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The second Jisung saw Minho, he knew he wanted him.
He was 21 then, barely out of university, still young, still stupid enough to think the world couldn’t touch him. He’d gone out drinking with friends, barely finished his first glass before he drifted away and straight into Minho’s path.
He remembers it like it was yesterday: how his blood seemed to thrum when Minho smiled at him, sharp gaze and sharper fangs catching the lights of the club. It felt like danger glinting just beneath the surface, catching the light like a lure, coaxing him in.
His pulse had jumped.
He’d always known vampires were real, but to him they were shadows, rumours, beings whispered about more than seen. He’d only ever heard stories—from Felix, mostly—about the one who lived in his building. The one with the dimples, the one who said “good morning” at midnight.
Maybe he should have been afraid. But he wasn’t. He didn’t even flinch when Minho crossed the room, gaze heavy and knowing, like he already tasted Jisung on his tongue. He didn’t blink when Minho came to a stop in front of him; brown hair falling into his eyes, lips soft and parted in a smile, the barest edge of fangs peeking through.
That night, he found himself wondering why Minho didn’t hide them, why he let Jisung see what every other vampire kept tucked away.
Later, he’d be grateful.
Because hours after, he was naked and gasping, tangled in Minho’s sheets, skin slick with sweat and cum, chests pressed flush together. Minho’s mouth was on his neck, tongue tracing slow, lazy circles until those fangs finally sank in.
Jisung had cried out for him, not in pain but in the dizzy, overwhelming pleasure of it. The way Minho filled him, the slow drag of his cock, the pulse of blood spilling hot and wet down his neck. He felt like he was straddling the edge of a sweet death—thighs shaking, heart stuttering in his chest—as Minho bled him dry.
Every thrust had his spine arching, every moan from Minho’s lips made him clench tighter, desperate to be kept, desperate to be claimed.
The world had gone hazy and pleasure blurred the edges of everything until he couldn’t tell where he ended and Minho began. He remembers the kiss after, lips sticky with blood, tender in a way that terrified him. And how terrifying it felt, in that exact moment, to realize he wanted this every night.
And he got it.
Now, Jisung is 26, and Minho has been his for five years; a constant presence in his life, his bed and beneath his skin. The wanting has never eased. If anything, it’s only deepened, a hunger that never quite quiets, consuming him in between Minho’s kisses, becoming primal whenever he draws near. It burns beneath the surface like something ravenous and aching, as if his body recognizes Minho in a way his mind can’t name, as if his blood was always meant to answer to him.
It was never just about touch.
Jisung doesn’t want to be touched; he wants to be known, stripped down to something raw and real and bound.
He wants Minho to see everything, to peel him open and keep him there, ruin him and remake him until nothing—time, death, fate—could tear them apart. He wants to be his in the fullest sense of the word, in the most ruinous and sacred way two people can belong to each other.
And that’s the thing. He doesn’t just want now. He wants eternity with Minho, decades, centuries. The long stretch of history that would otherwise leave Jisung to wither while Minho remains the same. The idea of growing old without him is more unbearable than death itself.
He’s asked for it again and again, in desperation, need, twisted with love. Whispered the words against Minho’s skin when wrapped around him, voice thin and shaking as Minho moved inside of him. Gasped through blood loss, dizzy and drunk on Minho’s mouth.
And over time, as it grew louder, more persistent, more frantic: he begged on his knees, face pressed into Minho’s thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
He remembers one night too vividly, where his fingers were clutching Minho’s shirt, voice cracking as he broke, as if the words hurt just to speak.
“Turn me. Please. I want this. I want you.”
And Minho had only looked at him, eyes soft, mouth in that quiet, mournful line Jisung had come to know too well.
“No.” He says, but sometimes softened with, “Not yet.” Sometimes nothing at all, just a kiss pressed to his eyelids, and an arm around his waist.
Jisung knows why.
Minho doesn’t say much about what it means to be a vampire, but Jisung has seen it in flashes.
The way Minho freezes when old songs play, as if lost in a memory. The way his voice thins when certain questions are asked, like centuries are pressing down on his ribs. The way his eyes go dark when Jisung groans in pain.
Because vampirism isn’t romance. Its loneliness stretched thin across centuries. A hunger that never fades, violence dressed in silk; all alluring.
It’s watching the world change while you remain the same. It’s holding onto love just long enough to feel it decaying in your hands.
It’s a life drawn out, grief never far, the grim reaper’s presence a constant companion. It’s remembering faces you’d rather forget, burying the ones you can’t.
To Minho, it’s not a gift, but rather, a curse. And he refuses to damn Jisung with it.
Jisung understands, he really does. He knows Minho’s refusal is like a shield; a certain kind of protection; love, in its most painful, complicated form.
But understanding doesn’t soothe the ache, it doesn’t stop the nights he lies awake listening to the stillness in Minho’s chest, his arm slung around his waist. It doesn’t stop the smoke of longing curling through him when he imagines what a hundred years together might feel like, instead of a mere 75.
Because Minho already has all of him—body, mind, and soul. And Jisung only wants to be his in return. So he keeps begging, and begging, and begging.
☾
On his 27th birthday, Minho gives in.
The room is dim, air thick with sex and sweat, the copper tang of blood clinging to every surface. Minho’s body is pressed flush against Jisung’s, cock buried deep, the sound of cum squelching between them from rounds Jisung has lost count of.
His fingers are knotted tight in Minho’s hair, every thrust dragging broken gasps from his throat. His neck still burns from where Minho bit him earlier, blood crusted in a dark scab. His body is flushed, pliant, eyes glazed with want, lips parted between every whine that spills out.
“Minho,” he breathes desperately. “Please.”
Minho slows to a stop.
He leans in, foreheads pressed together, their lips brushing but not yet kissing. His voice is quiet—quieter than Jisung’s ever heard it—but heavy, full of something old and solemn; desperation tinged beneath.
He brushes damp strands of hair from Jisung’s temple, and leans in close enough to kiss him, but he doesn’t; their mouths barely touch, damp breath across his lips.
“Do you still want it?” he whispers.
Jisung’s eyes flutter shut, his nod almost frantic. “Yes, yes, please jagi.”
Minho swallows hard. “On your birthday, then. You’ll be 27 in a few minutes.” His words shake, dread sinking into his bones like ice. “If you still want it… I’ll give it to you.”
Jisung’s breath breaks on a sound that’s half sob, half moan. His hips cant upward instinctively, pleading for more, desperate for everything. “I want it. I want you, hyung-ah.”
Minho’s voice lowers, heavy with warning. “You know what this means. If I turn you, if I give you this… you won’t just be my lover,” Minho murmurs. “You’ll be my fledgling. My offspring. I’ll be your sire.”
Jisung shudders at the weight of it. The way Minho says it; like a vow, like a claim, as if he’s an object for Minho to add to his collection.
Jisung knows what that means. The stories, the legends upon legends; he’s devoured them all. He knows how a bond between sire and fledgling runs deeper than flesh, deeper than love. A blood bond that pulses like a second heartbeat; something that means submission, loyalty, and dependence.
Sometimes even control.
Some say a sire can feel their fledgling’s pain. That a whisper could command them. Others say the bond warps everything and blurs the lines between love and need, want and obedience.
Minho’s eyes burn steadily, searching his face for any signal of a doubt. “It’s not beautiful, Jisung, it’s not romantic. It’s ancient and ugly and binding. I’ll feel you in my bones. I’ll always know where you are. You’ll carry me in your blood. And one day, you might hate it. You might… hate me.”
But Jisung doesn’t flinch. How could he, when he’s wanted this for so long? When he’s always wanted Minho?
“I want you,” he says, voice certain. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you.”
Minho’s lips tremble, and his voice comes out wobbly.
“You’ll never be free of me.”
“That’s okay, hyung-ah,” Jisung breathes, voice steady. “I don’t want to be.”
Minho swallows, and for once, lets himself believe it. He kisses Jisung like a drowning man clinging to air before pulling back to search his eyes. His hips roll slow and deliberate, cock dragging over Jisung’s prostate with precision, wringing a sharp cry out of him.
Jisung keens, lips wet with spit, a trace of blood shining between the cracks in his bitten mouth. His back arches off the bed, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.
“I’ll have to bite you,” Minho rasps, the words trembling with the weight of them. “Suck you dry, until you’re barely holding on. Only then can I turn you.” His voice falters, as though he’s afraid of how far he might go, of draining Jisung past the point of return; of Jisung being lifeless in his arms. He shudders, hands digging tighter into Jisung’s waist, skin spilling soft between his fingers.
And Jisung moans for him.
“I trust you,” he whines, eyes fluttering closed, body moving in rhythm with his thrusts. He doesn’t even need to see Minho’s face to know the war going on in his mind, he knows him too deeply, too wholly; knows him inside and out. “I trust you to take care of me.”
Minho grunts, hips snapping forward, thrusts turning syrup-sweet. Cum leaks from Jisung’s overstretched hole as Minho drives back in, fucking him until he’s trembling on the edge of release.
And just as Jisung cums, Minho’s fangs sink deep into the side of his neck. Hot blood spills, and Jisung’s whole world narrows to the burn, the pleasure, the idea that Minho was drinking him dry. His mind clouds, pleasure surging even as alarm bells scream in the back of his mind, hands shoving weakly at Minho’s chest as if his mind is trying to tell him that he’s in danger.
But his heart beats steadily and he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want to listen.
He waits until his limbs weaken, until his vision blurs and his heartbeat falters, slowing, fading, until he’s almost gone; barely breathing now, barely holding on.
Through the black fog, he sees Minho pull back, mouth smeared crimson, irises glowing red, purple veins spiderwebbing across his skin. Jisung thinks he’s never looked more devastatingly divine.
Minho bites his wrist open and presses it to Jisung’s mouth. He barely parts his lips before the blood rushes in, flooding his tongue, thick and hot.
He drinks, clumsy, lapping greedily at Minho’s wrist. And then his body convulses—like fire catching on dry wood, like cells sparking back to life, like skin stitching back together without any aid. He screams, the sound raw and feral, before he passes out.
☾
One thing Jisung wishes he’d known before being turned was how sensitive to light he’d be, how even the faintest flicker of light could burn, how sound could pierce so sharply it felt like needles driven into his skull. But he didn’t.
The first few weeks are the worst.
Days blur as Jisung spends them tucked into Minho’s arms, face pressed into his chest, seeking the comfort of his heartbeat; all silent.
Every breath Minho takes, every shift of fabric, every tiny creak of the house drills into his brain until he whines without realizing, until his thoughts break apart into noise, until he feels like he’s going slightly crazy.
Minho tells him it’s normal. That all fledglings go through this. He doesn’t say it aloud, he doesn’t need to. Instead, his voice slides into Jisung’s head, all soft and heady.
That, too, is something Jisung has to get used to. The bond between them, the way Minho can reach in and touch his thoughts whenever he wants, answering him inside his mind as easily as breathing. It unsettles him sometimes, but more often it just makes him feel impossibly tethered.
Those first weeks, Minho feeds him human blood. When Jisung finally asks where it comes from, Minho mentions Seungmin’s connections; something he built over years as a nurse.
Jisung finds he prefers O-Negative, finds the taste sharper, sweeter, and more satisfying. Minho teases him for it—“like a mosquito, you only want the sweetest blood”—and Jisung ignores the sting of truth in it, because he does want it, desperately.
After the first month, Minho switches him to animal blood. Jisung hates it immediately, viscerally. He knows why Minho does it—new fledglings need strength, which is why he’d been allowed human blood at all—but knowing and experiencing are two very different things. He knows he needs to be on the same diet as Minho. But even then, it makes him sulk.
The first sip makes him gag. He shoves the bag back into Minho’s hands, pouting, storming off to bury himself in blankets instead.
“You need to drink,” Minho calls after him.
“I don’t want it.” Jisung’s voice is muffled, sulky, almost like he’s pouting. “Why couldn’t we stick to human blood?”
“You know we can’t,” Minho replies gently through the door. “There are rules in place. Only freshly turned vampires get access to human blood, sweetheart.”
“But it tastes so bad... why does it have to be like this?”
“I know, Sungie.” There’s a pause, then Minho adds, “Would a command make it easier?”
Jisung freezes at that. The offer is soft, but the weight of it presses heavy in his chest. A sire’s command is irrefutable and absolute. Minho never uses it without asking first. He only ever offers, never imposes. But when Jisung nods, Minho’s voice slides into him, sharp and saccharine, and the next thing Jisung knows, he’s drinking.
It feels like falling into a trance: aware of his own body, but not in control of it. His limbs move, his throat swallows, and his resistance dissolves. He can’t stop it, doesn’t have enough power to, as if he’s swimming in a body that he can’t control.
Jisung wonders how it would feel during sex. To submit to Minho completely, all choices being off the table.
It makes him shudder.
☾
Two weeks after Jisung finally adjusts to animal blood, Minho lets him see Felix. He doesn’t stray far, stays in the living room, close enough to intervene, out of view but with his ears pricked.
“In case you can’t handle being near a warm body,” Minho warns.
“Please, I’d never bleed Felix dry.” Jisung scoffs, rolling his eyes. “He’s off-limits.”
Then, he tilts his head, eyes going wide and deceptively sweet. “Besides, there are rules in place y’know… jagi.”
Minho lets out a giggle and leans down to press a quick kiss to Jisung’s lips before pulling back. Jisung knows that he’s enjoying this a little too much.
Felix lingers for hours, chatting about how Chan finally made a move after years, teasing about how he finally understands Jisung’s obsession with vampiric sex. Jisung whines into his hands when Minho’s amused giggle spills through his mind, a reminder that he’s eavesdropping.
But it isn’t until Felix’s next visit that something actually sticks. He arrives buzzing, spilling how he overheard Chan telling Changbin that a sire’s blood is the most intoxicating thing a fledgling can ever taste—that some sires even feed their fledglings directly, if they’re strong enough to sustain it.
The thought lodges in Jisung’s brain like a thorn: Minhominhominho.
He doesn’t bring it up immediately, though. He waits and waits, and waits, until Minho has him bent over the kitchen counter one night, fucking him so deep Jisung swears his bones might turn into water. He waits until he’s pliant and sated, perched on that same counter with his shirt hanging open and cum dripping down his thighs.
Minho grimaces. “Bug, you’re making a mess. Let’s clean you up, hmm?”
Jisung only shrugs, legs locked around his waist as he drags him in for another kiss, hands tangled in hair that’s grown long enough to brush the back of Minho’s neck. He doesn’t want Minho to cut it.
And that’s when he whispers, against Minho’s mouth: “Would you ever let me try yours?”
Minho pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “…Try what?”
“Your blood.”
Minho stares blankly at him. “No.”
Jisung pouts. “Why not?”
“Because you’re not ready.” Minho’s tone is final. “You need to get a handle on everything first—feeding, restraint—there’s still so much you need to learn, that you don’t know.”
Jisung whines immediately, full-bodied and dramatic. “But hyung-ah—”
“No.”
And that’s that, except, it isn’t.
The next few weeks are hell, for both of them, though Minho pretends otherwise. Jisung can’t let it go. He needles him constantly, brings it up over breakfast, in the shower, mid-sex, halfway through movies. He pouts, clings, bats his lashes, insists he’s been responsible.
“I haven’t bitten anyone,” he argues one night, sprawled boneless across Minho’s chest. “Not even Felix. Not even Seungmin and Jeongin, when they came over yesterday.”
Minho doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Still no.”
The pout turns into a pitiful whimper as he tries to shuffle away. Minho hauls him back in without effort.
After that, Jisung tries different tactics. He sighs loudly every five minutes when Minho ignores him. It doesn’t work. Then, he tries to withhold sex—though that collapses quickly. He needs Minho daily, craves his cock like oxygen.
Then he tries to guilt trip him. “If you really loved me—”
“Don’t even start that,” Minho warns.
Then, he resorts to outright begging. “Please, hyung, please, I’ll do anything.” That doesn’t work either.
By week three, Jisung is sending him pictures: wide doe eyes, swollen pout, lips bitten red as if he’s wasting away without it. Minho still doesn’t budge.
And somehow, that makes him want it more.
By the fourth week, Minho finally cracks.
It happens when Jisung clambers into his lap on the couch, arms looped around his neck, body warm and needy. He nuzzles close, voice sweet as honey, the single word drawn out like a purr.
“Hyung. Just once. I’ll behave. I promise.”
For a moment Minho doesn’t answer, thumb drawing idle circles against the inside of his thigh, right where his shorts end. His expression is caught somewhere between resignation and fondness.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Jisung shakes his head, eyes glassy, his lips already parting.
A quiet sigh leaves Minho. “…Fine.”
Jisung freezes, wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t expected Minho to give in. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me regret it, bug.” Minho shifts him fully into his lap, steady hands grounding him by the hips. He turns his own wrist over, and brings it to his mouth. His fangs just barely graze the skin before they pierce through, all sharp and clean.
Blood beads up instantly, vivid red against beige skin, crimson against sand.
Jisung’s breath hitches and his body goes taut, nostrils flaring as the scent curls into him, rich and potent. His stomach knots, and his mouth waters—deep and primal.
“Go on, jagi,” Minho murmurs, coaxing, voice gone soft and airy. “Drink.”
Jisung’s lips seal over the wound, baby fangs peeking through, and the taste crashes over him. The warmth hits his tongue first; thick, heady, and heavy. Then the taste blooms, deep and metallic with an undertone that’s unmistakably Minho, something his body recognizes instantly. It’s dizzying, overwhelming, and addictive.
Minho’s hand slides to the back of his neck, steadying him when his knees go weak. “Slow,” he warns, though his own breath isn’t steady. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Jisung hums against his skin, muffled, but he doesn’t pull back. Every swallow sends a rush through him, sharp and electric, and the world narrows until there’s only the sound of Minho’s blood rushing in his ears.
“Jisung-ah.” Minho’s voice sharpens, but there’s a rawness bleeding through. He pries gently at Jisung’s jaw until his mouth slips free, lips flushed and slick, dragging wet and crimson. Blood stains his mouth, a smear of red at the corner, dripping down to his chin.
But Jisung doesn’t stop.
He latches again, all greedy, dragging more from Minho’s wrist until the skin around it runs slick. His throat works fast, swallowing and swallowing, each pull heavier, messier, needier.
A low sound rattles out of him as red stains his lips, and smears down his chin even more. His breathing hitches, body pressed flush to Minho’s chest. Without even realizing it, his hips grind down against Minho’s thigh; chasing high after high, as desperate for friction as he is for blood.
The taste coats his tongue.
Minho’s hand clamps down on his hip. “Jisung.” His voice is low and warning, but it wavers.
Jisung doesn’t hear it, not really, all he can focus on is the taste on his tongue, the heat flooding through him with every swallow. He’s latched onto Minho's wrist like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, body rocking helplessly against his thigh. Each grind drags a pathetic sound out of his throat, his cock leaking steadily.
“Look at you,” Minho murmurs, half possessiveness, half a groan. “My sweet little leech.” He lets him take one more greedy pull before yanking his wrist away.
Jisung whines immediately, lips smeared red, chin and jaw wet. “No, come back.”
“That’s enough,” Minho says sharply, but his grip stays iron-tight, holding Jisung steady even as he keeps rutting down in clumsy little jerks. “Any more and you won’t stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” Jisung gasps, breathless and whiny.
Minho tilts his chin up, forcing Jisung to meet his eyes. His thumb presses hard under his jaw, keeping him open and pliant. “Of course you don’t,” he croons, voice airy. “Just want everything, don’t you?”
Jisung’s only answer is a needy, choked sound as his hips stutter. He doesn’t know which. He wants both; he wants all of it.
Minho tilts his head, watching him work for it; Jisung rutting against his thighs like an animal. “Go on, then,” he says, low and deliberate. “Show me how badly you want it.”
And Jisung does. His fingers fist in Minho’s shirt, pulling tight as if he’ll fall apart if he lets go. His movements turn frantic, hips jerking against the firm muscle of Minho’s thigh, the pleasure mounting alongside the gnawing ache for more blood.
Blood still coats his tongue, the faint metallic tang only making him shake harder.
Minho watches him fall apart, every grind against his thigh more messy than the last. His shirt is bunched in Jisung’s fists, the fabric pulled tight enough to strain, but Minho doesn’t care: he’s too busy memorizing the way Jisung’s mouth parts around shaky breaths, how his lips and chin are coated in blood, and how his hips can’t stop chasing him.
“You’re mine like this,” Minho says slowly, the words curling hot against Jisung’s skin. “Messy, needy—so desperate you don’t even care what I do to you.”
Jisung whimpers at that, grinding harder, his whole body trembling with the effort.
“Bet you’d let me drain you dry right now,” Minho purrs. “Wouldn’t even fight me. Bet you’d beg for it too.”
“I would,” Jisung blurts, the admission spilling out without hesitation.
“Good boy.” The praise is molten, wrapping tight around him, making his body twitch in Minho’s lap. “That’s what you are, jagi. My perfect, greedy boy.”
Minho sinks his fangs into his own wrist again, blood welling instantly. He holds it up between them, crimson glinting. “Open.”
Jisung obeys instantly, lips parting.
Minho presses his wrist to Jisung’s swollen, red-stained lips, and Jisung latches on with a desperate, broken sound, sucking like he’s been starving this entire time. Minho groans low, the sound vibrating in his chest, and Jisung jerks helplessly against his thigh at the taste that explodes across his tongue.
“That’s it,” Minho breathes, threading a hand into his hair and holding him there. “Drink from me, baby. Just like that.”
Each swallow only winds him tighter, his hips rutting in frantic, clumsy pulses, shorts already damp with precum. The praise fuels him as much as the blood does, keeps him drinking, keeps him trembling. He can’t stop and he doesn’t want to. Every swallow has him shuddering, every grind dragging him closer to the edge.
“You’re mine like this,” Minho murmurs, voice rough with something between devotion and command. “No one else sees you fall apart. No one else hears these sounds. No one else gets your greedy little mouth.” His lips brush Jisung’s temple, words sinking straight into him. “Just me. Always me.”
Jisung moans against his wrist, his whole body shuddering. His eyes squeeze shut, lashes wet, tears clinging to the corners. Every swallow is too much—too good—and he grinds down harder.
His rhythm falters and turns sloppy. He claws at Minho’s shirt, his arm, the back of his neck, anything really, because he feels like he’ll shatter if he lets go.
He doesn’t know how he’s gone six years without this, without Minho’s blood burning down his throat, without the press of his thigh between Jisung’s legs. Every nerve is lit, every muscle tight with need, and it feels like Minho is inside him in every way that matters.
Nothing will ever compare. Nothing else will ever come close.
“That’s it, jagi,” Minho whispers against his ear. “Such a good boy. Drinking like you were made for it.”
God, maybe he was. Maybe that’s why nothing in the last six years had ever felt right; because Minho was holding this back. And for what? To protect him? To control him? He doesn’t care anymore. All he knows is that he wants more.
He groans against Minho’s wrist, the sound wet and aching, hips grinding down in frantic pulses.
Minho feels it too, the tremors in Jisung’s body, the stutter of his breath, the heat slicking across his thigh. “Look at you,” he murmurs, hand crushing Jisung’s hip.
Minho’s voice floats into the corners of his brain.
“So fucking perfect, my little fledgling. Mine to feed. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin.”
The words light Jisung up from the inside out, burning hotter than the blood itself. He whines against Minho’s skin, greedy, frantic, his hips rolling harder until his whole body locks. The sound he makes when it hits is muffled into Minho’s wrist—wet, needy, and undone. Heat floods between them, his thighs clamping down in desperate spasms as his cock pulses with cum.
Minho doesn’t release him right away. He holds him through it, forces him to drink even as his body shakes apart, until Jisung slumps boneless in his lap. Only then does he tear his wrist free, cradling Jisung’s head against his chest. He smears the mess of blood and spit across his jaw with a slow drag of his thumb.
“That’s my boy,” Minho whispers, steady and sure. The words sink like hooks into Jisung’s hazy mind, anchoring him to nothing but Minho’s voice, Minho’s heat, Minho’s possession. “You’re perfect. Taking everything that I give you, letting me make you feel good.”
And Jisung thinks, through the haze, that if Minho had given him this years ago, he never would’ve stood a chance. His breathing is shallow, mouth still parted like he’s waiting for another taste. His body trembles with aftershocks, pliant and ruined.
When Minho shifts even an inch, Jisung makes a broken, helpless sound, clawing weakly at his shirt with what little strength he has left. His fingers barely have the strength to curl, but they still manage to hold on.
“Shh,” Minho soothes, hand cupping the back of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jisung can’t form words, his tongue is too heavy, his thoughts thick and sluggish, but his body responds for him. He presses closer, burying his face in the warm curve of Minho’s neck like he could anchor his entire being there.
The faint copper tang of blood lingers in the air and his body thrums with the want for more.
☾
Jisung is sprawled in Minho’s lap, knees bracketing his thighs, arms folded tight across his chest like a sulking child. Minho’s got one hand under his jaw, tilting his head up, the other coaxing his mouth open with the pad of his thumb.
“Wider,” Minho murmurs, pressing his thumb against Jisung’s bottom lip.
Jisung groans. “It hurts.”
“I know,” Minho says, without a shred of apology. His eyes are sharp and focused, eyebrows furrowed as Jisung’s jaw loosens and the small baby fangs show themselves. “They’re coming in nicely, though.”
Jisung tries to shut his mouth, but Minho presses up under his chin, keeping it open. “Don’t pout. I need to see.”
Two fingers come forward to press against Jisung’s tongue.
“They’re sharp,” Jisung mutters, voice now muffled around Minho’s fingers. “Every time I close my mouth, they catch on my lip. And I can’t even kiss you because it feels weird!” Then he whines, all slurred because Minho’s fingers are now tracing his fangs. “And now I can’t even suck your—ow!”
Minho giggles. “Sensitive, hm?” He drags the pad of his thumb gently over one of the baby fangs, watching the way Jisung flinches. “It’ll fade once your body finishes adjusting—by the end of the month, maybe sooner. For now, you’ll just have to deal with it.”
Jisung glares down at him, but it’s watery and petulant. “You could at least pretend to care.”
“I do care,” Minho says easily, brushing his thumb across the corner of Jisung’s mouth to wipe away the faint smear of blood where his lip caught on a fang. His eyes glint, teasing. “I just think you’re unbearably cute when you’re all whiny and sore.”
Jisung groans, head tilting back a little, mouth hanging open. And Minho takes the chance, sliding his fingers between Jisung’s lips until the pads are resting heavy against his tongue once again. Jisung lets him, all pliant, opening wider when Minho’s other hand comes up to frame his face. Both thumbs press into his swollen gums where the baby fangs are breaking through.
The second Minho presses down, the pressure is instant relief, sharp ache dissolving into something dull and numb, nearly pleasurable. Jisung moans around his fingers, throat fluttering. Minho massages slow circles into the tender spots, occasionally sweeping over the edges of the teeth, cooing at him while doing so.
“There we go,” Minho murmurs, voice dipping soft and patronizing. “Good boy. My little vampire.”
The words shouldn’t make Jisung melt the way they do, but he can’t help it. He loves this, the attention, the comfort, the way Minho babies him without hesitation. His body turns heavy in Minho’s lap, every muscle slack as he lets himself be handled.
Drool spills past his lips and down his chin, but Minho doesn’t mind. If anything, he coos at him more, wiping at the mess with his thumb before pressing it right back against his gums.
By the time Minho finally pulls his hands away, Jisung’s flushed and sated, gums numb, chest rising and falling quickly. He sighs, content, but there’s a greedy flicker already crawling back in. He shifts, knees tightening around Minho’s thighs, arms winding around his neck until he’s clinging close.
He kisses him, all wet and messy, spit and the faint copper tang of blood. His sigh spills right into Minho’s mouth. “Can I have your blood again?” he whispers, needy.
Minho exhales against his mouth, hands gripping at his waist. “Jisung.”
“Please,” Jisung whines, fangs catching Minho’s bottom lip until a bead of blood wells up. He licks it away immediately, tongue greedy, whining again. “It helps with the pain…”
Minho’s resolve cracks at the sound of him whining, and when his eyes drop down to where Jisung’s mouth is hanging open, Jisung knows that he won. Minho lets out a low sound, tilts his head back, and groans. “Alright, bug.”
And Jisung doesn’t wait.
He knows Minho; knows that the next thing out of his mouth would’ve been Minho offering his wrist. But Jisung doesn’t want that, not again. Not when Minho’s throat is right there, bare and unmarked, the steady drum of blood pounding so loud it roars in Jisung’s ears.
He can see the flush that rides just beneath the skin, can imagine the heat of it flooding his mouth, the way it would slide down his throat, all sticky and warm.
His eyes zero in.
The second Minho says “alright,” Jisung lunges, mouth sealing on the juncture of his neck. There’s no hesitation; he doesn’t even care about the yelp that falls from Minho’s lips.
His teeth scrape over the tender line of his jugular before sinking in, clumsy like a fledgling can be, a little deeper than necessary. But the taste hits him so hard he groans into the skin. Minho hisses, head tipping back against the couch.
He doesn’t stop him.
Because Minho’s weak for him; unbearably, achingly moldable where Jisung is concerned. He lets him take and take, and lets Jisung’s whimpers vibrate against his throat as he drags mouthfuls from him like he’s starving.
He doesn’t push him to his wrist, nor does he pull away; just endures, jaw tight, hand in his hair, while Jisung sucks until his lips are wet and slick, until his jaw aches from how hard he’s clamped down, until the patch of skin beneath his mouth feels wrecked and overused, the kind of raw that would scar if Minho weren’t what he was.
But Jisung doesn’t care about scars. He doesn’t care about anything beyond the throat under his mouth and the way the blood slips hot and sticky-sweet over his tongue. It’s thick, intoxicating, the taste coats his lips and drips down his chin.
“Messy,” Minho mutters, breath coming uneven and airy. His voice is fond, close to indulgence, even if it frays at the edges. His hand stays pressed to the back of Jisung’s head, holding him there, fingers tightening like he wants him closer. “So fucking messy for me.”
The words tear through Jisung like lighter fluid catching flame. He keens against Minho’s throat, hips rolling down helplessly, cock dragging against the soft plane of his stomach. He’s buzzing, trembling, nearly delirious with it, because he can’t tell anymore where he ends and Minho begins.
His hand moves before his brain can catch up. His hand slides down, fumbling at the waistband of his sweats, shoving past fabric until his palm closes around himself. He jerks himself off clumsily, the movements too fast, too rough despite his cock leaking profusely, while Minho sits there and lets him take and take and take.
When he finally tears himself off Minho’s neck, it’s with a wet, choking gasp. His mouth is full, cheeks puffed as blood pools heavy on his tongue, spilling hot past the corner of his lips. His chin is slick, dripping, his whole face smeared red with blood.
And instead of swallowing, he crashes forward, sealing their mouths together in a kiss so filthy it borders on obscene. He feeds it back to Minho; presses their mouths tight until the blood slips past his own lips into his. It’s hot, sweet-sticky blood and spit, their tongues sliding through it, sharing it, trading it back and forth until Jisung doesn’t know if he’s giving or taking anymore.
It’s not affection; it’s possession, obsession, need, devotion, everything wrapped in one. He wants Minho to taste it too, wants him to feel the mess of it, to choke on it, to carry it with him the same way Jisung is burning alive with it.
“Yours,” Jisung pants when he finally drags back for air, voice raw, lips red and wet. He grinds harder, hips stuttering while his hand works faster over his cock, stroking himself with messy, uneven strokes. His teeth catch Minho’s bottom lip, suck until the skin splits, and a bead of blood wells up. He licks it greedily, whining as he swallows.
His cock twitches in his fist, leaking all over his knuckles, every drag of his tongue and taste of blood winding him tighter, making the tension coil so sharp it hurts. He whines into Minho’s mouth, messy and raw, and all he can think is how good it feels.
Six years.
Six years Minho kept this from him.
Six years he could’ve had this taste, this rush, the feeling of Minho under him, claimed and his. The thought almost breaks him, makes his eyes sting, leaves him reeling, all overwhelmed and dizzy on too much at once.
His hips snap forward helplessly, cock leaking, stomach tight with need, while his mouth still sings with the sweet, slick taste of Minho’s blood.
☾
From then on, it’s over for Jisung. He doesn’t even try to hide it—his obsession, the way his body thrums at the thought of Minho’s blood, is obvious. The moment Minho offers him a glass of animal blood, Jisung makes a face like it’s poison, pushing it away without a second thought.
“No,” he says flatly, curled on the couch with his knees tucked up, lips still faintly stained from the night before. “I’m not drinking that. It’s gross.”
“It’s not gross,” Minho replies, tired, holding the glass out anyway. “It’s what you need.”
“It’s not what I want.” Jisung glares at it like it’s an insult.
Minho exhales through his nose. He doesn’t argue further, doesn’t even scold him, though he should. Because the truth is, he understands too well. He knows how intoxicating it is, knows how quickly need can become an addiction that carves you hollow if you don’t feed it.
So he caves.
And it means he has to drink twice as much himself. He hunts more frequently, slipping out at night when Jisung is too dazed to notice, draining animals until his stomach twists with it. It keeps his strength up enough that he can bleed for Jisung without collapsing, lets him put Jisung’s needs first; every time and time again.
Jisung doesn’t see the strain, or rather, he doesn’t want to. He just sees Minho sitting there, and his body moves like it’s already made the choice for him—knees sliding over Minho’s thighs, mouth already open, fangs already aching.
Minho tilts his head and lets him. Because how could he not?
And Jisung feeds, drunk on it, sighing against his throat like he’s home. He never paces himself, never sips or takes just a taste—he gulps and latches, as though there’s no tomorrow, as though the idea of drinking from anything else is unthinkable.
He tells himself it’s because Minho is his sire, that a fledgling’s hunger will always burn for the one who made him. Of course Minho’s blood would taste the sweetest; thick and hot, sliding down his throat like molten honey.
But he knows it isn’t just that. It’s because it’s Minho.
It’s always been Minho.
When he finally pulls back, lips wet and jaw aching, he doesn’t even bother to thank him. He simply collapses against Minho’s chest, dizzy and reeling, still greedy enough to nip lazily at his collarbone. “Taste so much sweeter,” he mumbles, already slipping into half-sleep.
Minho sighs, hand gentle in his hair, carding through curly damp hair. His throat stings, his body feels heavier than stone, but he doesn’t say no.
He doesn’t tell Jisung it’s unsustainable. Because he knows, if Jisung begged, if Jisung cried, he’d still give.
And Jisung knows that as well.
So, he begs, in his own way, not with words, but with his mouth.
And Minho gives.
He becomes attached in the most literal sense, never straying far from Minho’s throat; his baby fangs sink into the same spot again and again until it’s less a wound and more of a claim.
He can’t go an hour without it. Sometimes he takes deep bites, greedy gulps that leave him trembling and glazed. Other times it’s nothing more than the scrape of fangs, the lazy drag of a tongue, a shallow nip before he hums in satisfaction.
Either way, Minho’s neck is never left alone, never given the chance to knit back together; not when Jisung refuses to let it.
One night, Minho teases that he reminds him of a werewolf, the way he keeps his teeth in the same spot like he’s laying a claim, like they’re mates. Jisung, petulant as ever, insists that they are, that he’s always thought so.
Minho only giggles, kisses him sweetly, and nips at his collarbone in retaliation before murmuring that they are, that he likes belonging to him, and has always wanted to.
Later, Minho admits that a sire’s body always adjusts to its fledgling. It reshapes itself to give without rejection, to provide what the younger one needs, letting the bond sink even deeper. The fact that his skin carries Jisung’s mark isn’t a failure of healing; it’s proof of the bond between them, a vow etched onto his body as surely as any other scar.
Jisung had nearly melted when he heard it. And now, every time he pulls back and sees the wreckage of Minho’s throat—raw crescents, ridges etched into flesh like permanent indentations—he feels that dizzy rush of satisfaction.
Those are his teeth, his mark, his claim, all etched onto Minho’s body like the scripture of the Holy Bible.
It makes him ache in ways he can’t name.
Sometimes he licks over the ruined flesh with reverence, almost tender, chest swelling at the knowledge that Minho will carry this forever. That even with his inhuman healing, Jisung will always remain on him.
He loves it, adores it really, the sight, the feel of it on his tongue, the proof that Minho wears him like a badge. And in the quiet, clinging to Minho’s lap, he thinks he’s never wanted anything more than this, to remain like this forever: imprinted, tethered, claimed, and claiming right back.
☾
Jisung is a wreck on top of him. Every movement is frantic, messy, sloppy, driven by nothing but hunger and need. His thighs shake as he bounces clumsily in Minho’s lap, and every time Minho’s cock drags deep, Jisung lets out a strangled sob, muffled where his mouth is sealed to Minho’s neck.
The noises spilling from his throat are desperate, half-sobs, half-moan, as his lips slip and drag, teeth sinking in again and again until blood is everywhere: slicking Minho’s chest, running down his jaw, smeared across Jisung’s face where he’s too greedy, too sloppy to swallow it all.
Blood stains everything.
It stains Jisung’s mouth, his cheeks, and his trembling hands. His head is a blur, thought scattered. He can barely think, but he knows why—
“I want you to tell me what to do, hyung-ah,” he said, lips grazing Minho’s skin, teasing bites marking his neck.
Minho hummed low, hands clamping hard around Jisung’s hips as he grinds up against his thigh. “What do you mean, princess?”
The word made Jisung glow—eyes flashing red for the briefest instant before he reined it back in.
But it was too late, Minho had already seen.
A smirk curled his lips, his grip tightening on Jisung’s waist, rough enough to bruise; if Jisung were still human. But he wasn’t, not anymore.
“Want you to command me,” Jisung mumbled, blinking up at him, all wide-eyed sweetness. “Tell me what to do. Wouldn’t it be fun? To have me that way? All yours. You could do anything you want… and I’d have to obey.”
Minho studied him, brow furrowed, cock thickening against his thigh. His voice slid into Jisung’s head: Are you sure?
“Yes,” Jisung whispered.
And now here he is—straddling Minho in their bed, body trembling, every motion dictated by his hyung’s voice.
“Faster,” Minho says, and Jisung obeys instantly, thighs quivering as he drives himself down on Minho’s cock. His head falls back, a broken cry spilling from his throat, raw and wet with blood, before he buries his face in Minho’s neck again.
Minho’s hands lock firm on his waist, guiding him, forcing him to take it deeper and harder.
“Good boy,” Minho murmurs, and the words drag a shiver straight down Jisung’s spine. His eyes flare red, flickering uncontrollably now, and his fangs catch on his swollen lower lip as his pace stutters, pleasure too much to hold.
“Hyung,” Jisung whines against his skin, muffled and wrecked. His fangs pierce again, and he gasps like it hurts and pleases him all at once. “Don’t make me stop, please, I can’t, I need it, I need you.” The words collapse into whimpers, into trembling sobs when Minho thrusts up hard, burying himself to the hilt.
A groan rumbles out of Minho’s chest, low and rough, his fingers digging into Jisung’s waist until they bruise. “Messy little thing,” he mutters, not scolding, truly. He tips his head back, baring his throat, skin torn and slick, and his cock twitches inside Jisung at every greedy swallow, every helpless, broken sound he makes.
Minho shushes him roughly, hand tangling in his hair and tugging him back just enough to see his face; blood smeared, lips swollen, and eyes hazy and wet. “Mine,” he mumbles, voice shaking with it, before dragging Jisung back down, chest to chest, until their bodies slide wetly together, until his mouth seals on Minho’s neck again, whining and drinking like he can’t breathe without it.
“You’re mine,” Jisung slurs into his throat, voice cracked and drunk on blood and cock. He bites again, harder, and Minho hisses through clenched teeth, thrusting up to meet him.
“Always,” Minho replies, dragging him down tighter, their chests sliding slick together, until there’s nothing left between them.
“Hyung, nnggghhh, Minho, I can’t, fuck, I can’t stop,” Jisung whines, voice muffled, slurred with blood. His hips twitch forward on instinct, grinding down hard. He moans when he feels Minho’s cock press so deep that it bulges against his belly. He presses a shaky hand there, just below his navel, and cries out at the way it rises under his palm. “You're so deep, daddy, I can feel you.”
Minho groans at the word, sharp and guttural, and drags Jisung down harder. “Look so pretty taking my cock baby, always so pretty.” His voice is rough, shaking with restraint, his hands bruising Jisung’s waist as he pounds up into him.
Jisung sobs, clinging tighter, body trembling apart. “Please, nggghhh, daddy, please, need your blood, your cock.” He bites down harder, fangs sinking in deep enough to make Minho grunt. His throat works as he swallows greedily, and every gulp has him clenching tighter around Minho, shuddering hard.
His nails scrape down Minho’s shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped dents.
“Can have everything you want, jagi,” Minho says, hand spanning his waist, forcing him down harder. He presses his palm over the bulge in Jisung’s belly, grinding his cock against it until Jisung screams, forcing him to feel it. “Look at that, look at how full you are, so stuffed with me… that’s me baby, all the way inside. You feel that?”
Jisung’s answering whimper is so broken, so sweet; Jisung knows Minho almost loses it right then.
“Mmmhh, all for you, everything is for you,” and he’s babbling now, voice high and wrecked, hips rolling weakly as he chokes on blood and tears and moans all at once.
“Shh,” Minho soothes, but his thrusts are rough, his cock hammering deep until the bulge in Jisung’s belly swells every time he bottoms out. “I’ve got you. You can take it, you were made for me.”
The words send Jisung over the edge, his body locking up tight as he cries out, mouth smearing more blood across Minho’s jaw in the process. His release is sudden, shattering, painting both their stomachs as he trembles through it, sobbing into Minho’s skin. Even then, his lips cling to the wound, drinking weakly, helplessly like he can’t exist without it.
Minho holds him steady, fucking him through every wave of it, growling low as his own control frays. His hand fists in Jisung’s hair, pulling his head back just enough to see his face—blood-stained, swollen-lipped, eyes glazed and wet, whispering broken little pleas of, “Daddy, please don’t stop, give me your cum, please, please, please.”
And Minho doesn’t. He never could deny Jisung. He pounds up into him until he cums, hot and heavy and deep, making Jisung sob again at the overwhelming fullness.
He spills inside, cock twitching, Jisung’s belly taut and bulging. Jisung clings tighter, whispering brokenly through his tears before finally collapsing against him, lips still dragging weakly over the torn mess of Minho’s neck.
For a long moment, Minho only holds him, panting, trying to steady himself. Then his voice rumbles out, low and frayed, “Fuck, I think you drank me dry.” His palm presses to Jisung’s back. “If I don’t drink some blood soon—”
Jisung stirs, sliding his hands down Minho’s chest. His head lifts, dazed and hazy, pupils blown wide and red. His lips shine with Minho’s blood as he whispers, “Don’t drink that right now.”
Then, he tilts his head back, baring his throat. “Drink from me. Please, hyung-ah… drink from me.”
The sound Minho makes in response is guttural, hunger ripping through him sharp and brutal. “Jisung-ah, no.” The words crack out like a whip. “Not from you, love.”
But Jisung only shakes his head, desperate tears now clinging to his lashes. “Why not? I’m yours.” He leans back further, his throat stretched and unmarked, the skin flushed. “I want your mark. I want to show you I can take care of you, too.” His voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please, hyung-ah, drink from me.”
Minho doesn’t tell him no.
Instead, he shudders as he moves forward, his nostrils flaring as he noses along the frantic thrum of blood beneath Jisung’s skin. His lips drag slowly over the tender curve of his throat, hovering, fangs aching.
Jisung gulps, and Minho’s eyes zero in on his throat.
“Please, please,” Jisung begs again, tilting his head further, offering everything he has.
And Minho breaks. His fangs sink in deep, sharp and sure, and the pull is immediate.
Jisung keens, grinding down helplessly, his cock caught slick between their stomachs, while Minho drinks from him for the very first time, each swallow thick and messy, wringing moans out of them both.
All night, Jisung refuses to let him stop.
Each time Minho tries to pull back, Jisung claws at him, dragging him closer, sobbing, pressing his mouth back to the wound, forcing him to drink, to lick, to take more —until the skin is swollen and raw, until the taste is burnt onto Minho’s tongue.
By morning, Jisung’s neck is just as ruined as Minho’s; twin marks carved deep, impossible to heal.
A brand for a brand.
And Jisung, dazed and glassy-eyed, smiles through the sting.