Chapter Text
“If you don’t let Ode live with us, I’m gonna tear you all apart in your sleep,” Jooyeon declared with the same absolute certainty as if he were stating the sun would rise in exactly ten hours and thirty-four minutes and that he’d need to slather himself head to toe in SPF before daring to step outside, even for a second. Not that he planned on leaving the house before the harsh glare softened against the city skyline again, though. Of all of them, he was the most nocturnal predator, drawn to neon lights and the raucous thrills the streets had to offer.
Phone clenched in his hands, he lounged sideways across the soft chair, legs dangling over one armrest, head thrown back onto the other, dark hair spilling toward the floor, its pink-tipped ends stark against the wood. A shame, really, that it wasn’t falling over his face the way it usually did, getting in his eyes, in his mouth, driving him half-mad. He practically hated it, but the thought of cutting it off felt even worse, so his gaze was unobscured for once, carrying a mix of wild confidence and something almost petulant.
“He’s like… a stray kitten! Small, helpless, so damn cute!” Jooyeon jabbed a finger toward the ceiling, his dark brows furrowed in righteous indignation. “You want him to get killed by the dogs out there? You heartless bastards!”
Letting his head loll back, Jooyeon took in the scene upside down. Jungsu, who had been laughing at something on the TV, just waved him off, the dim light catching on his earring as he turned his head. Jiseok, who was seated in his usual spot on the floor at Gunil’s feet, one leg bent, the other stretched out to show off obnoxiously bright socks covered in cartoon shrimp, let out a loud snort.
“Oh God, not the kitten thing again,” he groaned. “Gunil-hyung already tried domesticating you. We’ve got more than enough pets in this house.”
“Exactly!” Jungsu jumped in immediately, though his eyes never left the TV. “Are you gonna clean up after this kitten? Or do you expect me to do it? No, kid, live your life peacefully, no kittens required.”
“You don’t even know his real name,” Jiseok pointed out. “You wanna bring some stray into our house, and you don’t even know what the hell he’s called? What kind of tragic love story is this?”
Jooyeon bristled. He shot a glance in the other direction, checking on Hyeongjun, the last one he hadn’t yet taken in. Predictably, Hyeongjun looked completely indifferent. The guy barely engaged in these conversations, always tucked away in his own corner, just like right now, curled up in an armchair by the curtained window, pencil in hand, sketchbook balanced on his knees, giving him no word of support, even when Jooyeon was counting on it.
What a… killjoy.
“Maybe I don’t know his name,” Jooyeon admitted, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. His voice softened, dropping into something dangerously close to fondness. “But I know other things.”
Like the way Ode laughed, slightly breathless, like he’d been caught off guard. The way his fingers curled around the microphone when he sang, knuckles tense, the slightest tremor in his voice when he got lost in a song. The way he always tilted his head when he listened to Jooyeon talk, as if he actually cared, as if he wanted to remember every stupid thing Jooyeon said.
The way he let Jooyeon call him Odie, even though he pretended to hate it.
“Ode is just… one of a kind,” Jooyeon stretched his words out again like he was singing rather than speaking, theatrical, raw, the way he used to in his golden years as a rock star. “He’s so fucking amazing, it’s insane! He even knows 5 Seconds of Summer, can you believe that? I’ve spent seven goddamn years waiting for someone in this country to have the taste to appreciate Luke Hemmings! This is fate!”
Jiseok couldn’t hold it in anymore and snorted again, but this time he actually burst out laughing, noisily slurping blood through a striped straw held between his full lips.
“Oh well, if he knows 5SOS, then that’s it,” he said, licking his mouth. “Never mind the fact that he works at a karaoke bar and probably knows every song they’ve got. Bring him in, man. We’ll put him in the kitchen. He can make our coffee.”
“More likely, he shall find himself making coffee out of me,” Gunil muttered, finally looking up from his book, a leather-bound, ancient thing, filled with notes written in his own calligraphic script from a decade ago. Jooyeon had once peeked inside and nearly died of boredom; he was pretty sure it was the true weapon against vampires, far more effective than sunlight.
Gunil, as always, was immaculate, because of course, he was, even though it was just another evening at home. Expensive suit, tie only slightly loosened, dark hair slicked back like he was expecting a board meeting to break out in the living room. Jooyeon didn’t get it. Why look like that when you could wear hole-ridden socks and a shirt stretched out beyond salvation? Like the one currently hanging off Jooyeon’s own shoulders. The only thing that softened Gunil’s image even slightly was the round glasses perched on his nose, and maybe the way his hand absentmindedly brushed through Jiseok’s hair, the latter sprawled contentedly at his feet. Perhaps that quiet devotion was the only thing keeping Gunil from detonating on the spot.
“Jooyeon-ah,” he said, his voice carrying such solemnity it could drown a man. He spoke like the organ in an old cathedral, measured, deep, grand, but unbearably tedious. “Pray, enlighten me: did you deign to summon even a flicker of that formidable intellect before inaugurating this, if I may, discourse? Am I correct in assuming that the young man you so ardently champion enjoys good health, a stable domicile, respectable employment, and a future enviably secure by the standards of this unforgiving capital? Or, dare I presume, has your magnanimity been ensnared by a fleeting apparition whose true nature eludes even your own keen perception?”
“A fleeting apparition?!” Jooyeon lurched upright so fast the blood rushed to his head, his phone slipping from his grasp. The screen flashed as it tumbled, smacking against his leg before landing face-down on the floor with a dull thud. He barely noticed. He was already on his feet, pivoting toward the trio, eyes blazing.
“Hyung, you should see him! He’s… he’s…” He flailed his arms as if trying to scoop the right words out of thin air. “He’s living like some tragic heroine in a shitty romance novel! There is no bright future! He needs a goddamn savior! Just like in those stories! You’ve read them!”
Jungsu sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face before lazily patting the armrest beside him like he was soothing some invisible presence or maybe just himself. His fingers tapped idly against the fabric in a quiet, absent rhythm that somehow made his exhaustion even more obvious. Then, with a slow turn of his head, he leveled Jooyeon with a look so flat, so full of resigned disbelief, that Jooyeon could practically hear the unspoken “You ridiculous child.”
“Some people just live their lives, but you keep wasting your precious energy on nonsense,” Jungsu scolded, his voice carrying the kind of familiar exasperation that meant he had already given up on changing Jooyeon but would still complain about it. “How much sleep did you get today? Three hours? Four? You should be worrying about yourself, star. How do you expect to take care of anyone else when you can’t even take care of yourself?”
Jooyeon ignored him, not even bothering with an indignant sigh. Instead, he turned his attention back to Hyeongjun, who was being way too quiet to properly call himself Jooyeon’s childhood friend.
“Come on, Hyeongjun-ah,” Jooyeon drawled sweetly, resting his elbows on the back of the nearest wooden chair. “Tell them. Tell them I’m right. Tell them that he needs to be saved from that shithole he’s stuck in.”
The graphite of Hyeongjun’s pencil scraped against the paper as if deliberately emphasizing his silent indifference. He didn’t look up until he finished the last stroke of whatever he was sketching. Only then did he glance at Jooyeon, raising a brow. There was no annoyance in his expression, just that particular brand of irony that always made Jooyeon feel like he was losing.
“Hosts in Gangnam can make more than you do,” Hyeongjun stated flatly, setting his pencil down on a scrap of paper. “And by ‘more,’ I mean about two and a half times your earnings, excluding the side jobs.”
Jooyeon took that jab like a slap to the face. His hands shot up, and he barely managed to stop himself from knocking over the empty vase sitting in the middle of the table.
“Money isn’t everything!” he exclaimed so fiercely that it was as if he truly believed this would be his final, irrefutable argument, one strong enough to shake even Gunil. “Tell me, has even one of you regretted ending up in this house?!”
There was a pause, a few moments of silence thick with something ominous.
Hyeongjun took his time as if intentionally stretching the moment before finally exhaling, shrugging almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah, I did,” he said.
Three words.
Just three fucking words.
They split the air like a lightning strike, leaving behind nothing but ringing emptiness.
Jooyeon stared, wide-eyed, his breath catching in his throat as if the shock had punched him square in the chest. His mouth opened, then shut again, like his mind refused to process what he’d just heard.
“You… did?” he echoed, balancing on the razor’s edge between anger and something far more fragile.
Something clawed at his ribs, something deep, ugly, and unfamiliar, something he wasn’t used to showing.
“I did,” Hyeongjun repeated.
Jooyeon felt his blood boil. His whole body tensed, fingers curling into fists before he forcefully crossed his arms as if he could physically hold himself together, like he was cradling something wounded, maybe his pride, his memories, or the years they had spent as inseparable halves of the same whole.
“You…” he started, but his voice cracked, his throat burning with the words he didn’t know how to say. “Do you even understand that the only reason you’re sitting here alive is because of me?! You were already fucking gone, and I— I couldn’t just let you—”
His hand sliced through the air, frustration coiling so tightly inside him that it hurt.
He had done what any best friend would do, hadn’t he? He had saved Hyeongjun. He had brought him home. He had given him a second chance.
Hyeongjun just exhaled slowly, eyes steady in a way that made Jooyeon’s insides twist.
“Jooyeon-ah,” he drawled, exhausted. “When someone puts a noose around their neck, it means they don’t wanna live.”
The words landed like a punch, a direct hit to the gut.
“Giving them immortality at that moment?” Hyeongjun continued, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the exact opposite of what they wanted. I thought even an airhead like you would understand that.”
“Y-you…!”
“Exactly,” Jiseok chimed in from across the room, his voice light, almost teasing. He had moved to perch on the armrest of a chair, idly swinging one leg while resting a hand on Gunil’s shoulder. “What, you think you’re playing a hero? You do remember Hyeongjun spent years complaining about how you didn’t let him die, right? Or were you too busy basking in your own righteousness to notice?” He tilted his head, lips curling. “I mean, hell, I had to pull his sorry ass out of a bathtub more than once. Patch him up, sit there while he glared at me like I’d just ruined his grand fucking finale.” Jiseok let out a short laugh. “So tell me, Jooyeon-ah, what makes you so sure this Ode of yours wants to be saved the same way? That he even wants to be like us?”
The words landed like blows, but before Jooyeon could recover, Jungsu delivered the next punch.
“Yeah, Jooyeon-ah,” he drawled, nodding along as if Jiseok had just solved the meaning of life. His expression was something between amusement and exasperation, like he was watching a kid throw a tantrum over a lost toy. “Did you even ask him what he wants? Or did you, as always, just decide for him that he’s miserable and needs saving?”
His tone was light, but the weight of his words crashed into Jooyeon like a truck. His whole body tensed, hands instinctively planting themselves on his hips in sheer frustration.
Like hell Ode likes his life the way it is.
Jooyeon didn’t need to ask to know. He could see it, plain as day, in the way Ode carried himself, in the way he talked about the future, or rather, didn’t.
What did they know, anyway? None of them knew what it was like to stand in front of someone and see it, crystal clear, that they were drowning and didn’t even realize it.
If Ode couldn’t see it himself… then somebody had to do it for him.
Jooyeon opened his mouth, ready to hurl every argument he had left, but before he could, Gunil, having waited for the perfect moment, allowed himself the smallest of smiles, a brief twitch of his lips that disappeared almost instantly, leaving his expression as composed as an old portrait.
“My darling,” he said solemnly, each phrase crisp and deliberate as if his own words demanded as much attention as the Holy Scripture itself. “Permit me a candid inquiry: how, in your esteemed judgment, does one define the state of requiring salvation? If a man’s toil is recompensed, his flesh sustained, his mind occupied with purpose… then I must remind you, fatigue and a haggard countenance alone do not suffice to warrant our intervention.”
Jooyeon refused to back down. The fire inside him only burned hotter, consuming reason, scorching through every protest that didn’t fit the truth he knew. Did they really not get it? Or did they just not care? They sat here, untouched, walled off in their quiet little sanctuary, living in comfort while the world outside rotted.
Jooyeon had seen it, heard it. He knew what Ode’s laughter sounded like when it was meant to please, how his voice softened when he played along, when he let himself be someone else’s good time. He had watched the way Ode held himself after long nights, like something left out in the rain, worn thin, used up. He could still smell it, clinging to the edges of his memory — blood, sweet and sharp, laced with cheap perfume and the sting of spilled alcohol.
Jooyeon’s nails bit into his palms, breath coming sharp and uneven.
If none of them would see it for what it was, then fine. He’d just have to make them.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” His voice cracked like a whip, raw and furious, as he jerked his shoulders and snapped his glare from Gunil, who had already buried himself in his book, turning the page with infuriating composure, to the empty armchair where Hyeongjun had been sitting before getting up and leaving the room without a word. His childhood friend. His supposed best friend. How convenient.
Jiseok only tilted his head, watching Jooyeon with something almost amused, like he was waiting to be entertained.
Jungsu squinted at him, brow furrowing, as if trying to make sense of messy handwriting.
Jooyeon’s whole body tensed, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
“You seriously decided for me that he’s fine there? You didn’t see his face! His eyes, for fuck’s sake! Say whatever you want, but no one can live in that place. It’s not a home. It’s a fucking prison.”
Gunil raised a hand, fingers barely twitching, signaling for silence. Because Jooyeon still carried the faint aftertaste of the early 2000s, because discipline, as he liked to joke, had evaporated from him along with the last traces of natural light in this house, it took him a second to actually shut up.
Then Gunil turned that steady patience on him, the kind that meant he would speak uninterrupted, and Jooyeon had no choice but to listen.
“This is all profoundly affecting, Jooyeon-ah,” he began, slow and deliberate, pressing each word into the space between them as if he were delivering a sermon on the moral foundations of Protestant ethics. “Yet I must entreat you to recall that the edicts governing this maison are immutable, its raison d’être singular. This dwelling does not exist for the comfort of mortals. They seek us only when no other recourse remains when the abyss menaces them; only then is it within our purview to extend deliverance.”
Jooyeon rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the back of his skull.
Gunil always talked like he was some grand preacher addressing a congregation of thousands, not the leader of a small house of vampires.
Here we go again.
Another speech about their “mission.” Another lecture on morality.
As always.
Yet, beneath that voice, suffocating his fire like a blast of winter air rushing into a stifling room, something in Jooyeon still rebelled. It made his nerves pulse in sync with the dull thud of the fridge door closing in the kitchen. Hyeongjun, who clearly had no interest in the argument, was already rummaging through the bags Jiseok had brought. Fucking groceries.
Jungsu let out a lazy yawn and turned back to the TV.
Gunil returned to his book again, flipping a page as if the conversation had already left his mind.
Only Jiseok kept watching, lips quirking, clearly entertained by the show.
The mundanity of it all pissed Jooyeon off, and not because it was boring, but because today, it fed his fear that these old bastards would just build a wall of empty philosophy in front of his plea, that they’d go around in circles, and the threat he was trying to save that guy from would stay right where it was, outside their cozy, half-removed existence.
His feet started pacing around the long dining table, pointless, quick, and too lazy-looking, yet jittery as hell, like a rockstar who, years after debut, still hadn’t learned to wear even one of his hard-earned millions with dignity. In other words, just Jooyeon, exactly as he had been twenty years ago.
“Oh, for fu-uck’s sa-ake!” he burst out again, dragging out the vowels, exaggerating as if it might somehow make him sound more persuasive. That was useless; no one in this house ever understood anything. “Were you even listening? The abyss? Hyung, every goddamn night in that place is a potential abyss for him! You talk about letting him choose, but what’s the fucking choice? No one there has a choice left! Have you seen that place? It’s a swamp! A fucking miserable swamp!”
“A swamp?” Jiseok drawled, lazily amused. “Is that the same ‘luxurious establishment’ you were raving about last month? With the soft couches and perfect decor?”
Jooyeon met his gaze, and in it, he didn’t see sarcasm. It was more of a quiet, ironic challenge, silently saying, “Well? Explain that one.”
“That was… before,” Jooyeon mumbled, suddenly feeling the heat rise to his ears. “What, you guys have amnesia? You didn’t hear what I just said?!”
As Hyeongjun passed by Jooyeon, he muttered, “You said it was nice there.” His brow furrowed slightly, his voice soft but laced with that thin, unmistakable layer of jollification. He dropped back into his chair, lounging as if none of this truly concerned him, and took a sip from his glass.
Jooyeon’s jaw clenched at the sight. The blood inside was practically frozen, condensation clinging to the glass like frost on a windowpane. Even the cup itself looked like it had been sitting in a damn ice bath. Jeez. He hated cold blood.
“Now it’s a ‘swamp,’” Hyeongjun continued, licking a stray drop from his lips. “Interesting. Seems like the karaoke bar magically remodeled itself overnight.”
“That’s not the point!” Jooyeon snapped, jabbing a finger in the air. “Seeing what they do to him, that’s the fucking swamp! That’s what it is! You all just sit here in your damn chairs, talking about morality and principles, while he’s suffering!”
He glared around the room, hands twitching like he wanted to shake them all until they understood, until they saw what he had seen: Ode’s red-rimmed eyes, the way he kept his head down, his breath uneven like he’d been trying too hard not to cry, the angry mark blooming on his cheek, stark against his smooth skin, the imprint of someone else’s hand. They hadn’t seen it. They hadn’t heard those muffled sobs behind a locked door, hadn’t watched him flinch at a touch, hadn’t felt the weight of his silence and the way it screamed louder than anything else.
“What, do I have to go back? Sneak in a fucking camera just so you can put yourself in his place for one goddamn second?!” The words ripped out of Jooyeon, more raw than he intended. His voice cut through the air, hoarse, as if exhaustion had finally seeped into his frantic desperation. “You’ve built yourselves a cozy little den and forgotten that, out there…”
A faint scratching sound interrupted him. Hyeongjun was sketching again.
“Forgotten what, Jooyeon-ah?”
He lifted his head. His voice was quiet, almost polite, but his stare was heavy, like the weight of an execution order. That gaze sent a chill farther than any words could.
Jooyeon froze.
Forgotten what?
Why the fuck were they looking at him like they didn’t get it?
“It’s all rot!” he spat. “Parasites. Beasts. The people those beasts are about to kill.”
Hyeongjun said nothing. He only dragged his pencil across the page again, outlining the edge of a shoulder or whatever he was drawing right now.
Gunil, now the sole focus of Jooyeon’s simmering, disorganized rage, remained completely composed. He watched Jooyeon with that same measured patience as if waiting for him to run out of steam, to see reason on his own.
Before Gunil could respond, Jungsu exhaled sharply and cut in, his voice mild but firm, “You’re all emotions, Jooyeonie. You’re not thinking it through.” He leaned forward slightly, studying Jooyeon with something almost like pity. “You don’t get it, do you? You were born like this. You don’t know what it’s like to be human, to feel the weight of time the way they do, to have a life that actually ends.”
He shook his head, eyes flicking downward before settling back on Jooyeon.
“You think you’re saving him, but what if this isn’t for him? What if he ends up hating you for it? Would you really wanna see him curled up here, desperate to escape? Trapped in a body that won’t ever let him go?” His gaze turned sharper, more pointed. “He probably has family, friends, people he loves, people he doesn’t wanna lose. If you turn him, he’ll have to. And when they’re all gone, what then?”
A soft thud broke the silence as Gunil closed his book.
“I shall presume this caprice of yours will dissipate in due course,” he said flatly.
“It’s not a fucking caprice!” Jooyeon shouted. “It’s a necessity!”
— 🦇 —
The sliding door jerked open with an awful creak, shredding the hollow karaoke bliss into pieces, muffled by the bass, tangled in the songs from the neighboring rooms, where strangers’ voices fought to drown out the loneliness that rang louder than any illusion. Jooyeon pulled it aside almost mechanically in one smooth motion, and the next second splintered into shards, poisoning the air around him.
The first thing he saw was him.
Ode.
On his knees.
Jooyeon’s breath hitched.
That boy, with short auburn hair and a voice that could melt into honey, the boy who had tangled himself into Jooyeon’s thoughts, into his nights, into the small, hidden spaces of his heart, was kneeling, but not in some dramatic collapse with a mic in hand, stretching out the last chorus.
His fingers were digging into the man’s knees, knuckles white. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped, choking, his throat closing around something too thick, too deep for his mouth to take. A strangled sound broke from him as he pulled back abruptly, coughing.
The man above him groaned in irritation, his fingers harshly, possessively tightening in Ode’s hair, crumpling copper strands in his fist like a handful of dry grass. His other hand rested on the couch, relaxed, amused, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy the sight.
Ode’s shirt was undone. It had slipped down, the fabric pooling in soft folds at his elbows, leaving his collarbones and the curve of his trembling shoulders exposed to the dim light. The deep shadows cut across his skin, emphasizing every shiver, every breath that shook through him. His lips were swollen, inflamed as if bitten raw, wet with saliva that trickled in a thin, silent thread down his trembling chin; they quivered as he tried to regain control of his breathing, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Can’t even suck properly,” the man spat, yanking Ode’s head back by the hair, forcing him to look up. His neck stretched out, Adam’s apple bobbing with a strained swallow.
The man’s voice was repugnant, vile, thick with contempt. For a split second, Jooyeon wanted to tear into his throat, fangs first, until there was nothing left but silence. Consequences be damned. To hell with Gunil’s rules about not attacking humans. To hell with the fact that he was standing in the heart of Gangnam, where revealing himself would mean cold steel shackles snapping shut around his wrists.
Jooyeon’s body refused to move, though.
His breath caught, the sickening curl of nausea twisting deep beneath his ribs. Rage boiled inside him, violent and unrelenting, but beneath it hid something much worse, something clawing up the walls of his chest with freezing nails.
Ode flinched, giving just one tiny, involuntary jerk and letting out a strangled breath.
The man’s grip only tightened, yanking him back into place. Damp strands squeaked between his fingers.
Ode’s lips parted slowly, obediently, hopelessly as he whispered, “I… I’m sorry, I’m trying.”
There was no plea, no protest in his words. It was all resignation, carved into every syllable. Ode gave the quiet, empty kind of surrender that came when all other choices had already been stripped away.
The man snorted.
“Trying?” He grabbed Ode’s cheeks, squeezing hard enough to force his lips apart. “Trying like shit, you little whore. What, you need a lesson? Maybe I should give you a proper one. Teach you how to do it right?”
Ode barely had time to inhale before the slap cracked through the air, sharp and impatient.
Jooyeon flinched. The sound lashed across his nerves, searing into his skin like sunlight burning through flesh, merciless and all-consuming. His vision wavered, but the red blooming across Ode’s cheek was vivid enough to anchor him in the present, to carve the moment into his memory like an open wound.
Ode made a small, broken sound, almost imperceptible, but Jooyeon heard it, too, and it sank its claws into his chest, twisting, tearing, setting his insides alight.
Ode swallowed hard, his head bowing in submission. Jooyeon saw his slender fingers tremble as they pressed against the man’s thigh, tightening against the fabric like he was grasping for something to keep himself together. His breath was short, uneven, but his voice… steady, maybe a bit too steady for this kind of shit.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I’ll do better.”
He moved again, leaning in, parting his lips, closing them around the man’s flesh as if nothing had happened, as if this was absolutely normal, as if he was used to this.
Ode wasn’t just enduring or just obeying.
He was giving in.
That “sorry” wasn’t a plea for leniency or a quiet rebellion waiting for the right moment to break free.
It was the final surrender, and Jooyeon couldn’t bear it.
What the fuck was happening here?
What kind of place was this, really? What kind of services did it offer? Jooyeon had always thought Moonlight was just a karaoke bar, a dimly lit refuge where pretty boys and girls poured whiskey, laughed at bad jokes, let you believe, just for a moment, that you were charming. He thought the worst thing that could happen here was an overpriced bill at the end of the night.
Ode should have been smiling, swaying to the music, throwing back his head to belt out that damned chorus of Teeth, eyes glinting. He should have been winking, batting his lashes, grinning as he crooned, “Some days you’re the best thing in my life.”
The worst part wasn’t the kneeling, the trembling shoulders, the swollen lips that struggled to take some filthy fucking dick.
It was the scent of blood.
At first, Jooyeon didn’t know where it was coming from, but then he saw a thin, glistening cut on Ode’s cheek, right where the slap had landed. The bastard wore a heavy ring on his right index finger, and the sharp edge must have split the skin, so now, the syrupy-sweet scent filled Jooyeon’s nose, seeping into his bones.
It didn’t bring hunger, though. He didn’t want Ode, didn’t want to press his lips to the wound and inhale deeply, letting the taste bloom on his tongue.
Instead, a savage, all-consuming fury was possessing his body. His gaze locked onto the man, and his fingers curled into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to strike him, rip him, destroy him, tear this fucker apart, make him choke on his own insides, smear his guts across the expensive leather of this shitty couch.
“Get your fucking hands off him, asshole,” Jooyeon’s voice came out low, rough, almost a snarl.
The man’s head snapped toward him, irritation flickering in his bleary eyes before twisting into caution.
Ode looked up, too. His lips were still parted, breaths unsteady, the flush on his cheeks not from pleasure but humiliation. For a split second, something passed through his gaze.
What was it? Surprise? A silent plea? Or… fear?
Jooyeon didn’t get the chance to find out. Before he could move, before he could lunge and tear this bastard away from Ode, a presence loomed at the doorway.
That was security.
A heavy hand landed on Jooyeon’s shoulder, firm, not quite painful, but making its message clear: You don’t belong here.
“You can’t be in here,” the guard said evenly. “Please, leave.”
Jooyeon’s pulse roared in his ears. He started forward, but another hand clamped around his wrist. That wasn’t exactly an iron grip, but it was a steady warning. He knew that if he threw a punch now, they’d toss him onto the street like trash.
Then what? What would happen to Ode?
On the couch, the man barely spared him a glance. He only scoffed, fingers tightening in Ode’s hair, making him flinch.
“Last warning.”
Jooyeon knew he had no choice, and yet, as they dragged him back, he fought against it, muscles coiled, teeth clenched.
Ode looked at him.
His eyes were still blurred with tears.
— 🦇 —
Three days.
Seventy-two hours.
An endless number of seconds, splintering in Jooyeon’s mind like the crackle of an old vinyl record, one of those Jungsu still liked to play in the evenings.
Jooyeon couldn’t shake the image from his head. No matter how hard he tried to drown it out with guitar riffs, cigarette smoke, even the acrid burn of fermented blood — nothing worked. He saw Ode on his knees over and over again, heard his hoarse apologies, saw his tear-streaked face frozen in the doorway as they threw Jooyeon out.
Now, here he was, sitting right next to him.
It was the same karaoke bar, the same private booth, but it felt like a different reality.
Ode snapped his fingers in front of Jooyeon’s face. Once, twice. Paused. Then snapped a third time before leaning in, tilting his head, studying him from a new angle.
“Earth to Jooyeonie,” he drawled with a light chuckle, deftly working the remote in his other hand. “Something from Måneskin? Panic! At the Disco? Or should we go back to your beloved 5 Seconds of Summer? You’re a fan, right? I remember.”
Shit.
He really remembered?
Jooyeon only shrugged in response, lips curling into a lopsided smirk, but he didn’t look away. Couldn’t, because Ode gleamed, shimmered, like a stage under concert lights, like city neon on a rainy night. Everything about him felt like a play of light and shadow, honed to perfection. Was he just a performance, though? Or was there something real beneath it all?
Jooyeon’s throat felt tight.
He should’ve laughed it off, made a joke, said something cocky, but that damned nickname, slipping so effortlessly from Ode’s lips, sent heat curling low in his stomach. It was ridiculous, absurd, but it was him, saying it, letting it roll off his tongue with that same playful ease, like it belonged to him.
His music taste — Måneskin, Panic! At the Disco — it was perfect, completely aligned with Jooyeon’s own.
He wanted to grab Ode by the cheeks and kiss him stupid.
“You should just grab the mic and sing.” Ode tilted his head back, stretching his spine with an easy grace. “You’ve got an insane voice, seriously. Like you weren’t made for karaoke. Like you belong on a stage.”
Jooyeon flinched and masked it with a scoff.
When Ode was probably five, Jooyeon was already blowing out speakers with raspy demo tapes, living in basslines, unraveling through chords. He still lived that way. Only now, he hid behind a hundred pseudonyms, selling his songs to others, releasing them incognito, collecting royalties from hits sung by voices that weren’t his, all so the world wouldn’t notice his face never changed, never aged.
“You flatter me,” he muttered, but Ode only grinned, teeth flashing like a tease.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just telling the truth.” His eyes lingered a little too long, scanning Jooyeon’s face, searching for something. “Well? What are you singing, rockstar?”
Jooyeon didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because fuck, it was still there, still burned into his mind: the red mark on Ode’s face, the spit he’d wiped from his mouth, the way his body had bowed forward as rough fingers tangled in his hair. Jooyeon could still hear that hoarse, obedient “Sorry,” could still feel his own rage blistering beneath his skin, clawing for release.
And now this? This flirting?
It should’ve made him smirk, should’ve fed into his usual cocky deflections, but all he could do was stare at Ode’s mouth, no longer swollen, no longer trembling, just a little damp as he pursed his lips in a mock pout, pushing him for a reaction.
Was it because he liked Jooyeon?
Or because it was just part of the job?
Jooyeon never feared questions, but this one, he refused to ask. His lips felt glued shut, sealed with the dried blood of unspoken doubts. He couldn’t focus on the song list, couldn’t make himself choose between Måneskin and Panic! At the Disco, couldn’t even breathe properly, because in front of his eyes was no remote, no screen, no Ode with his bright-eyed enthusiasm, but just a memory, turning into a wound Jooyeon didn’t know how to stop pressing.
“Three days ago…”
Ode looked up, pausing, remote still in hand. Jooyeon swallowed. A dull, burning ache coiled in his gut. He half-expected Ode to avert his eyes, to flinch, to deflate. Jooyeon expected to see exhaustion, fear, a silent plea hidden behind his smile, silently saying, “Get me out of here.”
Instead, Ode only arched a brow, lips twitching into a smirk.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” He pointed the remote at Jooyeon like a teacher’s stick, then leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “We offer all kinds of services here. You wanna try it too?”
He smiled.
Oh, fuck.
Jooyeon wanted to sink his teeth into him, not from thirst, but from sheer, feral frustration. The crack inside him widened, the hollow, gnawing anger chewing at his ribs, but he couldn’t force out a response. He was too focused on the caramel strip of skin above Ode’s collar, where a bluish vein pulsed, too aware of the steady rush of blood beneath it.
Ode wasn’t waiting for an invitation, though. Before Jooyeon could pull back or even breathe, he was already moving, sliding onto his lap like liquid, like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be. The movement was smooth, effortless, practiced, and enticing. Ode fit against him too easily, pressing down just enough to make Jooyeon’s breath hitch, and fuck, he was moving, just slightly, slow and teasing, the way someone would when they danced or when they rode.
Jooyeon barely caught him by the waist, too fucking slim for his own good, so slim the fingers nearly touched around him.
“Well?” Ode murmured, pressing closer, his breath ghosting over Jooyeon’s lips. “I can make you feel good, you know. Not just with my mouth, either. Any wish, for the right price, baby.” He dipped lower, the tip of his nose brushing along Jooyeon’s jaw, down to his neck. “And I haven’t had anyone yet tonight. It’ll be tight. You’ll like it.”
His voice was smooth, low, almost purring, and it made Jooyeon uneasy, because fuck, he wanted to lean in, nuzzle into Ode, slide a hand up the back of his neck, grip his hair, and see if he’d arch into it.
His fangs ached.
His body responded too easily to the warmth, the weight, the way Ode’s hips rolled just enough to remind him what was being offered.
Was this how he did it? Did he climb onto the laps of drunk men the same way? Did he let them grope him, press their mouths to his throat, shove rough hands up his shirt? Yank him like something they owned, like something to use? Fuck him without care, without hesitation, leaving bruises, leaving blood?
Jooyeon’s stomach twisted.
Lust was fleeting. The consequences lasted longer. If Ode was offering himself, it wasn’t out of some grand passion but because he knew exactly how to tempt, how to seduce, how to make a man think with something other than his brain.
Fuck, that was definitely working.
Ode shifted in his lap, slow, deliberate, his body fitting against Jooyeon as if he belonged there, as if he’d always belonged there. Then, with a lazy sort of grace, he slid one hand behind his own back, fingers searching, curling, until he found Jooyeon’s wrist.
Jooyeon tensed.
Ode didn’t hesitate. He pulled Jooyeon’s hand from his waist, guided it downward, over the curve of his ass, warm and soft, a perfect handful beneath Jooyeon’s palm.
Jooyeon exhaled sharply. He didn’t mean to, but his fingers twitched, gripping instinctively, sinking in just enough to feel the give, the way Ode’s breath hitched at the contact. A low, hushed, wrecked sound escaped Ode’s lips, hot against Jooyeon’s ear.
“You feel that?” Ode whispered. “I could ride you slowly, let you feel every inch. Or take you fast, let you fuck me deep.” His teeth grazed the shell of Jooyeon’s ear, his hips rolling just enough to make the heat in Jooyeon’s stomach twist into something unbearable. “Either way, rockstar, you’d love it.”
Jooyeon almost groaned.
It would be so easy. Ode felt so fucking good, so pliant, so willing, and his scent was making Jooyeon dizzy. His cock was already half-hard in his jeans, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric, and fuck, Ode had to feel it, had to know exactly what he was doing.
Ode’s light fingers, deceptively casual, trailed along Jooyeon’s jaw before pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He leaned back just enough to look at Jooyeon, eyes dark, lips parted.
“You’re big enough,” he murmured, gaze flicking down, the implication obvious. “Kinda impressive, actually. Guess it fits, though.”
Jooyeon clenched his jaw. He didn’t know what he hated more: how easily Ode played him, or how badly he wanted to play along.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose, fingers slipping from Ode’s skin. His hands dropped to his sides as he leaned back against the couch as far as it would allow.
“I’ll leave you a nice tip,” he said evenly. “Just for the company.”
Ode smirked, tilting his head, eyes glinting.
“You know,” he drawled, “rich but generous clients turn me on so much.”
His words were light, teasing, but what was behind them? Was he testing? Searching? Letting know something just shy of the truth? Jooyeon couldn’t tell.
“If you change your mind,” Ode whispered, soft but sure, “I’m always available.”
He lingered a moment longer, watching Jooyeon. Then, with a slow stretch, he slid off his lap, heat disappearing, weight lifting, leaving him cold and unsteady.
— 🦇 —
Gunil studied him with lazy indifference, but Jooyeon knew better that it was a deception. That look, the way he leaned back ever so slightly as if granting Jooyeon room to push further until he burned himself out, was a test, a trial he had to pass if he wanted to get what he came for.
“Necessity,” Gunil echoed, drawing out the word until it curled into something mocking. “And what necessity, pray, might that be? You scarcely comprehend it yourself. Or have you, perchance, succumbed to the boy’s allure?”
“That’s not the point!” Jooyeon snapped, barely keeping himself from outright shouting. That was so stupid, childish, and reckless to be so desperate to prove something to those who had already made up their minds, but he couldn’t help it. “He’s not like the others. He hasn’t rotted in that damned place yet. And I won’t let him.”
Jiseok laughed.
Jungsu sighed.
Hyeongjun kept sketching, only a slight raise of his brow betraying any reaction.
Gunil watched Jooyeon as if what stood before him wasn’t just a heated outburst but something that might actually be worth his attention.
“So be it,” he said, his voice level, yet no less weighty. Jooyeon felt something inside him tighten, stretch taut, and tremble like a string on the verge of snapping. “You shall present him to me.”
He said it like he was agreeing to examine a rare bottle of wine or an exotic animal, for amusement only. He gave no promises, no guarantees. All Jooyeon could pull out of him was just a possibility, making him want to grab those words and shake more out of them, even though he knew that it would be useless.
“Tomorrow, we go to Moonlight,” he bit out.
“Très bien,” Gunil said, and as if that alone was enough, he reopened his book, cutting off the conversation with an effortless flick of his wrist.
Jooyeon’s eye twitched.
As if the pretentious ass couldn’t just say ‘okay’ in Korean like a normal person. As if his own goddamn language, already stiff and archaic in Gunil’s mouth, all measured syllables, and lofty phrasing, wasn’t enough. No, of course not. He had to sprinkle in French like they weren’t standing in a dimly lit room in Seoul, like this was some refined salon debate from not just the last century, but the one before that, one Jooyeon hadn’t even been around for. Ugh.
Jooyeon exhaled slowly through his nose, willing the tension in his shoulders to ease.
Gunil had already dismissed him, turned the page both literally and figuratively.
Something inside Jooyeon raced forward, tearing, trembling, and maybe it was a premonition.