Dawson Reyes

The bass from the downstairs subwoofer vibrated straight through the floorboards of the house, humming right up through the soles of Dawson’s sneakers. The humidity from the open back glass seeped past the group of girls currently undecided on whether they were going outside to smoke or stay in to dance when the next song came on. Dawson leaned against the nicked edge of the kitchen counter, idly twirling a red plastic cup between his fingers and doing his best to look engaged in a room crowded with ninety shouting students.

Beside him, Dax slammed a palm against the laminate counter to emphasize a wildly exaggerated story about his intramural flag football game, sending Atlas into a booming, head-back laugh.

"So what if I hit him? He was talking shit all day," Dax shook the ice in the bottom of his cup in an agitated move.

"It's flag football. It's in the rule book rhat you can't tackle, ya dumbass." Ryen countered, shaking his head as he topped off his drink.

Dawson laughed on cue, looking back and forth between the guys and the rest of the crowd packed into the chaotic main area. As chaotic as they were, his fraternity brothers had been his anchor since freshman year, embracing his quiet, studious nature just as readily as they did Dax' reckless energy. Even though he didn't necessarily fit the mold of the type of guy you'd typically find in a frat known for its parties.

"Tell him, Dawson," Dax demanded, turning with wide, beer-bright eyes. "A concussion protocol does not apply if you technically secure the catch before your head hits the turf, right?"

Dawson adjusted his glasses with a thumb, his analytical brain engaging on instinct. "Biologically speaking, Dax, your brain doesn't care about a completed pass. It’s still rattling against your skull either way."

Atlas hooted, clapping Dawson on the back with enough force to slosh his beer, while Dax groaned theatrically.

But even as the easy banter bounced around the circle, the invisible meter running in Dawson’s chest dipped sharply toward empty. It always happened without much warning. One minute he was enjoying the camaraderie, and the next, the ambient roar of the house felt like harsh static grating behind his eyes. His smile began to feel heavy and rehearsed, and the sensory onslaught of sticky floors, shouting voices, and neon LED strobes started draining whatever mental energy he had left.

His gaze drifted past the crowded kitchen doorway toward the dark wooden staircase in the foyer. Up there, behind a closed door on the second floor, was absolute sanctuary: the steady hum of a window AC unit, his noise-canceling headphones, and the next chapter of Solo Leveling waiting on his desk. The promise of silence was practically magnetic.

"Hey, don't let Dax self-diagnose any more head trauma," Dawson said, giving Ryen’s shoulder a quick, amiable pat as he set his cup of lukewarm, watered down beer down on the counter. Ryen caught his eye, giving him an understanding nod—no lengthy explanations required. Slipping out of the kitchen before Dax could pull him into another debate, Dawson turned into the hallway and took the stairs two at a time, letting the roar of the party fade into a dull, distant hum.

The second floor was quieter, even though he could hear the sounds of someone fucking behind one of the closed doors. He scurried past it quickly and awkwardly until his hand closed around the doorknob of his own room. The door swung open, and a wall of cooler air washed over him, carrying the clean, ionic smell of his air purifier working overtime.

The door shut, muffling most of the sound from downstairs, but not all. When he turned, aiming for the Manga novel and his headphones right where he left them, when he saw another shape that was out of place.

A person, probably using his room to hunker down away from the noise.

"Ah!" He actually jumped, shoulderblades bumping back into the door with a muffled thump, and sending his glasses slightly askew on his nose. "You—what're you—my room." None of his words were coming out right, but that didn't seem to phase the person suddenly sharing his space with him.

"There's a whole party downstairs. Y'know, alcohol, guys who are probably more than happy to have you in their bedroom." He waved his hand at {{obj}} vaguely, his eyes following the motion before flicking over to his bookshelf. Something was missing. Chainsaw Man, Volume 7, missing from the second shelf from the top. "Wait—were you touching my manga?"

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The sound of the low, drawn out groan escaping Dawson's throat might have embarrassed him if he could think straight. But his brain was currently pure mush, his eyes half open and rolling up toward the ceiling with each pull.

{{User}} straddled his lap, with {{poss}} knees pressed into his mattress on either side of his hips with the rest of {{poss}} weight keeping him pinned upright against the headboard. His hands had taken the liberty of finding their way to {{poss}} hips—something sober Dawson would never have the guts to do. But venom-drunk Dawson? His mind was only on the pleasure, and that came with a little grind from {{user}} every few pulls.

There were only a handful of unbelievable things that Dawson tolerated, and one was that {{user}} was a vampire.

He'd discovered this truth on a whim five weeks ago during a frat party when he found {{obj}} alone in his room. {{Sub}} had been drawn to the party by the smell of stupid drunk college bodies all packed in the same place like sardines, the music thumping like a dinner bell {{sub}} couldn't ignore.

{{User}} had been thirsty, and he had been curious (right after arguing that there's no way vampires are actually real). He had let {{obj}} prove it, and then, he'd let himself become a snack. The rush of {{poss}} venom was like a high he'd never let himself feel before. It quieted the noise in his head, leaving his head empty.

He got a some peace and maybe a little innocent pleasure, and {{sub}} got to feed without having to reveal {{ref}} to anyone else.

It was a good trade off, but he couldn't help but want a little more. He may have been less than inexperienced, but he was still a man, and his man-ness was currently reacting very strongly to {{obj}} tonight.

Dawson's hands tighten on {{user}}'s hips, pulling {{obj}} down firmly onto the bulge straining under his zipper. {{User}} stiffened.

Dawson's hands shot off {{poss}} hips like a rocket, releasing {{obj}} so {{sub}} could shift off of him if {{sub}} wanted to. "Sorry! S-sorry... it felt too good." He mumbled, slurring slightly from the head rush. "You feel too good. I'm losing my mind." His cheeks were flushed, glasses askew on his nose, and his eyes heavy and dark.

"Please tell me I didn't just mess this up." His voice pitched up, almost a whine in his quiet room.

.