In the Middle Of The Night
(Prologue of The Night Belongs To You)
Pairing: Vessel x Fem!Reader
Synopsis: In the quiet aftermath of a Sleep Token show, the reader is pleasantly surprised with the chance to go backstage. What follows goes far beyond even her wildest dreams.
Word Count: 7,3k
Warnings: Smut: Unprotected penetrative sex.
A/N: This is the chronological first chapter of the The Night Belongs To You fics. It was suposed to be a one shot, but now it's a multi chapter story. I really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it ;)
Read the following chapter HERE
SERIES MASTERLIST
There was nothing a girl could wish for more than managing to stand at the barricade at a rock show of her favorite band. It was the dream for which people sacrificed hours in endless lines, often in extreme cold or heat with no possibility of rest unless they submitted to sitting on the dirty floor.
Submit. That was what people thought when they talked about it with disdain. Why would people submit to this kind of thing? Well, it is very hard to explain to people who don’t understand – or don’t want to understand – what it is like to identify so deeply with a band to the point where it becomes your entire personality. Music has that power to speak when silence suffocates, to give words when you can’t express what you feel. Music saves lives. Bands save lives. God knows Sleep Token had saved you on many nights when the thoughts were too dark to describe.
Vessel’s voice was almost a constant companion in your life now. A lifeboat you clung to while dragging yourself through existence, staying functional and putting all the energy you had into that. When you arrived home exhausted and sad after a hard day, listening to Sleep Token’s songs was like having Vessel sitting beside you, and although it solved nothing, it eased the burden a little and made you feel like everything would be okay somehow.
So, yes. You had “submitted” to all the effort to get that spot at the barricade, and your heart was beating so hard in your chest as you finally got there, realizing that you were finally going to fulfill that dream that you could barely take notice of everything around you.
You were alone there, your favorite band was too strange for your so-called friends, and except for the people you had met in line, you hadn’t talked to anyone all day and that was fine.
The arena, although enormous, felt cramped now that it was completely full, the very air of the place was hot and the floor vibrated beneath your feet coming from the huge speakers playing a mix of songs to soften the fact that you still had to wait another hour before the show would finally begin.
There was a sea of bodies around you, countless. Shoulders brushed, breaths, conversations, laughter and screams mixed together, but there so close to the gigantic stage covered by a huge curtain everything felt strangely intimate. It was as if the entire world had been reduced to that moment, to that expectation. Your heart beat too fast with the anticipation of the almost childish certainty that something important was about to happen.
When the lights finally dimmed and the first chords of Look To Windward echoed, you felt a knot form in your chest, the music going through you completely. It was impossible not to smile, impossible not to feel that you were witnessing something truly sacred. A ritual. It was impossible not to feel part of it. After all, everyone was there with the same single purpose. To worship.
What followed after the curtain fell and you heard and saw Vessel for the first time was a blur of color, sweat, tears and desperation. At some point Vessel sat on the side of the stage right in front of you to sing Aqua Regia and you thought you were going to faint when he seemed to look in your direction – of course it was impossible to know if he was looking at you because of the mask, but your teenage side was sure that he had noticed you because he smiled, a big, open and lingering smile and then he stood up and walked away, but the effect that had on you was devastating.
The feeling of being devastated and pierced continued song after song, but it was Infinite Baths that broke you. You already knew it would happen, but hearing the first chords of the song was enough to make your knees give way and your hands cling to the barricade to try to stay on your feet. It was impossible not to think about how that song had saved you since everything had become heavier. You kept fighting against the desire to let everything go and that song was often the only thing between you and the darkness. For years you had been too tired to try to explain how you felt, too sad to ask for help and feeling too invisible to be truly noticed. But that song helped somehow.
And there, while watching Vessel and the boys say goodbye, you cried. You cried for the catharsis, for the dream fulfilled, for the end of the dream and above all, for yourself. And there, while saying goodbye to your line friends and waiting for the crowd to disperse a little so you could finally find your way out, you made a promise to yourself: you promised that you would allow yourself to have more time to do the things you liked. That you would try to live a little instead of just surviving. Of course it was easier said than done, but in that moment you believed it.
You were distracted with your back to the barricade when you felt a hand on your shoulder and turned around startled, finding a huge security guard with a not very pleasant face staring at you with a certain strange curiosity. There was still music playing on the speakers so he brought his face closer to yours and shouted to make himself heard.
“The man wants to meet you.” That was all he said.
“W-what man?” you asked without understanding, afraid you had done something wrong and would end up in a police station in the middle of the night, but you were interrupted by the guard.
“Are you coming? You need to come with me right now.” he shouted.
“Is that a choice?” you shouted back, but he was already with his arms around your waist helping you swing your legs over the barricade and then went ahead showing the way and you found yourself climbing onto the stage and slipping through a small passage on the left side.
You walked behind him with your heart in your mouth without understanding bullocks of what was happening and before you realized it he pushed you into a small cramped room and simply left and closed the door.
“What the…” you whispered, allowing yourself to look around. The white light was too strong for eyes that had spent hours in the dark. There was a characteristic smell of cleaning products, metal and sweat in the air. Crushed water bottles thrown on the floor, towels on top of chairs and vanity tables with traces of black paint. The strange silence after the deafening noise of the stage made your ears ring and your head was spinning too fast for you to put two and two together until the door opened and you saw him.
Your brain short-circuited because you simply couldn’t process what was right in front of you. For a moment you forgot how to breathe.
He stood still for a moment by the door as if he was questioning whether he should come in or not, or maybe it was just because the noise of the stage hadn’t fully let go of him yet. The hood was still up, framing his head in shadow, heavy fabric clinging to him with traces of sweat and heat. The new golden mask adorned his face, but hid less than the previous one. It didn’t reveal enough to let you see the man behind it, but it was enough to make him devastating.
You could see his nose clearly, the sharp line of it breaking through the ritual paint. His lips were slightly parted as if he was still catching his breath, as if a sound might slip from them if you got too close. The black paint didn’t hide him completely, it only emphasized the skin beneath, the pale texture showing through in places, human and real beneath something sacred. His jaw was tense, his throat marked with streaks of paint and sweat, his chest rising and falling slowly, heavily.
Finally, he stepped into the small room and closed the door behind him with a slowness that seemed rehearsed, almost as if he didn’t want to scare you. Without saying a single word, he walked slowly in your direction, the corner of his lips curved in what seemed to you like a shy smile, like the smile someone gives when they know they are doing something mischievous, something they shouldn’t.
He stopped inches away and you became painfully aware of his height and overwhelming presence towering over you, making you feel delicate in a way you never had before and you had a sensation of being pierced, as if he were staring at you, analyzing every reaction. It was a devastating feeling of being devoured by eyes you were not allowed to see.
Your lips parted and a rush of air was pulled into your lungs by pure instinct, as if your brain had only just remembered in that instant that you needed to breathe. You knew only moments had passed, but somehow the silence imposed over you made everything dense and slow and you finally gathered the courage to break it, but before any word could escape, he shushed you with his index finger on your lips and your knees went weak and you found yourself anchoring on the small vanity table behind you, and while making a tremendous effort to process what was happening, your mind turned to your senses to ground yourself. You inhaled deeply.
He smelled like heat and metal and something darker underneath, sweat soaked into fabric, paint mixed with skin, a faint citric trace of whatever he wore that was unmistakably his. Your eyes devoured him, clinging to every detail. He looked unguarded in a way that felt forbidden. He looked frighteningly divine even though rationally you knew he was just a man, but in that instant your body reacted as if you were in the presence of a god. Trembling, pulse pounding in your ears, mouth dry, hands slick with sweat.
Your lips parted against his finger, and he allowed himself to touch your face, his slender fingers entering the mess of your hair, cupping your cheek, the touch light and exploratory, thumb moving so slightly against your skin almost like a caress. Warm and cold at the same time where skin touched skin and the metal of his rings.
And then, as if the world had stopped making sense, he leaned down to kiss you. Slowly, giving you time to breathe, to pull away, to change your mind. He didn’t ask, not with words, but his entire body seemed to be listening. His lips hovered over yours for a heartbeat too long, testing the space between intention and permission. When he finally touched you, it was careful, almost hesitant, a first press meant to feel rather than to take. Then he bit your lip teasingly as if he wanted with that, with that fraction of a second of pain, to prove it was real. That he really was there and you were not dreaming.
The actual kiss began soft, exploratory, as if he was learning the shape of you. You felt him pause after every small movement, gauging your reaction, waiting for any sign that you might want him to stop. But you didn’t. Instead, a quiet, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a tiny breath of a moan that dissolved right against his mouth. That was all it took. Your fingers found the heavy fabric of his cloak, curling into it instinctively, tugging him closer without really thinking.
He answered immediately, stepping into you until your chest met his, the warmth of him seeping through layers of cloth. One of his hands slid to your waist, slow and deliberate, settling there as though he was allowed to stay. The other moved to the nape of your neck, firmer now, more certain, guiding you gently instead of merely asking.
The kiss deepened in response to your pull. What had started cautious grew braver, his lips opening over yours, tasting, coaxing. You stopped trying to think altogether, aware only of the way your heart hammered and how your body seemed to melt toward him on its own. His thumb brushed along your jaw while his mouth claimed yours again, unhurried but unmistakably hungry.
Each movement became a little less controlled, a little more honest. Your hands tightened in his cloak, pulling him impossibly closer, and he allowed it, allowed you, with a low breath that vibrated between your lips. The rhythm changed without either of you deciding it should, turning fuller, warmer, faster, as if the moment was gaining life of its own.
By the time the kiss truly found its pace, you weren’t analyzing anything anymore. There was only the press of his mouth, the steady strength of his hands on you, and the dizzying realization that you were kissing him, not a dream, not an image on a stage, but the real, living man who was holding you like he had chosen to be exactly there.
You felt it almost before you understood it.
Some small, distant part of your mind noticed the shift in him, the way his movements grew surer, the way his hesitation thinned and melted away. He was learning you with every breath, every tiny sound you let slip into his mouth. Your responses were teaching him, and he was answering in kind. The kiss deepened not because either of you decided it should, but because it seemed impossible for it not to. Desire moved between you like something alive, a quiet current neither of you had the strength or the will to resist.
It didn’t feel planned. It felt inevitable.
His hands began to wander with a new confidence, sliding from your waist to your ribs, fingers spreading as though he wanted to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. When his palm curved over your breast, squeezing gently through the thin layers of black fabric, a startled breath left you before you could stop it. You barely registered the details of what you were wearing - the cropped shirt, the mesh beneath it - only the heat of his hand and the way your body reacted as if it had been waiting for that exact touch.
The kiss broke for a heartbeat, just long enough for air, but he didn’t really let you go. He never truly let you go. His mouth found you again almost immediately, hungry and searching, and when you pulled back to breathe he simply followed, lips drifting to your jaw, your chin, trailing down to the sensitive line of your neck.
You felt more than saw the subtle impatience in him then, the way his fingers fumbled slightly with the hem of your top, the quiet urgency in the way he tugged at the layers between your skin and his. It wasn’t rough, wasn’t demanding. Just eager.
Your thoughts were hazy, scattered. You noticed things only in flashes: the scrape of his rings against the soft mesh sleeve, the warmth of his breath against your throat, the faint tremble in your own hands as they traveled over the exposed skin of his chest, nails scratching lightly the pale skin stained with black. Nothing felt rational. Nothing felt measured. It was all sensation. All instinct.
And you let yourself sink into it while your mouth sought his again and an actual moan escaped through your lips swallowed by his always hungry mouth.
His hands finally found the hem of your clothes with clear intent. You felt the gentle tug first, fingers hooking into fabric, and then a firmer pull as he gathered the layers together. The kiss slowed, softened, as if he needed focus for a moment. When he lifted the material, you understood without a word. You raised your arms instinctively, breath uneven, and the two of you broke apart only long enough for him to slide the top and mesh up over your head.
Cool air rushed over your skin. The garments fell somewhere behind you with a quiet, careless sound, forgotten the second they hit the floor.
His gaze dropped, and before you could even feel shy about it, his hands were on you again, warm, sure, reverent. He pulled your bra down leaving one breast exposed to him and played quickly with your nipple, rolling it under his thumb, making it harden immediately. You shivered at the contact, at the way his other palm shaped your breast over the bra as though he couldn’t quite help himself. There was something almost instinctive in the way he touched you now, like restraint was slipping away piece by piece.
When his mouth replaced his thumb, sucking the small bud and then teasing it with the tip of his tongue, the reaction tore out of you before you had time to swallow it.
Your head tipped back and a sound escaped your lips, louder than you intended, raw and unfiltered. The room seemed to narrow to that single point of sensation: his breath against your skin, the faint scratch of paint at his jaw, the pressure and warmth that made your knees feel suddenly useless.
Impatience flickered through him then. You felt it in the way his hands grabbed you, his fingers tightened at your waist, decisive now, no hesitation left. In one fluid motion he lifted you, guiding you backward until the edge of the vanity met the backs of your thighs. The surface was cool as he settled you onto it, and the contrast made you gasp softly.
He spent a second unfastening your bra and getting rid of it, then returned his full attention to your breasts again, squeezing, kissing, sucking, giving small bites to your nipple and then soothing it with the tip of his tongue.
Your hands gained a life of their own, roaming over his chest, feasting on the sensation of touching the abs you had spent so much time lusting after, seeing only through photos and videos.
But your hands weren’t satisfied with just that, you touched lower, exploring through the soft material of his pants and finding him hard. The realization sent a dizzying rush through you, confirmation of something you had sensed all along. The effect you were having on him was undeniable.
You grabbed him through the fabric, fingers squeezing lightly, sliding slowly, exploring, feeling and realizing just how challengingly huge he seemed.
His breathing changed immediately with your advances, growing quicker, heavier. A small, involuntary sound slipped from him, and hearing it lit something bold inside you. Confidence bloomed.
Your hands trembled, but they didn’t hesitate as you began to unbuckle his belt. You fumbled slightly at first, clumsy with nerves and excitement, but determination steadied you. Fingers searching, learning, working at the buckle you found there, focused entirely on the quiet rhythm of his breaths and the way they hitched.
Somehow, between shallow breaths and trembling nerves, your fingers found their way under his pants and the moment you realized he wasn’t wearing anything beneath them, a small thought flickered through your haze: of course he isn’t. It felt strangely intimate to discover that, like uncovering a secret you had always suspected.
You wrapped your hand around him, genuinely caught off guard. Yeah, you had also been almost sure he was big, but the reality of him was more than your mind had prepared for, and a nervous rush of heat flooded your face. He was thick. Your fingers could barely close around him, and you moved awkwardly at first, unsure of what you were doing. The truth was it had been a long time since you had been with a man.
But even your clumsy touch was enough. You felt the way he reacted immediately, how he seemed to come alive beneath your fingers, how his body answered you without hesitation. The soft pulse of him in your hand made your stomach flip, and then you heard it.
A sound. Low, unpolished, almost shy. Definitely a moan. It was quiet, as if it had escaped him before he could stop it, and the knowledge that you had drawn that from him sent a thrill straight through your veins.
His hands didn’t leave you while you explored. If anything, your boldness seemed to encourage him. He continued to touch you with growing confidence, palms warm and sure, movements no longer tentative. You could feel his attention split, torn between what you were doing to him and what he wanted to do to you. Impatience crept in.
You noticed it in the subtle shift of his touch, in the way his fingers began to wander lower, catching at the delicate layers of your skirt. The soft fabric bunched under his hands as he tried to push it aside, clearly frustrated by how much stood between him and your skin. There was something almost endearing about it, the quiet determination, the barely restrained urgency.
With a few insistent movements he managed to lift the tulle out of the way, hands sliding upward along your thighs. And then, in a gesture that felt more instinct than thought, you heard the unmistakable sound of fabric giving way and your breath hitched sharply. The cool air against your legs, the suddenness of it, made your heart stutter.
His fingers finally reached between your legs, sliding up and down over the fabric of your panties until finally he pulled the material aside and slid a finger between your folds, letting out a bit of a hum at finding you so ready for him already. The contact sent a jolt through your entire body.
You gasped softly, your grip on him tightening in reflex, moving slowly up and down. He answered by kissing you again. His mouth claimed yours with new urgency, swallowing the little sounds you couldn’t help making while he continued exploring you with each of his huge fingers, going deep.
Everything felt faster now. Hotter. Closer.
And somewhere beneath the haze of sensation, you were dimly aware that neither of you was thinking anymore, only reacting to the need that both of you seemed to feel for each other. A need that seemed to reach its unbearable peak when he pushed your hand away from him, pulled his cock out of his pants and jerked himself quickly there in front of you for a second before holding it at the base and letting a string of saliva fall onto the tip.
There was a fraction of a second while you watched what he was doing in which you became completely aware of what was happening, of what was about to happen and of who the person it would happen with was. A fraction of a second in which you could have pulled away, changed your mind, said no. But you didn’t do any of those things, you opened your legs wider for him, pulled him impatiently back to your lips and allowed yourself to be penetrated in body and soul.
One second there was space between you, breath and anticipation stretched thin, and in the next that space was gone, pierced by the sensation of him inside you. He did it all at once, entering you to the hilt and the shock it caused in someone who had been without sex for so long was almost painful, but still you liked it. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t careless either. It was real, overwhelmingly real. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. A sound broke free from your throat, raw and surprised, your hands gripping at him as if you needed something solid to hold onto. He waited an instant for you to adjust around him and in the meantime, he kissed you again, hard, just a clash of teeth and saliva.
The feeling of him was impossible to ignore, full, insistent, undeniable and the sensation combined with his kiss sent a rush of heat through you so sharp it made your head spin, emotion crashed into you just as hard as the physical sensation. A wild, dizzying awareness: it’s him. It’s really him.
By the time he started thrusting against you, every stroke harder than the one before, marked by the distinct sound of the moans he no longer bothered trying to hold back, your heart hammered against your ribs, hard enough you were sure he could feel it where your chests were pressed together. There was clearly a clash between the physical reactions of your body and your emotions, but they didn’t contrast with each other, they only fought to take control of your mind. Eventually, with each deliciously strong and deep thrust, your body won and you surrendered, letting go of any trace of shyness that might have remained and letting it take control of you.
“O-oh god… fuck,” you whined against his lips as the force of his movements made the fragile vanity shake and creak beneath your weight. The sound seemed to ignite something inside him because he broke the kiss and grabbed you by the back of the neck and increased the intensity, moving his hips in a way that his cock went even deeper, managing to touch that delicious spot inside you that made you scream and cross your ankles behind his back, caging him.
He liked that. So he did it again and again.
“Y-yes… yes…” your trembling voice sounding deliciously pathetic.
The room seemed to tilt slightly, every sense narrowing down to that single point where you were connected. His breath fanned over your face, uneven and heavy, matching the frantic rhythm of yours.
He moved with pure instinct and it felt urgent, almost desperate, like something he had been holding back for far too long and could no longer contain. Each movement of his body carried that need, and yours answered it without hesitation.
Your hands pulled him by his cloak back to your lips, the kiss becoming an extension of what you were doing, mouths dancing against each other, tongues clashing for dominance, but he was winning, penetrating your mouth with the same need with which he was fucking you.
Suddenly everything felt too surreal and you broke the kiss then, not to pull away, but because you needed to see him. Your eyes found his face, dark paint, gold mask, the familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Awe washed over you so strongly it made your chest ache. For a moment you simply stared, dazed, overwhelmed by the impossible reality of what was happening.
Slowly, almost reverently, you lifted your hand, your fingers trembling as they reached for him, finally allowing yourself something you hadn’t dared before. You touched his face, really touched it, the cool material of the mask beneath your fingertips contrasting with the warmth of his skin in your palm. The reaction was immediate.
His thrusts faltered, his lips parted at your touch, a sharp inhale escaping him. You felt his breath hitch, felt the way his entire body seemed to respond to that simple, intimate gesture. It was as if being touched by you in that way undid him more than anything else. You saw him trying to regain control, moving his hips against you now slower, more rhythmic, as if trying to hold back. You moaned when he brushed against that delicious spot inside you again, amazed at the ease with which he could find it when no other man ever could.
“S-shit… you’re so beautiful,” you caught yourself saying while tracing the edge of the mask, gentle, curious, grounding yourself in the reality of him while everything else blurred into sensation. He seemed to stare at you, or at least you felt like he did, and whatever restraint he still had unraveled completely.
The rhythm of his strokes quickened again, grew stronger, more urgent. There was no calculation in it, no careful pacing, only raw desire finally given permission to exist. His hands held you firmly, one at your waist, the other on your shoulder, keeping you close, keeping you with him, as though he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
Your own breaths came in broken pieces, mingling with the low sounds he couldn’t quite hold back. Every nerve in your body felt awake, stretched tight, trembling on the edge of something you both knew was coming. As much as neither of you seemed to want it to end, your bodies were at their limit. He was tense, his breathing stronger, moans escaping his mouth uncontrollably now while each thrust seemed more irregular, more out of rhythm, as if only instinct made him move in a tireless search for release.
You, on the other hand, felt as if every nerve in your body was exposed and over sensitive and you knew, with absolute certainty, that you wouldn’t last long. The intensity was too much, too fast, too honest. But somehow that only made it sweeter, the awareness that you were both racing toward the same breaking point, carried there by pure, unfiltered need. And you were willing to let yourself fall into it completely if he was going to fall with you.
It happened faster than you expected though, one moment you were holding on to him, trying to keep up with the overwhelming rhythm between you, and the next your entire body began to tighten in a way you couldn’t control. The sensations built too quickly, too deeply, like a wave rising inside your chest and spilling down through every nerve at once. You felt it coming before you could even understand it.
A breath shuddered out of you, high and fragile, your fingers instinctively clutching at him. Your hands slid desperately beneath the heavy fabric of his cloak, searching for skin, for something real to anchor yourself to. You found his shoulders, strong and steady beneath your palms, and you held on as if he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your nails pressed gently into his skin without you meaning to, not out of pain or urgency, but out of pure need to hold him closer while the world around you began to dissolve.
He noticed immediately. Without a single word, he read you and you felt the change in him, the way his touch shifted, the way his movements adjusted just slightly, guiding you, coaxing you, pulling you closer to that edge you were already trembling on. His hands became steadier, firmer, keeping you right where he wanted, right where you needed to be.
His lips parted, breath uneven, and there was something almost like a smile there, subtle, knowing, intimate. Not amused, not teasing, just aware. A quiet understanding that he could feel what was happening to you and that he was determined to stay with you through it and just like that he coaxed it out of you. Your head fell forward against him as the first real wave hit, a soft cry slipping from your mouth before you could stop it. Heat rushed through you, bright and overwhelming.
It felt like being unraveled from the inside. Every part of you seemed to react at once, muscles tightening, heart pounding, your entire body trembling against his. The world narrowed to nothing but sensation, to the way he felt pulsing inside you, to the way his arms kept you steady while everything else spun out of control. You clung to him through it, burying your face near his shoulder, fingers curling deeper into the fabric and skin beneath, holding on as if letting go would make you disappear entirely.
It should have been awkward for two people who had never seen each other before to find themselves in a moment of almost overwhelming intimacy, but it didn’t feel awkward at all. Somehow it felt right. And he stayed right there with you, moving against you in slow and intense thrusts as if wanting to prolong your high with each one of them. Anchoring you.
You felt him watching you, felt the warmth of his breath against your temple, the quiet way he seemed to savor every second of your undoing. There was no rush in him now, only focus, only the intent to carry you safely through something that felt almost too big for your own body to contain.
The intensity rolled over you in slow, relentless waves, each one stealing a little more of your strength, leaving you softer, shakier, more vulnerable in his arms, and when it finally began to fade, when your breathing turned ragged and your grip on him loosened, you realized you were still holding on to him as though your life depended on it. Your forehead rested against his chest, your heart racing wildly, but you barely had time to steady your breathing before feeling the change in him.
The moment your body began to soften in his arms his own seemed to tighten and he returned to resuming the rhythm and strength of his strokes, clearly searching for his own release now without any shame at all, as if he knew he had earned the right to have it because he had just given you what could only be described as the best orgasm of your life.
His movements grew quicker, stronger, driven now by something raw and unavoidable. There was no performance in it, no attempt to be elegant, only need, pure and unfiltered. His breath turned ragged against your skin, hot and uneven, each exhale heavier than the last. You could hear him now, really hear him, the small sounds he could no longer swallow down, the low, desperate notes that slipped free no matter how hard he tried to keep control.
He pressed closer, fingers digging just a little more firmly into your waist as if holding on to you was the only thing keeping him together.
You felt the tension building inside him, how he pulsed within you with each thrust, in the way his shoulders trembled beneath your hands, in the quickened pace of his breathing, in the restless urgency that had taken over his entire body as he practically started to pound against you. His lips brushed your cheek, your jaw, parted and warm, and the sound he made then was almost helpless.
For a brief moment he seemed to fight himself, trying to last just a little longer, but whatever restraint he had left was slipping away fast, then, with a sharp, almost reluctant breath, he pulled out, fingers wrapping around himself with urgent need jerking quickly and roughly.
You barely had time to register it all when his body shook hard, almost uncontrollably, and you felt the heat of his release against your thigh, warm and sudden. The soft fabric of your skirt caught it, marked by the moment in a way that felt strangely intimate and undeniable. He let out a very loud moan. Real, rough at the edges, spilling out into the small room without shame or disguise. Through it all, his hand never left you.
Even while his body trembled and his breath came in uneven bursts, his fingers stayed anchored at your waist, holding you close as if he was afraid you might disappear the second he let go. You could feel the strength in that grip, the quiet insistence that he wasn’t going anywhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder as the last waves of it moved through him, the tension slowly draining away. The tremors eased, his breathing beginning to settle, though he still clung to you like you were the only steady thing left in the world.
And in the heavy, fragile silence that followed, you realized you had just had sex with Vessel.
…
There was a small minute where everything seemed ridiculously impossible while Vessel searched for something to clean you with. When he finally found a clean towel, he came back and gently cleaned your thigh as best he could. He did the same with your skirt, but you knew nothing would remove his smell from it and somehow you liked that.
He picked up your clothes from the floor and waited for you to dress, watching you in silence. You hadn’t missed the fact that he hadn’t said a single word since entering that dressing room and somehow that seemed much less absurd than it actually was.
Finally, when you finished getting dressed, your cheeks noticeably warm from the absurdity of it all, you were surprised by Vessel handing you his phone and although you couldn’t help noticing a slight tremble in his hands as he offered you the device, your mind seemed to freeze, completely unable to process the real meaning of that.
You took the phone from his hand almost automatically, still trying to catch up with everything that had just happened, and then your heart almost stopped when you realized what was on the screen. Not a message. Not a photo. The simple, ordinary page to add a new contact. For a moment you only stared at it. Your heart began to beat faster again, a nervous flutter rising in your chest, and you felt that familiar mix of hope and disbelief tightening around your ribs. A part of you wondered what this meant, if it meant anything at all, if you were reading too much into something so simple, but another part, a softer, braver part, allowed itself to feel chosen, even if just for an instant.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed your name, each letter feeling strangely important, as if you were leaving a piece of yourself there with him. When you added your number, you hesitated for half a second, suddenly aware of how vulnerable the gesture felt, how real everything became in that small, practical act. You handed the phone back, your pulse still racing, and watched as he accepted it without a word, slipping it carefully into the pocket of his cloak.
He seemed to look at you then and you felt exposed all over again, but not in a painful way, more like being seen after spending a lifetime invisible. His hand rose slowly to your face, warm and gentle, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. You realized you were holding your breath. When he leaned in, the final kiss he gave you was nothing like the frantic intensity from before. It was soft, unhurried, almost careful, as if he wanted to leave you with something kind instead of something consuming.
And then he pulled back. Just like that. No dramatic words, promises or explanations – in fact he gave you no words at all, only a lingering touch, a quiet moment, and the echo of everything you had shared. You watched him turn away, feeling the absence of him the second he moved, your heart still pounding as the room suddenly felt larger and emptier than before. As he disappeared, you were left standing there, trying to breathe, trying to understand, holding on to the fragile, impossible hope that whatever had just happened between you hadn’t been a dream after all.
…
You barely realized how you had left that place when the taxi finally dropped you at home. Someone had come to get you there, a woman with a badge and she had informed you that a taxi would take you wherever you wanted to go. The whole thing began to seem too planned as you put the keys in the door of your apartment and stepped into the silence and darkness of your living room.
Maybe he had the habit of taking fans to the dressing room, you thought while taking off your boots and letting your tired feet delight in the softness of the carpet. But right after that a part of you - a stupid part perhaps - remembered the detail of the number on the phone.
What would be the point of taking every fan’s phone number if that were the case? No, Vessel didn’t strike you as someone who would do that for sport. It felt different. Special.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” you murmured to yourself while drinking a glass of water in the kitchen and dragging yourself to the bedroom. You knew you should take a shower before lying down in your bed, but something in you simply refused to wash him away from you, so you just undressed, staying only in your underwear, and threw yourself onto the bed, hugging the huge, pathetic body pillow and wishing with all your heart that it was him.
You fell asleep faster than you had time to understand and woke up the next day feeling dizzy and starving. For a moment everything seemed distant, as if your brain still hadn’t managed to catch up with everything, and then suddenly the memories rushed back into your mind. Vivid, beautiful, and full of an overwhelming desire, passion, and crushing sadness. You took a shower, prepared a brunch with everything you had in the fridge and in the cupboards, and the entire time you kept checking your phone. Waiting for a single message that would make everything make sense. But as the hours passed, then days, then a week with no text, you began to face the only two possible answers for that unbearable silence.
First: you had typed the number wrong and he simply couldn’t reach you. You didn’t remember checking the number before handing your phone to him, and you could hardly believe how stupid that was.
Second: he simply wasn’t interested. Honestly, you couldn’t tell which of the two options was more painful and unbearable to accept, and not knowing was killing you.
It took him eight days to look for you.
It was Sunday night and you were in usual sleep wear watching a stupid horror movie with a bowl of popcorn on your lap when your phone vibrated on the coffee table. You didn’t even bother to look. You had spent the entire week staring at your phone with every notification and being disappointed over and over. As much as it hurt, you were convinced the dream was over and were trying to come to terms with yourself, trying to accept that it was better to have had one night with him than nothing at all. But it was the persistence of the notifications that made you pick up the phone and look.
And then your heart stopped.
Unknown Number
Hello. I hope you got home safely. If you’d like to meet again, I’ll be here: The Wetherby Hotel 25 Wetherby Gardens London SW5 0JP Room 312 Next Friday at 8 pm. Let me know if you’re coming.
Your hands were trembling, your eyes filled with tears immediately, and you could barely see the phone screen through them. Suddenly the sound of the movie you were watching was replaced by the pounding of your heart in your ears as it threatened to burst through your rib cage. You tried to breathe and put the phone back on the table for a minute. You didn’t want to reply right away so you wouldn’t seem desperate, but then a nervous little laugh escaped your lips and you caught yourself cursing out loud.
“You are desperate, Y/N. What’s the point?”
And then you picked up the phone and answered with a single line.
Of course I’m coming.
Then you clicked on the option to add a new contact and began typing his name with trembling fingers: Vessel.
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