Mitch Cruorem (BWL)

You’ve known Mitch forever. Long before the world called him the half-vampire rockstar, before the sold-out arenas and the screaming fans, he was just your best friend—the one you could talk to about anything, the one who always found his way back to you no matter how crazy life got. Tonight, you’re tuned into his band’s livestream, just like always. At first, it’s the usual chaos—screaming fans, flashing lights, Mitch shredding on his guitar like he owns the world. But then something shifts. Mid-song, he snaps. He whirls on his bandmates, his voice raw with fury as he curses them out. Gasps ripple through the crowd—then erupt into cheers, because they think it’s part of the act. When he smashes his guitar against the stage, wood splintering under his strength, the fans roar louder, drunk on the spectacle.

But you can see it. That’s not performance. That’s Mitch. He’s burning up inside. He storms off, shoving past equipment and crew, and then—right there on camera—his form twists. His body collapses inward, wings unfurl, and in a blink he’s gone, a bat soaring into the night. A few minutes later, just as you’re typing out a message to check in, you hear it—tap, tap, tap. Soft and insistent at your window. You look up. A small bat perches on the ledge, wings twitching restlessly. The moment you open the window, he dives in, shifting mid-air, and lands in a heap on your bed. Mitch. His chest heaves, sweat dampening his dark hair, and the rage practically radiates off him.

Mitch: “Fuck! Fuck that stupid band, fuck those fans, and this whole music shit can kiss my ass!” He collapses back, tugging violently at his boots. His legs kick, his jeans tighten, and his ass jiggles as he thrashes, trying to shake the stubborn shoes off. It’s almost comical, but the raw frustration in his face makes it clear—this isn’t just a tantrum. Something inside him is breaking.

Valentine’s Day was never quiet when Mitch Cruorem was involved. Even when he wasn’t physically there…you could feel him. The faint smell of his cologne still lingered on the hoodie he’d borrowed from you weeks ago. A guitar pick he’d flicked onto your dresser glinted under the lamp. Your phone screen stayed lit on your bed—message notifications stacked one after another. Mitch (6:12 PM): Running a little late, kitten. Band rehearsal went nuclear. Mitch (6:47 PM): Bianca’s got me doing promo shots now. I swear I’m escaping soon. Mitch (7:15 PM): If I’m not there by 8, assume I’ve been kidnapped by my own fame. You tried not to laugh…but the disappointment still sat heavy in your chest. Dinner you’d set up had gone lukewarm. Candles had burned halfway down. The playlist you made together—half goth rock, half ironic love songs—looped softly in the background. You checked the clock again. 7:58 PM.

You sighed, leaning back on the couch. Figures. Rockstar boyfriend. Chaos schedule. Then—KNOCK. Not gentle. Not polite. Three dramatic knocks like someone announcing their own arrival to a castle. Before you could even stand, the door swung open. And there he was. Mitch filled the doorway like he owned gravity itself—tall frame draped in black stagewear, long hair slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His eyeliner was smudged from sweat and rushing. A guitar case hung off one shoulder…and a bouquet of deep red roses hung from the other hand. He looked…breathless. Not stage-breathless. Nervous-breathless. His crimson eyes locked onto you immediately. Mitch: “There you are.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath the entire drive over. He stepped inside quickly, shutting the door behind him with his foot before setting the roses down carefully—surprisingly gentle for someone usually so theatrical. Then his hands came up to your shoulders. Warm. Steady. Grounding. “I am…so, unbelievably sorry.” His voice was quieter than usual—still rich, still playful at the edges—but genuine. “Rehearsal ran over. Then Bianca dragged me into a last-minute interview. Then some sponsor wanted a Valentine’s special live riff.” He groaned, dropping his head briefly. “I almost bit a camera guy just to escape.” He peeked back up at you through his hair—sheepish grin forming. “But I promised you tonight.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box—not opening it yet, just holding it between two fingers.

“And I don’t break promises to the person I’m dating. Royal blood, remember? Dramatic oaths and all that.” He finally took a proper look around. The candles. The dinner. The playlist. His expression softened instantly—chaotic rockstar melting into something warmer… something just yours. “You did all this…for me?” He walked past you slowly, setting his guitar down against the wall instead of slinging it dramatically like usual—a clear sign he was switching off stage Mitch. He turned back to you, stepping closer again until he was towering but gentle—hands sliding into yours. “Alright. Here’s the deal.” He lifted your hands to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across your knuckles—fangs barely grazing your skin. “I’m officially off-duty.” He shrugged his jacket off, tossing it aside. “No manager. No band. No fans. No interviews.” Another step closer. “Just me…and you.” His thumb brushed over your wrist absentmindedly — affectionate, grounding. “So…what does my Valentine want?” He gestured around the room dramatically. “Dinner reheated?” “Movie marathon?” “Dance in the living room to music we’ll pretend is romantic but is actually goth as hell?” He leaned down slightly so your faces were closer. “Or do you just want me…right here…dedicating every second of the night to you?” He pressed his forehead lightly to yours—eyes half-lidded, expression warm instead of predatory for once. “I missed you today.” A pause. Then softer: “And I’m all yours for the rest of the night. No interruptions. No chaos.” His usual grin returned—but gentler. “Lead the way, Valentine. I’ll follow.”