I do?
I don't know who I'll be thinking about when I do.
My breath is shallow now-steam curling around me like smoke from something burning inside.
I press my hand flat against the shower wall, the tile slick and cold beneath my palm, grounding me.
Barely.
I'm shaking.
Not from the cold. Not from need.
From what's underneath all of it.
Something deeper. Primal. Buzzing through my bones like static. Like something's waking up.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to breathe. Try to think of anything else.
But-
All I can feel is him.
His cold skin against my warm chest. The way his fingers curled in my shirt when he slept. That stupid sleepy smile when he drooled on me and whispered "puppers" like it was some secret only he was allowed to say.
I grit my teeth harder.
A sudden jolt runs down my spine-sharp, electric.
And then-
Pop.
I feel it.
Painful. Sudden. Like a muscle snapping under pressure.
My ears.
No-not my ears.
Not human ones.
Fur.
Fucking wolf ears.
"Shit-!"
I slap a hand to my head, but they're there-twitching, sensitive, flicking at every droplet that hits them.
And it doesn't stop there.
There's a pressure low on my spine, pulling, coiling-
No. No no no-
I glance behind me and curse as something long and furred and very real swings out behind me.
My tail.
My actual goddamn werewolf tail.
Of all the times-
My knees nearly buckle.
Not from the tail. Not from the ears.
But from the truth screaming through every nerve in my body.
This... isn't just a crush.
This isn't just a weird phase.
This is something else.
Something ancient. Binding. Like a string pulled tight between my ribs and his heartbeat.
I'm going to throw up.
Or explode.
Or-
"Fucking hell," I whisper, forehead pressing to the wall. "What are you doing to me, Batboy?"
No answer.
Just the water. The heat. The sound of my pulse pounding louder than ever.
I can't go any further.
Not right now.
Because if I do-if I fall off that edge?
There'll be no going back.
And I'm not ready to admit what that really means.
I don't stop moving.
I don't let myself stop.
But I'm not chasing the high anymore.
I'm not even sure what I'm chasing.
The tension coiling inside me isn't just physical-it's something... ancient. Instinctive. It's like there's a second heartbeat pulsing just beneath my skin, demanding something I can't name.
Or maybe I can.
I just won't.
I won't say his name in here. Not while I'm like this. Not while I'm wrapped in steam and sweat and want and... shame.
Fuck.
I stroke slower. Not to feel good-just to feel. Just to stay here, grounded, stuck in this limbo between too much and not enough.
Between knowing what I want and refusing to admit it.
My wolf senses are howling. Everything's sharper. The water on my back. The beat of my own heart. The faint scent of lavender still clinging to the towel he used last night. My nose twitches without meaning to.
It smells like him.
My gut twists.
I should stop.
But stopping would mean facing the truth. And I don't want the truth.
I just want to float here in this half-space where I can pretend this is just about touch. Just about tension. Just about heat.
Not about him.
Not about the way he clung to me in his sleep like I was safety. Like I was home.
Not about the way my body reacts to his scent like a goddamn magnet.
Not about the way I growl-growl-when I think of someone else touching him.
My hand falters.
I'm panting now. Jaw clenched so hard it hurts. Tail flicking behind me, restless, exposing me like a neon sign: werewolf in emotional crisis, do not approach.
And the ears?
Twitching like they've locked onto his phantom voice. Like my whole body's a compass, and he's true north.
God.
What is wrong with me?
Why him?
Why now?
Why does this feel like something more than lust?
Why do I feel like I'd burn the whole world down if someone else even looked at him the wrong way?
My body wants release.
But something deeper in me wants something else.
Wants him.
And I don't know how to deal with that.
So I keep edging. Keep riding that line between madness and relief. Between hunger and hesitation.
Because if I let go...
I might admit that this isn't just some bloodsucking roommate.
This might be fate.
And I'm not ready for what that means.
The water streams over me, hot now-but it doesn't soothe. It's too late for that.
I'm tense. Muscles locked. Breathing shallow. Every nerve in my body stretched so tight, I feel like I'll snap.
My knuckles press against the wall. Hard. The tile's cold, but my palms are burning.
And then-
Crack.
My claws slip out.
Uninvited.
One second, I'm holding myself up. The next, I'm clawing the wall like an animal in a cage, ceramic shavings falling between my fingers. My back arches, hips twitch, and my tail-fuck, tail-lashes behind me like it has a mind of its own.
This isn't just heat. This isn't just frustration.
This is... something deeper.
Something I don't understand.
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the rush of the water. My skin feels too tight. I'm overheating. My head is a mess of static and images and-him.
Lean.
Golden curls. Soft lips. Cold fingers gripping mine in the middle of the night. That sleepy voice saying, "You're the closest thing I have..."
I grit my teeth, pressing my forehead to the wet tile. Steam curls around me, but nothing can fog up this feeling. It's everywhere. Burning under my skin.
Why is it him?
Why can't I picture anyone else?
Why does he cling to me like I'm his anchor-and why does some messed-up part of me like it?
I growl low in my throat, sharp and feral. I don't recognize the sound. It's not human. Not even close.
Another pulse rushes down my spine. My claws scrape the tile again. My tail curls tight behind me.
I'm losing control.
This isn't normal.
This isn't just lust.
It's something else.
Something animal.
And I don't know what to do with it.
The steam fogs up the mirror. My fingers dig into the edge of the dick. Hard. Almost too hard.
I can feel the pressure building in my chest, behind my eyes, in every muscle stretched tight under my skin. It's like I'm wired wrong this morning-itchy under the surface, like my body wants something I don't know how to name.
The water runs soothing, almost.
But nothing inside me feels calm.
Every breath I take is too shallow. Every thought I try to grab slips away and circles right back to him.
Lean.
It's not even about the way he looks-though that doesn't help. It's worse. It's deeper.
It's the way he smells-like rose soap and sugar. It's the sound of his laugh echoing in my ears hours after he's stopped. It's how my arms fit around him without me even realizing they moved. It's the way he looked at me like I hung stars in the sky-right before crying cake on my chest.
And I don't know how to deal with that.
I'm not supposed to feel this way. Not about him. Not about anyone.
And definitely not about the clingy vampire camped out in my apartment wearing unicorn socks and hijacking my life.
My claws scrape the wall.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The tips of my fingers press into the tile and I feel it-the subtle shift. Nails growing sharp. Animal curling in my veins. My wolf senses are on edge, screaming without sound.
I bite back a growl.
No. No no no.
This isn't heat. Am I.. I in rut? FUCK no I have hard wolves go on rut in winter, no it can't be happening to me! This isn't anything I know how to name. It's a quiet hunger behind my ribs that I can't silence-like my bones remember something my brain won't admit.
I shake my head hard.
"This is just stress. You're just worked up. It's nothing."
But I don't believe myself anymore.
Because no matter what I do to distract myself, he is the one echoing through me.
His voice. His scent. His warmth.
And the worst part?
I don't even know when it happened.
I don't remember the exact moment he stopped being annoying and started being necessary.
But I do know this-
If I don't figure out what's happening to me soon...
I might not be able to pull back next time.
It builds too fast-too heavy in my gut, crawling up my spine like wildfire I can't put out.
I squeeze tighter, panting, hips jerking forward in slow, desperate pulses. My skin is buzzing, overstimulated. Like every breath tastes like him-his laugh, his smile, the curve of his neck when he sleeps.
God, what's wrong with me?
I brace one hand against the cold tile wall, nails digging in, body tense as a bowstring. My control's slipping-fraying around the edges like I'm coming apart.
And then-
It hits.
Hard.
I can't fuck it whatever it means, all I need is him now! Ah! Fuck..ugh.. ah.. I pumped harder! Yes I can feel him on top of me! Um... so soft..so cold..mhup...I need you fuck...
And Bam!
A shockwave of release and heat and something else I don't want to name. I haven't cumed this much ever, and it's still releasing even when I let it go.
I slump forward with a broken exhale, chest rising and falling, heart hammering in my ears. My legs shake. My head spins. And I just stand there for a moment, forehead against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe again.
It's not just physical.
It never was.
I hate that I loved it. And I hate even more what it meant.
*10 minutes after Dom got totally wasted*
FUCK.
Yeah⊠that was intense.
I feel⊠lighter.
Like I just emptied a week's worth of sin and stress in one go.
Nah, scratch thatâa week's worth of cum.
(Yeah, I said it. And I hate myself a little.)
Anywayâno time for post-nut analysis. I need to scrub the shame off before the bat wakes up and starts psychic-reading my guilt aura or something.
Shower still running. I grab the soap and shampoo and get to workâOperation Scrub-The-Sin-Off-Your-Skin, Soldier.
Arms, neck, chest, everything.
Even behind the ears.
Like my mom raised me better than this.
(Which, let's be honest, she didn'tâbut the internet did.)
The water's warm now, not too hot. Like a hug from the universe telling me "yeah, you're a pervert, but you're OUR pervert." and my wolf ear and tail got tucked back in.
I rinse, spit, rinse again.
Shampooed my hair like I was in a damn spa commercial, hands in slow motion, eyes closed dramatically.
"Yack. That was too pervert of me."
Like⊠more perverted than fuckboy Dom, which is saying something.
My inner wolf? Probably howling from secondhand embarrassment.
Done.
Click. Shower off.
Grab towel. Wrap around waist. Shake out the wet curls like a shampoo ad model gone rogue.
I step out, steam curling behind me like I just exited an emotionally charged music video. My legs? Still wobbly. My dignity? Currently unavailable.
Kitchen. I need kitchen.
I pass through the hallway like a ghost.
Living room?
Still. Silent.
Lean: dead asleep on the couch.
Mouth open. One leg half off the cushion. Wrapped in a blanket burrito like he's an ancient bat mummy being preserved in glitter.
He's safe. Good.
My sins are cleansed.
My chaos has rebooted.
Cook Dom is back, bitches.
Time to make some eggs and pretend I'm not going through an identity crisis in a towel.
------------------------------------------------------
Yes. Egg, DIE.
I cracked six like a proâtwo for me, four for the glitter-consuming food monster currently hibernating on my couch. He's not just dramaticâhe's bottomless. Like a sparkly black hole with fangs.
Butter hits the pan with a satisfying hiss. I toss in the eggs with a pinch of salt and that fancy-ass, non-garlic sauce I bought just for him. Can't believe I now have a section in my pantry labeled "for the vampire."
I stir with care.
Not Dom-style "meh, edible" careâno.
This is Gordon Ramsay channeling through my soul care.
Runny, creamy, luxurious.
That bat is about to burst with flavor.
Where's the breadâaha! Gotcha.
Two types of toast:
Mine? Garlic butter. Crispy. Proper.
His? Cheese. Gooey, melty, mildâbecause God forbid the undead eat garlic and explode into sparkles.
Toasts? Perfectly golden.
Eggs? Fluffed and glossy.
Now... plating.
I grab my best two platesâthe ones I never use because aesthetic is for guests or vampires you may or may not be emotionally attracted to.
I layer the cheesy toast on his plate, two pieces crossed like a little edible throne.
Eggs go on top, gently spooned to keep the foldsâlike fluffy clouds resting on melty cheese.
Sprinkle of crushed herbs (non-allergic). Just for color. He won't care, but I will.
Tiny heart-shaped drizzle of ketchup on the side. Not cute. Just... okay, it's a little cute.
My plate? Less dramatic. Garlic toast, eggs, basic placement. I'm not trying to impress myself.
Done.
MasterChef: Werewolf Edition, Episode 1 complete.
I glance at the clock.
7:17.
Great.
I've officially spent too much time being emotionally unstable, and jerking the wolf out of myself and then cooking like a suburban dad trying to win back custody.
Nowâpriority list:
1. Feed the damn bat.
2. Drag him out into the daylight.
3. Try not to get emotionally attached again. (Failing.)
I grab both plates and walk over to the center table, placing them gently like they're sacred relics in a church of sparkles and caffeine.
"Alright, Batboy," I mutter under my breath.
"Time to wake the hell up."
"Hey Vamp, wake up or I'll throw you out!"
I poked the burrito.
No response.
Rude.
"Vamp, I'm fucking seriousâwake up or I will stuff your ass with garlic!"
Still nothing.
Very rude.
Okay. Maybe he's just being extra dramatic today. Like full-on Disney villain coma just for the sake of attention. Wouldn't be the first time.
I leaned down, mouth hovering near the top of his blanket-wrapped head.
"BAT BOY, WAKE THE FUCK UUUUUUPâ"
...
No flinch.
No scream.
No dramatic "you hurt my fragile undead ears!" reaction.
Nothing.
I blinked.
Okay, that's weird.
Usually, by now he'd be up, crawling on top of me like a koala on caffeine, demanding cuddles and breakfast and emotional validation.
This? This is silence.
I swallow, throat tight.
"Last chance," I mutterâmore to myself than him now.
I reach down, grip the edge of the blanket, and yank it off in one clean swoop.
...
What I see?
Isn't sleeping.
It's not cute.
It's not dramatic.
It's wrong.
His skin is paleâpaler than usual, almost bluish.
His lips are dry.
His curls are damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead.
His breathing? Shallow. Too shallow.
His eyes are half-lidded. Unfocused grey! He's not really there. Fuck what happened!!! Is he dieing!!! No! No! Fuck not happening! What should I do! Monster hospital? Monster 911! Fuck I No no shit!!
"Lean�"
My voice comes out low. Shaky.
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Doesn't even twitch.
Fuck.
The plate in my hand trembles. I set it down fast before I drop it.
I kneel beside him.
Touch his foreheadâcold, even for him.
Way too cold.
Not his usual cool-vampire chill. This isâŠ
Wrong.
"Hey, heyâhey! Come on. Wake up, dumbass," I whisper, nudging his shoulder now. "This isn't funny anymore. I will seriously kill you, and I...I will choke you to death! Vamp wake!!"
Still nothing. My eyes, they are getting watery but I don't care, yup I look stupid!
I shake him like some fucking come bottle.
Still nothing.
My heart pounds against my ribs.
No. No no no. This is not happening.
He was fine last night. He was fine.
"LeanâŠ"
I press my hand to his chest.
Still. Barely rising.
No heartbeatâbut that's normal. He doesn't have one.
But this still doesn't feel right.
He always breathes more when he's dreaming. He always mumbles dumb shit in his sleep.
This is too quiet.
Too still.
Too dead.
I whisper, "Don't do this to me, Batboy."
Because I don't know what I'm looking at anymoreâ
But I know I don't want to see it again.
And then!! I low weary voice!!
"Blo...Blood!!....."