Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jisung is used to waking up in the morning— or what passes as morning for him— feeling like shit, especially after a night out partying with Chan and Changbin and whoever else they manage to drag along.

The level of terrible that he feels usually depends on whatever he’d decided to drink (or otherwise ingest) while he was out. The places they go, the places Chan and Jeongin and Felix can get them into, never lack for options in terms of drinks and drugs and all manner of mood-altering supernatural substances, legal or otherwise. He’s tried a lot of things, never shying away from a new experience— as long as his friends are there to keep an eye on him, why not have some fun? He may be human, but he’s young and (mostly) healthy and he enjoys having a good time.

So, yeah, Jisung has had his fair share of hangovers, but nothing’s ever felt quite like this.

He doesn’t feel bad, per se, more— weird.

He feels really fucking weird.

Okay— parts of him feel bad.

He wakes up feeling cold, though that can be explained away by the fact that he’s in his boxers and his blankets are tangled around his feet, kicked off some time in the night. He doesn’t have a headache that he can feel, but for some reason he feels an intense sense of gratitude to his past self for making sure his blackout curtains were all closed before he passed out.

Despite his lack of headache— or any normal hangover symptoms, he realizes after a moment of assessment— his brain feels slow, sluggish, like he’s struggling to get it to work. He can hardly focus on the way his body feels beyond the thought of how hungry he is. His hunger is the only thing that feels clear, bright and loud and at the forefront of his mind, everything else fading into the background, hazy and blurry and less important.

Beyond the fact that he’s fucking starving, his mouth aches. He doesn’t know what he did, but his teeth hurt, his gums burn, his jaw feels tight and tender. He can’t think of any drug he’s ever done that would cause this kind of mouth pain, but he doesn’t remember much of the previous night. Maybe they’d tried something new.

He flips over in bed, tossing and turning and trying to get comfortable, but it seems to be a lost cause. His mouth throbs, keeping him from enjoying the way the rest of his body feels— and it feels great, when he manages to focus on it, no aches or pains anywhere south of his neck, and he actually feels well rested, feels like he wouldn’t mind going to the gym if Chan and Changbin showed up to drag him there, feels like he could run ten miles without breaking a sweat.

How good he feels is entirely overshadowed by his very persistent hunger, though.

He’s going to have to get out of bed at some point and find something to eat, sooner rather than later.

Something smells good, he realizes after another moment of rolling around on the disheveled mess of his mattress, kicking his blankets the rest of the way off. Maybe Minho is cooking something. Jisung daydreams idly for a moment, thinking about eating a big, greasy, carby meal cooked by his roommate and then kissing said roommate square on the mouth. At least the food will be real, probably.

He finally climbs out of bed and stumbles into his bathroom, nearly tripping over the pile of his clothes from the night before, his platform boots tossed haphazardly on the ground.

He doesn’t want to turn the light on, just in case there’s a headache waiting to creep up on him, but the watery, weak afternoon light coming in through the frosted glass of the tiny window over his shower is enough light to see by.

Jisung turns the water on in the sink, scrubs wet hands over his face in a half-hearted attempt at trying to make himself feel slightly more human.

He gropes for a towel and grabs one off of the shower door, rubbing it over his skin until he’s passably dry. He expects to look like shit when he looks in the mirror, imagines deep, dark bags under his eyes. Maybe he just won’t look. It’s not like Minho’s not used to him looking like ass first thing in the morning.

He slings the towel back over the shower door and reaches for his toothbrush instead, trying to stretch his jaw out while he smears toothpaste onto the bristles.

Looking into the mirror is second nature as he lifts his toothbrush to his mouth; he barely manages not to scream when he sees himself, his toothbrush falling out of his hand and into the sink with the dull clatter of plastic against porcelain.

He has— he has fangs.

Jisung blinks at his reflection, over and over, like something will change.

Nothing does. There are fangs in his mouth, honest-to-god fangs.

Was the rave they went to some kind of costume party? Did he glue fake fangs on and somehow forget about them?

He lifts a shaking hand and pushes his upper lip out of the way with his fingers, and then presses against his left canine. It’s longer than it used to be, and sharp as hell. He knows that if he put the right amount of pressure against his fingertip, it would pierce right through his skin without any resistance. The one on the right matches it. He prods at his gums, hissing in pain— they’re tender, a little bit swollen. It certainly feels like they’re actually his teeth.

He’s staring at his reflection, running the tip of his tongue along the line of his top teeth, and then he realizes something else. His reflection is sharp despite the lack of light in the room, despite the fact that he’s not wearing his glasses. He can see himself crystal-clear, every feature in sharp relief: the smudged mess of his leftover eyeliner from the night before, the little mole on his cheek, every dark strand of hair on his head sticking up in every direction.

He also doesn’t remember his eyes being red before, but they are now— a dark blood-red around the edge of his iris, fading into a lighter, almost golden color around his pupil.

What the fuck.

It’s not like he doesn’t know vampires exist— not like he doesn’t know a few personally. Jeongin’s never scared him, no matter how many times he’s seen him drinking the blood of any of his very willing partners when they’re out partying.

Hell, he and Changbin are the only humans in their group of friends. His own best friend and roommate is a werecat, for fuck’s sake.

It’s just… a lot to take in. There’s the faintest scar where his neck meets his shoulder, two spots of silvery, raised skin. His eyes skitter away from the bite every time he tries to look at it. He wonders who turned him— he wonders if he asked to be turned, if he was drunk enough to think it was a good idea, to beg for it.

The night comes back to him in blurry fragments: a dark warehouse, too many bodies, Felix and Hyunjin flirting with a group of guys who were clearly vampires. Dancing with someone, kissing someone, teeth dragging along the column of his throat in the darkness. Strong hands on his waist while his own fingers tangled in someone else’s hair. Baring his neck for more.

He’d always been a little bit too adventurous for his own good. This isn’t the first time it’s gotten him more than he bargained for.

He rubs his hands over his face, wondering if he’ll be back to normal when he looks in the mirror again. No such luck. His eyes are still red, his canines still pointed.

At least he won’t have to pay for that lasik eye surgery he’s been saving up for.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up in his throat and spills out of his mouth before he can help it.

The deep, gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach and the pain in his jaws hits him again, and his laughter peters out. His anxiety about dealing with his new state of existence is going to have to wait. If he doesn’t feed soon, he’s going to have bigger problems to deal with.

He doesn’t remember how he got home, and he’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t have stopped off at the 7-11 for a couple of bags of blood on his way. He should probably just be happy that he made it home in one piece instead of being drained entirely or left in some back alley while he was turning. He knows enough about vampires to know it’s a bad idea for him to go out while it’s still daylight. He’s seen Jeongin eat normal, non-blood food before, but he knows with certainty that pancakes aren’t going to satiate him. He’s so, so fucked.

Maybe Minho will know what to do.

He’s supernatural, and he has been his whole life. Maybe he’ll be able to help. Maybe if Jisung asks him very, very nicely, he’ll run to the store and get Jisung some blood himself. He’d complain about it the whole time, but Jisung knows he would do it.

It’ll be fine. It’s going to be fine.

It has to be fine.

Jisung pushes down his rising panic and shuffles back into his bedroom. There’s a laundry basket full of clean clothes— unsorted, not folded, definitely all wrinkled by now— on his desk chair, and he tugs a tee shirt out of it at random, pulling it on over his boxers.

When he opens the bedroom door, the scent he’d smelled earlier hits him again, and pain lances through him, hitting him square in the gut hard enough that he almost doubles over. Whatever Minho is cooking smells savory and rich and perfect. Jisung’s mouth waters; he’s never smelled anything better. He doesn’t know what it is, but he needs to eat it, and he needs to eat it now.

He stumbles down the hallway and into their living room.

Minho is on the couch, curled up on his side, watching something on tv. Jisung can just barely see the top of his tawny head over the back of the couch.

There’s no food on the coffee table that Jisung can see, and he can see into the kitchen from where he’s standing; there’s nothing cooking on the stove, no plates or bowls on the counter. Even the coffee pot is off and empty.

That can’t be right. Something smells delicious.

Minho stretches, shifting around on the couch, and the yawning, endless void inside of Jisung opens wide, hunger gripping him like nothing he’s ever known.

Jisung curls his hands into fists and shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. It’s getting harder to think straight, his brain hazing over. He shuffles forward silently, closer to the back of the sofa.

The more of Minho he can see over the top of cushions, the louder the hunger inside of him howls, claws raking along the inside of his stomach, his ribs, his throat. His teeth throb.

Minho yawns, stretching again, and Jisung wonders if he’s purring— it wouldn’t be unheard of, even when he’s not shifted. It’s very cute, actually. There’s not a lot better than a leopard cat lying in your lap and purring, kneading biscuits into your thigh. It’s not like Jisung can tell Minho how much he likes it, though, because Minho detests being thought of as cute, as anything less than a predator, a killer, never mind the fact that he’s also always the one to correct anyone who mistakenly calls him a leopard and not a leopard cat. He actually made a PowerPoint presentation about the differences once, just because Seungmin kept calling him a leopard on purpose to piss him off.

He’s not the only predator who lives in their apartment anymore.

Jisung doesn’t realize he’s just standing there, staring, his mouth open as he fights with the realization that the thing that smells delicious is Minho’s blood. There’s canned laughter on the tv, but it’s like radio static, white noise in the background of Jisung’s struggle.

Minho shifts around on the couch, the scent of his blood growing stronger with the movement, and then he rolls over onto his back and notices Jisung standing over him. His face screws up, and he scrambles, trying to keep himself from falling off of the couch in surprise. It would be funny if Jisung wasn’t having an internal battle about wanting to eat him. Jisung’s never been able to sneak up on Minho, not in all the years they’ve known each other. Shapeshifters have fantastic senses, Minho’s hearing and scenting abilities outstripping Jisung’s ability to be quiet on even his least clumsy days. Apparently being a vampire overrides all of that. Jisung’s not sure if he’s amused by this new discovery about himself or just creeped out.

“What the fuck, Jisung, how did you—”

Minho trails off, eyes widening as he pushes himself up until he’s kneeling on the couch, body turned towards Jisung. His eyes move over Jisung’s face, surely taking in his eyes, his fangs, the way he’s just standing frozen in place like a fucking idiot with his mouth hanging open.

“Jisung?”

Jisung swallows, lifts a hand to scrub at the back of his neck. He has to swallow again before he can open his mouth to speak, too much saliva pooling under his tongue from just how good Minho smells. “Uh… good morning?”

“Good morn— Han Jisung, what the fuck happened to you?”

“I think I’m a vampire.” Jisung’s brain clearly isn’t functioning through the haze of his hunger. He can’t tell if Minho is amused or exasperated.

“You think? What happened, where the fuck did Chan take you? Fucking werewolves, always doing stupid shit, I’m going to kill him. God, Jisung, come here—”

Jisung shuffles forward obediently so that Minho can reach him over the back of the couch. He runs his fingers through Jisung’s hair, trying to tame it, and then cups Jisung’s face in both hands, turning him back and forth to study him. Jisung struggles to breathe through his mouth; the smell of Minho so close is excruciating. His hands are warm, his skin thin enough that Jisung can hear his pulse through it, his blood calling to Jisung like some kind of sick siren song.

It must be obvious that he’s in pain. Concern is written clear across Minho’s features. “It’s okay, Jisungie, really, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Jisung nods, but it feels like his internal organs are in some kind of torture device, an iron fist closing around his gut and squeezing. A pained moan leaks out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“What’s wrong?”

Jisung swallows another mouthful of saliva, tries to find a way to put it into words. He manages one.

“Hungry.”

Minho blinks, caught off guard. “Oh.” And then, inexplicably— “Bite me.”

Jisung gapes. He has to be hallucinating. Maybe this is all a very vivid dream, and he’ll wake up very human and very hungover in just a minute. There’s no way that—

“Jisung, did you hear me? Just bite me, it’s fine.”

Minho can’t mean that. Sure, shifters heal super fast, and Jisung drinking from him probably won’t hurt him, but he can’t just be offering himself up on a silver platter. It’s like some kind of terrible joke, revenge for every filthy thought Jisung has had about his best friend over the years. And yeah, Minho is selfless, and giving, and always takes care of everyone they know, especially Jisung, but this— offering to be a living blood bag, like some kind of comically oversized juice box— it’s too much. There’s no way.

“Minho… you can’t— this is stupid, I’ll just call Jeongin and get him to bring me some—”

“Some what, Jisung? Some blood?” Minho’s look of concern turns into something else, his eyes narrowing, his mouth curling up into a smirk. “I can tell how badly you want my blood, Jisungie. I don’t think a blood bag would help.”

Jisung knows that if he had a pulse, it would be racing. Minho’s hands tighten on his face, his fingertips pressing into Jisung’s cheeks before he drops one, sliding the other to the nape of Jisung’s neck to tug him closer. Jisung bumps into the back of the couch and gasps, because he’s hard. He’s so hard it hurts, and Minho’s so fucking pretty, and Jisung is losing his very, very tenuous grasp on what is a good idea and what isn’t. What chance does the desire to not fuck up years of friendship have when pitted against the perfect storm brewing, against Jisung’s hunger and Minho’s stupid, perfect smile, against tension Jisung knows is too thick to cut through with even the sharpest of knives?

Minho lifts his free hand and holds his wrist in front of Jisung’s mouth, so close Jisung can almost feel the thrum of the blood under Minho’s skin.

“Come on, Jisung. I can smell it on you.”

Jisung doesn’t even have the spare brainpower to be ashamed. He’s leaking in his boxers, just from this, from Minho’s proximity, from even the concept that Minho would willingly let Jisung drink his blood.

“Min—”

Minho cuts Jisung off, pressing his wrist against Jisung’s open mouth. Jisung moans, his hips jerking against the back of the couch automatically, the monster inside of him clawing its way to the surface.

“Fuck,” Minho murmurs, “your eyes—”

Whatever he was going to say about Jisung’s eyes is lost when Jisung finally gives in, grabbing Minho by the wrist with both hands, opening his mouth wider and sinking his teeth into Minho’s flesh.

Minho’s mouth parts on a silent shout, and it’s the last thing Jisung sees before his eyes shut of their own accord.

Nothing has ever felt better than this. Nothing.

Pleasure burns through Jisung, white-hot, so intense it blots everything else out like an eclipse. Minho’s blood tastes better than any food has ever tasted, rich and heady, savory and sharply metallic and a little bit sweet in an earthy way. He tastes like warmth, like life— like Minho. Jisung could drink forever and never get enough. He would do anything for the taste, for the feeling, would drag himself to the end of the earth for it.

He manages to open his eyes, his mouth still latched onto Minho’s arm. Minho is looking at him like he’s the meal, his pink mouth slack, his face flushed. Jisung sucks a little bit harder, and Minho makes a sound like a wounded animal, high and keening.

Jisung falls apart.

He pulls away from Minho’s wrist in shock, blood smeared across Minho’s skin, blood trailing hot and wet down Jisung’s chin. He hadn’t realized how close he was, how good feeding from Minho had made him feel, but he can’t deny the reality that he just came in his pants like a teenager, rutting against the back of the couch, his best friend’s wrist caught in his jaws.

“Fuck.” He has to clear his throat, thick as it is with blood. Minho’s blood. “Fuck.”

Minho blinks at him, looks at his wrist where it’s still held in Jisung’s grip. His eyes linger on Jisung’s mouth for a long moment before he manages to look him in the eye again. “Fuck. Did you just—”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up, Minho, don’t even say it.”

Minho smiles, a smirk Jisung is familiar with from the years of teasing, but there’s something else to it now that he’s only glimpsed a handful of times, something simmering behind his eyes. “I taste that good?”

And two can play at that game, can’t they? Jisung’s not about to be the only one getting hassled, because even if Minho isn’t quite so far gone as Jisung, Jisung can still tell just how turned on he is, can see it in the flush of his skin and the way his eyes have gone dark and a little bit glassy.

“Yeah,” he says, after a long moment, lowering his face so that his breath skims over Minho’s wrist. “You do.”

Minho shivers, and Jisung’s the one grinning now, at least until he opens his mouth and laps at the blood on Minho’s skin instead, tongue sliding over the imprint of his teeth. Minho’s eyes flutter shut, and Jisung does it again, licks at his skin with a little bit more force, and Minho’s fingers dig into the nape of Jisung’s neck, blunt nails biting into his skin.

Jisung has never wanted Minho more.

“Did it feel good?”

Minho blinks his eyes open, swallowing thickly as he looks at Jisung. “What?”

Jisung drags his fangs lightly over the skin of Minho’s wrist, and Minho shudders. Jisung drops his arm with a smug little smile. “Did it feel good, Minho?”

“Yes,” Minho huffs, scowling like the admission pains him. He pulls his hand away from Jisung’s neck, and Jisung misses the touch immediately. “Yeah, it felt good. It hurt, but it was…”

He trails off almost dreamily, lifting his wrist up to look at it, tilting it back and forth between them. The bite is already healed over, though faint pink marks remain in the shape of Jisung’s teeth. Minho runs a fingertip over them curiously, and Jisung realizes with a start that he’s hard again. Apparently refractory periods can get added to the list of things he no longer needs to worry about, right after lasik eye surgery.

“It felt good,” he echoes after a moment, looking away from his wrist and back to Jisung’s face.

Jisung has a single moment of panic, caught in his own head now that the hunger has abated. What if they’ve just fucked up their friendship? They were never just roommates, and an awkward living situation is the least of Jisung’s worries— he can’t lose Minho.

Of course, Minho knows he’s panicking, because he knows what’s going on in Jisung’s head better than even Jisung does sometimes.

“Jisungie.”

Jisung takes a deep breath, in and then out, though— does he still need to breathe? That thought sets off a fresh wave of panic, and Minho grabs him by both sides of the face just like he had earlier. Jisung waits for whatever bit of brilliance Minho is going to impart upon him just like he always does, but it never comes.

Because Minho kisses him.

Minho is kissing him.

Jisung turned into a vampire overnight, and somehow this is still the most unbelievable thing to have happened to him in the last twelve hours.

He knows there’s still blood on his lips, in his mouth, but that doesn’t seem to deter Minho at all. Neither does the way that Jisung still hasn’t managed to react or kiss him back, utterly shocked into stillness. It’s not until Minho hesitates, going to pull away before Jisung finally lurches forward, wrapping his arms around Minho’s waist and tugging him as close as the back of the couch will allow, kissing him back almost frantically.

Jisung opens his mouth, and Minho moans into the kiss, tongue darting out to lick over Jisung’s bottom lip, to brush over the tips of Jisung’s fangs.

This isn’t exactly how Jisung had always imagined their first kiss would go— none of today is anything Jisung had ever conceived of, even in his wildest dreams— but he has to admit that it’s pretty much perfect. Kissing Minho would have been perfect no matter what.

Minho pulls back eventually, breathless and blinking, his cheeks pink to match his ears. There’s a smudge of bright red blood at the corner of his mouth, and something inside of Jisung growls with pleasure seeing it there.

He lifts one hand to Minho’s face, rubbing at the blood with his thumb. Minho catches him by the wrist before he can take it away, and sucks Jisung’s thumb into his own mouth. Jisung chokes down a moan before it can crawl out of his body.

He doesn’t mean to tackle Minho over the back of the couch and onto the cushions, but they end up there anyway, tangled together, kissing again. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues and the taste of copper, and Minho whines high in the back of his throat when Jisung grinds down against him.

Minho flips them over before Jisung can realize what’s happening, and Jisung thinks of all of the times he’s gotten a little bit weak in the knees from just how strong Minho is in mundane, everyday situations. It’s doubly effective like this, the smallest show of the shifter’s strength being used to pin Jisung down making him almost lightheaded with need.

He can’t wait to find out if he’s just as strong as Minho now, if he can make Minho feel just as flustered when Jisung’s the one throwing him around.

That’ll have to wait, though, for a time when Minho isn’t busy sliding down the length of Jisung’s body to settle on his stomach between Jisung’s thighs.

Minho smiles up at him like it’s not at all out-of-the-ordinary for him to have his pretty pink mouth an inch away from Jisung’s very hard dick.

He runs one finger very lightly over the line of Jisung’s cock through the fabric of his boxers. Even though the cotton is dark, it’s easy to see the mess Jisung made earlier, and Minho rubs circles into the head of Jisung’s cock through the sticky fabric, grin widening when Jisung drops his head back against the arm of the couch, groaning half in shame and half in pleasure.

Small fingers curl over the waistband of his boxers after a moment, and Jisung lifts his head back up. Minho is waiting for him, and there’s hesitancy in his eyes, but there’s determination there, too, and so much heated wanting that it hits Jisung like a punch to the gut. Minho wants this as much as Jisung does. Minho wants him.

Fondness swells in him, and he lifts a hand to brush Minho’s hair off of his forehead. Minho leans into the touch, nuzzling against Jisung’s hand the way he always does when he’s feeling particularly open to affection. It’s so sweet, almost like a—

“Kitten.” Jisung doesn’t mean to say it out loud, and certainly not in such a saccharine, fond tone of voice, but it comes out unbidden, and he knows that if he was still alive, he’d be blushing. He’s had the thought hundreds of times, that Minho is just a sweet little housecat underneath all of his predator posturing, but he’s always known better than to say it. Apparently an impending blowjob wipes out his brain-to-mouth filter. Good to know.

Minho hisses, actually hisses, fingers digging into Jisung’s thighs. “I will bite you, Han Jisung.”

Minho’s apparent anger does nothing to hide his flush or the way Jisung can hear his heartbeat speeding up, rabbit-quick. He liked it, Jisung realizes, and he can’t keep the greasy, smug smile off of his face. He combs his fingers through Minho’s hair again, running them over his scalp and then down along the warm pink shell of Minho’s ear, rubbing at his skin.

He knows he’s pushing his luck, but he can’t help it. “Will you? Or are you going to start purring for me, kitty?”

Minho’s eyes narrow, and then he leans down and bites the inside of one of Jisung’s thighs. Hard. His teeth aren’t sharp, not unshifted, not like Jisung’s, but it still hurts like hell.

Jisung yelps, and tugs at Minho’s hair until he lets go of Jisung’s flesh. Minho smiles sweetly at him, his fingers still tucked into the waistband of Jisung’s boxers. Jisung wonders idly if he can still bruise, what with the whole… not being alive thing.

“Are you done now?” Minho’s voice is sugary-sweet, though the curl of his lip is anything but. “Or would you like to keep goading the man who’s about to have your dick in his mouth?”

Half of Jisung wants to test Minho’s limits, but the other half would really prefer not to. “Sorry.”

Minho leans in, nudges his nose along the front of Jisung’s boxers as Jisung fights not to whimper. “Apology accepted.”

Jisung can’t respond, every thought wiped clean from his brain when Minho tugs his boxers down to his thighs and doesn’t waste a second, flattening his tongue and licking along the length of Jisung’s cock. He hums happily to himself as he cleans up the mess Jisung made, tongue hot and wet on Jisung’s skin, and Jisung isn’t sure if vampires have souls, but it feels like his is leaving his body.

Once Minho is apparently satisfied with what he’s accomplished, he stops his licking to press a line of soft kisses from one of Jisung’s hip bones to the other. He nips at Jisung’s skin, much gentler than when he’d bitten Jisung’s thigh, and while Jisung is distracted by the swarm of bats suddenly taking flight in his stomach, Minho wraps one small hand around the base of his cock and opens his mouth wide, sinking right down on Jisung like he’s been waiting to suck Jisung’s dick for years.

Maybe he has.

(That thought doesn’t calm down the fluttering of wings inside of Jisung’s chest cavity, though the wet heat of Minho’s mouth is a pretty good distraction.)

It only takes a moment of Minho’s bobbing and sucking before they’re both moaning, Jisung’s hand tangled tighter in Minho’s hair, gripping just firmly enough to guide him up and down. Minho presses further, far enough that Jisung can feel Minho swallowing around the head of his cock, and he can’t help the way his hips kick. Minho makes a pleased sound, and the vibrations have Jisung writhing on the couch.

Minho pulls off of Jisung’s cock with an obscene sound, stopping to breathe. He rests a cheek on one of Jisung’s thighs, making little noises, breathy gasps, and it takes Jisung a moment to realize that Minho’s hips are moving, seeking friction against the couch cushions. It’s not until Minho looks up at Jisung with eyes so dark they’re almost black that he remembers something Jeongin had told him once. He was so sure Jeongin had been fucking with him— there was no way vampire cum had aphrodisiac properties, that had to be bullshit, just another supernatural joke at the silly human’s expense— but looking at Minho now, it’s pretty clear it was true. Jisung knows that Minho wants him, but there’s desperation on his face that wasn’t there before, something that goes beyond want and is edging closer to need.

“Jisungie,” he moans, and Jisung knows he feels it, feels whatever is happening to his body because of Jisung. He lets go of Jisung’s cock and crawls along the length of his body until he’s straddling Jisung’s hips, mouth open so that he can pant, eyes flashing amber like they do when he shifts.

Jisung lets Minho settle on top of him, both of them moaning openly when Minho grinds down, only the soft fabric of his joggers separating them, Jisung’s hands shaky when he grabs at Minho’s hips.

Minho grinds down again, hands fisting in the front of Jisung’s shirt as he starts up a rhythm. “I forgot that— ah, shit— fucking bloodsuckers.”

“Hey—”

Jisung’s protest dies out when Minho rolls his hips harder. “You and your stupid vampire fangs and your stupid vampire cum and— fuck, Jisung, please—”

He doesn’t have to ask what Minho is begging for. “It’s okay,” he manages, the words only a little strangled with the way Minho is moving on top of him, “I’ve got you, just…”

It takes almost no effort to sit up and hoist Minho into his arms, no effort to climb off of the couch and lift Minho up like he weighs nothing.

“Oh my god,” Minho moans, and Jisung tries not to be smug, he really does, but it’s hard.

Minho wraps his legs around Jisung’s waist and plasters their mouths together, hands scrabbling at Jisung’s shoulders. Jisung kicks his boxers the rest of the way off, intending to move to one of their rooms— either will suffice, so long as there’s lube and a flat surface they’ll fit on— but it’s hard to focus on walking when Minho’s attached to his mouth, when Minho keeps rolling his hips and making these little whiny noises in the back of his throat. It’s hard to focus when Minho tastes like Jisung and like his own blood, a combination that’s making Jisung a little bit dizzy.

“Minho,” Jisung tries, but it comes out muffled with the way Minho is sucking on Jisung’s bottom lip. He pulls back far enough to detach their mouths, intending to try again, but Minho pouts and tries to tug him closer, nails digging into Jisung’s shoulders through his shirt.

Jisung shifts his weight, and with minimal effort, he manages to lift Minho up higher and sling him right over his shoulder. Minho gasps, says something that sounds like Jisung’s name, kicking his legs as he tries to fight his way out of Jisung’s hold. Jisung is too strong for that, though, holding Minho in place as he wriggles like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He doesn’t know if he’s always going to be this strong, or if it’s just a byproduct of having fed so recently, but it’s fun.

Minho doesn’t stop struggling as Jisung heads back towards his own room, hissing and scratching at Jisung’s back, cursing under his breath.

“Overgrown leech,” he spits, and Jisung doesn’t stop walking to smack him on the ass, hard enough that Minho goes entirely rigid for a split second before he slumps over Jisung’s shoulder, still and pliant.

“Jisungie,” he whimpers, and Jisung strokes his hand over the curve of Minho’s ass through his pants, squeezing at his flesh.

“It’s okay, baby,” he says, and then he hits Minho again, pulling a lovely little cry out of him. “I’m going to fuck you, don’t worry. You just have to be good for one minute, kitten.”

That seems to placate Minho, though he’s still sniffling quietly as Jisung shoulders open the door to his room and steps inside.

His bed is unmade, his sheets still a tangled mess, but it doesn’t matter. He tosses Minho down onto the mattress, watching for a moment as he bounces there, blinking dazedly up at Jisung. Then he’s scrambling to tug his shirt over his head, dragging his joggers down and kicking them off, and Jisung wants to watch him, could look at him forever, but he has to drag himself away to rifle through his nightstand for lube before Minho manages to latch back onto him and they both get distracted.

Bottle in hand, he climbs onto the bed, pushing Minho back into the pillows. Minho reaches for Jisung’s shirt and tugs at the hem, and Jisung helps him get it up and over his head and flings it off of the bed so that he can lean down and kiss Minho again.

“Missed you,” Minho gasps against his lips, and Jisung smiles into the kiss.

“We were kissing, like, two minutes ago.”

“Don’t care,” Minho says, hands tangling in Jisung’s hair as Jisung mouths over his jaw and down the side of his neck. “Too long.”

“Noted,” Jisung says, and then he busies himself with sucking a bruise next to Minho’s collarbone.

“Jisung, please—”

“Okay, okay. You’re just— I wanna mark you up, I want—”

“I know,” Minho says, and from the look in his eyes, Jisung knows they’re on the same page. This isn’t just sex to them; they’re not going back to just being best friends and roommates after this. The bats are back in Jisung’s chest, flapping around and whipping up a hurricane.

“Okay, baby.” Jisung makes his way down the bed, pushing down the desire to kiss every inch of Minho’s skin, to leave marks all over him, to worship him like he deserves. Later. He’ll have time for all of that later.

Minho makes the sweetest sound when Jisung presses the first finger into his body, his little hands fisted in the sheets, his whole body flushed petal-pink.

Jisung contents himself with leaving a trail of bruises along the inside of Minho’s thighs as he works him open, paying careful attention to every jerk of Minho’s hips, every hitch of his breath, every time he clenches down around Jisung’s fingers.

He licks a stripe up Minho’s cock as he adds a third finger, and Minho squirms on the sheets, eyes dark as he watches Jisung intently.

“Be careful with those teeth.”

The way he bites back a gasp when Jisung smiles up at him— running the tip of his tongue over his fangs slowly and purposefully— gives him away.

“I think you like them.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Oh, you think? Obviously I li—”

Whatever snarky thing Minho was going to say next is lost to a strangled moan when Jisung opens his mouth and wraps his lips around the head of Minho’s cock.

He’s hard and heavy on Jisung’s tongue, his cock twitching, so turned on he’s dripping. Jisung twists his fingers and slides down further. When he pulls back off, he licks his own lips with a satisfied hum, eyes trained on Minho’s face.

“Almost as good as your blood,” Jisung says, and Minho throws a hand over his own face, trying to hide the way he’s turning even more brightly red, though the way his thighs squeeze in against Jisung’s shoulders give away his pleasure.

Jisung uses his free hand to press Minho’s thighs open again, to push his hips back down. He knows when he’s found Minho’s prostate because Minho mewls, writhing against the pillows, flinging his arm off of his face to grab at the sheets again. Jisung noses at Minho’s hip, follows the scent of his blood and the sound of his pulse down the inside of his thigh.

Minho’s watching him again, his bottom lip snagged in his teeth, and Jisung can hear the way Minho’s heart beats faster when he opens his mouth, when he presses the tips of his fangs against Minho’s sensitive skin.

Jisung drags his eyes from the pale skin he’s mouthing at, back up to Minho’s face, and Minho nods, just barely a bob of his head. It’s all the encouragement he needs.

Minho’s blood tastes just as good the second time, but it doesn’t beat the way Minho sobs Jisung’s name as he comes.

Jisung works him through it, pulling his fingers and his mouth away when Minho starts to squirm. He holds Minho’s leg still, licking at the bite until it closes, kissing away the blood left on his skin.

There’s a sigh of his name, hands reaching for him, and Jisung goes willingly, crawling back up the bed to gather Minho into his arms.

He realizes after a moment that Minho is actually purring, and he stifles his laughter against the top of Minho’s head, his face buried in Minho’s hair.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Jisung says, and then he’s really not laughing any more, too busy gasping as Minho’s hand dances over his stomach to wrap around his cock, thumb dipping into the slit and spreading the precum beading there to smooth the glide of his hand. “Fuck, Minho—”

“Yes, please.”

Jisung chokes on another huff of laughter and then rolls on top of Minho again, pinning him down and settling on his knees between Minho’s thighs.

Minho is hard again, and Jisung runs his fingers teasingly along his cock, raising an eyebrow when Minho rolls his hips up, chasing the touch.

“What,” Minho says, propping himself up onto his elbows, “you didn’t think you were the only one with a supernatural refractory period, did you?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Think about it later. Too much thinking, not enough fucking me.”

Jisung wraps his hands around Minho’s hips and smiles up at him. “You’re so needy, kitten.”

Minho scowls at the nickname, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Bloodsucker.”

Jisung shrugs. “You seem to like it when I suck your blood, so…”

“Yeah,” Minho replies, voice genuine enough that it shocks Jisung into stillness. “I do.”

“Oh.”

Minho’s smile is so bright, even in the darkness of Jisung’s room. That feeling in Jisung’s chest is back, and he’s reasonably certain it’s not actually bats. He’s entirely overwhelmed, everything he’s always felt for Minho rising up inside of him, too close to the surface. The way Minho is looking at him, pink-cheeked and starry-eyed and like he feels exactly the same way Jisung does is not helping at all.

Jisung huffs, narrowing his eyes at Minho. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Something changes in Minho’s smile then, the look taking on a decidedly wicked edge. “Make me.”

That much Jisung can do.

The smirk gets wiped right off of Minho’s face when Jisung lines himself up, pressing the head of his cock against Minho’s rim. Minho whines, wriggling his hips, but it’s all too easy for Jisung to hold him still, keeping him in place and preventing him from getting what he wants.

He expects a struggle, expects Minho to put up a little bit more resistance, but Minho surprises him again.

“Please, Jisung.” Though he’s mostly back to his normal self now, there’s still a note of desperation in Minho’s voice that Jisung can’t ignore.

Minho opens his mouth again, to plead, to beg, but all that comes out is a shaky gasp as Jisung finally moves, sliding home in one smooth thrust. He’s so warm, so tight and wet, and Jisung finds himself gasping too, leaning forward to press his face against Minho’s neck as he tries to ground himself, tries to keep from falling apart too quickly, every sense entirely overwhelmed, nothing left but Minho everywhere.

Minho lets go of the sheets after a moment, dragging his nails up Jisung’s back, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, hips twisting in Jisung’s iron grip. His thighs squeeze against Jisung’s waist, and he tries to rock his hips up, desperation clear in every movement. He’s almost as strong as Jisung, but not quite, and he whimpers, fingers tugging at Jisung’s hair.

Jisung pulls back, trying to drink in every detail of Minho’s face so close to his, all of the things he loves about him. Minho wriggles again, bumping his nose against Jisung’s, the faintest smile pulling at his mouth even though he seems to be about a second away from begging again.

“Jisungie.” The tone of his voice is achingly familiar now; it’s one Jisung hears all the time, one Minho reserves for him, for times when Jisung is being an idiot but Minho can’t hide how fond he is of him anyway. He wonders how he could have been so blind all this time, so stupid. He wonders if Minho is wondering the same thing. “We’re not all immortal, unlike some people, so if you could maybe fuck me some time this century…”

Leave it to Minho to make Jisung laugh while he’s trying not to come all over himself like a teenager for the second time in one day. Minho laughs with him, his whole body wrapped around Jisung, cradling him close, warm and wonderful and startlingly unfamiliar in the best ways.

Some of the tension leaves Jisung’s body, and he feels like he can breathe again, like he can focus on taking Minho apart instead of worrying about himself.

He rolls his hips experimentally, and Minho jerks underneath him, mouth dropping open.

Jisung does it again, chasing that look on Minho’s face, and then again and again, picking up speed until he’s fucking soft little sounds out of Minho, until Minho is clinging to him and sweating and panting, head thrown back on the pillows, hips meeting Jisung’s every thrust.

Time goes hazy, everything blurry with need, with the strength of the wanting Jisung had been holding onto for so many years finally set out into the open. There is no glowing alarm clock on Jisung’s nightstand, no slice of daylight creeping in under the bottom edge of his curtains, nothing but Minho below him, all around him, holding him tight, Jisung’s name pouring out of his mouth over and over again.

Jisung wants so many things— wants to see just how strong he is, just how flexible Minho is, wants to spend hours making Minho cry out his name just the way he is, wants to see what other sounds he can fuck out of him. He wants to flip Minho over and fuck him harder, wants to see just how much he begs if Jisung brings the flat of his palm down on Minho’s ass again and again, wants to make him come until he can’t remember anything but pleasure.

He doesn’t have to remind himself that he’ll do all of that later, because he’s too caught up in the way Minho looks under him right now, too caught up in fucking Minho until he unravels again.

He can tell Minho is close, his fingers digging into Jisung’s skin, the sounds he’s making blurring into a jumbled mess, his eyes squeezing shut when Jisung thrusts just right.

Jisung lowers his head and noses down the column of Minho’s neck, presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of Minho’s shoulder.

He doesn’t need to drink any more of Minho’s blood— he has a feeling he’ll be full for days, actually— but the desire to mark Minho as his is thrumming underneath Jisung’s skin. The tips of his fangs catch where Minho’s neck meets his shoulder, and Minho writhes, gasping out a frantic ‘yes’ before Jisung can even ask the question on his lips.

His teeth sink into Minho’s skin so easily, and he pulls away without drinking, lapping at the blood that beads up before the bite heals. He doesn’t know how long the mark will stay on Minho’s skin; the original bite on his wrist is probably all but gone by now for all he knows, but Jisung doesn’t mind. Leaving any mark on Minho is enough.

It only takes a few more thrusts, hard and fast and deep, and then Minho is tumbling over the edge, shaking and gasping and dragging Jisung with him.

They’re a sticky mess, tangled together on top of Jisung’s mattress. Minho’s so warm, skin damp with sweat, and Jisung is content to stay with him, listening to his heart beating, listening as he catches his breath.

Minho shoves Jisung off of himself after several long moments, grumbling about how heavy he is even though Jisung knows it’s not true. He doesn’t let Jisung get very far away, either, slinging a leg over Jisung’s hip, one hand trailing lazy patterns over the skin of Jisung’s chest. Jisung traces the bite on Minho’s shoulder with his eyes and then his fingers, pressing them into the tender, pink skin until Minho swats his hand away.

Despite the multitude of ways that their relationship has changed since the moment Jisung rolled out of bed, he’s surprised to realize there’s no awkwardness between them. There’s nothing weird about lying together like this, nothing unnatural about this newfound intimacy. Jisung’s last lingering anxieties are soothed as they lie in bed and talk, about everything and nothing, about what Minho knows about vampires, about how Jisung’s going to have to talk to his boss about changing his schedule at work, about what to have for dinner. They jump from topic to topic, and though their hands end up pressed palm-to-palm, fingers laced, they’re still just Minho and Jisung. The thought makes Jisung smile.

Minho wants pasta for dinner. Jisung doesn’t particularly care one way or the other, though he wonders idly if he’ll have to avoid Minho’s famous garlic bread now. Just another thing to ask Jeongin. Minho snorts when Jisung posits out loud that maybe it’ll just make him sneeze like his other allergies do.

Their knowledge of vampires thoroughly depleted, Jisung moves on to a different supernatural topic, finally blurting out a question he’s always wanted to ask.

Minho pulls back far enough to stare at him, blinking slowly, his mouth set in a thin line. “You know I’m not actually a cat, right?”

Jisung huffs, turning his face into one of the pillows to hide from Minho’s scrutiny.

“No,” Minho says after a long moment, and there’s a grin in his voice. “No, Jisung, I don’t go into heat.”

“I don’t know,” Jisung whines, looking back to Minho and trying to keep a straight face. He’s pretty sure he’s failing. “Werewolves have them, don’t they?”

Minho’s face screws up like he’s tasted something sour. “Can we not talk about wolves while we’re in bed together?”

“Sorry.” Jisung laughs and nuzzles closer to Minho, presses a kiss against his neck just over the faint mark of his own teeth. “So no ruts, either?”

“You’re stupid,” Minho sighs, and then— “I love you.”

Jisung smiles against his skin. “I love you, too.”