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It’s way past midnight when someone trespasses into San’s garden. He's reading in his bedroom when the sound of rustling leaves of what can only be a person stepping on them rings against his ears. At first, he deems to be just Yunho, pissed off and fresh-off another quarrel with Seonghwa. Though, certainly, Yunho would never be this loud.
A curious human is also out of question. Namhae is not any trendy spot and even if it was San lives deep into the mountains, where humans rarely venture and the animals recognize all too well a predator to dare come around. The option remnant is another vampire, then, a raucous one at last.
His fangs slot out and San doesn’t bother compelling them back, not sure if he’ll have to fight tonight or not. Vampires usually know better than to wander into their counterpart’s territory without permission. But this one clearly cares little for courtesy.
San stomps around the house, making himself known. The rustling doesn’t halt for a second, accompanied by shallow breathing coming from outside. It’s forced, like trying to remember something it once was natural and now forgotten, and serves to steer his theory that whoever strolled into his house shares his nature. It also sheds light on a second thought; vampires don’t need to breathe, yet, in case of extreme injuries, it helps the healing process. Something like tricking the body into believing it's following a natural course, eases the blood flow.
San pushes the door that leads to the garden open, stilling himself as the rusty scent fills his nostrils. It’s almost like he can taste it in his mouth. Bitter, cold, and unpleasant.
With his hands balled in fists, he steps forward. In the middle of his roses shrub, lies a man. His eyes are covered by lengthy dark hair, the tips sticking together with dried blood. His jawline is sharp and he doesn’t look older than San himself but it’s hard to tell when it comes to their kind. San himself is turning one hundred and sixty-seven next month despite never looking beyond twenty-five.
It seems that the man gave up in his breathing attempt since his wounds haven’t gotten the significant progress he was expecting. Moonlight dawns on them and San catches a familiar glint. Silver bullets. Not few — he counts up to ten, shining mockingly and temptingly through the blood. It makes sense now, the breathing.
The vampire trashes, his face one of feverish pain. San watches, unsure if it’s a wise choice to approach the other.
Ultimately, he steps into the shrub, feeling the thorns digging into his skin in protest as he crashes pristine buds under his bare feet. He murmurs an apology to the flowers, but they remain relentless in their revolt. A particularly proud bud slashes his arm wrist to elbow as San pulls the injured vampire from their grasp and against his chest. He hisses at it, and the rose hisses back.
He inspects the vampire’s injuries closely, frowning at the maim at his ribs. It’s clear his attackers weren’t satisfied with lacerating his body up and down and thought a good butchery was the ideal way to finish the lesson. The vampire coughs red against San’s clothes, blinking his eyes open in San’s presence for the first time in the night.
They are sharp, despite the blood, despite the agony. Crimson stark under the black of his strands. His lips are bitten raw and he has a mole under his left eye. The moment their gazes lock, the vampire’s fangs are out.
He is dangerous, San immediately can tell. The way he smirks at San is entirely too crude, nothing like the poor tormented soul of moments ago. This is the expression of someone who deserved every bruise and San should leave him to the shrub, that’s what every instinct in him warns him to do, by the morning it’d either have eaten him away or he would’ve burned under the first rays of sunlight.
The man convulses again, baring his fangs to San as his eyes turn back into his skull with the violence. San has never been the type to give people what they deserve, for the better or for the worse. That’s why he lives isolated in the mountains, so he won’t have to deal with anyone but himself.
He bites into his own wrist, the thick liquid spreading onto his tongue. It won't taste as good as the blood stored in his fridge but leaving the man unattended with the gravity of his wounds is also a risk, not to mention, in the company of San’s vicious flowers.
Vampire blood is far from a tasteful meal to other vampires and San expects the other to put up a fight, at the very least express disgust but he gobbles down San’s blood like a thirsty man meeting an oasis for the first time. His eyes pressed close as he maws at San’s wrist. It’s messy and ungraceful, disturbing to watch it from the front seat. Arbitrarily, it’s also alluring in an uncanny way. San is only mildly aware that his eyes are zeroed where the other’s fangs disappear into his skin, in how his adam's apple works while he swallows San’s blood as if he were presented with divine nectar.
“You must’ve been hungry,” San murmurs distractedly and to his surprise (and strikingly, disappointment) it seems to snap the vampire back to reality and he lets go of him. His mouth is red, grotesque and somehow, appealing.
“Starving,” He replies, voice barely a rasp.
San regards his state intently. His appearance had already gotten much better, the smaller cuts gone as the bigger injuries began to mitigate. Still, the silver bullets won’t let him heal completely as long as they remain inside his body. San looks around helplessly, the decision spinning in his mind.
This vampire looks like someone who’ll cause him trouble. On purpose, nonetheless. And yet.
“Do you have a name?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” The vampire’s eyes spark in delirious glee. San can’t tell if he’s being mean because the pain has this kind of effect or if that’s simply who he is. “Wooyoung.”
“Woo-Young,” San repeats it, pronouncing the syllables slowly. It’s a very round name. The vampire in his arms acquiesces, long tongue darting out to lick at his own fangs before they are compelled back. Wooyoung has the appearance of something straight out of a gothic novel, blood on his white shirt, on his chin, a feral glint hidden at the corner of his eyes. San almost offers his wrist once again, stopping himself when he realizes it wouldn’t be a good idea seeing Wooyoung has nearly drained him.
With a hunger of his own punching into his guts, he makes up his mind. “I’m San. Do you think you can walk to the house?”
Wooyoung studies him, eyes swimming zircons in the dark night, “If I can't, are you going to carry me, prince charming?”
San can’t blush, his blood is nowhere hot enough for that anymore but the words burn under his skin, an uncomfortable warmth spreading through his chest. He has the underlying feeling that he’s being made fun of, except Wooyoung hasn’t quit with that sardonic smirk since they met and the lines are so blurred San can't tell if they even exist at all.
“If you need me to, of course.” He says, honestly. It’s better like this, for now. He’ll have time to figure Wooyoung out once they’re inside. Away from these damn flowers and hopefully, without silver bullets, in Wooyoung's case.
Wooyoung uses San’s shoulders to level himself into a sitting position. His lips are in a tight line and his eyes narrow but he doesn’t make a single sound of discomfort. This way, their faces are close, Wooyoung's hair brushing against his cheeks.
“Well, I wouldn’t trample on your hospitality like this,” He says, turning to San’s with conspicuous dark eyes. “I don’t think I can go anywhere today, though.”
“I can help with the bullets,” San says, the words slipping past his lips before he can think them through. Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, but nods and San suspects he’s being evaluated in a test he doesn't have the stakes to.
He and Wooyoung stumble into the house. San steals a glance at the clock. They have more or less five hours until the morning comes. He drags Wooyoung to his room and instructs him to lay down while he goes to close the rest of the house.
By the time he’s back, Wooyoung is shuddering in agony again.
San hasn’t cleaned wounds in a long time or seen any real injuries like these. The closest he had been to a cut in decades was the fiasco between Hongjoong and Mingi a year ago and even then it wasn't anything consistent, hardly the beginning of a gash under ragged cloth before Hongjoong was baring his fangs to whoever looked the hunter’s way. However, Mingi’s not a vampire. Had he been afflicted like Wooyoung in no way he’d still be conscious. Wooyoung’s eyes are wide, cold sweat rolling down his temple as he mumbles unintelligibly.
San doesn’t have hemostats at home and he can’t touch the bullets directly, the last option is tilted scissors, not appropriate in the slightest but they’ll have to make do. It’s a fucked up solution, the scissors are enormous and every time he moves one of the bullets or accidentally pushes them deeper, Wooyoung howls. It rings against his ears like a gong, the echo remaining long after the sound faded out.
The first rays of sunlight are knocking against the blinds when San finally drops the scissor on the mattress. Tears frame Wooyoung’s face and at some point, he bit into his own arm to endure the pain. The teeth marks glow like a wild animal attack, but Wooyoung doesn’t seem to care or notice for that matter.
San starts to say something about it, but the words trail off. He casts his eyes over Wooyoung’s pale face, frazzled silence infesting the room. One minute he’s brushing Wooyoung’s fringe out of his face, far too tender for basically strangers, and the next everything is dark.
His sleep comes without dreams, which he is thankful for. Lately every morning he closes his eyes is to weirdly prophetical/or prophetically weird dreams and it was exciting the first time, he even went to Yeosang a couple of times to know about them, but too much of a good thing is bound to become tiring.
When he opens his eyes again, the light has faded to a weak orange outside. Signs of a steamy late afternoon.
It takes him a while to become aware of his surroundings. He fell asleep under the impression of sitting on a chair, surrounded by blood and Wooyoung. Both now gone leaving only San sleeping on his bed as if nothing happened. He sits up carefully, searching his wrists for the sign of teeth, and of course, finds nothing.
It’s not like Wooyoung could’ve slipped outside under sunlight, there’s no reason to wonder. Though, for whatever reason, San is restless. He wanders through the house until he finds the vampire in the kitchen, leaning against the marble countertop. His eyes focus on San as soon as enters the room. His grim expression mellowed into another of his trademark sinister smiles.
“Hello,” San greets, sleepiness slurs the word on his tongue, making him sound like a kid. Wooyoung, without a scratch in sight, leans over the counter, delighted. “Nooo, you should’ve woken up much later. How am I going to escape surreptitiously into the night, now?”
Wooyoung — who had bled all over San and his house for a great portion of the time they’ve met, who has San’s blood, literally, running through his veins — swiftly steps into San’s personal space like they are old friends. Cooing as he pats down San’s bed hair. Shocked at the abruptness of everything, and still pliant by sleep, he lets the other do as he pleases.
“Uh, I wouldn’t hold you here against your will,” San feels the necessity to say. Wooyoung stops his fussing to properly look at San. Not to say that he wasn’t looking before, a gaze with foggy lens. His eyes fix on San with a totally different weight now. Like he’s seeking through every layer of San’s soul, and he won’t stop until he gets to whatever it is that he wants.
They spend such a long time in silence, San startles when Wooyoung runs his hand over the sides of his neck, grip bruising. “Of course, you wouldn’t, prince charming.”
For a moment, San thinks Wooyoung is going to snap his neck. The vampire’s eyes are unreadable, specks of red blooming into his irises. With the newfound expectation, San relaxes his jaw, and loosens his shoulder muscles, relaxing into the hold. It’s not like he would die and Wooyoung went through a hell of a night, if that’s what he needs to get rid of the tension, why not.
Wooyoung’s stare grows longer, redder, and if he actually considered breaking San’s neck, he never follows through, letting go of him as if the skin under his palms burn. He laughs richly, louder when San laughs along, not wanting to be out of the joke, although he’s no idea what they are chuckling about.
Wooyoung’s eyes are glinting sharply when he backs away, asking about breakfast.
San blinks at the whiplash. “Oh. I have enough bags for both of us. If you prefer it warm, there are plenty of animals in the woods.”
Wooyoung might’ve gone insane, San considers. His laughter roars through the house as he treads adrift around the kitchen, fangs coming out and instinct warns San he shouldn’t let this continue, that he’s being cornered but he can’t move. The whole scene, like the biting earlier, is inexplicably charming. The vampire twirls around him, a strangled sound that is as hollow as it is mad leaving his mouth, and when he finally halts is to outstretch his hand towards San, bowing in a mock flair.
“I sure do like it warm,” He pauses, measuring the words as he measures San. Up and down. Quick. Hungry. “You know, San-ah, I think it’s time we test whether or not you are a real prince charming.”
Then, because San gave the opening and vampires should be nothing but cunning, he attacks.
…
Wooyoung proves himself to be an excellent fighter.
So excellent actually it makes San wonder how he wound up with half of his body torn up in a stranger’s shrub. He absorbs San’s hits like they mean nothing, and thinking about it, they probably don’t. San is weak. He fed the other all his blood. He wouldn’t go as far as suggesting Wooyoung orchestrated the situation beforehand, but he sure knows how to take advantage of it.
He has San pinned against the counter of the kitchen in no time, wrists caught behind his back, blood staining the white marble. Wooyoung bends over him, pressing their faces together, and licks it off, straightening to show off the liquid on his tongue.
“Not a prince charming after all,” He singsongs cheerfully. “We need to find something else to address you then, something more fitting. Tell me, what do you think about kitten? Kitten, kitten. Kitty catty. San-ah, do you like it?”
San hisses at him.
“Wonderful!” Wooyoung exclaims, ecstatic. “But now you need to stay still, kitten, otherwise I’ll have to put you out. And that’s ruining half of the fun, isn’t it?”
San hasn’t felt this human in decades, too worn out to remember he’s immortal, that no matter what Wooyoung does to him, at the end of the day he has no breath to run out of. For the second time in the day, he surrenders. Wooyoung hums against his skin, pleased, dragging his fangs over the extension of San’s throat and sinking his teeth right below his adam's apple. It doesn’t hurt anywhere near as his first bite, Wooyoung takes and takes and San’s vision starts going dark, the extremities of his body tingling. He wonders amusedly, a morbid joke if he’s about to die.
Before he can find out what happens when the predator takes a turn being prey and the meal has come to an end, Wooyoung detaches from him. He smiles down at San, and smacks his lips together lousily, splashing blood against San’s cheeks. Delicately, he lowers San into the ground and disappears into the kitchen. When he comes back, a blood bag dangles between his fingers carelessly. San watches through a haze the man kneel in front of him, tip his chin upwards, and looking serious for the first time, bite into the bag, pulling San closer.
Wooyoung’s fangs are in the way, the position is uncomfortable, but San can’t find in him to care, attention singular in the blood in the other’s mouth. He licks around Wooyoung’s gums and under his tongue, the roof of his mouth. He’s blind and wouldn’t hesitate in ripping the other’s tongue off if Wooyoung didn’t break them apart to hold the bag above San’s face until he understands and tilts his head back for the liquid to fall into his mouth.
What to say, it’s messy. The blood splashes on his face, on his clothes, on the floor and San scrambles for every drop. It’s not enough, it never is. Wooyoung brings him another bag, this time allowing San to bite it himself.
Even after they are done, he can’t seem to slide past the fog in his mind, his system overwhelmed, first by the thirst and then by the feeding. Wooyoung sees him through like San’s an open book, and coos at him. Seemingly not interested to do anything about it, he sits by San’s side on the floor, their shoulders knocking.
They must make a pair, the two of them. Blood dripping down San’s hair, Wooyoung’s fangs bared out. The monsters humans paint them to be in their myths and movies.
San turns his head towards the other, “This is your definition of breakfast?”
Wooyoung smirks, not saying anything. San is going to fall asleep soon. His eyes are closed when he murmurs, “Awful sports.”
As darkness embalms him, San hears high-pitched laughter.
…
A routine of sorts is established from then on. Wooyoung appears whenever he wants and San, for his own spiteful perversion, lets him do as he pleases. With such a heady decision comes consequences, San’s clothes each have stains of red somewhere and he’s not as fond of them anymore. He’s not a messy eater, but Wooyoung is, though it feels like he’s doing it on purpose sometimes. Even when San stills himself to not move while Wooyung is leeching on his neck, the other vampire drips blood everywhere. It’s capricious, and San complains but Wooyoung merely smirks at him before dragging him down to a demure kiss. They start falling asleep together at some point, intimate in a way that is eerie and weary, with how little they know each other.
Wooyoung never explains what happened that night, only grins and shrugs if San asks, and he doesn’t ask much. If Wooyoung ends up cut up in half again, he’ll find someone to patch him up. San, preferably.
It’s another late night, and different from their first meeting, Wooyoung is not lurking around strangers' gardens instead, he’s sitting on the floor of San’s bedroom, head angled precisely right to watch San without having to strain his neck. Sitting on a silver tray there’s a blood bag.
“Why all this,” San asks.
“I like to watch,” Wooyoung says, a meek explanation. “I used to be a cook, a long, long time ago. It’s a shame, how the taste of real food dilutes when you’re turned. You can watch people eat, but you don’t understand what they find appealing in well-roasted meats anymore, not when blood is infinitely superior. The comparison is unfair, there’s simply no way to explain it to humans.”
San blinks, leaning forward, interested. “You never told me this.”
“What? About being a cook?” San nods. “Well, it’s in the past obviously. Why would I bore you with a lackluster detail about my mortal life, kitten?”
Because I want to know, San thinks, full of such an eagerness it levels to the never fulfilling thirst in him. Much like blood, he wants to be a visceral part of Wooyoung, a trait he can’t, won’t want, to part from. If the comparison is none, San will be the exception to the rule. He’ll gladly let Wooyoung devour him whole if he can dine on his insides in turn. That’s just how their kind works, that’s just how San works.
He says none of this, of course, Wooyoung would call him a deviant and deflate.
“That’s why you like to watch people eat? Because they look happy?”
Wooyoung laughs, stretching his legs forward as he supports his hands behind him. It makes him look younger, serene expression and breezy smile. San rarely ponders on other vampires' lives. What’s the point? They can’t go back to it, anyway.
But watching Wooyoung speaking of past days, makes him wish there was a way to catch a glimpse of him then. From when his heart beat accordingly, his cheeks warm to the touch. Body heat and a storm in his veins. Just the thought of it makes San’s mouth water, his pulse running loose.
“Not really,” He replies, dragging San’s attention back to the present. “People are vulnerable when they’re hungry, some close their eyes, others forget the world around them. Giving food to someone and watching them have it is to claim power over this vulnerability. Not even vampires can run from this.”
“You’re looking for weakness,” San concludes, his gaze shifting to the silver tray.
“Not yours,” Wooyoung interrupts his thoughts, a certain perversion to his tone that doesn’t help San believe him. When he speaks again, the raw honesty in his voice is even less convincing. “I think we should make it about you, for a change. That's all.”
San pretends to believe him and turns to the tray. Wooyoung always pounces on him like an animal, so he’s sure he doesn’t have a preferred way for San to do this. He thinks of asking for a scissor, but there’s no need for it, is there? He rips the bag open with his teeth.
Blood seeps into his tongue, burning on his palate, he barely gets ahold of himself before licking it off the bag. Has he always been this famished? His heart hammers in his chest, wild and loud, quivering under his skin, an exception for dinner. Wooyoung doesn’t avert his gaze, rather stretches closer, like he’s about to eat the distance too. His eyes turned crimson in a beat.
Good. San thinks. Hunger for me.
He puts on a show, angles the bag in a position Wooyoung can see his fangs. He keeps his eyes closed, focused on not losing to the thirst within his bones. The scene would be terrifying, he waggers, for any human that’d cross their little scene this exact moment. Blood everywhere, life going to waste, an unwise would note. To feed something that should be dead, others would crawl with horror.
There’s plenty of life out there, no? Doesn’t matter how much he takes, life wins over death, doesn't it? San and Wooyoung and their kind are the ones to put the hypothesis to proof, gone were their lives, but they still wander the earth. And they hunger — all the time.
Wooyoung gets up on his own accord when San has sucked the bag dry. He presses against San’s back, hooking his chin over his shoulder like a lover, his arms circling San’s waist. His fingers dig into the flesh, and he smiles.
“Sorry, I’m impatient,” He says, completely unapologetic. “Can we share?”
San licks his lips, his fingers are sticky. “Thought this was about me?”
Wooyoung doesn’t answer.
It takes patience to get used to someone else's bite, San came to learn the past months of their little macabre arrangement. Mortals usually get overwhelmed by the pain, their instincts can’t help but tune to the sting, whilst San remains actively aware of the whole process. He hears Wooyoung’s fangs searing into his skin. He hears his own blood flow, turmoil in Wooyoung’s throat. And he likes it. He likes the fact the vampire drinks from him not from pleasure alone, but because something stronger drives him to. Doesn’t need to be love, he will take madness any day.
They change positions, and he climbs on Wooyoung’s lap, his thighs caging the vampire under him.
San’s taken a special liking to pull Wooyoung’s hair whenever they lay together. The strands slip finely between his fingers while Wooyoung’s head rests against his chest, or taut in his hands when he has the vampire between his legs. There’s something delicate about the act, he expected Wooyoung to reproach him the first time he did it, but the other remained quiet, bearing even when San drove back his hand with raven strands in it, nothing but an uncanny satisfaction flickering in his eyes. San likes the simplicity of the moment way more than indulging in Wooyoung’s wickedness though — he wedges the soft strands between his thumbs and lets it go.
None of them know subtlety or the art of patience, soon finding any garments thrown around the room. San gasps and parts his lips to taste his own blood on Wooyoung’s tongue. He slides under easily, looking at the vampire through his lashes and wondering if it still counts as seduction when you already have your legs spread.
“What do you want, kitten?” Wooyoung asks against his mouth, fangs out and pressing on his bottom lip. San takes longer than a second to reply and Wooyoung nibbles at it. San makes a face at him. “Aw. Sorry, sorry. I’ll be nicer. Here, do you want to fuck my mouth?”
“What about you fucking me?” He complains in a half-whine. How much more Wooyoung will take from him?
Wooyoung coos. “We can arrange that. Let me have it first, hm? And it’s not like you won’t enjoy it, we’re lucky to not have neighbors for kilometers, or else we’d make for an inconvenience.”
San grumbles his consent, pulling himself up as Wooyoung slides down to the floor once again. Impatience is useless when you live forever, but every time Wooyoung touches him is like his perception of time seizes and San finds himself in a hurry. His mind filled with what-ifs and all sorts of urges.
Wooyoung runs clipped nails over San’s thighs, devotion dark in his gaze. It’s a destructive kind of worship they build here. The kind that spreads quickly and with it brings fire, devouring everything in the way. Some days, while Wooyoung is gone, San watches the marks painting his body in red and blue. They fade quite easily and San figures it pisses Wooyoung off a bit. Every time they meet and he licks the flawless skin on San’s column his aims are precise with newfound vigor, teeth and nails digging deeper. One day he’ll take a bite and rip the flesh off. San’s not sure how or whether he’d oppose it.
Wooyoung is not careful when he takes him, fangs dragging over the sensitive spots on San’s cock and making him recoil. Careful, he warns, feeling the other smile around him. In retaliation, San grabs a fistful of the vampire’s hair and pushes his head all the way down. Mouthful fits Wooyoung well, keeps him quiet at the very least.
Spit leaks around his lips when San reinforces the pressure, tugging him lower though there’s nowhere to go. Wooyoung retracts his fangs, flattening his tongue and slackening his jaw so San can push into his mouth as roughly as he pleases, regarding him with amused eyes. Sick bastard. San is in love with him.
It’s not an epiphany or anything. He had known for a while, the simmering want having turned into blazing longing in front of his eyes. And San had given himself one too many times over the course of the decades to pretend confusion. He wants Wooyoung in the way life embraces death. For eternity.
San cradles Wooyoung’s head with both hands, delicately, as it might break. Kiss me, he wants to say. Come to me and quench the thirst in my throat as there is no water or blood that will do. Only you. Always you. But the words are pebbles stuck at the back of his throat and Wooyoung has reclaimed control over the situation, never one to lose time. His hands are solid around San’s hips as he devours him whole.
San moans and writhes, closing his thighs around Wooyoung’s head in response to the brutal pace. Had Wooyoung been human, he’d die with the pressure of San’s legs around him, his mouth completely occupied by San’s cock blocking his passage of air — he’d die choking and with a smile on his face. San puts in more pressure, chasing his high. Wooyoung doesn’t move or protest, taking whatever he is given like a starving dog.
He comes with a mute cry, his thighs twitching on Wooyoung’s shoulders. Slowly, he relaxes his grip, and Wooyoung lets go of his soft cock with a loud pop, cum, and saliva trickling down his chin. San leans forward, wiping Wooyoung’s chin with his thumb and bringing it to his own mouth.
“That’s filthy, Choi San-ssi,” Wooyoung asks, eyes filled with amusement. “Are you trying to kill me?”
San smiles warmly. “Maybe. Are you going to fuck me now?”
Instead of replying, Wooyoung wraps his hand around San’s nape, pulling him into a rough kiss. He sinks his teeth on San’s bottom lip and keeps it there until blood buds. San moans into the kiss, trying to call for the other, appeal his case, beg if necessary, but Wooyoung makes a point of getting in the way, swallowing San’s voice. He grabs the sheets in frustration, and Wooyoung intertwines their hands together.
It’d be the worst of the lies to say it doesn’t fuel him, that the more Wooyoung denies him, the wilder he gets. He wonders if that’s what the vampire wants, after all, getting San out of his mind, then later blaming him alone. To prove his point, Wooyoung breaks the kiss.
“Be honest with me, my love,” He mumbles into San’s ear, cold lips raising goosebumps down his spine. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
Fucker. Trying to pivot the situation however he pleases. Well, two can play this game. San laces his legs around Wooyoung’s waist, fluttering his eyelashes. “Stay. Wherever you go when you’re not with me, leave it behind. Make me your home.”
Wooyoung’s lips brush against his, almost warm. San wonders if as a mortal, Wooyoung overheated easily. He thrust his hips upwards and San bounces along with the movement. His moans echoed through the room.
“You didn’t even get my cock yet and you already want to play house, San-ah? What are we going to do about you when I actually fuck you?”
“You’re my guest to find out,” San maintains his smile.
“Sure,” He says, spreading San on his back. “Don’t get this wrong though, kitten. I get bored easily, and when I want to leave, I leave.”
Wooyoung’s voice is rough, contemplative, his grip unyielding. It sounds like a challenge. A pastime, a shiny new toy for a spoiled kid. He sounds like he’s going to break San in half.
San doesn’t mind. In bloodlust, he appreciates both but does well with lust alone. Wooyoung accuses San of playing house, but he’s the one to turn him into a temple. He’s the one to fuck him on his fingers until he’s sobbing, the sheets humid under his face. He’s the one to shove the same fingers into San’s mouth and make him gag around them. He’s the one to kiss San’s chin, to wipe the tears with his thumbs and hold him through his ruin. He’s the one that wields tenderness when blood and lust are out of the way and all it’s left is San, vulnerable to bruises. He intends to break him, but when San pleads, he lets himself be devoured.
How are you going to excuse this now? You don’t want to belong anywhere and yet, here you are.
Wooyoung says it’s not love, but he keeps coming back. He comes back and feeds, he comes back and dances with San in their living room, he meets Seonghwa and Yunho and true to his words, one day he gets bored and leaves, but when he does, San’s hands are clasped between his.
San doesn’t point it out because there’s no need to. The thing is, whatever is between them has evolved from bittersweet long ago. And one-sided feelings can’t take root no matter how stubborn they are, so he knows it’s real. San sleeps with Wooyoung’s head on his chest, his hands buried in his hair, and to this, not even hunger can compare.
Past is meant for the finite, but San preserves his roses and its seeds.