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Jean knew that Riko had gone too far this time. His cruelty knew no bounds, and defiance against him meant suffering tenfold. Nathaniel’s days in Castle Evermore were numbered, but freedom, if you could call it that, was still agonizingly out of reach. Jean wasn't sure how much fight Nathaniel had left in him, stubborn as he was.
Despite being the son of one of history's most infamous vampires, Nathaniel was still human, like his mother. That human weakness and fragility was dragging him down, breaking him more and more with each passing day. If only he would give in, surrender to the Moriyama Clan, and embrace his Father's vampiric heritage. Wouldn't it end his suffering? Wouldn't it be easier than this unyielding struggle?
Is it worth the fight to return to the Foxes?
Jean didn’t know. He couldn't fathom it.
His own life belonged to the Moriyamas, bound to Castle Evermore for eternity. Riko was king, the true Vampire King and submission was not only expected but necessary for survival. Yet Nathaniel refused to give either the Master or Riko the satisfaction of breaking him. It was baffling.
Nathaniel was nothing more than a defiant, ignorant dog in a den of wolves. A pathetic excuse for a vampire, despite the infamous Butcher's blood coursing through his veins. Jean would never dare to challenge Riko like this. He’d never risk it. And yet, here was Nathaniel bloodied, broken, and defiant even as he lay crumpled on the shower room floor.
The showerhead continued to run, water cascading over slashed skin and open wounds, washing away the blood in crimson rivulets. It was a grim tribute to Riko’s rage, a reminder of what happened when Nathaniel dared to talk back, to stand against him more than anyone dared. Riko’s punishment was brutal with his unrelenting vampiric strength. Not even the other Ravens lingered to witness it. Only Jean remained, forced to hold Nathaniel down as Riko ravaged him.
When it was over, Riko left without a word, his hands slick with blood, leaving Jean alone with the aftermath. Jean's duty was to patch Nathaniel back together.
The scent of Nathaniel’s blood was intoxicating, rich and overwhelming. But Jean had no desire to drink it, this wasn't the first time he’d had to clean up Riko’s handiwork. Turning on the rest of the showers to rinse away the splattered blood down the drain, Jean knelt down beside Nathaniel’s limp form. He stopped breathing to dull the scent and grabbed hold of Nathaniel, propping him up with care. Nathaniel flinched at the touch, a faint groan escaping his lips. Jean ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. His movements were methodical as he stripped away Nathaniel’s shredded, blood-soaked clothes, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. The sight of him, broken and bleeding, struck a nerve Jean didn't care to examine.
He wet his hands and began cleaning the wounds on Nathaniel’s face and upper torso, working as gently as he could. Nathaniel winced with every touch, but Jean pressed on, his hands steady even as his mind betrays him.
Too much blood.
Nathaniel’s body was a wreck. Bones broken, one arm fractured, his left eye bleeding. He should have been dead by now. Any ordinary human would be. But Nathaniel wasn't ordinary, his vampiric nature was barely keeping him alive. It wasn't enough.
Jean didn’t have a blood pack on hand, or even nearby, too afraid to go out and find one. Any attempt to offer Nathaniel a blood pack after Riko’s abuse was futile, as Nathaniel adamantly refused to drink blood from anyone. Not even the blood from blood banks could convince Neil otherwise. Despite his injuries, he stubbornly refused to accept any form of help that involved drinking blood, leaving Jean increasingly desperate and unsure of how to aid him.
Riko had tried forcing blood into him before, using syringes, even prying his mouth open, but Nathaniel always fought back, spitting it out or vomiting it up. Even bit Jean's hand once in a struggle. Little bastard.
That only added fuel to Riko’s fire, giving him another reason to escalate his cruelty. He took every opportunity to ensure Nathaniel’s suffering compounded, using Nathaniel’s refusal as an excuse to justify his relentless torment.
Jean shook his head, frustration mounting. Nathaniel was teetering on the edge. His time was running out, and he was too stubborn to save himself. This was the last thread, and it was fraying fast.
Jean clasped Nathaniel’s head firmly, his voice low and urgent. “Nathaniel.”
The bloodied boy groaned in response, his voice faint and rasping. “Shut... up. I'm... N-... Neil.”
Jean bit down on his lower lip, torn between anger and desperation. He wanted to slap the defiance out of him, shake some sense into him. “You're going to die here and now if you don't get blood,” he snapped.
Nathaniel’s body shuddered as he tried to push away, his stubborn will fighting even as his strength waned. “N... no, get away from... me!”
Jean's hands tightened, his temper flaring. He wanted to hurt him, to sink his fangs into Nathaniel’s throat and silence him forever. Let him die, let this fool who refused to save himself meet his end. But he couldn't. Nathaniel is Jean's partner until the end of December, bound to him by obligation and survival. If Nathaniel died, so would Jean.
Jean cursed under his breath, hating the helplessness flooding his chest. “You stupid little child,” he muttered, his voice trembling.
He knew what he had to do. He'd always known. But the thought of it made his stomach churn. Offering his blood wasn't just dangerous, it was a violation of every fear, every nightmare that haunted him.
The memories were relentless, clawing at him like Grayson’s hands once had. Nights where there was no escape, where the darkness held only pain and humiliation. Grayson’s body pinning his, those cruel fangs sinking into his neck, leaving him drained, violated, and broken. Jean swallowed thickly, bile rising in his throat as the phantom sensation crawled over his skin.
But Nathaniel’s groan, so weak it barely registered, snapped him back. Jean couldn't let him die.
Steeling himself, Jean wrapped his arms around Nathaniel’s trembling frame, leaning his back against his chest. The bloodied boy's head lolled weakly, his skin pale and cold. Jean fought back tears, forcing his shaking hands to obey. This wasn’t about him. It couldn't be.
With a sharp inhale, Jean tilted his head to the side and bit into his own wrist. Pain bloomed as his fangs tore through flesh, and the hot, metallic flow of his blood began to drip. He pressed it against Nathaniel’s lips, the crimson streaks mixing with the blood and water pooling beneath them.
Nathaniel’s body convulsed at the scent, his blue eyes snapping open with an otherworldly, vampiric glow. He glared up at Jean, his gaze filled with loathing and hatred.
“Yo...U fu...” Nathaniel rasped, his voice brittle.
“Shut up!” Jean snapped, his voice raw. The water and blood from both of them soaked Jean's clothes and skin, turning the ground slick and treacherous beneath their knees. “Please, just let me help you! Stop being stubborn and full of fight for once in your ungrateful life!”
Nathaniel shuddered but didn’t pull away, his lips parting slightly as the blood pooled against them. Jean pressed harder, desperate.
“This is mercy, Nathaniel. A chance to fight another day. Take it,” Jean pleaded, his voice breaking.
But Nathaniel wasn't finished fighting. He clawed at Jean’s arms, trying to throw him off, the effort leaving bloody streaks on places. The slick floor made the struggle chaotic, their bodies sliding in the mixture of water and blood.
“Let... me go!” Nathaniel gasped, his strength fading even as he fought, elbowing, kicking, slamming his head against Jean, to the bitter end.
Jean finally lost his temper. With a frustrated scream, he shoved Nathaniel against the wall, pinning him there with trembling hands. The sharp impact left a smear of blood on the tile, and Nathaniel froze, stunned by the force of it.
Jean's voice broke into a cry, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the empty showers. It wasn't words, it was pain, anger, and desperation bleeding together into sound.
Nathaniel’s eyes widened, his breathing ragged. For a long moment, he simply stared at Jean, his defiance dimmed by something else.
Jean's hands shook violently as he gripped Nathaniel’s throat, the tremors overtaking his body. The water rained down on them both, washing away the blood in streaks that felt endless. Jean's vision blurred with tears he refused to shed.
Nathaniel studied him, his gaze softening in a way Jean didn't expect. It wasn't pity —it was recognition. Like he was seeing, Jean in a new light, seeing the fractures beneath the surface. And in that moment, Nathaniel wasn't just seeing him, he was seeing someone else. Someone who had suffered like this before. Jean might have an idea who.
Neither of them spoke, the silence stretching out like a fragile thread between them. The only sound was the water falling, relentless and cold.
Jean swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe through the shaking. “Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Nathaniel’s lips twitched, a flicker of emotion crossing his bloodied face. And then, finally, he gave in, his mouth parting just enough to take what Jean offered.
Jean’s breath hitched as he shifted, his knees sliding against the wet, blood-slick floor until he straddled Nathaniel, pinning the boy beneath him. The weight of his own actions settled heavily on his chest, but there was no room for hesitation now.
He raised his bloodied wrist to Nathaniel’s parted lips. The small, trembling gasp Nathaniel let out was almost imperceptible beneath the relentless spray of the showers. Their gazes locked, Nathaniel’s bloodshot, glassy eyes flickered with an emotion Jean couldn’t name.
The contact was tentative at first, Jean’s wrist brushing against Nathaniel’s lips like a whisper. A moment of hesitation passed, but then Nathaniel moved. Slowly, shakily, he raised his good arm, his fingers brushing Jean’s forearm with a featherlight touch.
Jean froze, his pulse hammering against his skin as Nathaniel’s hand weakly wrapped around his wrist. It wasn’t a grip, barely anything at all, but it was enough. Nathaniel’s lips parted further, and his fingers tightened slightly, pulling Jean’s wrist closer to his mouth.
And then, Nathaniel drank.
The pull was light at first, almost unsure, but it quickly became more certain. The warmth of his mouth against Jean’s wrist, the rhythmic sensation of his blood being drawn, it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t like Grayson's forcefulness when he drank out of him.
Jean’s throat tightened, a shudder running through his body as he felt something unfamiliar and almost unbearable. Grayson’s bites had always been sharp, cruel, ripping through him like claws tearing apart prey. But this? This was different. There was no pain, no malice. Instead, it felt... pure, as Neil unintentionally bit into him.
Jean’s breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in sync with Nathaniel’s weak gulps. The sensation spread through him like a fire, slow and steady, until it settled deep in his core.
He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to suppress the emotions welling up inside him. The vulnerability in Nathaniel’s touch, the way his lips trembled as they pressed against Jean’s skin, it was too much.
Nathaniel’s other hand, the one too weak to rise, twitched against the tile floor. His body was still trembling, still so fragile, but Jean could feel the faintest change in him.
His eyes fluttered open for just a moment, their vampiric glow dimming slightly as they met Jean’s.
Jean didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, as Nathaniel’s hand on his wrist tightened just enough to be felt. It wasn’t a demand; it wasn’t a struggle. It was holding onto something and afraid to let go. The thought hit Jean like a punch to the gut. For the first time, Nathaniel wasn’t fighting him.
Jean closed his eyes, his head tilting down as the weight of it all threatened to crush him. His blood still flowed freely, still feeding Nathaniel, but it was more than blood. It was given mercy and accepted connection.
And as Nathaniel continued to drink, Jean realized that this moment was something neither of them would ever forget.
Jean could feel it, the shift in Nathaniel’s body as strength slowly returned to him. His breathing steadied, the tremors subsiding as his body began to regenerate. Bones cracked and popped back into place beneath Jean’s hands, the sound sharp and jarring in the wet, echoing silence of the shower.
Nathaniel’s grip on Jean’s wrist loosened as his mouth pulled away, his tongue dragging over the wound in a final, instinctual lick to seal it. Jean shivered, but he didn’t move.
His head lowered, resting against Nathaniel’s shoulder, the weight of exhaustion and blood loss pressing heavily on him. The steady rise and fall of Nathaniel’s chest beneath him was grounding, even as the world around him blurred at the edges.
For a moment, Jean let himself breathe in Nathaniel’s scent, blood, sweat, and him… just him.
Nathaniel didn’t push him away.
Instead, Nathaniel’s head tilted slightly, leaning against Jean’s in a hesitant, almost unconscious gesture. Jean could feel the faintest inhale, the subtle way Nathaniel’s nose brushed against his hair as if he, too, was trying to take in him too.
Jean’s curiosity stirred, a spark igniting in the haze of his thoughts. Whatever it was about Nathaniel it went beyond his defiance, his stubbornness. He was a paradox, fragile yet unyielding, broken yet whole in a way Jean couldn’t comprehend.
Nathaniel’s breathing was shallow but steady now, his body pressing lightly against Jean’s as if grounding himself, too. Neither of them moved.
For a moment, the world outside the shower didn’t exist. It was just the two of them, tangled in exhaustion, blood, and connection.
Jean hesitated for only a second before his lips pressed against the raw, healing wound on Nathaniel’s shoulder. It wasn’t a calculated move, but instinctive and short. The taste of Nathaniel’s blood was sharp, metallic, yet, it is purely him. It was a taste Jean didn’t allow himself to linger on.
He pulled back quickly, his lips stained red, and looked at Nathaniel. For the first time, he truly saw him, his disheveled hair clinging to his damp skin, his pale face painted with streaks of blood and water, yet somehow striking, even in his battered state. A quiet thought drifted into Jean’s mind: Beautiful.
His voice was low, almost reverent as he murmured, “Merci, Nathaniel.”
Nathaniel didn’t respond at first, his blue eyes hazy with exhaustion but still sharp enough to meet Jean’s gaze. He shifted, trying to find his footing, but his body failed him, his legs trembling. Without hesitation, Jean pulled him off the cold, bloodstained tiles, one arm braced firmly around Nathaniel’s waist to steady him.
Nathaniel groaned softly, his voice weak but sincere. “Thank you.”
Jean said nothing, simply nodding as he began to move. Step by step, he guided Nathaniel out of the showers. The weight of the smaller man against him was familiar now, their movements slow but deliberate.
In the relative silence and stealth to Nathaniel’s room, Jean settled him down on the edge of the bed. With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he dried Nathaniel off with a towel, mindful of the wounds that were still knitting themselves closed. His touch is careful, precise, avoiding any unnecessary pain as he dressed Nathaniel in clean clothes.
The process was methodical, yet warm in its quiet simplicity. Nathaniel leaned on Jean for balance, their shared silence speaking louder than words.
Finally, Nathaniel was laid down, his body visibly more stable than before but still drained from his ordeal, waiting for more to come. Jean hovered for a moment, unsure if he should say something, but the quiet between them felt too fragile to break.
The tension snapped with Riko’s sudden arrival. The Vampire King stood in the doorway, his presence as oppressive as ever. He smirked at Jean with a commanding tone. “You’re needed elsewhere. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Jean stiffened, his entire demeanor shifting. “Yes, my king,” he replied coldly, his voice devoid of the warmth Nathaniel had just glimpsed.
Riko vanished as abruptly as he’d arrived, and Jean turned back to Nathaniel, his expression softening once more. He stopped, lingering by the door. Then, in a moment of defiance against his own fears, he leaned down and pressed a brief, tender kiss to Nathaniel’s forehead.
“Rest,” Jean whispered, his voice almost breaking.
And with that, he was gone, leaving Nathaniel alone to process the warmth still lingering on his skin.