Soulmark Erotica
Gold-washed stage and teeth that shine,
Say the word and I'll make it mine.
They never wanted us to last,
So we carved forever from our past.
— CHAMPAGNE & FANGS, Abaddon’s Vassals
SCENE: INSIDE THE MYSTIQUE OPÉRA GALA, LATE NIGHT
Enchanted chandeliers. Blood-glass flutes. Magic pulsing under every footstep.
The ballroom glittered like something out of a fever dream. The marble was laced with veined sigils, glowing faintly beneath glass heels and designer boots. The ceiling showed a sky that didn't exist—stars flickering in time with the music, constellations rearranging themselves into slow-moving stories.
Steve and Eddie moved through it like a stormfront—hand in hand, soulmark visible beneath Steve's collar, Eddie's laughter trailing behind them like perfume.
People turned.
And kept turning.
Not just glances. Not just curiosity.
This was attention. Real and raw. Flashes of recognition followed them—journalists muttering into enchanted pens, glamour artists eyeing their bond, whispers rolling like thunder:
"That's them."
"Soulmark kiss—live TV."
"Bond each other on stage, right?"
"Didn't he use to be a Harrington?"
Steve felt it. All of it. But this time, it didn't bury him.
Because Eddie squeezed his hand every time someone stared too long.
Because Sapphire walked three steps ahead, parting crowds like Moses with tits and a floor-length train.
Because Chrissy smiled with her fangs showing every time someone looked at them with anything less than awe.
Robin and Nancy were near the open bar, already collecting stories. Max and Will were trailing behind someone from Vampire Vogue, probably planting fake quotes.
And somewhere deep in the glowing crowd, Dustin loudly called Steve Dad in front of a dozen ambassadors.
They reached the main stage just as the host called for attention.
A floating crystal microphone hovered over the dais, glowing violet.
Sapphire, of course, was the first to speak.
Her voice, silky and sure, cut through the crowd like velvet lightning.
"Tonight," she said, "is about choice. About showing up. About claiming space in a world that still questions our right to it."
She turned, looked directly at Steve and Eddie.
"And sometimes—showing up looks like loving loudly. In public. Without apology."
The audience shimmered with sound—clinks, hums, magic pulling tight.
Then Eddie stepped up. Took the mic with a wink.
"I didn't prepare a speech," he said. "Which I think you all expected. But I did bring the best thing I've ever found."
He reached back. Took Steve's hand.
Pulled him forward.
Steve froze for half a second.
Then stepped up beside him.
"Hi," he said into the mic, voice steady. "I'm Steve. I'm Turned. I'm soulbonded. I'm in love."
The crowd stirred.
"But I used to be a Harrington," he said, sharper now. "And that family didn't want me to be any of those things."
A hush.
"But I'm still here. Still breathing. Still biting back. So whatever your name is—whatever bloodline, whatever mark—if you're still showing up, even when they didn't want you to?"
He looked around.
"I see you."
And just like that, the crowd roared.
Magic cracked like thunder. A wave of applause hit the stage. Sapphire raised her glass. Chrissy whooped. Dustin screamed. Even the chandeliers pulsed brighter.
Eddie kissed Steve on the cheek—soft, reverent.
Steve leaned into him like the world had always meant to end here, in this light, on this stage.
SCENE: POST-SPEECH, IN THE SHADOWS OF THE GALA
Somewhere between applause and afterglow. Magic still thick in the air. The high before the crash.
They slipped away from the main floor once the lights dimmed, ducking down a corridor lined with enchanted portraits that whispered as they passed. Eddie's hand was warm in Steve's, thumb tracing slow circles along the pulse of his wrist. The quiet was a balm.
Until it wasn't.
"Steven."
The voice hit him like a slap—too familiar, too sharp, too rich. Smooth with entitlement, lacquered in arrogance.
Steve turned, pulse already tightening.
Tommy Hagan stood beneath a floating crystal sconce, dressed like he thought the gala theme was Nepo Baby Chic: black velvet suit, gold cuffs, and the expression of someone who thought his last name was still a weapon.
"Didn't think you'd still answer to that," Tommy drawled, holding a glass of enchanted wine like it was a scepter. "What's the etiquette for addressing someone who publicly soulbonded a—what are you now? A bassist? A bisexual cautionary tale?"
Eddie didn't let go of Steve's hand. Just smiled. Lazy. Sharp. Dangerous.
"Hi, I'm the bisexual part," Eddie said. "Nice to meet you. And you are?"
Tommy blinked. "Still someone with connections. Still someone your parents actually invite to things."
Steve's mouth went dry. Not because it hurt—but because he realized it didn't anymore.
Not in the old way.
"I didn't realize nepotism came with delusion now," Steve said, voice even. "Your dad's law firm is still covering up soulmark fraud, or have they moved on to glamour laundering?"
Tommy's eyes narrowed. "You really think this ends with a kiss on a stage, Steve? The world eats people like you. You're a blip. A headline. A phase."
"Wrong again," Steve said.
Eddie's voice was silk-wrapped steel: "He's forever. I'm just lucky he chose to spend it with me."
Tommy scoffed. "You really think love matters when the magic fades?"
And Steve—calm, elegant, still burning from that speech—smiled.
"The magic doesn't fade," he said. "It just chooses who's worth holding on to."
He took Eddie's hand again. Walked right past Tommy without looking back.
And this time, the portraits cheered.