Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

San hated this part of town.

It reeked of smoke and expensive perfume, both at the same time. Neon signs flickered with names that tried too hard—HUSH, BLACK SUN—clubs that promised exclusivity but delivered nothing but illusion. The buildings leaned like they’d grown drunk on their own shadows, and every alley had a secret it was trying to sell.

He adjusted the collar of his jacket, the metal fastenings cold against his skin. His boots scuffed the damp pavement, but no one noticed him. Not really. Not in this district. Everyone here was either trying to disappear or be devoured.

He stopped in front of a club marked by a single black door, framed in dim red light. The sign above it didn’t flicker. Seraphim. The name curled in iron script, unlit but unmistakable.

He always hated clubs too.

Too loud, too hot, too many bodies pressed together like they were made to burn. He hated the way sweat clung to skin that wasn’t his, the way hands touched without asking, the bass lines rattling his bones like a warning.

A line curled from the entrance, velvet rope guiding a collection of glittering sinners—people dressed like temptation, skin oiled and shining under the soft red hue. Most wore black or burgundy. Their eyes were gleaming with want. Their mouths were already parted, laughing—or begging. Or both.

San frowned. He didn’t blend in. Not that he wanted to. He had to though.

The bouncer didn’t move as he approached. Big guy. Thick neck. Eyes like fogged-up glass. One earpiece, one expression. San met his gaze, already reaching for his ID.

“You here with someone?” The bouncer asked, unimpressed.

“No.” San offered the ID anyway.

The man didn’t even glance at it. “You look too young.”

San sighed. “I’m twenty five.”

“You don’t look twenty five. You look nineteen. No offense.”

“I’m flattered.”

The bouncer didn’t laugh. He crossed his arms.

San clenched his jaw. “I’m here on business,” he said. “Got a reservation.”

The bouncer snorted. “Look, kid. I know you’re all muscular like that. But nobody under twenty one gets in here unless they’re VIP. You’re twenty max. Looks like you’re fresh out of luck.

Dejected, San retreated from the line and walked off to the alleyway beside the club—a narrow corridor littered with trash cans and flickering street lights. A safe building would always have a back door, and luckily for him, it was lit even better than the front entrance.

He slipped through the shadows, pressed his back to the grimy brick wall, and approached the metal door. Unluckily for him, it was chained and locked tight—no matter, his fingers found the lockpick in his pocket, and with careful precision, he worked on the lock. The door clicked open, and a rush of warm, heavy air escaped from inside—perfume, sweat, and something darker.

San slipped inside and closed the door softly behind him. 

Inside was a different world.

The heat hit him first. Not temperature, atmosphere. The press of bodies and desire and sound. He hated this.

The bass thumped like a heartbeat amplified, shaking in the walls and floor and his chest. It wasn’t music meant to be heard. It was meant to be felt— an invitation to surrender.

His eyes scanned the room. The entrance corridor from the other side of the room was narrow and low-lit, velvet walls and mirrors smeared by too many hands. It opened into a split-level floor, opulent in a way that felt both ancient and futuristic. Crimson drapes hung from the ceiling in spirals, catching slow strobe light.

The bar stretched like a serpent along the right side, all black marble and brass. The bartenders were too attractive—two tall men who worked in perfect symmetry and accuracy. San knew better.

There was a stage to the left, but it wasn’t a performance tonight. More like an altar. A girl in nothing but heels and glitter swayed to the beat with her arms above her head, a collar snug at her throat. Below her, men and women alike watched with slack jaws, drinks forgotten in their hands.

Above, private booths wrapped the upper floor like a balcony. Their curtains shifted slightly, though no air stirred. Figures watched from the shadows—just silhouettes, but San could feel their gazes, heavy and watching.

He made his way through the crowd slowly.

People brushed against him. Hands, shoulders, lips. Some whispered. Some stared. Some at him, some at other people. He ignored them all. His senses were sharp tonight. Too sharp, maybe. He could smell sweat and perfume. It was hard not to—it was practically assaulting his senses. He paid no mind either way.

He reached for his earpiece, pretending to adjust his hair.

“I’m in,” he murmured.

A hiss of static, then, “Copy. You’re clear. Booth Thirteen is occupied.”

Yeosang’s voice. Precise. Calm, as always.

San didn’t respond right away. He kept his gaze moving, sweeping the crowd for any familiar faces he saw on the dossier—though he wasn’t sure what “familiar” even looked like here. Everyone looked the same, and everyone looked like sin.

The music shifted, slower now. Slinking like silk down the spine. Synth-heavy. Almost drugged. It beat in time with the rhythm of bodies moving around him. Someone brushed against his shoulder, deliberately close, breath ghosting hot against his neck. 

“Hey pretty boy,” The man whispered, voice sultry and venom-laced. 

San stepped away before he could say anything more, eyes locked in on the softly lit booths lining the far back wall.

He made his way toward the booth, weaving between drinkers and ‘distinguished’ guests. The deeper he moved into the club, the stranger the air felt—like it wasn’t made for humans. He was sweating, though not from heat. He hadn’t even seen the target yet, and his body was already reacting.

“Eyes up, San,” came Jongho’s voice over the comms. It was soft but weighted at the same time.

“I know,” San muttered, jaw tight.

He stopped at the top of the stairs to recollect himself, back pressed to the cool metal, steadying his breathing. The lights from the dancefloor flared purple before flaring gold—then dimming back into violet. Bodies pulsed in the haze like a living organism, like a hive of individuals meant to distract.

San ran a hand through his hair. His other hand hovered near his belt where the stake was still hidden. Training for this was arduous, but he was still made for this. 

It was just that this place was wrong. Not just dangerous. Wrong. He could feel it in his teeth, buzzing against his molars. In his skin, which felt too tight. In his blood, which ran too fast.

He reached up again, voice low. “Yeosang. Any visuals on the mark?”

“Negative,” Yeosang replied. “Thirteen is active still. But no eyes on who’s inside. Curtains are drawn.”

He stepped closer. 

Booth Thirteen sat near the farthest wall, plush red velvet curtains pulled shut. A single candle glowed at the table’s edge, flickering behind the gauze of fabric. Private. Reserved. The kind of place people went to either buy and sell secrets—or trade something else entirely.

San hovered nearby, pretending to be just another part of the crowd.

He hated pretending too.

Pretending to belong in a place like this. Pretending like he wasn’t sickened by the way hands clutched at flesh like they owned it. The way people threw themselves into strangers’ arms to forget whatever world existed outside. The way everyone here was chasing something—

Pleasure. Escape. Oblivion.

San had stopped chasing anything years ago.

But now… there was something humming low in his chest. Something restless. Like his body was remembering a feeling he hadn’t agreed to.

He glanced back at the booth. 

The curtain shifted. Not opened. Not drawn. Just… disturbed. Like someone inside had stood up. Or moved closer to the edge.

“He’s here,” San breathed. 

“Confirm visual?” Yeosang asked.

San didn’t answer. The curtain parted, and San saw him.

At first, he didn’t even register his face. Just the silhouette. 

The light hit his frame in pieces—first, the sweep of dark fabric, like the tail of a coat that didn’t quite touch the floor. Then the curve of a hand, pale and elegant, resting on the booth’s edge. 

And then, his eyes.

Crimson.

Not in the bloodthirsty, monstrous way San had grown up fearing. No. They were warm. Glowing. Like coals that hadn’t quite gone out.

The man stepped into the light, and everything in the room seemed to distort around him.

He was beautiful. Gorgeous, even. That was the first problem.

He didn’t have the kind of beauty that San trusted.

It was the kind that seduced.

Hair falling over one eye, glossy black, lips pulled into a slow, unreadable smirk. His posture was unhurried, loose-limbed, like he owned the space around him. Like nothing here could touch him—even if everything and everyone wanted to.

San’s breath caught, his muscles tense. He should’ve looked away as quickly as possible. Should’ve turned his back. Should’ve fallen back on the operation. He had every reason. Every order. Every instinct telling him to pull out of his gaze.

But he didn’t.

Because Wooyoung’s gaze locked onto him—and San forgot how to move.

The crowd, the lights, the pulse of music, all of it faded.

The only thing that remained was that look. His looks.

It wasn’t commanding by any means. It wasn’t angry or demanding or threatening. It was… curious. Darkly amused. As if San had wandered into a story already written, and Wooyoung was flipping to the next page just to see what he’d do.

San blinked. Took a step.

His fingers curled inward, nails pressing into his palms. This wasn’t right.

He didn’t want to walk forward. But his feet moved anyway. Like something had gotten under his skin. Like something in his blood was responding. 

“San, report. What is your status?” Yeosang’s voice snapped, too distant in his ear.

San couldn’t answer. His voice was locked behind his teeth. 

He was crossing the floor now, threading through the blur of dancers and shadows, every step too light to feel, like walking through a dream or a trap he hadn’t realized he’d stepped into.

Well—he knew this was a trap, but he was stepping into it anyway.

Wooyoung didn’t move. Didn’t beckon him forward. He just stood there, watching. Eyes low-lidded. Unbothered and waiting.

By the time San reached him, his hands were damp with sweat, his chest too tight. His mind screamed what the fuck are you doing— But his mouth had gone dry.

Then—

Wooyoung smiled. Not with his teeth. Just his lips, slow and devastatingly handsome. He tilted his head the slightest bit, that loose strand of hair catching the red-pink light surrounding them.

And said, soft as sin, “Hello, gorgeous.”

The vampire’s words landed like kissed bullets against San’s skin. His throat worked around a response that didn’t come. For a second, the noise of the club returned in a burst—laughter, shouting, grinding bass—but it was all behind a curtain now. He couldn’t feel any of it.

His mouth opened—then closed again.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Wooyoung’s smile curled, lazy and delighted, like he’d just been handed something to toy with.

“Mmh,” he hummed, eyes dragging down San’s form and back up again, unrushed. Like he had all night. “Don’t think I’ve seen you before. I’d remember a face like yours.”

San’s throat worked. “I’m just… passing through.”

A soft chuckle answered him. Wooyoung leaned against the edge, head tilted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice syrupy with mischief. “No one comes here to pass through.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, the heat in it sudden, like a hand pressed just beneath San’s skin.

“You’re looking for something.” He stepped closer, only slightly. “I wonder what it is.”

San’s fingers twitched at his side. Not too soon, he thought.

“Just a drink,” San tried. “I heard the bar was… good.”

That got another laugh—richer this time, teeth barely visible behind his lips.

“Of course you did,” Wooyoung said, voice dancing on the edge of a purr. “That’s what they always say.”

He took a step closer toward San. The air shifted, and everything felt even heavier now.

San couldn’t move. Again.

Wooyoung was watching him so intently, so casually, like he was already inside of San’s head, flicking through his thoughts just for fun and no actual reason.

San tried again, biting the word out faster this time, like if he could just say them, he’d regain his control. 

“I’m not here for trouble.”

“Mmh.” Wooyoung’s lashes lowered, a slow blink. “Aren’t you, though?”

He let the silence stretch, let it hang there, watching San squirm in it. 

Then, as if taking pity on him, he leaned in—just enough that San could smell him now. Dark. Sweet. Not human.

“Don’t worry,” Wooyoung whispered, voice low and wicked. “I like trouble.”

San’s breath hitched. His heart was racing. From fear, yes. Not just. He swallowed hard. His skin was too hot. His head was too full. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d trained for this. Had simulations. Protocols. Contingency plans. None of them covered what to do when your own body betrayed you and your target looked at you like a goddamn secret he wanted to keep.

He took a sharp breath and finally managed to step back.

“I’m—I need to go to the bathroom.”

Wooyoung didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just continued smiling, predatory. He could see through the excuse, and he made sure San knew he knew.

“Do you, though?” he asked, head tilted even further than San thought he possibly could. 

San’s jaw tensed. His eyes flickered to the candles surrounding them, and that was enough to break out of the trance the man before him had over him.

“I said I do,” he answered, firmer this time.

Wooyoung leaned back just slightly, the smile never slipping. “You’ll be back soon enough,” he murmured, and there was something knowing in it. Something that licked at the edges of San’s spine.

San didn’t answer.

He turned and forced himself away, cutting a path through the pulsing heat of the club, limbs stiff with tension. Every step felt like it cost him something. He didn’t breathe until he shoved open the bathroom door and leaned against the sink, chest heaving.

His reflection looked fucked. Sweaty. Pale. Eyes wide open. Too wide.

He reached up and twisted the earpiece into place.

“—San, do you copy? San, answer me—”

Yeosang’s voice was sharp. Definitely not calm nor collected.

“Yeah. I’m here.” San rasped, gripping the edge of the sink just to anchor him to reality.

“Where the fuck have you been?” cam Hongjoong, voice cracking through the static like lightning. “We lost all visuals. No sound. Do not go dark like that again, are we clear?”

San shut his eyes. His pulse hadn’t slowed. “Target made contact. No hostility. Just… talk.”

“Define ‘just talk’,” Yeosang snapped.

“He’s… he’s trying to lure me in.”

“Is it working?” Jongho’s voice cut in, quieter. Not mocking. Dead serious.

Deflecting, San muttered. “There must be a signal jammer upstairs—that’s why you guys cut off.”

“We can’t not have visuals on you.” Hongjoong immediately said, voice still unwavering. 

“And there’s no other way to get close to him. He won’t leave his booth.”

“San. Listen carefully.”

He hesitated, one hand running through his face.

“Do not let him corner you again,” Yeosang warned. “Control the space. Get him out of the booth.”

Hongjoong’s voice followed, “Make him stand. You hear me? Just be cautious and make sure you either kill him there or make him leave the booth.”

San gave the smallest nod, more to himself than to them.

“Roger that.” he murmured. 

His fingers twitched near the concealed stake. A breath in, and he opened the door.

He left the bathroom with less steadiness when he’d entered. 

Somehow, the music got louder and slower and thicker. It was even sticky in the air. The haze of it creeped against his skin like smoke, and something in his stomach clenched. 

He pushed his way back upstairs, not bothering to look at anyone.

When he got close to the booth again, he froze. Because Wooyoung had changed positions.

He wasn’t idly sitting anymore. 

He was lounging—fully sprawled out across the table like he was born to be worshipped. His body was temptation incarnate, one leg draped lazily over the side, dress shrugged halfway off one shoulder to reveal skin, soft and deliberate. A single hand cradled a drink, red and glowing under the lights. 

The vampire looked even more devastatingly handsome now. 

Gone was the tailored coat and dark slacks—his attire had shifted into something even more provocative, even more dangerous in its elegance. He now clad in a black gown that shimmered like spilled ink under moonlight. It hugged his torso in a way like it had been sculpted onto him, flowing down in sheer layers, split boldly at both thighs to reveal long, toned legs that threatened scandal with every inch.

He didn’t just wear the dress—Wooyoung possessed it.

His head tilted when he saw San. That same slow smile spread across his lips. 

Thirteen steps, and he was back in that blood-slicked pocket of heat and perfume, standing in front of Wooyoung again.

“Well, that was quick.”

San swallowed the dryness in his throat.

“I was hoping,” he said carefully, “you’d come with me.”

Wooyoung propped his upper body with an arm, brows raised. “Come with you?”

“To talk. Somewhere quieter.”

“This is quiet.” He gestured around them with a lazy flick of his fingers. “No one can hear anything through these. Not even a scream.”

San tensed. “I don’t need quiet for that.”

“Mmh.” Wooyoung licked his bottom lip, just once. “Then what do you need it for?”

San’s jaw flexed. “I don’t want an audience.”

Wooyoung plopped back down on the table, taking his gaze off of San just for a while. His knee angled upward, and he let out a satisfied hum.

“I see,” he said softly, before returning his sights on San. “So it’s not just a talk. Now you want me alone.”

“It’s still a talk.”

“Mhm.” he hummed once more. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

San bit the inside of his cheek. His body was betraying him again—the flush high on his cheeks, the beat of his heart going haywire. The air was dense with scent and suggestion, and Wooyoung’s eyes followed him like he felt the way San was feeling. 

“Don’t you want to be satisfied here?” Wooyoung asked, voice dipping lower. “Isn’t that what you came for?”

San took a cautious step forward, trying not to rush in and just kill him right there and then.

“No,” he said, voice steady. “I want somewhere more private.”

Wooyoung’s smile split wider. More dangerous and more delighted.

“How many times do I have to say this?” he whispered. “ No one can hear us through the curtains. Not even if you moan.”

San’s breath caught in his throat.

“So,” Wooyoung shifted, sitting up now. “What’s it going to be?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His skin was burned with the weight of Wooyoung’s words, his mind a blur of instincts at war. This was a trap. Someone fresh out of the womb knew this was a trap. He knew this was a trap. But the longer he stood here, the more he could feel himself slipping. Logic didn’t breathe the same in this air.

San swallowed hard. He braced a hand on the edge of the table and leaned in—just enough to meet Wooyoung’s gaze head-on.

“I told you,” he said, voice tighter than before, “I don’t want to do this here.”

Wooyoung bit his lower lip.

For a moment, San thought he might push again. Laugh. Tease. Say something filthy and slink back into the shadows of the booth. But instead, Wooyoung’s expression softened. Not in kindness—something else. Indulgence.

“Okay,” Wooyoung said, eyes locked to San’s. “But it’s just you and me, alright?”

San blinked. “...What?”

“No one else,” he clarified, already rising. “No interruptions. No voices whispering in your head.”

Before San could even process what he just said, Wooyoung was already moving—elegant and unhurried. He stepped around the table reaching for the curtain with one hand. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder, his voice a velvet drawl. “There’s a place I like better.”

The curtain swayed shut behind him with a hiss.

Following, San stepped out of the booth, and the vampire was already by the staircase, beckoning for him to follow. 

He expected for static to come to his ear, but none did. He whispered, “Booth’s empty, we’re moving.”

And yet, there was no reply.

He reached up and tapped the channel. “Yeosang, I’m with the target. We’re leaving the booth—confirmation?”

Still nothing.

Something cold pricked under his skin. 

He should’ve just stabbed Wooyoung right through the heart in the booth, damn the witnesses. Should’ve killed him when he got the chance.

But—

Wooyoung was looking at him already, waiting. And smiling. 

“Come on,” he said, his voice like silk soaked in heat. “You’ll love it.”

The two walked to the front door, where the bouncer from earlier made a gesture to San, before stopping him in his tracks.

“You. How did you get in?” he said, hand on San’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Wooyoung smiled, before glancing at San. “He’s with me tonight.”

With a grunt, he let him go. 

The limo was already waiting by the curb when they stepped into the night. 

It gleamed black and sleek under the pale city lights, engine purring softly. Wooyoung opened the door himself, gesturing like a queen offering a throne to his king. “After you.”

San hesitated.

“We don’t have all night, now do we sweetheart?” Wooyoung gently whispered to his ear.

He climbed in.

The interior was dim, plush, leather-smooth, and cool against his skin. No partition—Wooyoung slid in beside him, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him in waves.

The car pulled off into the night.

San adjusted his posture, shoulders tight. Nothing was coming from his earpiece still. 

Wooyoung laughed softly beside him.

“Relax,” he murmured, tilting his head against the seat. “You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

San’s jaw tightened even more.

The city slid past the tinted windows like a dream. Lights stretched into blurs. The type that comes with astigmatism—but the car really was just going that fast. Streets curled and bent into unfamiliar turns. San didn’t recognize the route. They weren’t heading toward any of the known safehouses or danger zones. This was neutral ground. Unclaimed.

Untraceable.

“You think they’d still be listening?” Wooyoung said after a beat. 

San didn’t answer.

“You’re not the first one they’ve sent, you know.” his voice purred like a cat. “But you’re definitely the prettiest.”

San finally turned to look at him. “And how many of them are dead now?”

Wooyoung’s smile didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t you like to know, hunter boy?”

The car slowed. 

Outside, a hotel loomed—modern glass kissed with gold, decadent and flashy. It was the kind of place you brought lovers and secrets to, both not exclusive to each other.

The driver didn’t speak as he opened the door.

Wooyoung stepped out, turned, and held out a hand.

San didn’t take it, but he followed.

The night air was somehow even cooler than just minutes ago, yet it did nothing to settle the heat crawling under San’s skin.

He kept a step behind Wooyoung as they crossed the pavement, the hotel’s sliding glass doors parting with a soft hiss. Inside, the lobby opened up like a cathedral—impossibly high ceilings, warm lighting that paired well with the gold, marble underfoot, the faint scent of something too expensive and too floral in the air.

It was luxurious and quiet. And too empty for this hour of the night.

San’s eyes swept the lobby out of habit, two staff behind the front desk, a concierge, a single guest sipping something dark at the couch to their right.

And every one of them looked at Wooyoung with… familiarity. Recognition. 

“Mr. Jung,” the concierge said warmly, already moving toward them. “Back so soon?”

Wooyoung grinned, easy and charming. “Couldn’t stay away, Hanbin. You know how it is.”

The concierge, supposedly named Hanbin, smiled in return. There was no ID check. No key exchange. Just a knowing glance and the hint of teeth.

San’s skin burned.

These weren’t humans.

Or if they were, they were too well-trained to flinch. But San knew his own intuition was too good, 

“Top floor?” Hanbin asked.

“You know me.” Wooyoung’s hand brushed San’s lower back—barely a touch, in fact the very first touch he gave San that night, and it startled him all the same. “I love the view.”

The elevator dinged softly as its doors slid open across the lobby. San followed, stiff as a blade. The air inside was freezing, and even more quiet. There was no music, just the mechanical hum as the doors closed behind them.

Wooyoung pressed 38.

Silence followed.

San kept his eyes fixed forward, but he could feel Wooyoung filling the space like a slow fog. His presence suffocated San, yet he couldn’t do much about it.

“I like this part,” Wooyoung said, voice breaking the silence. “The in-between. It’s like a held breath.”

San didn’t respond.

“I can hear your heart,” Wooyoung continued, almost absently. “It’s… fast.”

“I’m sure you’re used to that.” San managed to croak out.

Wooyoung chuckled. “I am. But yours is different.”

The lights above them blinked as the floors passed—22… 23… 24…

“You’re scared,” Wooyoung said lightly. “but not of me.”

San glanced at him. “You sure about that?”

Wooyoung turned his head, smile still wide and lazy. “I think you’re scared of what’s going to happen when you stop pretending. You hate that don’t you?”

The elevator dinged. 38.

The doors whispered open.

Carpeted halls stretched out ahead, dimly lit and silent. The lights were warmer, yet the air was deathly freezing. Not another soul was in sight.

San followed wordlessly as Wooyoung led the way.

Each step made his heart thump louder in his chest. Still no comms. Still no plan.

Just Wooyoung.

He stopped at the very last door at the end of the corridor.

No keycard. No handle turn.

Wooyoung just placed his palm against the wood. There was a click, soft and final.

The door swung open on its own.

And whatever waited inside smelled like dark wine, velvet, and something deeper. Something sweet that sank into San’s blood before he even crossed the threshold.

Wooyoung turned back to face him, leaning casually against the doorway.

“So… Do you wanna continue this? This is your last chance to back out.” he asked, head tilted, eyes gleaming.

San didn’t move.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course not, silly.” Wooyoung chuckled, stepping through the door. “After all, you wanted something quiet, and this is quiet.”

Hesitantly, San stepped in.

And the lock clicked shut behind him.

The room swallowed him whole.

Low light lit the space from sconces built into the dark paneled walls, casting warm shadows across every surface. The bed was enormous—king sized, sheets the color of deep red wine, half-draped in sheer curtains that hung from the ceiling. Across from it, a full wall of windows revealing a skyline that glittered like a pulse, the glass stretching from floor to ceiling, nothing but night beyond.

It was nothing short of beautiful.

San stayed near the door, fingers twitching near his belt. 

“Make yourself at home,” Wooyoung said over his shoulder, tossing his jacket on a velvet chair without a second glance. “Unless you’re too scared you’ll enjoy it.”

His eyes lingered as Wooyoung moved, graceful and supple, his back shifting under the dress he wore. Every motion looked deliberate, every gesture soaked in the kind of confidence you couldn’t fake.

“I’m going to rinse off,” Wooyoung said, already walking toward the bathroom. He paused in the doorway, glancing back at San, smirk lax and hauntingly devastating. 

“Don’t go snooping around while I’m gone,” he added. “Or do. I’d love to know what you’re looking for.”

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

San let out a slow breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He stood there for a long moment, stuck in space.

His instincts screamed at him to move— check the drawers, the windows, anything. But his body wasn’t cooperating. It felt like everything in this place was pressing in on him—air thicker, heavier, like the oxygen in the room itself had been tampered with.

Still, he moved. Slowly.

He wandered toward the minibar. Passed a table scattered with wine glasses and something that smelled earthy and heady. He didn’t touch it. 

San stopped at the window, gaze dragged out toward the city lights.

“Yeosang. Jongho. Come in.” he muttered to his earpiece to no avail. 

He could leave right now.

He could turn on his heel, exit the room, and report back to headquarters. 

No one would stop him, and if anyone did—they’d be met by a stake through the heart.

But the stake in his belt felt heavier than ever. Not from weight, but from meaning. It felt as if it would burn a hole in his body if he tried to pull it now. He’d already crossed the threshold. He’d already walked into the lion’s den. 

Now he was just waiting to get bitten.

San swallowed.

He was still staring out the window when he heard the water stop.

“Miss me?”

San turned—

And forgot how to speak.

Wooyoung stood in the doorway of the bathroom in lingerie.

Black, delicate lace, intricate and sheer. A garter belt clung to his hips, attached to thigh-high stockings that framed long, lithe legs. His chest was bare beneath a gauzy robe that did nothing to hide him. Wet hair clung to his jaw, drops of water trailing down his collarbones and over his stomach in lazy, glittering arcs.

San’s mind went blank.

His throat closed. His brain failed to form a single rational thought.

“I figured,” Wooyoung purred, stepping closer, “I might as well put on one of my better looks for you, right?”

San stared. His pulse thundered in his ears.

This wasn’t just flirting. It wasn’t even seduction.

This was war. 

And Wooyoung was winning.

Every step brought him closer. Slow, careful, graceful. There was something dark behind his eyes—and San couldn’t look away.

He didn’t move when Wooyoung came close enough to press his palms against his chest, even though his mind was yelling for him to stab him, to get away from him. 

“Don’t you want to stop pretending you don’t want this?” he whispered. 

San opened his mouth, yet nothing came out.

Wooyoung laughed, breath against San’s neck. “Thought so.”

His hand didn’t roam. Not yet, at least.

He just stood there, scanning San’s face like he was studying a piece of art.

“I can stop,” Wooyoung murmured, quiet enough that it almost didn’t sound like a dare. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

San’s breath shuddered in his throat.

Every nerve in his body was on fire. Logic clawed at the edges of his mind. He had to stop. He should say no. He should pull out the stake now and stab him. 

But he didn’t.

San didn’t know if it was because he thought he needed to give Wooyoung a false sense of protection so he could finally strike—or if he’s really just starting to get his mind blank.

He met Wooyoung’s eyes, voice coming out rough.

“…Don’t stop.”

Wooyoung smiled. 

“Good boy,” he said, and then he moved.

His hands slid up to San’s collar, thumbs pressing into the dip above his sternum. He leaned in, lips brushing the edge of San’s jaw. Not kissing just yet, just hovering.

San’s hand clenched at his stake.

His mind screamed for him to push away, but his body was already betraying him. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast and unspeakable, one step away from losing whatever thin grip he had on control.

And Wooyoung could feel it. He knew.

“Still so tense,” he whispered, lips grazing San’s ear. “You always carry this much tension in your shoulders, or is it just me?”

Wooyoung chuckled, and his hands dropped to San’s waist, sliding around to his lower back, letting the tension build with every fraction of movement.

“I want you to relax,” he said, tone syrup-sweet. “Let me make you feel good.”

He drew back just far enough to look at San again, head tilted. “Still okay?”

San nodded. Too fast. Too eager. “Yes.”

He hated how desperate it sounded.

Wooyoung didn’t comment—just leaned in and kissed him.

It started soft. Gentle. Just lips, a press of warm and cold, fire meeting ice. Wooyoung tasted like wine and something not human. But San almost didn’t care.

Because it felt so good.

And then Wooyoung’s fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss and San melted.

Everything blurred.

Hands. Mouths. Breathing fast and uneven. Wooyoung’s lips moved like they already knew every part of San’s hesitation—how to coax it, how to destroy it. He kissed like a promise. Like a threat. Like something San would never come back from.

The robe slipped from his shoulders as he pulled San toward the bed. He followed blindly.

San wasn’t thinking anymore. Only feeling.

Wooyoung pushed him gently down onto the edge of the mattress and climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing San’s hips, lace catching against his jeans. 

Their mouths crashed again—more urgent now, more tangled. San’s hands found Wooyoung’s waist, fingers tightening without realizing it. The vampire gasped, a soft sound that wrecked something in San’s spine.

“Easy,” Wooyoung murmured against his lips. “You’ll bruise me.”

“I—” San blinked. “Sorry.”

Wooyoung smiled like that had been the goal all along.

“I don’t mind,” he whispered. “I like when you lose control.”

He rolled his hips down—once, and San bit back a groan, his fingers tightening again.

“Fuck—”

“Mmh.” Wooyoung leaned in to lick a stripe of skin up San’s throat. 

“Sensitive,” he murmured against his skin, lips brushing over the spot he had just licked. “That’s cute.”

San could only groan through clenched teeth. His head fell back.

Wooyoung took the opportunity, lips finding the underside of San’s jaw and sucking, not with his fangs, but only with his mouth—just enough to mark. Just enough to make San twitch.

“Mmh, there,” he whispered, tongue flicking against the reddening skin. “You like that?”

San’s voice was ragged. “Fuck.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He leaned back to look at San, smirk wide, eyes practically glowing now under the lights. San looked wrecked already—flush high in his cheeks, lashes heavy over half-lidded eyes.

“Look at you,” Wooyoung said softly, rocking against him again. “You’re barely holding on.”

San’s hands gripped onto his hips again. He could feel the lace drag under his fingers, like Wooyoung had chosen it knowing exactly what it would do to him.

“Why—” San’s breath hitched. “How are you—”

“Making you feel good?” Wooyoung finished for him, almost innocently. “Because I can. Because you want it.”

He leaned in again, their lips barely an inch apart.

“You walked into that club thinking you wanted to kill me, but you knew the reason why. You knew you wanted this.”

San opened his mouth to deny it, because he should, because it wasn’t true, but the protest died on his tongue.

Wooyoung kissed him again before he could speak.

This time, it was rougher. Hungrier. 

He took control of San’s mouth like he owned it, tongue sliding deep, hands threading into San’s hair to hold him there, keep him still. And San let him. He kissed back with the kind of desperation that felt dangerous, a white-hot need forming tight in his stomach.

Wooyoung grinded down into his lap again, just enough to make San buck up involuntarily.

The vampire moaned softly into his mouth—a weaponized sound, just for San to lose it even more.

And San was losing it.

He didn’t know where to put his hands. On Wooyoung’s waist, where the lace clung like a second skin? On his thighs, gripping just above the garter clips? On his back, where every muscle tensed and shifted under damp skin?

“Let go,” Wooyoung murmured. “You want to. I can feel it.”

He tugged San’s bottom lip between his teeth, gentle, then kissed him again—longer and even deeper. One hand slid under San’s shirt, cold fingers against hot skin, dragging up his abdomen with unbearable slowness.

San’s shirt was now being lifted, his arms raising without even thinking, and the shirt came off and dropped to the floor in a soft rustle.

Wooyoung leaned back just to look.

San’s skin was golden under the lights, flushed red just from Wooyoung’s touches. But it wasn’t enough. He looked like he was already halfway to undone—and Wooyoung had barely even started. But his eyes didn’t linger on the obvious just yet.

They dipped lower. 

Past the waistband of San’s jeans, to the belt cinched around his waist.

Wooyoung stilled, gaze sharpening. Then he let out a soft, amused sound. 

“Seriously?” he said, almost cooing. “You brought just this?”

His fingers brushed the stake at San’s belt, and San flinched automatically—his body reacting before his brain caught up. But Wooyoung was already pulling it free with ease, no threat—just curiosity, like he was plucking something insignificant from the mouth of a dog.

He turned it over once in his hand, his grin blooming into something sharp.

“You know you can’t kill me with just this, right?” 

San gritted his teeth, every muscle coiled with tension.

Wooyoung just laughed again and leaned over to place the stake gently on the nightstand beside them. 

“There. Out of the way.” His voice dipped. “You won’t need it.”

He turned his attention back to San’s body, fingers returning to the bare expanse of chest in front of him. 

“You really are pretty,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down again. He paused at every tremble, every subtle shiver—as if he was testing San, reading him. “I bet you’ve never been touched like this.”

Then his mouth was on him again.

The first mark landed just below San’s collarbone, Wooyoung’s lips pulling skin between his teeth and sucking until the blood rose to the surface. San sucked in a breath through his nose, knuckles white where he gripped the sheets.

Wooyoung hummed, satisfied, then moved lower.

He left hickeys in a deliberate pattern—down San’s chest, the line of his ribs, even his hips where the waistband sat low. His mouth lingered where it counted. Tongue slid, lips sucked, teeth grazed just enough to make San jolt.

Each one bloomed red and purple under his touch. Each one was a declaration. A brand.

“You’re too easy to mark,” Wooyoung murmured, dragging his mouth just under San’s right nipple. “Like your body’s begging for it. You’re lucky I’m the first vampire to mark you up.”

San tried to breathe, tried to think—but all he could feel was Wooyoung, his skin tingling under every kiss. 

“Stop—” he said weakly, but his hands betrayed him, finally sliding up to hold Wooyoung’s waist, grounding himself on the same body he was supposed to be resisting.

Wooyoung pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispered, voice low and threatening. “Go on. Lie to me.”

San didn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then he was back on him, devouring more of his skin, hands dragging down to San’s waistband, mouth never stopping. 

“These look uncomfortable.” 

San didn’t answer, just sucked in a breath. His hips twitched—whether it was an instinctive pull away or a wordless invitation, he couldn’t say.

But Wooyoung took it as permission.

Slowly, he undid the button.

San held still, holding himself in place underneath Wooyoung, like he had to or he’d fall apart. Wooyoung was gentle, but his smile didn’t soften. If anything, it got hungrier as San was shimmying down the jeans, as if he was unwrapping Wooyoung a gift.

“No underwear?” Wooyoung mused, glancing  as he tossed the jeans aside. “God, you came here ready to sin, didn’t you?”

“Shut up.”

Wooyoung only grinned. “You’re so easy to fluster.”

Now San was stripped down completely—naked, breath heavy, skin marked in scattered bruises that burned every time the air kissed them. He was hard, aching, and yet still holding himself back like it mattered.

Wooyoung arched his back just slightly as he leaned forward, letting San feel the lace brushing his bare skin. 

“Touch me somewhere else,” he whispered. “You’ve been holding me at my waist, it’s getting boring.”

San’s hands slid up Wooyoung’s thighs on their own, shaky and reverent.

“Fuck…” he breathed.

Wooyoung tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Yeah?”

San looked up at him, lips parted, eyes dark with conflict. “I shouldn’t want this.”

“But you do.” Wooyoung leaned down, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “You want me to ruin you, don’t you?”

San shivered. “You already are.”

Wooyoung smiled.

He rocked his hips down, grinding against San with sinful ease. The friction pulled a low, desperate sound from San’s throat—something ragged and uncontrolled.

“ That’s the sound I wanted to hear,” Wooyoung murmured.

He started moving then, rolling his hips in slow circles, letting their bodies grind together through the thin barrier of lace. His hands slid up San’s chest, then down again to his hips, nails digging in just enough to sting. 

He was relentless.

A power bottom in every inch of his being.

And San was unraveling. Every mark on his body ached. Every drag of Wooyoung’s hips made him groan. And when Wooyoung leaned in again to suck another hickey beneath his collarbone, San’s control shattered for a moment—his hips bucked up, his hand fisting in Wooyoung’s hair.

Wooyoung moaned.

He pulled back just enough to meet San’s eyes again. “There he is.”

San was panting now, his resolve hanging on.

“I want to hear you beg,” Wooyoung whispered.

San was shaking beneath him.

Not from fear. Not anymore.

Every brush of lace against his bare skin, every subtle roll of Wooyoung’s hips, was making his head spin. His body was on fire—overstimulated from all the teasing, from the marks already blooming across his skin. From the way Wooyoung moved because he already knew every single weak spot and intended to exploit all of them.

And San had nothing left to hold onto.

Only him.

“Please,” San whispered, almost against his will.

Wooyoung smiled. “There it is,” he murmured. “You’ll beg so sweet for the right hands.”

He kissed San. There was no rush now. No need. He had already won.

San parted his lips before he could stop himself, letting Wooyoung in. Their mouths slotted together in a kiss that was more heat than anything else—tongues sliding, teeth catching. Wooyoung tasted cool and sharp, like a forbidden fruit, and San wanted more.

God help him—he wanted more.

The vampire’s hands slid down again, guiding San’s thighs apart, and Wooyoung moved between them with fluid ease. Lace pressed against flushed, bare skin as he rocked down again. 

“Touch me,” he whispered, dragging San’s hands up to rest at his hips. “Don’t hold back.”

San groaned, fingers tightening.

The friction was unbearable. Wooyoung made him feel everything through the delicate lingerie. San could feel how hard he was, how much he was enjoying this—and that alone made something snap inside him.

Something in him screamed, still. Deep down. Beneath the pleasure. Beneath the aching heat. Beneath the wet sound of skin against skin and the obscene moans echoing off the hotel walls.

Kill him, it said. Kill him before you can’t.

His hand slipped behind him. 

Wooyoung didn’t notice. He was grinding down on San’s cock with abandon, head thrown back, grinding on him so slow it was dizzying. “You feel so good,” he panted, voice dripping with praise. “I want you to make me feel so full.”

San’s fingers closed around the stake. His hand trembled. Just one jab. Into the heart. One clean kill. No matter how Wooyoung made fun of how it wasn’t enough. It had to be enough.

He gritted his teeth. Flexed his arm. 

But Wooyoung’s eyes opened. Red. Glowing.

And in the blink of a second, he surged forward—fangs bared.

San didn’t even manage to get any word out before Wooyoung’s mouth was on his neck, sharp teeth sinking in deep.

Pain burgeoned.

And then, pleasure bloomed.

So much pleasure San almost screamed.

His hips bucked up violently, cock throbbing against Wooyoung’s ass. The stake tumbled from his grasp to the floor with a soft clatter.

Wooyoung sucked. Not to feed. Not to drain. 

But to finally claim.

And San burned.

His whole body went rigid, then limp, a strangled moan breaking from his throat. Heat licked down his spine, curling in his gut, exploding out through every nerve. His cock felt like it was about to burst, and he wasn’t even in Wooyoung yet.

“F—Fuck—what—what did you—” he gasped, eyes fluttering shut as his hands gripped the sheets so hard they nearly tore. 

Wooyoung pulled back. 

His lips were red. His fangs gleamed.

“Just a taste,” he whispered against San’s ear. “Just enough to make sure you never forget how this feels.”

He rolled his hips again, now impossibly slick and hot. And San howled.

His hands slid up Wooyoung’s ass, gripping tighter. His hips bucked up into him with more force than before.

Wooyoung gasped.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “That’s it, San—just like that—”

He leaned in again, biting on the same spot, making San cry out once more.

“You want to fuck me?” Wooyoung whispered against his ear once he stopped sucking on his skin. “Say it.”

San’s breath hitched.

“I—” he started, voice hoarse, “I want to—”

Wooyoung shifted, lowering himself just enough to grind directly against San’s cock. The contact sent shockwaves up his spine.

“Say it,” Wooyoung murmured. “You’ve already given in.”

“I want to fuck you,” San choked out.

And Wooyoung beamed.

“That’s all I needed.”

He pulled back just enough to hook his fingers under the lace, sliding it off slowly—teasing San with every inch. The fabric dragged against his skin like a caress, and then it was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor.

San stared.

Wooyoung’s thighs were spread, cock flushed and hard. His body flushed and gleamed under the soft light. Every part of him looked like temptation. Too beautiful, too impossible. His face was pretty, his body was perfect. 

He didn’t even realize he was moving until Wooyoung straddled him again and guided his cock to his entrance, slowly lowering himself down.

It was too much.

Too tight. Too hot. Too perfect.

Wooyoung let out a long, low moan as he sank down, inch by inch, eyes fluttering shut. “God, yes…”

San’s head fell back once more. His fingers dug into Wooyoung’s hips like lifelines.

“Shit—Fuck—”

Wooyoung was tight around him, body swallowing him whole, squeezing him like velvet. San’s vision blurred at the edges. 

And then Wooyoung moved.

He rolled his hips, sinuous and slow, drawing himself up just enough before slamming back down. San groaned—loud and raw. It was so good it hurt. So good he wanted to cry.

Wooyoung fucked himself on San’s cock like he was made for it. Like he’d done this a thousand times. Hands braced on San’s chest, nails leaving faint crescents. He bounced slowly, every downward motion stealing San’s breath. Every grind making his eyes roll back.

“You’re so deep,” Wooyoung gasped. “So good—So fucking good—”

San could barely think. His hips were moving now, meeting Wooyoung’s rhythm, fucking up into him like he needed it. His hands slid up Wooyoung’s thighs, his waist, and his chest. He kissed him again, harder this time, biting his lip, tasting the moan it pulled.

“Touch yourself,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Wooyung—fuck—”

The vampire obeyed without a word. His hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with their rhythm, fast and messy. His other hand tangled in San’s hair, pulling him close.

Their bodies were crashing together, loud and filthy. The bed creaked beneath them. The sheets tangled around San’s legs, the air thick with sweat, with scent, with heat.

“Gonna cum,” Wooyoung panted, hips stuttering. “San, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” San gasped. “I don’t care—just— fuck—”

And Wooyoung did.

He came with a broken, breathless moan, his body seizing around San’s cock as he spilled between them. His muscles clenched tight, drawing San even deeper. He clenched tight around San—tight enough to make him scream.

And San, helpless, feverish, broken—followed.

He came hard, his vision going white, every nerve sparking as he emptied himself inside Wooyoung. His whole body shook, mouth open in a silent cry, pleasure blinding and relentless. The orgasm ripped through him like a curse. Violent and mind-destroying.

As he came, he could feel Wooyoung’s blood still inside him—hot and thick and changing him. 

It was over.

And Wooyoung leaned down, licking the mark he’d made with slow, possessive strokes. Then he kissed San on the lips, slow and satisfied. 

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

San didn’t answer. He didn’t even try to deny it. 

He passed out on the bed, mind fogged up under bliss and shame and disbelief.

Chapter Text

It always began with the smell.

Burning wood. Burning blood. Like iron and ash stuffed into his nose, thick and suffocating.

San turned, little again, running through smoke-choked hallways in bare feet, his lungs aching worse than ever did, his ears ringing from everything—the screams, the howls, cries. 

Mom— he’d screamed back then. Dad—

But he already knew they were gone.

Their bodies were there, half-drained and thrown aside like garbage. His mother’s fingers still curled in some desperate grasp, his father’s eyes wide open. Yet it was unseeing. Dead.

He remembered the sound of something slithering through the dark—of claws and laughter and something wet being chewed.

He remembered the red eyes watching from the shadows.

He remembered hiding. Surviving. And then—

“I’ll kill you,” he whispered, voice shaking with hate and resentment. “All of you.”

A pale figure stepped through the smoke, face obscured, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow given form. 

“You won’t,” it said. “You’ll beg instead.”

And when the figure stepped into the light—dripping maroon from his mouth—San saw his own face reflected in its eyes.

He jolted with a start, breath heaving, sheets sticking to his skin.

But… he wasn’t covered in sweat. Or blood.

He was clean.

The room was dim now, the lights that flooded the place last night changed into something simpler. Safer, even. The hotel curtains were drawn tight, sunlight filtered into gold threads that barely touched the edge of the bed. The silk sheets were soft beneath him. His body… relaxed. Even the bite mark on his neck had been cleaned and dressed with care.

His shirt and stake were gone, but a folded robe sat neatly over the corner of the bed. His earpiece rested on the nightstand next to it, blinking with a soft red light.

San blinked slowly. His chest was tight. His hands trembled as he reached for the earpiece.

He clicked it back into place.

Static.

Then—

“—San? San?! ”

Yeosang. Frantic and fierce.

“You’re active again—Jesus Christ, where were you—”

Hongjoong’s voice cut in like a blade. “Report. Now.”

San swallowed hard. “I—”

“Where is the target?” Hongjoong’s tone was ice. “Is he restrained? Is he neutralized? Why did your comms go dark for nearly seven hours—”

“I don’t know,” San said too fast. His voice cracked. “He’s not here anymore. I woke up and he was gone.”

“Gone?” Yeosang echoed, almost shrill.

“I don’t know what happened. I think he—drugged me. I lost time. But I’m fine. He didn’t—” San cut himself off before he could say too much. His eyes scanned the empty room. The robe. The lack of fluids.

The ghost of pleasure still hummed in his bones.

“You’re coming back,” Hongjoong snapped. “Now. We regroup, we assess. You’ll be debriefed and scanned. If he bit you, if he fed—”

“He didn’t kill me,” he replied softly.

Silence followed.

“That’s not the point,” Hongjoong finally answered, cold. “Get your ass back to HQ. ASAP.”

San sat there for a moment longer, the silence of the room pressing in around him.

His legs ached faintly when he moved. His neck still throbbed. 

The robe felt soft against his shoulders as he pulled it on, trying not to think about the hands that had cleaned him, cared for him—undressed him with such reverent touch. 

He hated how easily it clung to his body.

Once he got all his remaining belongings, he paused at the door leading outside, half-expecting it to be locked—it wasn’t.

Why? He wasn’t sure himself.

He stepped out into the hallway—carpeted, quiet, with soft instrumental music piped in from speakers somewhere. The elevator chimed as it arrived. San stepped in, fingers brushing the wall as he leaned his weight back. His neck bore faint bruising where Wooyoung had mouthed at him like a feast. And lower…

He looked away.

The descent to the lobby was slow and quiet. He was alone with his own heartbeat, yet it sounded distant and unfamiliar. Different, sort of.

When the doors opened, he scanned the room immediately.

There was no strange scent. No obvious vampires. No glowing eyes watching him from behind the concierge desk.

Just… regular hotel staff.

A young man at the desk smiled politely. “Checking out, sir?”

San hesitated.

“Yes,” he said, adjusting the robe so it didn’t gape too far down his chest. “Room… Thirty-eight-fifty-four.”

“Got it.” The man typed quickly. San glanced at his name card. Zhang Hao. “Looks like your companion already handled everything. You’re all set.”

San’s throat tightened. Of course he did.

“Thank you, Zhang Hao.”

He stepped out into the sunlight and didn’t let himself look back, yet a small, small part of him wanted to.

The headquarters wasn’t flashy. It was buried beneath the surface of the city, shielded by enough security and technology to keep most creatures of the night at bay. Cold walls. Harsh lighting. The opposite of indulgent. The opposite of him.

His boots echoed sharply down the hallway, drawing the attention of a few passing agents. None of them spoke, but their eyes followed him. He could feel the weight of it. The curiosity. The suspicion. And beneath it all, judgment.

San walked faster with his shoulders set and his jaw clenched.

The entrance scan beeped as he passed through. A wall-mounted camera tracked his movement, and a soft, female-coded voice came through the intercom overhead. “Agent Choi. Welcome back. Report to Med Unit One.”

Yeosang was already there, sleeves rolled to the elbows, standing next to a metal tray lined with sterile tools and collection tubes. The faint hum of electricity buzzed under his foot, the scent of disinfectant cutting harsh through the air.

San hesitated in the doorway, but Yeosang didn’t even look at him. “Robe off.”

He obeyed silently. The fabric clung to his skin, and taking it off felt like betrayal somehow.

Yeosang took the robe and tossed it in a nearby bin, then grabbed a vial and unsealed a needle. He glanced at San’s neck once, then back to his work.

“You’re lucky,” he said flatly. “If the venom dosage had been any higher, you’d still be twitching in a room somewhere.”

San didn’t respond.

The needle slid into his vein smoothly. Blood filled the vial in seconds. 

“You’ve got a mild serum reaction,” Yeosang continued. “Your dopamine levels are fucked. Oxytocin too. Classic bonding venom.” He finally met San’s eyes. “You let him bite you.”

“He did it fast,” San muttered. “I didn’t see it coming.”

Yeosang capped the vial and dropped it into a tray. “You didn’t see anything coming. That’s the problem.”

San flinched. But Yeosang didn’t press. He simply turned away, dropping the used needle into a biohazard container.

“Your vitals are stable. You’re not bleeding out. You’re not dead.” He peeled off his gloves. “Grab a shirt and pants. Go. Room Three.”

The door opened with a hiss, and San stepped through like a man walking to his own execution.

Room Three wasn’t for strategy meetings. It wasn’t for training.

It was for interrogations.

There was no comfort.

Only a long table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a bank of surveillance panels in the back corner, humming with silent judgment.

Hongjoong stood by the far wall, flanked by Jongho—arms crossed. There was no warmth in the room, just as there was barely any in the hotel.

There was only the weight of command—but it felt more suffocating somehow.

“San.” Hongjoong didn’t look at him right away. He was reading something on a table. “Where’s the vampire?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” His voice cracked, literally barely seconds into the interrogation. “I woke up and he was gone.”

Hongjoong finally looked up. His eyes were sharp as cut glass.

“You went dark mid-operation,” he said. “You ignored every fail-safe. You were out of contact for nearly a full cycle. And now you’re telling me the target, quite literally the vampire we’ve been hunting for god knows how long—just walked away?”

“He was fast. Strong. I tried to act and he—”

“He what?” Hongjoong’s voice was even sharper now. “Overpowered you? Seduced you? Or did you just forget why we do this? Why you do this?”

San felt the heat rise in his chest. His hands trembled at his sides.

“I didn’t forget.”

“Then what happened?”

Silence. 

Hongjoong stared at him, unmoving. Behind him, Jongho didn’t flinch either. But San could feel it—the weight of their disappointment. The disbelief. THe quiet calculation of what his failure meant.”

“Was there a breach of conduct?” Hongjoong asked finally.

San closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Did you let him bite you?”

The pause was too long.

“Answer me, Agent Choi.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“That is not an answer.”

San’s fists clenched. “He tricked me. He made me feel—like it wasn’t real. Like I wanted it.”

“You know that’s what they do,” Hongjoong said coldly. “They make you forget who you are.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“ You had sex with him.”

The words hit like a slap.

“You let him mark you. You let him inside. Do you understand what that means?”

San’s throat was dry. He couldn’t speak.

“It means you’re compromised. It means we can’t trust you in the field until we know what he’s done to you. Until we know you’re safe.”

“I’m not like them.” San shot up, almost immediately.

Yet Hongjoong shot him back down, if not as fast as him. “But you’re not like us either—not anymore.”

San staggered back like he’d been hit.

Hongjoong stepped away from the table, his voice like ice. “Effective immediately, you're benched. Quarantine protocol, forty eight hours minimum. Until we know if that bite rewrote your instincts.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not a soldier either.”

San walked out of the room accompanied by Jongho. His friend didn’t say anything at first. He just moved with him, a silent wall of muscle and command.

“It’ll be okay.” Jongho said, voice low.

San’s legs felt like lead.

The two moved quietly. It was embarrassing. Uncomfortable, even. San’s gaze was glued to the floor.

“You know I’m not going to yell at you.”

San didn’t look up.

“But I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen either.”

Still, San didn’t answer.

They reached the secure elevator. Jongho scanned his badge, thumbprint, and retina—the machine letting out a soft ding before the doors opened.

Inside, the silence pressed harder on him.

“I get it,” Jongho said, more softly this time. “He was beautiful, huh?”

That made San flinch. But he didn’t deny it.

Jongho leaned back against the metal wall of the elevator, arms crossed. “He played you. That’s what they do. That’s what he does best.”

“I should’ve stopped him.” San muttered.

“Yeah. You should’ve.”

Jongho didn’t sugarcoat it. He never really did.

“But you didn’t,” he added, “and now you know what it feels like to fuck up when it matters.”

The elevator chimed at their floor.

“Don’t let that be the end of it.”

The hall to the temporary quarters was shorter—more secure, more clinical. Quarantine cells were dressed up as studio apartments. They reached the end of the row and Jongho keyed in a code before stepping aside to let San enter first.

The door hissed shut behind them.

The apartment was minimal. Gray walls. Steel fixtures. A single bed with white sheets tucked in so tightly they looked like they’d never been touched. A bathroom to the side. A monitor embedded into the far wall displaying surveillance updates in silent, looping streams.

San stood in the center, unsure of what to do—in the room and with himself.

“You’re not out, don’t worry.” Jongho said behind him, “You’re not exiled. Not yet, at least.”

San turned his head slightly.

“You’re on ice. That’s all. Just… think. Reflect. And if something happens, if you feel different, or if he tries to contact you—call us. Immediately. Don’t try to handle it yourself.”

He simply nodded, throat too dry for words.

Jongho lingered in the doorway a moment longer.

“San.”

He turned.

Jongho’s face was unreadable. “Don’t give him more than he’s already taken.”

The door sealed shut behind him.

Then, San was alone in the apartment, and the silence was deafening.

San stood there a long time. Long after Jongho left and the footsteps had faded. The lights inside adjusted subtly, dimming just enough to encourage rest—but there was no comfort in it.

He moved to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, taking his shirt off in the process.

His skin still bore traces of what Wooyoung had done to him. Faint red marks. Bruises that looked more like kisses. Bruises that were from kisses. The place on his neck where fangs had sunk in was healing, but the sensation hadn’t gone away. Touching the area still felt euphoric.

He felt sick.

He splashed water on his face. Sat on the edge of the bed.

Everything felt wrong. It was too quiet. Too warm. The room didn’t smell like something to be lived in. 

And worst of all—

It didn’t smell like him.

San leaned back slowly and let himself fall into the mattress. The ceiling blurred overhead. He blinked once. Twice.

Then he closed his eyes.

And he dreamed.

San was back in the field—knife in one hand, stake in the other. Boots hit the pavement in heavy strides as he moved through an alley choked with smoke and screams. The city was burning. Somewhere, someone was crying.

A woman darted out from a crumbling storefront dragging two children. Her eyes locked with his.

“Help us!”

He moved without hesitation. Behind them, three figures emerged. Pale. Fast. Their fangs glinted like ivory blades in the dark.

Vampires.

San lunged.

The fight was swift. Brutal.

Stake through the heart.

Decapitation.

Arterial spray.

Blood on his boots. His hands. His mouth—wait.

His mouth?

He stumbled back, blinking at the last body twitching at his feet. His hands trembled as he looked down.

There was blood coating his fingers, yes—but it wasn’t from the stake.

It was from his teeth.

He’d bitten the vampire’s throat.

No— ripped it open.

Something burned at the side of his neck. Sharp, searing. His hand shot to the bite mark and he hissed—his fingers met hot skin and the dull throb of something pulsing underneath, something not his. His mouth ached. His canines felt longer. His tongue was heavy with the taste of copper.

The woman from before stared at him, now in horror, clutching her children.

“You’re one of them,” she whispered.

He tried to speak—to explain. To scream that he wasn’t, but—

His throat locked.

The scent of fear and blood on them hit him like a drug. 

And he lunged.

Teeth, flesh, warmth—ecstasy.

When he came back to himself, there was a body in his arms. 

A child. Dead. Two more bodies were on the floor, drained of blood.

Choi San had killed the family.

He dropped to his knees. Vomit rose in his throat.

“No,” he croaked. “No, no, no—”

A slow clap echoed through the alley somewhere in his back.

“Well done.”

San froze.

From the shadows, Wooyoung emerged. 

He looked exactly as he had last night, unclothed, lean, and muscles gleaming. His mouth curved in a smile that was both wolfish and sweet. He stepped over blood without looking down, as if carnage meant nothing.

“You did beautiful, darling,” he said, voice like silk over a blade. “First taste is always the hardest.”

San recoiled. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Wooyoung cocked his head. “But why? You didn’t hate it?”

“I’m not—I’m not like you—”

“You will be.”

San clutched his head. The bite mark burned like wildfire now, searing straight into his skull and entire body.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered.

“It’s the first step,” Wooyoung said, kneeling in front of him. “Blood tastes different when it’s yours. That’s how you know it’s starting.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” San spat. “You tricked me. You made me feel things—”

“And you loved every second of it.”

Wooyoung’s fingers tilted San’s chin up. His touch was light, almost solemn. San should have pulled away. 

He didn’t.

“You’re not dying, San,” he said gently. “You’re evolving.”

San’s vision blurred. The sky above them flickered, deepening into red. The buildings groaned like bones cracking under pressure. Blood soaked the ground.

“You’ll come to understand,” Wooyoung whispered against his lips. “You’ll thank me. One day.”

And then—

San woke up, gasping.

His sheets were damp with sweat. His heart slammed against his ribs. His throat was dry— parched. His skin still burned, the bite a dull throb against his neck.

A single thought rang through his mind. 

He remembered the taste.

He hadn’t hated it.

Despite Jongho’s warnings, San didn’t report the dream.

Not the taste of blood. Not the children. Not the whispering truths he couldn’t face. It was for the best.

If he fixed this—if he found Wooyoung again and ended it himself without needing the assistance or order from Hongjoong—then none of it would matter. He could still do the right thing. He could still be the man his family needed him to be, the soldier hongjoong believed in. 

This wasn’t about ego.

This was about atonement.

So he kept his mouth shut.

He passed the medical reexamination. Barely. Yeosang squinted at his records, then cleared his throat and told him to wait outside. After ten minutes, she returned and gave him a thin smile—professional, but tight.

“You’re clear for now,” he said. “Rest. Decompress. Go home.”

Hongjoong hadn’t come to see him. Not yet. Jongho sent a text with a simple thumbs up and a warning. No missions. Not even minor recon. HQ’s watching you.

San stared at the message for a long time. Even on the way home, he was looking at the message. No missions and no contact. No explanations. 

It didn’t help that his actual apartment felt even more wrong when he stepped inside.

It was too clean. Too sterile. Like someone had come through and tidied it during the last two days. As if they were combing through his things, looking for something. Whether this was done by headquarters or him, he wasn’t sure.

The curtains were drawn. His house plants hadn’t died, somehow. The heater hummed low in the walls.

He closed the door, locked it, and dropped his duffel bag on the floor with a soft thud.

The silence was absolute. 

He walked through the space on autopilot. Keys to the hook, shoes kicked aside. His coat fell to the couch’s armrest. He paused in the kitchen, poured himself water from the tap, and drank it down like it could somehow wash out the taste of everything he hadn’t said and everything he felt.

Still, the burn of Wooyoung’s teeth throbbed beneath the collar of his shirt.

He hadn’t looked at it since that night. He hadn’t dared.

After the dream, he didn’t have any dreams anymore. Or nightmares. It was two days of numb silence. He’d almost convinced himself that it meant nothing. That maybe Wooyoung had just been… playing. Manipulating.

But the silence only ever felt like the air before a storm.

San turned to head to his bedroom, thinking maybe he’d sleep for twelve hours.

And then he stopped.

Every hair on his arms rose.

The window was open. 

Not cracked. Not left ajar. Not even fully slid open the way he might’ve done if he’d been airing the room out. 

No. Wide open.

Like someone had come in.

Slowly, voice stuck  in his throat, San turned his head toward it.

And there he was.

Perched on the windowsill, like he’d always belonged there. 

No noise preceded him. No footsteps. No shift in the air. Just that quiet, eerie calm that followed in his wake, like the world knew he was here and revolved itself around him.

He was dressed in black—of course he was—jacket cropped and clinging to his torso, dark trousers fitted like a second skin. He looked like the very idea of desire carved into flesh and lit by moonlight.

Somehow, he was even more handsome now.

His lips curled into a smile when he saw San.

“Hey,” Wooyoung said, casual as anything. “Miss me?”

San didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The room felt too small. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he managed.

Wooyoung’s smile didn’t waver. “You didn’t come to me. So I came to you.”

“You—” San’s mouth opened. He stepped back, just a little, his eyes looking for anything to defend himself with. “You can’t just break in .”

“I didn’t break anything.” Wooyoung’s voice was light and melodic, “The window was unlocked. That’s an invitation, baby.”

San scowled. “Don’t call me that.”

Wooyoung tilted his head. “What should I call you then? Liar? Hypocrite? Or maybe you’d prefer something sweeter. I can do sweet.”

“You bit me.”

Wooyoung laughed softly. “That I did.”

“You knew what it would do—” his voice rose up, not bothering to care about the neighbors.

“I knew you wanted it,” Wooyoung said, quiet now. The smile faded just enough. “I knew you needed to lose control, and I gave you a safe place to do it.”

“A safe place?”

Wooyoung stood, graceful, and stepped inside.

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” he murmured. “I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t kill you. I could have. But I didn’t.” Wooyoung shrugged. “I just gave you a push.”

San’s fists clenched. “You don’t get credit for not murdering someone.”

Wooyoung chuckled. “You don’t get credit for pretending you didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Then why haven’t you told them?”

San froze.

Wooyoung took another step. Then another.

“You’ve had two whole days to report what you dreamed of. Tell your team everything. They would’ve come for me. Maybe even caught me. Maybe even kill me.” He was in front of San now, close enough to touch. “But you didn’t.”

San’s jaw tightened. “Because I’ll fix it myself.”

“Ah. So you’re not only pretending you don’t want this, but you’re also pretending this is about duty!”

“I’m not like you.”

Wooyoung leaned in, lips a breath from his ear.

“You’re getting there.”

San shoved him back—not hard, but enough.

And Wooyoung let him. He stumbled back, smiling again like it was just a game to him.

“Didn’t you wonder why your comms were dead the whole night?” he asked. “Why the tech didn’t work?”

San didn’t answer.

“I didn’t cut them completely. I just muted them. Briefly. Enough to keep your friends from ruining the mood.” Wooyoung licked his lips. “And now, here we are.”

“This isn’t a mood,” San snapped.

“You were pretty hard that night. As you are now.”

San’s breath caught in his throat.

Wooyoung’s gaze dropped—just briefly—and then met his again.

“I should kill you.”

“Then try.”

San didn’t move. 

Wooyoung waited.

When it became clear San wouldn’t—couldn’t—Wooyoung stepped in again, closer this time, and brought a hand to San’s chest. His fingers splayed across the heartbeat there. The irregular, beat-skipping heartbeat San had.

It thundered against his palm.

“I won’t bite again,” he whispered. “Not unless you ask me to.”

San exhaled shakily. 

“Why are you here?”

Wooyoung’s expression changed.

It softened.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said, honestly. “Because you taste like pain and fury and want, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve had in a hundred years.”

San blinked. Wooyoung stepped back, just barely.

“I’m not here to make you choose anything,” he added. “But you deserve to know—what happened to you wasn’t just sex, San. It was a thread. You tugged on it.”

“And what happens if I pull harder?”

Wooyoung smiled again.

“Then I catch you.”

He turned toward the window again, his departure graceful, like he was already a shadow.

“Be careful though,” Wooyoung said over his shoulder. “Don’t give into your impulses. Try your hardest to contact me if anything comes up.”

And then he was gone, barely even giving San time to process what he just said.

San stood for a long time. He didn’t remember falling asleep. 

The next thing he knew, he was running. He didn’t know where, only that something had gone wrong. That there were bodies. That something inside him was screaming. 

He was crouched over someone before he could stop himself—before he could think. A man, faceless and limp, and San’s hands were red. His mouth was worse. Copper coated his teeth.

He was eating him. Eating.

He tried to pull away, but his body didn’t listen. His fingers dug into the man’s ribs, ripping something wet and raw, and when he bit down, it wasn’t food. It wasn’t meat—it was life, and he drank it. All of it.

The body spasmed once beneath him, then went still.

He looked up. The world had gone still and silent, as if holding its breath.

And then a pair of boots clicked across the concrete floor behind him.

The vampire was dressed in white this time, loose silk and long sleeves. Not a single drop of blood on him. He looked radiant—glowing in the dark world like a haloed ghost.

“Messy,” he said, crouching beside San with a crooked smile. “But effective.

San tried to speak, but his mouth was full.

“You’re barely even resisting anymore,” Wooyoung murmured, brushing a hand across San’s shoulder, then letting it linger in his hair. “You’re doing well.”

“How—But the blood tests—I didn’t—”

“You did.” Wooyoung leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to San’s cheek, uncaring of the gore. “And you’ll do it again. You’re getting closer, San. Day by day.”

“I don’t want this.”

“You do.” His voice was calm. “You just don’t want to want it.”

San looked down at the body. The rib cage had collapsed under his weight. The chest cavity gaped, hollow.

He gagged.

“It’s only going to get worse,” Wooyoung said. “The hunger. The thirst. This is just a dream. But you’re tasting the real thing. Your body remembers, even if you don’t want to.”

San’s hands trembled.

“You should try blood,” Wooyoung whispered. “Just a little. Just to see.”

He woke up choking on nothing.

His chest heaved. The sheets tangled around his legs. The pillow was damp from sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dragging himself upright.

Morning sunlight bled through the edges of his curtains. He didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t care.

His mouth was dry. His throat was burning. And his stomach—it twisted with that  hunger that had nothing to do with food.

San stumbled out of bed.

The fridge had meat. Rice. Nachos, even. Some kind of leftover stew Jongho had dropped off once. He grabbed the nachos and the meat off the fridge.

He reheated his nachos, hands shaking. He cooked the meat, body trembling. He ate it all fast, choked it all down.

It was enough, yet a part of him still feels unfulfilled. 

The next day, his grocery haul was twice as much as usual. He bought eggs, meat, rice, nachos, and more meat. His hands trembled whenever he tried to portion anything. He was still hungry. Not stomach-deep yet, but restless. Like something inside him was pacing.

By the fourth day he was living in his apartment, he was waking up in the middle of the night with cravings. He’d find himself standing in front of the fridge, staring at raw cuts of meat like they meant something more than food. 

On the fifth day, he caught a whiff of a stranger’s cologne in the elevator of his building—and it made his mouth water. Not in attraction. Something deeper. It was a subtle shift, but it made his skin crawl.

That night, he dreamed of blood again.

Dreamed of his hands, sticky and warm, holding someone’s broken jaw. Of his teeth snapping down. Of a familiar voice whispering in the dark, “You’re almost there.”

He woke up with his heart pounding.

He still didn’t tell anyone.

He still hadn’t gone back to headquarters. Hongjoong had let him rest longer than he should’ve. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of strategy. 

Yeosang checked in, but he was brief and distant. Jongho dropped off more groceries without staying long.

San cooked. Ate. Slept. Repeated.

None of it helped.

A week would pass, and the hunger was even worse. It was impossible to shake off. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. His body felt too tight, yet his skin felt too thin.

He tried meditation. Cold showers. Nothing worked.

But when he nicked his thumb by accident on a can lid, he stood there too long, watching the drop of red form. 

He sucked it away like instinct. It didn’t help. It tasted like nothing. It wasn’t enough.

By nightfall that night, the ache was bone-deep. The hunger was not normal anymore. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, head in his hand. The lights were off. The city glowed beyond the open windows. Everything burned like a fever.

San’s thoughts drifted to Wooyoung, and a soft, quiet plea for help croaked out from his mouth. He whispered it like a sin, and barely five seconds passed before the man stepped through the open window.

Tonight, he wore red. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His shirt was sheer, clinging to his frame like smoke. The gloss on his lips screamed enticement.

“Hi darling,” Wooyoung said. “Took you long enough.”

San scrambled to his knees, legs shaking from something he couldn’t quite figure out now. “How did you—?”

Wooyoung waved a dismissive hand. “You called, San. I heard.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, you did,” Wooyoung crooned, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. “Maybe not with your mouth, but your body’s been screaming for me. I could feel you  burning up. And look at you now.”

He stopped in front of him, just close enough that San had to tilt his head to meet his eyes.

“You’ve lasted longer than most,” Wooyoung said. “A week is impressive. Most people break in two.”

San’s mouth was dry. He wanted to stand up, step back, and run away—but his legs wouldn’t move.

“Food’s not helping anymore, is it?” he tilted his head. “It’s just filler now. You’re starving, San. And you know it’s not for food.”

“No,” San said hoarsely.

“Yes,” Wooyoung muttered. “But I know you. You don’t want to lose control. You don’t want to slaughter, just like you do in your dreams. You’re not that far gone yet.”

He reached out, trailing a single finger on San’s cheek. “And that’s okay.”

San shivered. Wooyoung leaned in, breath brushing San’s jaw.

“But you’re not going to last much longer. Not like this.”

San forced his head away. “I’m not going to feed on someone.”

“I know.” He smiled, before continuing. “That’s why you’ll feed on me.”

“What—”

Before San could fully recoil, Wooyoung raised his hand—and with a single flick of his fingernail, he dragged it across the side of his neck.

Red bloomed instantly.

San’s eyes widened, throat clenching. The scent hit him like smoke. Like spice. Like heat. It was rich, overwhelming, sweet, and thick. It wasn’t just any blood. It was his blood.

Wooyoung leaned his head slightly to the side, exposing the open cut.

“Go on,” he murmured. “You’re not going to kill me. You couldn’t, even if you tried.”

San shook his head. “I—don’t—”

“Your heartbeat’s skipping,” Wooyoung whispered. “Your mouth’s weathering. You’ve been dreaming about this. You need this.”

San’s teeth clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn his head, trying to will it away. 

But the scent wrapped around him. It filled his lungs. Clouded his head. The pounding in his ears was deafening.

“I’m offering,” Wooyoung said. “It’s yours. No one dies. Just you and me.”

San staggered forward—unwilling. His breath hitched.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please—”

But his body was already betraying him. The second his mouth met the open wound, a guttural groan ripped out of him.

Wooyoung’s hand cupped the back of his head gently.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

The first mouthful was unbearable.

It was fire. Lust. Lightning down his body.

San’s knees buckled. He tasted sweet heat, rich iron, and something narcotic, buried in the taste, lighting up every nerve ending he had.

He moaned against Wooyoung’s throat, clutching at his waist and drank deeper.

Pleasure hit him like a wave, sparking through his chest, his limbs settling low in his gut. Wooyoung’s blood was potent. Laced. It was flooding him with every pull of his lips.

Wooyoung hissed softly. Less in pain, more in pleasure.

“That’s it,” he whispered, stroking San’s hair. “Drink.”

San didn’t want to. He didn’t. 

But he did. Again. And again. And Again.

With every pull, his control slipped further through his fingers. 

His hips rolled forward instinctively, trying to find friction. Wooyoung gasped in his ear and smiled against the top of his head, pressing their bodies close, rubbing against him with sinful ease.

San was drowning in the sensation.

And Wooyoung? Just to make his life an even hellish experience, gently pulled back.

Just a few inches. Enough to break contact.

San gasped, blinking hazily, lips slick and parted and coated with blood. His pupils were blown wide, sweat beading at his temple.

“No,” he rasped.

But Wooyoung only looked at him, blood still trickling from the fading cut in his neck.

“Easy,” he whispered. “You’ve had a taste.”

San’s eyes flicked to his throat, then to his own mouth. And before Wooyoung could say anything else—

He pounced.

A startled noise escaped Wooyoung’s lips as San shoved him backward against the nearest wall, hands grappling, mouth descending again—not on the neck this time, but on his lips, then down to the stain of red along his collarbone. San’s tongue flicked over it like he was starving.

His hips moved, chasing more.

Wooyoung moaned softly at the feel of it—San, hard and frantic in his pants, rutting against him like it hurt not to.

“Fuck,” San gasped, trying to rein himself in but failing miserably.

The vampire’s fingers threaded through his hair, holding tight, keeping him close.

“You’re hard already?” he muttered, half teasing, half breathless. “God, you’re easy.”

San let out a low, strangled sound. He couldn’t respond. Not with words. Only with the grinding of his hips. The trembling in his hands. The heat burned under his skin like he was about to combust—both literally and through his pants.

And then, just as suddenly, he stopped. Just stopped.

Their foreheads pressed together, San shuddering. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them.

“I don’t want this,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I shouldn’t want this, I should kill you, I—”

Wooyoung’s smile faded into something softer. Something real and genuine. 

“I know,” he said gently.

His hands didn’t push San away. Just rested on his back. 

His face twisted, lips trembling, eyes filled with shame and desire and everything San couldn’t understand. 

And then—

They kissed.

Wooyoung leaned up first, but San met him halfway.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was hungry. Devastated. San poured every inch of confusion, rage, want, sorrow into the press of his lips. Wooyoung took it in like he’d been waiting, needing it.

Their mouths moved in rhythm, teeth and tongue and everything in between.

San’s hands gripped Wooyoung’s back like a man drowning.

Wooyoung’s thigh slipped between San’s legs again, letting him grind down, chasing that agonizing friction while he swallowed every broken sound that escaped San’s throat. His hands slid up beneath San’s shirt, fingertips tracing over his muscles.

“You’re so good,” Wooyoung murmured against his lips. “Look at you. So sensitive. So fucking beautiful.”

San groaned, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. Their hips pressed again, Wooyoung ensuring their crotches touched as well.

“Don’t,” he whispered, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’m not doing anything,” Wooyung replied, almost innocently, and his moved lower, dragging the hem of San’s shirt up, baring flushed skin inch by inch. “You’re the one moving.

He lifted the shirt higher. San’s arms obeyed without thought, and soon the shirt was on the floor. Wooyoung’s gaze raked over him, reverent.

“God, I could ruin you,” he murmured, dragging a hand slowly up San’s torso. “I could leave you aching for days again and you would still come crawling back.”

San growled, frustrated and turned on, and shoved Wooyoung against the wall again. But he only laughed.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Give in a bit more. Just for now. No one’s watching. I made sure of that. No one will know.”

What he meant, San wouldn’t know. He kissed him again, and Wooyoung sighed into it like it was the sweetest thing in the world. 

Their bodies moved in sync, Wooyoung’s back arching into San, his hands moving lower—fingers finding the waistband of San’s sweatpants. 

“You’re shaking,” he said, dragging his mouth down San’s throat. “You need to let me take care of you.”

San hissed out a breath when Wooyoung’s hand dipped just slightly under his waistband.

“You want me to stop?” Wooyoung asked.

San didn’t answer, yet he leaned in closer. That was enough.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

The praise wrecked him. Something in his chest cracked wide open.

Wooyoung kissed down his shoulder, biting gently, sucking just enough to leave bruises again. His hands eased San’s pants slowly, as if he knew San could change his mind at any moment—but San didn’t stop him.

He couldn’t.

San’s pants hit the floor. He was achingly hard and flushed red. He hated how needy he felt. How much he wanted more.

Wooyoung stepped back just a little, looking him over. “You’re gorgeous,” he said again, dragging his finger down the center of San’s chest, stopping just before his cock. “And you don’t even know it, do you?”

San bit down a moan, fists clenched at his sides.

“Say something,” Wooyoung murmured.

“I hate you,” he replied, voice trembling.

Wooyoung smiled. “No you don’t.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

His gaze tilted upward, his hands dragging up San’s thighs, pausing to grip firmly at his hips, thumbs brushing the sharp lines of bone there.

He leaned forward and pressed a single, devastatingly soft kiss on the flushed head. San’s hips jerked, a low groan catching in his throat. Then, just as slowly, Wooyoung licked a stripe from base to tip, like he was savoring the taste already.

“Fuck,” San hissed, eyes fluttering shut.

“So sensitive,” Wooyoung whispered, pleased. “Just for me.”

He opened his mouth and took the tip in, warm and wet and perfect.San shocked on another sound, his hands finding purchase in Wooyoung’s dark hair without thinking. Wooyoung hummed low, the vibration travelling up San’s spine like electricity.

Inch by inch, Wooyoung took more of him in. He bobbed his head, lips slick around him, tongue tracing every vein. His eyes never left San’s face—watching, memorizing every twitch of his brows, every quiver in his jaw.

San was panting now, weak at the knees. He leaned a hand on the wall behind Wooyoung for balance, the other still buried in his hair.

He wanted to stop. To pull away.

But he couldn’t. Not with Wooyoung’s mouth so hot and wet around him. Not with the slick pop as he pulled back only to take him in deeper. Not with the way he groaned softly like he was the one falling apart. 

Wooyoung’s hands held his hips still. He knew just how to hollow his cheeks, just how to swirl his tongue—and San felt himself getting closer, too fast and too hard.

“W-Wooyoung—” he gasped, trying to warn him. 

But Wooyoung just moaned again, and swallowed him deeper.

San’s legs nearly gave out. 

His head fell back, gritting his teeth, trying to hang on, but Wooyoung wouldn’t let him. Every movement coaxed him closer to the edge, every soft sound and movement dragging him toward release.

“God—Wooyoung—” he gasped. “I’m gonna—”

Before he could even finish the sentence, Wooyoung pulled back, his mouth leaving San with a wet aching absence.

San’s hips jerked up, chasing after the heat, but Wooyoung was already out of reach, rising to his feet with a quiet smug laugh.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

San blinked, his chest heaving. His body still thrummed with the rhythm Wooyoung had created, and he could only mutter out a desperate, “Why?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer right away. He reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor with ease. Then came the rest—layers coming undone like a gift he was slowly unwrapping for San and him alone. Every movement was confident, meant to be watched, admired, and wanted.

“I like seeing you like this,” Wooyoung said at last, eyes dragging over San’s bare body. “Hungry. Needy.”

He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to San’s lips. He gripped Wooyoung’s arms, fingers digging in, overwhelming and aching.

They moved toward the bed like that, locked together in kisses that made it impossible to think. Wooyoung’s mouth never stopped, trailing kisses along San’s jaw, whispering words meant to weaken him.

“You want more, don’t you?” he breathed against San’s ear. “You don’t even know what you want anymore.

San tried to answer, but his body pulled Wooyoung close, pressing him down against the bed. Wooyoung straddled him again, just as they did last time.

Then he reached between them, his fingers trailing lower.

“Just let go,” Wooyoung whispered. “Let me make you feel even better.”

His fingers dragged along San’s ribs, shifting his hips forward just enough for San to feel the way he moved. 

San’s hands landed on his waist, rougher than he meant. “Stop playing with me,” he muttered, voice gravel-edged from restraint.

Wooyoung’s laugh was quiet. “But it’s so fun,” He leaned down to kiss San again. His lips moved gently at first, then deepened. San groaned into it, gripping Wooyoung’s hips to anchor himself in something, anything.

But Wooyoung had all the control, and the two of them knew it.

He ground down once, and San’s breath staggered. Wooyoung moved again, rocking into him in rhythm, their bodies aligning with maddening precision. He reached down between them, fingers brushing San’s cock, making the man jerk in his grasp.

“You still wanna fight it, don’t you?” 

San swallowed. “I don’t know what I want.”

Wooyoung kissed his throat, lips brushing the faint scar of his own bite. “That’s a lie,” he whispered. “But it’s okay. I’ll remind you.”

“Don’t,” San said weakly. He didn’t know what he was asking him not to do. He didn’t even know if he meant it.

“I’ll stop if you really want me to.” Wooyoung’s voice was soft. “Say it.”

San’s eyes met Wooyoung’s—burning red at the edges. He saw hunger there, but not the kind that wanted to devour. It was the kind that wanted to be sated together.

When San didn’t answer, Wooyoung smiled, kissed him again, and reached for his hand—guiding it down, pressing it between their bodies. 

“Touch me,” he murmured. “I’m yours, if you want me.”

San didn’t think. He obeyed.

Something in him tipped.

Maybe it was the look in Wooyoung’s eyes, no longer mocking but now anticipating. Maybe it was the way his own body ached. Not just with lust, but with something deeper. Desperation. Needing to feel control again.

So he moved.

He surged up, flipping their positions with a force that startled even him, straddling Wooyoung’s hips before the vampire could even blink. The motion knocked the breath from Wooyoung’s lungs—not that he needed it—and left him laughing.

“Oh,” Wooyoung purred, looking up at him. “Is this a reversal of fortune?”

San leaned over him, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down Wooyoung’s chest, mapping the ridges of muscle, the faint shimmer of sweat that hadn’t been there moments before. “I’m not yours,” his voice deepened.

Wooyoung smirked. “No,” he said. “But you want to be.”

San didn’t answer with words. He leaned down and kissed him hard. Nothing gentle this time, all teeth and tongue. Wooyoung met it eagerly, moaning into his mouth like it was a prize, like he wanted to be devoured.

Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. San rutted down against him, grinding into the friction, and Wooyoung arched up with a soft gasp, rolling his hips in rhythm.

San kissed down his throat, then lower—biting down on the curve of his shoulder, not to draw blood, but to mark. Wooyoung’s breath caught sharply at the pressure, the sound turning to a soft whine when San licked over the reddened skin. His hands wandered, cupping Wooyoung’s hips, feeling the sharp bone under the smooth skin.

“Take what you want,” Wooyoung whispered, fingers threading through San’s hair, gently tugging. “I’m not going anywhere.”

San grunted, eyes flickering. There was a storm in him now—rising fast. He wanted. And Wooyoung had become the center of that want.

He kissed down Wooyoung’s body again, lingering over his ribs, then lower, until his lips brushed the sharp jut of his hip bone.

Wooyoung’s hands fisted in the sheets.

“You’re playing with fire,” the vampire murmured, voice almost showing just a sliver of weakness.

San glanced up. “Then burn.”

With a single movement, he pushed Wooyoung’s legs apart and settled between them. Wooyoung hissed as San grabbed his thighs and pressed a line of kisses along the soft skin there—each one slower than the last, dragging out the tension until Wooyoung squirmed.

When San finally took his cock into his mouth, it was with purpose. There was no hesitation nor shame. Wooyoung gasped, hands flying anywhere and everywhere at the same time—the sheets, San’s hair, his own face. 

It was messy. Deep. San sucked, working his mouth as he’d done this a thousand times before, like he’d learned Wooyoung by instinct alone. 

Wooyoung cursed as San pulled back just to tease the head with his tongue, flicking across the slit until Wooyoung’s breath turned ragged.

“You’re not—fuck, San—” His voice cracked. “You’re not supposed to be good at this.”

San didn’t answer. He took him deep again.

Wooyoung whimpered. “I’m gonna— ah— if you keep—shit—”

But San didn’t stop. His hands gripped tighter, holding Wooyoung in place, mouth moving faster now, sucking harder.

And then, just when Wooyoung’s body tightened, right on the edge—San pulled off.

Wooyoung’s cry of frustration was immediate, high and broken. “No, no—fuck, you—”

San wiped his mouth, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Not yet,” he said, echoing Wooyoung’s earlier words.

Wooyoung panted beneath him, eyes glowing red as sin. “I’m going to ruin you for that.”

Yet they kissed again, before San reached down, positioning himself between Wooyoung’s thighs. The vampire arched under him, legs wrapping around his waist.

“You might just do that,” San murmured.

And then he pushed in.

The world narrowed.

Wooyoung’s moan was guttural, raw and helpless. San groaned too—torn open by heat and sensation and the way Wooyoung clung to him like he was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“More,” Wooyoung begged, breathless. “Don’t hold back—please—”

San didn’t.

He thrusted deeper, faster, bracing one hand against the headboard as the other grabbed Wooyoung’s thigh, holding him close, driving in again and again. Wooyoung sobbed beneath him—every movement drawing moans from his lips, every word more desperate than the last.

“You feel so—god—you’re perfect,” San breathed.

And Wooyoung, even in the chaos, could only smile through the pleasure. “You were made for this,” he whispered. “Made for me.”

Their bodies moved in sync now—rough and fast, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. Every thrust pushed Wooyoung higher, his body tight with need. He met every movement with his own, losing himself in it. 

San gritted his teeth, groaning, close again.

“Let go,” Wooyoung muttered, pulling him down for a kiss. “Give it to me. Inside me.”

And San did.

His body obeyed before his mind could catch up. He came undone in a wave of heat and sound and trembling limbs, clinging to Wooyoung, their mouths staying locked. San’s groan swallowed Wooyoung’s lips, and his fingers tangled in San’s hair, holding him close.

He continued pumping into Wooyoung, just for the vampire to release his own, and after a few slow strokes, Wooyoung cried out, his cum splattering onto his chest.

San’s breathing was ragged, sweat clinging to his back. But he didn’t move.

Not when Wooyoung brushed gentle fingers along his spine. Not when he pulled him in tighter. And not when Wooyoung let out a soft, breathless laugh, like the sound of soft clothes across bare skin.

“You’re relentless,” Wooyoung murmured.

San blinked, barely able to lift his head. “You told me to stop first.”

“I had to,” Wooyoung teased, letting his thumb play with the release on his chest, before grabbing a droplet and pushing it into San’s mouth. He didn’t resist. “If I didn’t, you would’ve broken me.”

San shifted, sucking on the finger in his mouth. His hands were still on Wooyoung’s waist, his cock still inside of him despite the embarrassment. His mind was still trying to piece together what exactly had just happened. What it meant, why it had felt like more than just hunger, and not desperation.

“Wooyoung…” he said, mouth popping as he released the finger out of it.

But Wooyoung just shushed him softly. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

There was a kind of tenderness to his voice now, one San hadn’t expected. One he didn’t know how to respond to.

He moved just ever so slightly, his cock still buried deep and hard inside of Wooyoung. The vampire chuckled, not minding the movement and grinding.

“You didn’t kill me,” Wooyoung said softly as he pulled San down to kiss him once more. “You could have. You had the chance.”

San didn’t answer. Just kept moving slowly inside him.

“You drank,” Wooyoung continued, words broken by an occasional pump from San, “and you didn’t lose yourself. Not completely.”

“I did,” San whispered, eyes completely transfixed on Wooyoung’s. “I am losing myself to you.”

“You’ll come back.”

They continued one more time, and once the two had finished again, they laid together on the bed for a long moment of silence. San’s heart was still racing. His mouth still tasted faintly of blood and desire. His body still ached—not just from what they’d done, but from the way something inside him was shifting. 

“…This doesn’t change anything,” he said.

Wooyoung didn’t argue. He just smiled, almost fond.

“Of course it doesn’t.”

And Wooyoung mounted on top of San again. 

“One more?”

San nodded.

Chapter Text

San didn’t dream of blood.

Not of claws. Not of screams. Not of the flash of ivory fangs or the rush of a pulsing throat beneath his hands. For the first time in what felt like forever, sleep had been still. Peaceful, even. His body felt worn, used in ways he didn’t want to admit out loud, but he hadn’t woken up choking on a scream or gasping for air or both.

He blinked at the morning light streaking between the blinds. The room smelled faintly of iron and sweat, laced with something sweeter underneath. The silence was deafening.

His arm shifted. A warm weight was still pressed against him.

San froze.

Wooyoung was still there.

The vampire laid curled in the covers, naked with one bare arm thrown over his face, breathing even and slow in a mockery of human sleep. His long lashes rested gently against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. He looked soft like this—unguarded in a way that made something twist in San’s gut.

He didn’t expect him to still be here. He should have been gone.

San sat up slowly, careful not to disturb him. His body ached in every limb. He swung both his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, staring down at the mess of skin-warm sheets and the boy sleeping in them.

No. Not a boy. A vampire.

The vampire. 

The monster.

The monster who made him feel wanted. The monster who made him feel like he wanted anything else that was not revenge for his family. The monster who kissed him like they would have a future together. The monster who didn’t run.

San’s eyes dropped to the nightstand beside the bed. To the drawer of said nightstand. In it was a stake. He knew it was there since he always made sure he was prepared. 

His hand moved before he could think.

Lo and behold, wood met palm, and he turned back, heart slamming against his ribs as he crawled up the bed, hovering over Wooyoung’s frame. One knee on each side of his waist, the stake pressed down, angled perfectly above his heart.

Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered open, black as ink in the dim light.

They stared at each other for a long second. No flinch. No gasp. Just a slow smile curling up the corners of Wooyoung’s mouth.

“You know that’s not gonna kill me,” he murmured, voice hoarse from sleeping. “But… points for trying. Again.”

San didn’t move.

He expected cockiness. A smirk. A challenge. He didn’t expect what came next.

Wooyoung’s smile faded, just slightly. Not all the way. Just enough to show that it—San’s willingness to end his life—had hurt. Just a little. 

“You always wake up like this?” Wooyoung asked gently, his tone now more quiet than mocking. “Thinking the best way to say good morning to the guy you fucked relentlessly last night is with a weapon?”

San flinched at his obscenity. His grip on the stake tightened. “You should’ve left.”

“I should’ve,” Wooyoung agreed. “But I didn’t.”

San’s breathing faltered.

After a beat of silence, Wooyoung looked down toward the sheets, then back up. “I’ll go. You’ve got your routine. I’ll clean up first.”

He moved, pushing the stake to the side like it was a child’s toy and slipping from beneath San’s legs. San didn’t stop him.

He just stared.

The room was still a disaster. Clothes were strewn across the floor. The lingering scent of blood and sweat and things San didn’t have the courage to name was still lingering in the air, despite how sweet it also smelled. He didn’t want to know what he looked like right now—naked, red-eyed, and shaky with exhaustion.

Wooyoung disappeared into the bathroom with a murmur of running water, and San sat motionless in the quiet aftermath.

When the vampire returned, a towel slung low on his hips, steam curling from his still-damp hair, he looked fresh. Annoyingly graceful, and utterly unbothered.

San hated that he looked even prettier than he did the night before.

“Before I go,” Wooyoung said, picking his shirt up but not yet putting it on, “you should know two things.”  

San didn’t answer.

“One.” Wooyoung held up a finger. “You might think that your headquarters is going to kill you knowing that you’re becoming like me. They won’t detect your changes. I’m… stronger than what they’re used to. My blood doesn’t leave the same trail. Whatever toxin was injected in your blood and whatever is in their system has mutated to look and act exactly like human blood. You’re safe. For now at least.”

His stomach dropped at the revelation.

“And two,” Wooyoung continued, another finger raised up, “you’ve tasted me now. Which means things will only get harder. It’ll even get faster. Your body will shift faster. Hunger. Instinct. Desire. You’ll want more. You’ll need more.”

He walked toward San slowly, just close enough that San could feel the chill of his presence.

“You’re going to need a lot of blood bags if you want to be holier-than-thou and refuse to drink,” he smiled at San, “Don’t worry. I’ll provide you with some later. That should get you through the week. If not, then—” Wooyoung chuckled, stretching out the last word.

San’s mouth was just gaped, shock and dread seeping into his bones. He could feel Wooyoung feeling his unease.

“I know you don’t want this,” he added, eyes glinting. “And I’m not going to force you. But you should know—whatever you’re trying to suppress? It’s already inside you now.”

He clenched his jaw and looked down at the floor. 

Wooyoung smiled again, this time softer. “Try to get some rest, okay? You’ll need it. And just remember, call for my help if it gets overwhelming. I’d drop everything for you.”

He was almost out the door before San spoke.

“Wait.” 

Wooyoung paused without turning back.

San’s voice was low and shaking. “I don’t know what I’m becoming.”

Wooyoung turned his head slightly, just enough for San to see the profile of his face. “Neither did I.”

Then he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

And San—naked, tired, and still holding the stake in a hand that didn’t know what it wanted—sat alone in silence. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. 

San moved on autopilot. He showered, his body sore in places he hadn’t even realized could ache—neck, hips, thighs, wrists. The hot spray scalded against the faint wounds along his skin, especially the hickeys that still throbbed as if Wooyoung had only just pulled his mouth away.

He stood in the shower for longer than he should have. He let the steam soak into him like penance.

When he finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged over. He wiped it down and stared at himself. Dark circles plagued his eyes. Bruises were along all over his body. The bite mark on his neck was even more prominent than before when it was already healing just the night before.

Something inside him flinched.

He tugged on a shirt and sweatpants and padded into the kitchen. The fridge creaked open with a low groan.

His eyes scanned over a carton of eggs, a few slices of leftover pizza, some raw meat—and then he froze.

There, tucked behind a bottle of milk, were two sealed bags of blood.

Cold. Labelled. Fresh.

San stared at the bags. It didn’t feel real—not immediately. Like maybe someone planted them there. Like maybe this was a test, or a warning, or something.

But he knew better.

The scent hit him like a wave. Copper and clean and too inviting.

He slammed the fridge shut.

“No,” he whispered, chest tightening almost immediately.

His knuckles went white against the door handle as he gripped it. He could feel his knees starting to buckle beneath him.

“What the fuck is happening to me,” he breathed.

Tears streamed down his face before he could even notice and stop them.

Wooyoung wasn’t lying when he said he was going to give him blood, but it only made his heart drop further than it was supposed to help him. 

He backed away from the fridge, turned on his heel—and opened the bathroom door. Hands moved fast as he yanked the blood bags from the fridge and dumped them into the cabinet beneath the sink, behind the towels and the emergency medicine.

Then he splashed cold water on his face.

A knock came at the door.

He nearly jumped.

San hurried to dry his face, then opened the door just slightly.

Jongho stood there, looking concerned with a brow lifted—but he was casual, like he wasn’t trying to pry.

“Hey,” he said. “You good?”

“Yeah,” San replied, his voice cracking. “What’s up?”

Jongho stepped inside, eyeing him. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” San muttered, shutting the door behind him.

He didn’t push further. Jongho walked in like he always did, giving San the space or chance to speak if he wanted to.

San sat down on the edge of his couch. The scent of iron still lingered in the back of his throat.

“I came to check on you,” Jongho said, tossing a granola bar onto the table. San eyes the snack and considered eating it before his stomach twisted at the thought of consuming something that wasn’t blood. “Hongjoong’s been… quiet. But he might call you soon.”

“What?” I thought I was benched” 

“You were. But it’s been a week. He says we might need you again.” Jongho hesitated, then added more softly. “We miss you too, man.”

San’s heart tugged at his words.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continued. “I just wanted to tell you before it blindsides you.”

He kept his head down. San’s heart thudded in his chest, beating with no rhythm and with extreme loudness.

“You should know…” Jongho said slowly, “I don’t think you’re the kind of person who would let something like this change who you are.”

San flinched.

Jongho studied him. “But if it is changing you… you don’t gotta deal with it alone. Don’t pull a lone wolf, okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, but that’s okay.”

He moved toward the door, then stopped. Glanced back one last time.

“If it gets worse,” he said, “tell me. Tell someone. Yeosang, Hongjoong. Anyone. Don’t let it eat you alive.”

Then he left.

The door clicked shut. 

San walked toward his bed and fell, too tired from everything in the world seemingly not going his way.

He woke up to the buzz of his phone, face buried in the pillow, mouth dry. It was still early—the sky was dull gray outside, clouds heavy like they might cry. His body thankfully didn’t hurt as much as it did the day before. He was just sore. 

He rubbed his eyes and rolled over, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

A new message from Hongjoong.

HQ at 9. You’re back on the field. Briefing won’t take long.

San stared at the message, heart tight from Jongho’s reminder that Hongjoong, will in fact, summon him to headquarters. 

He got ready quickly. After he showered, he stared at the cabinet beneath the sink, before shaking his head and getting dressed, making sure that the bite mark was covered by a turtleneck.

No one would really know that something had been changing about him. He looked in the mirror one last time—the faint flush of his cheeks and his pale look can probably be excused to malnourishment. 

He looked deader than usual, but it was better than nothing.

By the time he reached headquarters, the halls were already busy. He passed a few newer recruits who barely glanced at him, but Jongho spotted him first. He gave San a quiet nod from where he stood by the weapons check. San didn’t return it. He didn’t want the comfort. Not now.

The briefing room was colder than usual. Hongjoong stood near the far end of the table, arms crossed, tablet in hand.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

“It’s 9:02.”

“That’s late to me.”

San exhaled and stepped closer. “You said I’m back on the field.”

Hongjoong finally looked up. His eyes were cool but not unkind. “Seonghwa was on a tail in Sector D, near one of the outer nests. He hasn’t reported in since midnight yesterday. His tracker shows he’s alive but immobilized.”

“He was caught?”

“Seems like it. Our guess is he’s being kept as bait. They know someone will come for him.”

“You’re sending me,” San said flatly.

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

Hongjoong placed the tablet on the table. It lit up with a map, marked with pulse beacons and red indicators for vampire dens “We can’t afford more losses. You’re the only one who’s handled a similar case and made it out alive.”

There was a strange weight to the word alive. Like Hongjoong knew something. But if he did, he didn’t show it.

“I’ve been keeping track of your bloodwork,” he added. “Clean. No anomalies. You’re eating more as well. Nutrients, I’m guessing, since you’ve been buying more food.”

San flinched.

“But otherwise,” Hongjoong continued, “everything checks out. So I'm not worried.”

That was worse somehow.

San nodded, “When do I leave?”

“Tonight. After dark. You’ll get coordinates by dusk.” Hongjoong looked at him carefully now, voice softer. “San. You’ve handled worse.”

Not like this, San wanted to say. Not when he was becoming the thing he was supposed to be fighting. 

Instead, he said, “Understood.”

And left the room with a knot in his stomach that felt like it might never come loose.

Dusk came and the sky bled into indigo and violet as Hongjoong sent him the notes on the mission.

San swallowed as he scrolled through the whole dossier.

Sector D was an abandoned textile mill. Two vampires rule the whole den—Yunho and Mingi. Yunho’s methodical; Mingi’s impulsive. Both make up a powerful tandem that you should not, under any circumstances, provoke.

Satellite range won’t reach. The signal is too shoddy. The window of operation is two hours from entry to exfil. You only get two chances to signal extraction once you find him. 

Expected to have minimal human staff, but intel is outdated. Could be up to three layers of threat.

Then a message came through seconds later.

I trust you’ll get him out of this, San.

He walked half the night—air crisp, every step making San’s muscles ache. Anxiety twisting in his bones. With each passing building, hunger rose. Not for food. Not for blood. But for silence. For all this to be over with.

Every time a car drove past him, his pulse quickened. Every stray dog made him jerk his neck, scanning the shadows. He paused twice to hear his own breathing, to steady his mind.

At the mill’s outer fence—taller than a man and ran through with rust—he paused. He reached in and found a loosened panel. It lifted with a slow twist, and he slipped through. Inside, the air was damp and reeked of mildew. Puddles in shattered concrete reflected light from flickering exit signs. A rat scuttled away. He almost jumped.

As he moved deeper, his breathing slowed. He took the long way around—to stay off of any cameras, to stay unseen by anyone. Every footstep was methodical to make the least sound possible. He paused near every echo. 

By the time he neared the basement doors, the brick closed in tight. A single light flickered above the arch. He knelt to scan the door for signs of tampering—none.

The air underground was warmer and mustier. His heart was hammered in his throat. He stepped inside, every sense primed.

Before he was even two steps in, an amused voice came through the darkness.

“You think you can sneak in here?”

San dropped low behind a crate.

A man emerged from a broken panel of shadows—tall, lean, eyes the color of blood red. He moved without sound. One gloved hand rested casually on the crate.

“You didn’t even know I was  here,” Yunho continued. “That’s because you’re terribly inexperienced. Or—you just suck.”

San tensed. The vampire looked him over, head tilting at the scent that clung onto him.

“Smells good,” he murmured.

He stood up, hands raised. San watched Yunho visibly smelling him, as deep as he could get.

“So,” Yunho said, tone shifting. “Walk with me.”

San faltered. 

Yunho guided him through winding corridors—dim lights overhead making half-lit shadows that danced wherever Yunho stepped. 

They arrived in a wide room lit by low lanterns and a central fire pit. Tables lined either side with wrought iron chairs. 

Mingi stepped forward, dark hair hanging low, gleaming with a quietly cruel smile.

“Look who walked in!” he exclaimed. “Hunter turned… diner.”

San’s breath hitched.

“Sit.” Mingi ordered, pulling a chair in front of him. 

He swallowed hard, hands trembling. He slowly walked toward the chair and sat down, his stomach curling at the amount of food in front of him. 

Yunho giggled, placing a goblet in San’s hand.

“You’re lucky we were just having our dinner,” he said softly. “Drink up. Human donor blend. It helps keep the hunger at bay without actually having to feed.”

San stared at the goblet—vivid red, viscous. Every instinct screamed yes, while his mind ordered no.

Yunho tilted the goblet just enough so a drop of blood would spill onto him. San shook his head, mouth dry. The scent alone made him crazy. The feeling of it on his skin? Made him insane.

The silence around him gave way as Mingi gestured toward a closed doorway. 

“If you’re unwilling to drink, then by all means, feast on this instead.” Mingi smiled.

The door creaked open. And then—

Seonghwa stumbled in.

He was bound at the wrists, shit torn, face pale. His eyes were wide, terror mixed in with relief. He took one look at San—fear, hope, and every raw and unfathomable flickered through his face.

Yunho stepped forward. 

“Live feed,” he said, watching San’s reaction. “Your operative. Alive, but only just. Mingi and I were barely holding on to ourselves while he was held captive you know? His blood smells good.”

San swallowed, his eyesight blurring and all the figures in front of him becoming a dizzying sight.

“Shall we begin the feast?”

His stomach churned and his blood felt like acid.

And then—Seonghwa’s gaze met his. His eyes were like endless pools of desperation.

San’s feet dragged as he backed away from the long table, eyes locked on Seonghwa’s trembling form. He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “Excuse me,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I—I need a moment.”

Before either vampire could react, he turned and fled down the corridor, searching for the bathroom in every door.

The bathroom was colder than he expected. 

San locked the door behind him with trembling fingers, stumbling toward the sink. The mirror was cracked, fractures like veins splitting his reflection into fragments. He gripped the edges of the porcelain basin and breathed.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

He retched into the sink, though there was nothing left in his stomach. The stench—no, fragrance of blood and raw meat clung to him. His skin felt coated with it, like a second, rotting layer.

He opened the faucet and splashed water on his face. It didn’t help. The cold didn’t cut through the heat rising in him—heat that had nothing to do with nerves. His mouth burned. His tongue itched. His gums ached in a way that made him want to cry.

The hunger had evolved.

This wasn’t about food anymore. It was visceral, intimate. A need.

It didn’t help that he didn’t drink the blood he was given by that man.

He braced his forearms on the sink. His mind spun through the layout of the den—its arched hallways, the dim lanterns, the heavy scent of incense masking the rot. 

There had been a corridor, off to the side, flanked by crumbling stone. He’d seen it briefly when Yunho led him in, and while he was running to the bathroom. 

It might lead outside. Or at least somewhere not drenched in decadence and danger.

It’s better than nothing.

He stood straight. Time was running out.

He had a plan. Draw attention from Seonghwa. Cut his restraints. Lead him down that corridor. And pray to whatever’s left that no one stops them.

Except… San couldn’t lead. Not visibly at least. Yunho and Mingi were already watching too closely.

Which meant that Seonghwa had to go alone.

San swallowed down spit. He unzipped a small hidden seam along the lining of his inner jacket, fingers brushing metal. His hands met a knife, just for cases like this.

Back in the main chamber, the mood had shifted.

Yunho leaned lazily against the curved arch of the stone, a goblet in hand. Mingi sat on the arm of a velvet couch, legs crossed, lickiing red from his thumb. Seonghwa was on the floor in front of them, head lolled, still breathing—just barely.

The vampires’ gazes sharpened the moment San re-entered. “Feeling better?” Yunho asked, voice too soft.

San nodded once. “Sorry. Still adjusting.”

“You will,” Mingi murmured, grinning. “We all did.”

Yunho gestured toward Seonghwa. “He’s all yours.”

San stepped forward, slower than his heart demanded. His pulse thundered through his veins.

Seonghwa stirred at the sound of his boots. His eyes cracked open. The same sense of desperation and hope glimmered through his eyes.

“I—I’ve never had a live one,” San said, dropping into a crouch beside Seonghwa. He made a show of inspecting him, pressing fingers to Seonghwa’s throat.

He was weak and his pulse was even weaker. Yet he smelled tasty.

Mingi chuckled. “They’re even better when warm.”

San smiled—fake as he could do it. “Can I…?”

He reached for Seonghwa’s wrist, hiding the flash of the knife behind his sleeve. “I want to hear him scream.”

That made Yunho grin.

Good. They were watching him, not his hands.

With ease, San slid the blade across the rope binding Seonghwa’s wrists. Not deeply enough to be seen, just enough to slice through the first few strands. He whispered, low against Seonghwa’s ear, “Don’t move. Not yet. Ten seconds. Then run for the side hall.”

Seonghwa blinked slowly. If he understood, he didn’t show it.

San stood again, turning to Yunho and Mingi. “I want to do this alone.”

Yunho tilted his head. “Why?”

“To… savor it.”

The two exchanged glances, then Yunho gave a lazy shrug. “Don’t take too long.”

San smiled again and forced his legs to carry him behind the door, Seonghwa’s limp form in tow. The moment they were out of sight, he groped to his knees and cut the rest of the rope.

“Go,” he hissed.

Seonghwa hesitated.

“Now.”

San shoved him, just enough to push momentum into him. Seonghwa staggered upright and took off in a half-run, half-crawl toward the side corridor.

Five seconds. Four.

He pulled his hand across his mouth, dug nails into his gums, then drew blood. When the door opened slightly and Yunho called, “Need help?”—San turned and smiled with red on his lips.

“Not yet,” he said. “He tastes amazing.”

Yunho’s laughter echoed across the stone.

San remained crouched, pretending. He had no idea if Seonghwa had made it. He counted every breath, every noise, waiting for a scream or the sound of pursuit.

Nothing.

For one fragile minute, hope bloomed.

And then it shattered.

Mingi’s voice snapped sharp through the air. “He’s gone.”

San’s heart stopped.

Yunho’s growl followed like thunder. “Where is he?”

Doors parted violently.

San stood slowly. Calmly. He didn’t run. He met Yunho’s furious gaze with a lift of his chin. “Far away from you.”

“You helped him escape,” Mingi whispered, laced with disbelief and rage. “You lied to us.”

“You shouldn’t have trusted me.” he shrugged, knife in hand.

Yunho didn’t waste another second. He lunged.

San ducked, slashed up, caught nothing. Mingi was already behind him. A hand was on his neck, another on his wrist. He tried to twist free but they were too fast, too strong. The knife clattered to the floor.

He fought anyway. Elbows, knees, headbutts—anything.

It wasn’t enough.

He was slammed into the wall, hard enough to see stars.

Yunho’s hand pressed against his chest. “We gave you everything.”

“You gave me a death sentence,” San spat.

“Then die like one of us.”

And Yunho bit.

The fangs tore into the side of San’s neck opposite of where he was bitten by him— it was agony at first, and just like Wooyoung’s bite, it became ecstasy. It was like lightning in his veins, sharp and dull and dizzying. He gasped, head falling back.

Mingi moved in next. Fangs sank into his wrist. The dual sensation broke him open.

His body betrayed him—his back arched, his mouth let out a moan, and his hips jerked. His brain screamed no, but his mouth fell open and let out something too eager. Blood pulsed out of him and into them, and something of them spilled back.

He was drowning in it.

Every part of him was lit with fire and indignity and want.

“I’m not—” he choked. “I’m not like you—”

But the words didn’t land. His knees gave out, and Mingi caught him before he hit the floor, a hand underneath San’s body and another roaming his body.

Yunho cradled his jaw, watching him with dark satisfaction. “You taste like guilt.”

San whimpered. His vision blurred. His mind frayed.

And then—

“Wooyoung…”

Not shouted. Not even muttered. Just thought.

But it carried. The echo of San’s desperateness rang faintly in the air when the temperature in the room dropped.

A gust of wind blew open the door. And there he stood.

But what stood in front of them was not the wicked creature San had come to associate with moonlit smiles and teasing touches. This Wooyoung was a force. His coat billowed behind him, black as spilled ink. His gaze locked on the scene—San bloody and limp on Mingi’s touch, the two having bloodied mouths and pupils blown wide with intoxicated pleasure.

And there was no smile on his face.

Only fury.

Pure, unbridled rage.

“What the fuck did you do?” Wooyoung’s voice didn’t need volume. It slithered across the air, venomous as it travelled. Yunho took a step back. Mingi straightened and let San drop to the floor.

“You had no right,” he snarled, and when they opened their mouths to protest, he raised one hand and whispered one word.

A command in a language older than memory.

The two vampires recoiled.

Something ancient passed through them. Fear—real, instinctual fear—shot through their entire beings. Yunho flinched like he’d been slapped. Mingi dropped his eyes to the floor, backing away, chest rising and falling in silent apology.

And then they were gone. Faded into the shadow.

Wooyoung didn’t even look after them. His entire focus was on San.

He moved with frightening speed, dropping to his knees at San’s side, blood slicking the fabric of his shirt as he gathered him into his arms. His breath hitched when he saw the bite marks—glowing faintly from where Yunho and Mingi had fed.

“Fuck,” Wooyoung muttered, pressing his forehead to San’s temple for one brief, shuddering moment. “I told them to leave you alone. I should’ve never—”

San whimpered, barely conscious, eyes fluttering weakly as he tried to focus. “W… Woo…”

“I’m here,” Wooyoung whispered, one hand slipping beneath San’s legs as he cradled him tighter. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now.”

Despite everything, Wooyoung was gentle—heartbreakingly so. He touched San’s bloodstained cheek like he was made of glass, then brushed damp strands of hair away from his eyes. His voice softened even more, to that of what San was usually used to.

“You’re burning up. Their venom… it’s too much for your system right now. Hang on.”

The shadows folded around them. One moment they were in that stone den, the next—a pulse of darkness, like being swept under cool water—they emerged somewhere else. Somewhere noisy and busy with life, even in this time of the night.

It was warm and modern and quiet. The flickering of lights shone through floor-length windows, the scent of candle wax wafted through the air. Not a trace of death. No blood, no meat—only thick blankets and dim lamps and soft silence.

Wooyoung laid San down gently on a bed far too large for one, tugging the blankets over him as his hand ghosted over San’s forehead.

San’s body twisted, trembling. The venom was spreading—fast. His skin flushed, sweat soaking his collar.

“It hurts,” San croaked, voice raw. “Inside. Everything burns.”

“I know.” Wooyoung cupped his cheek again. “They fed you their venoms. Not like mine. It doesn’t ease. It consumes.”

San whimpered again, clutching at Wooyoung’s shirt with weak fingers.

“I can get it out,” Wooyoung said seriously. “But it has to be now and it has to be me.”

“Are you—?”

Wooyoung’s eyes darkened, his lashes lowering. He licked his bottom lip slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I’ll have to suck it out of you.”

San went still.

He continued, gentler. “Your body doesn’t know what to do with their blood, especially with my blood in you. It’s reacting—burning you out from the inside. But if I feed from you—pull it out through your blood—it’ll stop. You’ll heal.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice even weaker than seconds ago.

Wooyoung gave the barest nod. “Yes. I’m older. I can process the venom. I won’t get affected. Anyone else would kill you by accident.”

Silence.

San swallowed hard. The flush on his skin had nothing to do with embarrassment, but there was still that want— that need— buried beneath the pain.

He looked into Wooyoung’s eyes, jaw trembling. “Please…”

Wooyoung tilted his head, surprised. “You know that this will fasten the process, right? It would be barely a week before you’ll turn—”

San’s voice broke again, depraved. “Please. Take it out of me. I can’t—I can’t stand this. It hurts so much, please—”

That please wasn’t just surrender.

It was begging.

Wooyoung’s expression shifted—still serious, still furious—but touched by something gentler and protective. 

He leaned down slowly, brushing his lips over San’s throat without breaking skin.

“Then I’ll give you what you need.”

Wooyoung could feel his blood pulsing beneath the skin, not just from San’s racing heart. Every tremble San made sent shivers down Wooyoung’s spine.

San’s head tilted back, baring his throat further without a word. His legs shifted beneath the blankets, restless and straining toward relief.

“Are you ready?” Wooyoung asked, voice no louder than a breath against his skin.

San nodded, a tiny movement—and then gasped as Wooyoung pressed a kiss to his neck.

Then came a second kiss, lingering.

Then the third, right below his jaw, made San whimper.

And then—

Fangs.

Wooyoung didn’t plunge them in. He let them graze— the barest pressure, the taste of what was coming. And San, aching from the teasing, let out a ragged moan.

“Don’t tease,” he choked. “Please… I need it—”

“I know baby,” Wooyoung murmured. “You’ll have it all.”

And then he sank his fangs in.

A sharp, blissful pain, but not as painful as Yunho and Mingi’s, and San arched his back the farthest he ever did off the mattress.

“Ah—!” The cry was helpless, torn from his throat.

But then the pain dissolved. Melted. Replaced instantly by something deeper, like fire running through his veins and settling into every organ of his body.

Wooyoung drank. Slowly.

And with every sip, San’s body flushed deeper. His toes curled, fingers grasping at the sheets before grabbing Wooyoung’s shoulders instead. He clung to him—grinding up against him without even realizing.

“W—Wooyoung—oh god—”

San squirmed. 

Writhing. Panting. Moaning.

Each draw from his throat made him unravel further and further. Like Wooyoung wasn’t just taking the venom, but everything. Guilt. Pain. Control. And all San could do was give it.

His body begged for more.

Heat pooled between his legs, and with every pull of Wooyoung’s mouth, he moved harder against him. Grinding desperately, chasing that friction he needed.

Wooyoung let out a low groan, like San’s need fed him.

He shifted, straddling San without breaking the connection. The weight of his hips pinned San to the mattress and San shuddered, crying out again.

His eyes fluttered half-shut, flushed pink and dazed. Sweat beaded on his collarbone.

“F—Feels so good,” San slurred. “I c–can’t—I didn’t know—”

“Shh,” Wooyoung soothed between pulls. “Don’t fight it. Just let go.”

San whimpered as Wooyoung’s hands slid beneath his shirt—walm palms skating over his skin, lifting it slowly. San arched into his touch, helping him, letting his chest be bared inch by inch to the air and Wooyoung’s gaze.

The shirt was gone a moment later, tossed aside.

And Wooyoung pulled back just enough to look down at him.

San’s chest rose and fell in quick, desperate bursts. His skin glowed with sweat, flushed from neck to navel. His eyes begged for more.

“Look at you,” Wooyoung whispered. “So gorgeous like this.”

He leaned down, not to bite, but to kiss right over San’s heartbeat. Then lower. Down his ribs, until San’s back bowed again with a needy sound.

“I—I want you to touch me,” San choked out, breathless. “More—please—”

Wooyoung’s hands moved again, this time to his belt.

San tensed, a flash of nerves mixing with desire, but Wooyoung only met his gaze and assured, “Tell me to stop, and I will. Anytime at all.”

He didn’t.

He lifted his hips.

And Wooyoung carefully undid the buckle. Buttons. Zipper. The rasp of fabric was loud in the room, but San didn’t care. His pants slid down, and with them was all remaining shame.

He was left open beneath Wooyoung’s gaze, and Wooyoung looked at him like he was something divine.

His own shirt was next—pulled over his head in a fluid motion. San reached up to touch him, hands skating across his waist, his ribs, up to his chest. The contact made Wooyoung groan low in his throat.

Their skin met. 

Heat to heat.

Heartbeat to heartbeat.

Wooyoung was pressing their bodies together, mouths finding each other in a kiss that stole the breath from San’s lungs. Possessive and desperate. Their hips aligned and the friction made San gasp into Wooyoung’s mouth.

“Please,” San whispered. “Please, I—I need—”

“I know what you need,” Wooyoung murmured, voice dark with hunger. “I can feel it in every part of you.”

One hand cradled San’s cheek once more, while the other slid low down his entire body.

San cried out, clutching at him.

Every nerve ending burned. Every breath was pleasure. Every grind of their bodies sent San spiraling further, caught in a haze of bliss and want and Wooyoung. 

And Wooyoung dove down to his neck once again, feeding once more, but less now for venom removal and more for something intimate—letting himself get lost in it too. In the way San moaned for him, clung to him, gave himself up completely.

The taste of San, the way he was so perfect, so into him— drove Wooyoung wild.

San’s hands skated down his back. His nails dragged lightly anchoring him to come closer. His legs parted instinctively, a quiet invitation, and Wooyoung pressed against him with a groan, San’s bare skin meeting his pants.

And damn those pants, Wooyoung adjusted himself slightly to let himself go of the fabric, and San gasped at the hardness that Wooyoung was sporting.

“You feel everything now, don’t you?” Wooyoung breathed into his skin. His voice was full of want.

San nodded, unable to speak. He whimpered instead, hips lifting, grinding slowly against the press of Wooyoung’s thigh. His body was no longer his own—it obeyed with its own longing now. The ache of being touched and claimed and known.

And Wooyoung knew him.

“Please,” San whispered, hoarse. “I don’t—I can’t think—just please… Claim me. I’m yours, Wooyoung.”

Then Wooyoung leaned down, hovering his lips over San’s—so soft that it almost felt divine. “You have no idea what you’re offering,” he murmured.

“I do,” San muttered back. “I meant it.”

Wooyoung kissed him then, deeply—fully, claiming his mouth the way he’d claimed his throat. San made a broken, desperate sound as Wooyoung’s cock lined up against his hole, before it sank into him, slowly and carefully.

The breach shattered him. 

San cried out, one hand clutching Wooyoung’s wrist while the other fisted the sheets. He was shuddering all over, each inch of Wooyoung’s cock painfully dragging into him in a tight manner. 

Wooyoung leaned down again to kiss San, biting at his lower lip between kisses, then trailed down again. Lips dragged over to San’s chest, to his nipples, and to his stomach. 

Flexibility apparently came with being a vampire.

He pulled out, just enough that the tip remained, and dragged his cock back into San, burying it deep inside his hole as it clenched around the length.

San’s moans rang through the entire place, defiling the otherwise clean home.

“You’re beautiful,” Wooyoung murmured, voice thick with hunger and awe. “So sensitive. So mine.”

He squirmed at the word, his body jerking down into Wooyoung. He felt like he was glowing, unraveling from the inside out, unraveling for him. 

And Wooyoung—hungry still, yes, but tender—eased himself down against him fully, pumping in a slow, then fast, maddening rhythm, drawing out every cry and shiver that San had left in him. They moved together in sync. 

San moaned, high and erratic, his nail scraping lightly down Wooyoung’s back. “I can’t—I can’t take it slow,” he gasped. “I need you.”

“You’re mine,” he said against San’s collarbone. “And I’m yours.”

Every time San gasped, Wooyoung responded with more—more pressure, more heat, more of himself. And when Wooyoung fucked into San and San shouted—he knew that he’s found the spot. 

He rammed into it, each pump rivaling San’s littered moans. He groaned and bit into San again, pumping even more venom and more pleasure into him. 

Once Wooyoung retracted his fangs from his neck, San’s half-lidded eyes met his and their mouths connected again, their teeth clacking and their tongues fighting for dominance—and of course, San lost. Or rather, let himself be defeated. 

“So good for me,” Wooyoung said into his mouth. “So tight. So perfect. Just for me. You’re just for me. All for me.”

The pleasure swelled and crested, impossibly slow and overwhelming, and San couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I can’t—I’m—” San stammered.

“I know,” Wooyoung said, nuzzling his throat, voice trembling now as well. “Let go, Sannie. I’ve got you. Cum for me.”

Wooyoung pumped into him thrice more before San came undone, spilling his cum onto his own chest. He clenched tightly around Wooyoung’s cock as he came, and Wooyoung did one final pump before he creamed inside of San, his groan echoing through the walls. Their bodies locked in heat and a need so deep that it felt like it had always been there.

They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and trembling exhalations, the air thick with warmth and the quiet pulse of something deeper than lust.

Wooyoung laid on the bed right next to San, and when he turned to face him, San was already looking at him.

“Why did you—” he groaned out in a weak voice. “Why did you save me—?”

“Because…” Wooyoung smiled at him. “I like you.”

San stared deep into his eyes. His body was heavy, worn down to the core, but his heart beat loud in his ears. He stared at Wooyoung, searching for something behind that soft smile—deceit, mockery, anything he could hold onto as armor.

But there was none. 

Only warmth. And something terrifyingly sincere.

The comfort of it, the safety, untangled him completely. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of Wooyoung brushing a hand through his hair, and then—darkness. Sleep took him whole.

When San woke again, the world was quieter.

Sunlight peeked through heavy blackout curtains, filtering in soft gold through a small gap. The scent of something warm and savory hung in the air. Eggs? Butter?

His limbs ached, but in a satisfyingly spent kind of way. And though a low hum of energy beneath his skin—residue from the venom, maybe—he felt… safe. Fed. Alive.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. A soft rustle came from the other room, followed by the clatter of a pan and a quiet hum. Wooyoung’s voice.

San padded out barefoot, still shirtless, wearing only a pair of pajamas. He stopped just outside the kitchen, leaning against the doorway.

Wooyoung stood at the stove in a loose black t-shirt and gray joggers, hair mussed and barefoot. He looked so casual, so human, it knocked the wind from San’s chest for a moment.

“You’re awake,” Wooyoung said, glancing back with a crooked smile. “Perfect timing. I just finished.”

San’s eyes flicked down to the counter. There was only one plate.

“For me?” he asked, voice rough.

Wooyoung nodded. “I don’t eat food, remember?” He placed the plate on the island. “Just wanted to make sure you did. You’ve been out for hours. Your body’s still recovering.”

San stepped forward slowly, his eyes narrowing just a little—not out of suspicion, but confusion. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said, then in a softer voice. “I wanted to.”

San sat down, the warm plate settling in front of him. Toast and eggs. Simple, but thoughtfully done. It smelled incredible.

Wooyoung leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. “Seonghwa’s safe by the way.”

He looked up, startled. “What?”

“Got a message this morning. He made it back to your headquarters. They would know about what happened eventually” A small smirk tugged at Wooyoung’s lips. “Funny how that worked out.”

Relief blossomed in San’s chest—but it was quickly followed with a sinking sensation. The lie. The mission. The vampire blood coursing through his veins. Wooyoung.

He pushed his fork through the eggs, appetite suddenly dulled. “So… everything’s fine now?”

Wooyoung tilted his head. “Is it?”

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know if he could go back to headquarters pretending that nothing happened. He didn’t know how long until he would completely turn. He didn’t know what he felt when Wooyoung looked at him last night. 

And worst of all, he didn’t know if he hated it.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” San finally said, eyes fixed on the plate.

Wooyoung stepped closer. “I told you last night, didn’t I?”

San’s breath stuck in his lungs.

“Not after last night. Not after any of it.” Wooyoung’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I like you, San.”

He kept his gaze on the plate.

“You don’t have to say anything. Just… be here. Rest. Eat. Think. Whatever you need.”

San didn’t reply. He just picked up the fork and took a bite. The food was good. Comforting, to say the least.

After a while, Wooyoung spoke again. “I have to go soon.”

San blinked, lowering his fork. “Go?”

“Feeding circuit,” Wooyoung said, with a shrug that looked practiced. “Not for me—I’m still full from last night. But I’ve got to check in on some younger ones, handle a few… tensions.”

“Vampire business?”

“Unfortunately.”

Wooyoung stepped closer again, but this time there was now gentleness in his presence, replacing the pressure from the moment before. “While I’m gone, you’re free to do anything you want.”

San raised a brow. “Anything?”

“You can leave. I won’t stop you. You can go to your headquarters. Tell them where you were. Give them this address.” He gestured casually to the supposedly penthouse’s vast outside view, revealing glimpses of the sprawling city beyond. “Or you can stay. Explore. Sleep. Raid my wardrobe, if that’s your thing.”

He stared at Wooyoung, taken aback.

“Seriously,” Wooyoung added, almost with a soft smile. “There are no locks here.”

San swallowed. “Do you really trust me that much? Why?”

“Because something tells me you’ll make the right choice. Even if you don’t know what that is yet.”

He turned toward the walk-in closet and his coat. “I’ll be back after nightfall.”

And just like that, he left.

San sat alone at the island for a long time.

He didn’t leave, even when he finished his food. 

Something tethered him there. Not just confusion, not just exhaustion, but curiosity. And something quieter. Something like desire. Desire to learn more about Wooyoung. Desire to figure the vampire out through the inner machinations of his space.

The penthouse stretched out around him like a forgotten museum. As he wandered, barefoot and quiet, he found space after space that revealed more than he expected. Elegant furniture with frayed edges, cluttered bookshelves, old sketchbooks scattered on a long table. 

On the far side of the penthouse, past a heavy set of double doors, was a studio.

It was massive. Vaulted ceiling. Soft natural light filtered through angled skylights.

And paintings.

So many paintings.

Some were unfinished. Some were chaotic. Others were precise and painfully human.

Portraits. Cityscapes. Scenes of people laughing and crying. One painting looked so old it was cracked with time—of a woman sitting on a porch in autumn light. She looked so sad yet content.

San stepped forward slowly, his fingers hovering just above the canvasses. Wooyoung had painted all of these. Even if he didn’t know them before, he recognized the brushstrokes. Even in their chaos, they felt intentional.

He used to be someone.

That thought lodged itself deep in San’s chest.

He stayed in the studio for hours, losing time the way you do when you were in something you enjoyed. He didn’t even realize the sun had set until the sound of the front door clicking open startled him.

Wooyoung was back.

But the scent hit him before the sight did. Rust. Copper. Thick. Fresh.

San rushed into the living room, alarm rising, and froze.

Wooyoung stood just inside the entrance, his coat heavy with blood, hands soaked up to the wrists. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes snapped up at San the moment he stepped in.

“What happened?” he asked.

Wooyoung exhaled, tossing the coat onto the floor like it weighed too much. “Unruly vampires.”

San stared at him, heart bursting through his ribs. “You… killed them?”

“I contained them.” Wooyoung’s voice was calm. “Let’s leave it at that.”

The silence between them swelled, stretched too tight.

And yet—San didn’t feel fear.

He felt concern.

And he hated how easily it settled in his chest. How fast it came. He watched Wooyoung unbutton his shirt one-handed, blood soaking the white fabric. It clung to his skin. Still warm. Still wet.

“You’re not hurt?” San asked quietly.

Wooyoung paused, tilting his head toward him. “Worried about me, hunter?”

San didn’t reply.

Because he was.

And he didn’t know what that meant yet, and if he did, he was scared to admit it to himself.

San moved before he even realized. Wooyoung didn’t protest when he stepped toward him. Didn’t flinch when San reached out with careful fingers and brushed a bloodied strand of hair from his face.

“You’re a mess,” San murmured.

“I’ve been worse,” Wooyoung said, but now that San was closer, he could notice how his voice lacked the usual bite. 

San turned away only to grab a towel from the nearby credenza, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Come on.”

Wooyoung arched a brow. “Are you seriously going to play nurse?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he replied, already walking.

Wooyoung followed.

The bathroom was marble and pleasing to the eyes, a strange contrast to the streaks of blood trailing across Wooyoung’s pale chest and forearms. He stood there, silent and oddly obedient as San turned on the tap and dampened the towel with warm water.

“Off,” San said, gesturing at the ruined shirt.

Wooyoung smirked but didn’t say anything as he stripped. His chest was bare in seconds, still dusted with drying blood. He didn’t stop there. The pants followed, and suddenly he stood completely naked in front of San, unfazed.

San tried not to stare. Tried. Failed.

He knelt instead, pressing the towel against Wooyoung’s thigh first. A long, slow swipe. Then again, moving upward. The warm water streaked red as it collected on his skin.

Neither of them said anything at first.

San focused on the work, methodical and gentle strokes along Wooyoung’s side, his ribs, his arms. Over his chest, careful not to linger too long near the heart.

The silence broke when Wooyoung let out a soft chuckle.

“You’re acting like you care,” he said, almost teasing. But it was low and had a hint of sadness and vulnerability to it.

San froze.

His hand clenched around the towel, and before he could stop himself, the words were already out.

“I do.”

Wooyoung’s smile faltered.

The silence returned again, but now it pulsed with something new—something fragile.

San didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. He just kept moving, brushing away the last traces of blood from Wooyoung’s collarbone, then his jaw. His hands trembled now.

“I don’t know why,” San said, quieter. “But I do.”

Wooyoung breathed in, like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, he sat on the edge of the tub, letting San finish wiping down his arms and back, his posture slowly softening into something looser, more open. His hands rested on his knees.

“You know this isn’t going to end well for you, right?” Wooyoung said. “This goes against your… everything. Your morals. Your dignity.”

“I know.” San replied.

Wooyoung glanced down at him, one hand reaching out to lightly touch San’s hair, brushing it behind his ear.

“You’re not afraid of it? Of me? Of this? Of… us?”

“I am,” San whispered. “But I’m more afraid of losing what this is before I understand it.”

Wooyoung didn’t smile this time.

He just leaned back, let his eyes flutter shut, and said, “Then stay. At least for tonight.”

San didn’t answer aloud. But he reached for a clean towel, and this time, when he dried Wooyoung’s hands, his thumbs lingered on his knuckles, and neither pulled away.

He exited the room for a while and returned with two sets of clean clothes folded neatly in his arms.

Wooyoung, now wrapped loosely in a towel, tilted his head. “Planning to layer up?”

San didn’t look at him, just walked over to set them on the counter. “One’s for you.”

A low chuckle echoed through the bathroom walls. “You’re giving me clothes now?”

“I figured you’d prefer not to walk around the penthouse naked all night.”

Wooyoung hummed. “You sure? You didn’t seem to mind it earlier.” 

He was back to being flirty again, and San—the easily flustered man that he is—glared at the marble countertop like it had personally offended him.

Wooyoung rose, sauntering over, before pausing right behind San. “So… if the other pair is for you, and I’m not dumb… that means you’re taking a shower, right? So what if we showered together?”

San turned sharply. “What?”

“You cleaned me up. Let me return the favor.” Wooyoung's voice dipped. “I want to take care of you.”

San opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. “Why would you need to? I literally just wiped you down.”

Wooyoung leaned closer, one arm snaking its way around San’s thigh. “So? Seems unfair if I don’t get a turn.”

“…This isn’t a game.” San said, but his voice lacked conviction. His pulse had already begun to pick up speed.

“Then let it be a gesture,” Wooyoung said. “Something simple. Let me be gentle with you.”

“You just want to see me naked, don’t you?”

“I do.”

San hesitated.

But something in Wooyoung’s tone wasn’t just teasing. He really was just trying to make San feel cared for.

“Fine,” San muttered, already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Just—don’t make it weird.”

“I never make anything weird,” Wooyoung said far too innocently as he stepped out of the towel.

San rolled his eyes, but his face burned anyway.

The water steamed up the room quickly, trailing rivulets over their skin. The spray was warm, settling over San’s back like a soft curtain, and he let himself relax under it—until Wooyoung’s fingers brushed his shoulder blades.

“I said don’t make it weird,” San warned weakly.

“I haven’t even done anything,” Wooyoung murmured, smoothing his hands in a lather across San’s shoulders. “Not yet.”

San sighed, leaning forward slightly, palms braced on the wall.

Wooyoung took his time—working his way across San’s shoulders, his upper arms, down his back. His fingers moved in soft circles, thumbs digging in gently like a massage. His touch was surprisingly soothing.

Until his hand lingered just a little too low on San’s waist.

San jolted.

“That’s not my back.”

“Are you sure?” Wooyoung said, utterly unbothered.

“Wooyoung.” 

“Relax,” he said, washing slow, teasing strokes along his sides now. “I told you. I’m just being thorough.”

San exhaled slowly, the breath catching in his throat as Wooyoung’s hands smoother over his waist, lingering just long enough to make his skin burn.

“You have a very loose definition of ‘thorough’,” San muttered, eyes shut.

Wooyoung just chuckled behind him, and San could feel the warm huff of breath near the back of his neck, even through the heat of the shower. “You’re tense.”

“Because you’re touching me like that.”

“Like what?” Wooyoung’s hands swept up again, over San’s rib cage this time, fingers circling over his skin, as if memorizing every ounce of him. 

San’s chest rose and fell, uneven from the touch.

Wooyoung moved in closer. Their bodies brushed, bare skin against bare skin, steam curling around them like a veil. The press of Wooyoung’s chest against San’s back was solid, grounding. His hands trailed lower once more, but never crossing the line San hadn’t yet given him permission to breach. Just enough to tease. Enough to remind San he was there, fully, and focused only on him. 

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Wooyoung whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of San’s ear. “It’s racing.”

San’s hands clenched against the tiled wall. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re still not stopping me.”

San huffed. “You’re not exactly easy to stop.”

A pause. 

Then, Wooyoung asked again, “May I?”

San hesitated before he nodded fervently, water splashing around at the movement.

Wooyoung’s hands slid to San’s stomach. His fingers traced the ridges of muscle there, possessively and fondly. San’s breath hitched as Wooyoung moved slightly against him, hardness brushing against his lower back.

Nothing compared to the heat burning just beneath San’s skin—not even the steam curling around them.

“I could learn you like this,” Wooyoung murmured. “Every inch. Every shiver.”

San leaned back just slightly, enough for the back of his head to brush Wooyoung’s shoulder. “You talk too much.”

Wooyoung chuckled, his lips brushing against San’s wet temple. “You like it.”

His hands drifted again, lower this time. San panted softly as Wooyoung wrapped his hand around his achingly hard cock, just holding it, as if to give San the hold he needed.

San’s hips jutted forward, looking for the friction that he wanted, and Wooyoung only chuckled, holding his hips in place as he glided his hand down to the base of San’s cock, before he slid it back up in an achingly slow motion. 

“Faster, please—” San croaked out, his hands reaching back to anchor himself against Wooyoung. 

He only chuckled, before obeying the order, accelerating his speed. His own body moved as well, grinding against San to chase his own pleasure. 

“You’re beautiful,” Wooyoung muttered against his ear, before he bit San’s earlobe—gentle yet enough to make it hurt just a bit. “You’re so pretty like this. When you’re being so pliant for me.”

Water splashed as his hand jerked San off and his hips hit against the back of San. Before San could fully unravel, Wooyoung let go of him and stepped back—and San whined from the loss of contact and friction.

“W—Why—?” San managed to mutter out before his upper body got pushed forward, his body bent slightly over, his ass extending outward.

“Just a thorough cleaning,” Wooyoung chuckled, before kneeling on the bathroom floor. 

San was about to turn his head to face Wooyoung but the sensation hit his senses first. He cried out, all from the suddenness of it all. He glanced back, and there Wooyoung was, face buried deep in his hole, tongue lapping around the ring as if it was there just to be devoured.

“Wooyoung—that’s—” San moaned as his tongue grazed his hole once more and his lips kissed the outer edge. “F—Fuck—”

He was about to touch his dripping cock when Wooyoung grabbed both of his hands and kept it restrained behind San just with his own hand. 

When his tongue finally breached into San’s hole, San let out a pathetic whine, one that someone wouldn’t expect would come from him. Wooyoung’s tongue danced around his walls, going around in circles that drove San into madness.

One of Wooyoung’s hands opened San further, only eliciting another moan from him. He gripped onto San’s plump ass as if it was a lifeline, and when he was satisfied, he pulled back, leaving a kiss directly onto his hole, before standing up and lining his cock up against his ass.

“You’re tasty,” Wooyoung said as he peppered kisses onto San’s back. He instinctively rocked into Wooyoung’s cock, only making the vampire chuckle.

“And I thought you didn’t want to make it weird?” he laughed, before biting into San’s shoulder blades, just enough to not break skin and just to leave another hickey. 

“You’re irresistible—you’re—” San panted. “Please, Wooyoung—just—”

“Just what?”

San didn’t reply, only rocked his body back to Wooyoung, who in turn grinded up his ass, cock just resting on top of his hole.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

San shuddered at the nickname. Weakly, he moaned out. “ Just fuck me, Wooyoung.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The head of his cock entered him, and just as the night before, San arched his back the moment his hole was entered, all other senses thrown out the window.

Unlike yesterday, though, Wooyoung was not gentle. Once San adjusted to his length, he pulled back once, then ploughed into in a forceful manner, just barely enough to barely hurt. 

Wooyoung rammed into him over and over, hard and rough and full of frustration that San didn’t know he had. 

“You’re so tight for me,” he breathed into his ear. “Your ass feels like it’s made for me. Like it’s molded just for my cock. Just for me.”

San moaned at his words, eyes rolling back from how relentless and vicious Wooyoung was fucking into him. He bent over even further, almost forming a ninety degree angle at this point. 

Wooyoung reached out to his cock, pumping it in rhythm with the way he rutted into San. One of his fingers played with the slit of his cock as he jerked it off, overstimulating San to undone. 

“I’m close, Wooyoung—” San arched his back once more, moaning and panting as Wooyoung rammed into him even harder, hitting his spot again and again, driving his brain to mush.

“Don’t hold yourself back. You look so beautiful like this. Bent over for me. Your back looks so pretty.” Wooyoung groaned, slapping a cheek just enough to make it red. San sobbed at his sensation, before spilling all over the floor, cum being pushed out of him per pump. 

Wooyoung didn’t last either. He gripped San’s waists and pulled him onto his cock, his hips meeting San’s skin at the midway. 

“Where do you want me to—” Wooyoung could only groan as his movements became more erratic, more careless, more violent. 

“Inside—cum inside me— Wooyoung please—” San moaned as he clenched down on Wooyoung’s cock.

The tightness made Wooyoung groan out loud before fucking into him one final time, cumming into him. Spill after spill, Wooyoung held San still on his cock, emptying himself inside the man. 

After he pulled out, cum flowed onto the floor out of his ass, too much to contain inside his hole.

“You said—” San murmured, hand still bracing himself onto the wall as he slowly straightened himself, legs wobbly and body panting heavily. “Was that—being thorough to you?”

Wooyoung only chuckled, inserting a finger into San just to stop the cum from flowing out. He shuddered at the insertion, whining softly, then turning his body to look at Wooyoung right in the eyes.

“You’re insufferable.” San let out a breath through gritted teeth.

“And yet you’re still here.” Wooyoung leaned in, lips brushing just behind San’s ear. “Still letting me touch you like this.

San didn’t answer—not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t have one. His throat had gone dry from everything that just transpired.

So he let himself feel instead. Wooyoung’s other hand glided over his entire body, lazily cleaning San from the mess they made. 

It took a while for everything to finally calm down. When Wooyoung released his finger from San’s hole with a soft pop, San finally faced Wooyoung, just to fully see how much more flushed Wooyoung actually was than San. 

“You’re red.” San managed to say. 

“I am,” Wooyoung glanced down, then back up to San’s face. “What about it?”

“Nothing.”

The two stared at each other, and before either could come closer, Wooyoung cut the intimacy off, “I’m grabbing our clothes.”

San stared as Wooyoung exited the space and stepped into the bathroom, drying himself with a towel and wearing the pair of clothes that San provided him with earlier. 

A part of him—a small, yet present part of him ached at how Wooyoung seemed to avoid him, even though he had no real reason to do so.

As San stepped out of the shower, Wooyoung glanced at him, before smiling. Then he dried him down, meticulous and slow. San could only smile at how much Wooyoung was taking care of him. How much Wooyoung cared for him. How much he could feel the genuinity of it all. 

When the two dressed and got out of the bathroom, San limped toward the kitchen, grabbing himself a glass of water, then to the bedroom, where Wooyoung was already waiting, just lying down on the bed, staring expectantly at the doorway where San would enter from.

“You walk like I broke you,” Wooyoung teased with a lazy grin, eyes twinkling in the dim light the lamp on the bedside table provided him.

San rolled his eyes, but the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed him. “You’re not exactly wrong.”

Wooyoung chuckled and held out his arms. “Come on then. Might as well rest where it’s warm.”

He crawled into the bed beside Wooyoung, letting himself fall gently onto the mattress with a sigh. He stayed quiet for a moment before turning his head to look at Wooyoung. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing a kiss to San’s forehead. “I’m here,” he murmured. “Just sleep.”

San didn’t fight the pull of exhaustion. He nestled in, letting Wooyoung’s arm curl around his waist and his body pressed in behind him like a shield from the world. They drifted off, breathing in sync, held in the quiet comfort of something unspoken.

The next morning, San blinked awake slowly, the light from the curtains diffused across the room. The warmth behind him was gone. 

He sat up, confused for a moment—and just like the day before, the scent of something cooking hit his nose.

Padding into the kitchen, he found Wooyoung at the stove once more, humming quietly as he flipped something in a pan. He looked over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning. Making you breakfast again.”

San moved to the table, sitting down with a groggy frown. “It smells good.”

Wooyoung smiled, before setting it down in front of him. San stared at the food. It smelled and looked fine—but when he tasted it, it was like chewing paper.

“I can’t taste it—?”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted to something softer, yet more serious. “You’re… you know this, San. You need blood. I thought it wouldn’t settle in for at least another day but—my blood is too strong, I guess.”

San froze. “I’m not ready—”

“I know,” Wooyoung said gently. “But you’ll starve. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone.”

He opened the fridge and pulled out a blood bag, holding it without judgment, without pressure—just patience.

San took it with shaking hands. A side of him recoiled at how delicious it smelled, and another side wanted to tear through the entire thing and sink his teeth into it without even thinking.

Tears fell down his eyes without him even realizing it.

“San—” Wooyoung leaned closer, wiping his tears, and lifting San to look at his gaze. “Sweetheart. You need this. You’ll die, or worse, get feral. You don’t want to hurt others, right?”

San shook his head, before muttering out, “I just—This means no turning back, right?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer immediately. He grabbed San’s hands and held it in his.

“San, it’s okay. You’re with me now. I’m with you.”

San didn’t reply further. He clutched the bag with a hand, and let the other be held tighter.

He lifted the blood bag slowly, hesitating for one last breath before sinking his teeth into the rubber seal.

Warmth flooded his mouth. 

San’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. He drank with a kind of desperation, tears still sliding down his cheeks as the hunger he hadn’t realized had been gnawing at him finally began to quiet. His hands trembled, the bag crinkling beneath his grip.

Wooyoung stayed close. One hand reached up to gently stroke through his hair, soothing him steadily.

“You’re okay,” Wooyoung murmured. “You’re doing good.”

San didn’t know when he started crying harder. Maybe it was the relief, the shame, or the fact that something so unnatural now taste like life itself. But he leaned into the comfort Wooyoung offered, letting himself be cared for.

When the bag was empty, San finally looked up, lips stained, eyes red-rimmed and tired, even though he woke up literally just minutes before. “Is it always like this?”

Wooyoung shook his head, brushing his thumb across San’s cheek. “It was hard for the first time right? It’ll also be hard now. It’ll also be hard for the future. It never gets easy. It’s not just survival. It’s grief, for what you’re leaving behind.”

“I don’t want to leave anyone behind.” San said, lips pressing together as he finished. 

“And risk it? And risk hurting them? Sweetheart, look at me,” Wooyoung gently lifted his head again, “this isn’t something easy, I know. But know—it’s for the better.”

San stared at Wooyoung, his throat tight with something he couldn’t name. His hands clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms as if trying to ground himself—but the ground didn’t feel steady anymore.

“I—” he started, “I need to go.”

Wooyoung blinked, his brows knitting slightly. “Go?”

“To headquarters,” San rushed out. “I need to… check on Seonghwa. I need to know what happened after. If he’s okay.”

Wooyoung didn’t challenge it—not directly. He just watched San, and San could feel how clearly Wooyoung saw through the excuse. Still, the vampire only nodded.

“Of course.”

San already moved toward the hallway. He didn’t even have anything on himself. No gears or anything. He could feel Wooyoung behind him, not moving closer, not trying to stop him. Just… waiting.

“I just—” San swallowed. “I need some air. I need space.”

“I understand.”

San turned around, he didn’t meet Wooyoung’s gaze—couldn’t.

“I don’t know if I’ll come back.”

“I know,” Wooyoung replied gently. “But I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready. If you want to talk. If you need anything. I’ll be here.”

The words hit something in San’s chest. It made his throat close up again. He nodded once, then turned and walked out the door.

Wooyoung didn’t follow.