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The vampire thing is more of an inconvenience, than anything. He gets used to it, just like he got used to fighting fucking vampires in the first place, and life moves on mostly as usual.
The sun barely bothers him – they work mostly at night anyway, and for the handful of missions they do during the day he’s covered head to toe in body armour, gear and a mask like he’s always been.
They carry blood bags in the med kits already, and when he wakes up that first night – after dying, technically, but he’d been prepared for that to be a hell of a lot more permanent for the better part of his life, and it kind of feels like an overreaction to say that’s what he did, because he does wake up – he’d been ravenous, stomach empty and gnawing like he’d never felt before. He grabbed one of the bags on instinct and chugged it, dimly disgusted but mostly just relieved that the terrible hunger had abated, and that’s how he’s been eating ever since.
Until now. Even like this, Ghost is restrained. He never drinks to fullness, not really, and the slight extra allowance of blood they take on each deployment has always been enough to keep him sharp, mostly satisfied until their return to base.
But he’d been careless.
He’s tried not to let the change make him sloppy, stay sharp and avoid taking unnecessary damage but he knows he hasn’t been entirely successful, gets painfully acquainted with his own lack of discipline when he takes a shotgun blast, of all fucking things, to the face. He’s fine, not dead or still dead, depending on how you look at it, and his face heals.
It’s a more painful process than he’d expected, all of the old scars ripping into new tender flesh until he looks exactly like he did before the shot. Exactly like he did when he was turned.
He hasn’t spent much time thinking about what the change means in the long run. Figures he’ll find out eventually, whether he wants to or not, but it’s a little disconcerting that there’s no outward sign of it. Nothing about his body looks like or feels like it’s changed, and there’s something deeply wrong about that. Even the increased strength and durability feel like his own, an extension of the abilities he’s already honed, and of everything that’s what sits most awkwardly on his shoulders. Hates feeling like these are skills he hasn’t earned.
He heals, but it takes energy, and the more energy he expends the more blood he needs. They’re still at least two weeks out from completing the mission objective, but he’s run out of food.
There’s no way to get more out here, deep in the frozen Siberian wasteland. An emergency helicopter is an expenditure they apparently can’t justify, and more importantly, would give away their position.
Price leans a hip against a folding table in the center of the room, arms crossed, eyes steady on Ghost. Ghost stares back. Neither of them wants to say it.
He’s just about to suggest he stay back on this one, guard their backs from a distance and conserve his energy until the mission is clear – that way he won’t slow them down when he starts to get tired, sick with hunger – when a soft, surprising voice cuts through the building tension.
“Me,” König clears his throat, despite his voice coming out clear the first time. “He can take it from me.” All four of them – Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Price – turn to look at him. At least one of them must look shocked enough that he clarifies.
“It will affect me less than the others, to lose a little blood.” This is – probably true.
König hasn’t been with them for long. He’s been – basically loaned out to them – in a bit of political manoeuvring Ghost honestly can’t be arsed to parse the details of, and by the looks of it, neither can he.
He’s hard to get a read on, behind the hood, and despite the month or so he’s worked with him, Ghost still knows very little about him. He’s big, unerringly polite – the few, perfectly civil conversations he’s had with the man peppered with yes, sir, and please, sir’s – and absolutely brutal out in the field. Not much to go on - not much that makes sense, anyway.
He has no idea why he would offer this, except that at face value it makes perfect sense. And maybe that’s all it is, complete practicality in the service of the mission, but something about that just doesn’t sit right with Simon.
He can’t accept it, has to accept it anyway. Because it is the only way – he can’t take blood from anyone else without risking anemia, which can’t be treated, because they don’t have any fucking blood. He’ll be damned if he brings the whole squad down because of the fucking vampire thing.
Still, he hesitates. König looks relaxed enough, his massive arms crossed loosely, bent forward slightly to lean against the doorframe. He meets Ghost’s eyes, holds the contact for a second, two before giving a brisk nod, eyes darting away to look at some point beyond his head. It’s more than he usually gets. Meant to be reassuring, most likely. Ghost isn’t sure if it is, entirely, but it’s the best he’s going to get.
Nobody else speaks, although he knows it must be killing Soap not to comment. It just doesn’t feel right, somehow, to crack a joke in the face of this new, uncomfortable thing they’ve all been steadfastly ignoring, maybe for Ghost’s sake. God knows he doesn’t feel like laughing.
Finally, he sighs. “All right, then.” It’s like his words trigger a collective sigh, some previously undefinable tension leaving the room slightly less stuffy, easier to breathe in. Price makes some noise of acknowledgement behind him, but Ghost hasn’t taken his eyes off of König since he spoke up. He tilts his head slightly, towards the hall. A suggestion for Ghost to follow him as he starts to step out of the room.
“What, you can’t do it here?” Soap finally breaks the terse silence, a teasing grin on his face Ghost can hear. Gaz lets out a startled snort, and Ghost is about to reply with scathing wit – go fuck yourself – but König is turning back to the room, his quiet voice sounding maybe, possibly amused.
“Ah, it’s a little strange.” His hand rests on the doorframe, and Ghost watches his gloved fingers tap a nervous rhythm against it. “No?”
Soap laughs, and Ghost thinks if he was standing anywhere near him he’d give the big man a slap on the back. “Aye, it is. Go on then.” Ghost gives him the finger but otherwise doesn’t feel that needs a response.
He follows König down the hall, surprised and not when he ducks into the room König has been using as barracks for this mission.
They’re camped out in an old American outpost, fuck knows how it got here, and what sparse furnishing is in the room is much too small for the fucking mountain of a man closing the door behind him. He has to hunch through every doorway. Has a habit of reaching out first with his hand, brushing the top of the frame before stepping inside, as if to remind himself to duck.
König clears his throat again, eyes once again hovering somewhere around Ghost, not quite looking at him. “How do you want do this?”
Ghost takes in the small room. A cot against one wall, a short metal desk with a partially disassembled, meticulously cared for rife resting on top, a single folding chair. He jerks a thumb towards the chair. “Sit.”
König hesitates, like he’s considering arguing, possibly insisting he’ll be fine, but seems to dismiss the idea quickly, moving to pull the chair more toward the center of the room with a soft, “Yes, sir.” He sits down, easing into what Ghost has come to realize is a characteristic sprawl.
And that’s – interesting. There’s something about the big man’s easy acquiescence, the way his long legs are spread so casually, his entire body practically screaming insubordination but not his voice, quiet and respectful, not his actions.
His voice was a surprise, the first time Simon heard it. Higher than he would have expected from a man his size, almost boyish. Pleasant, with a soft tinge of a guttural accent that thickened some words, softened others. He likes it, as much as he wants to kick himself for thinking something so inane.
König lifts his eyes, briefly, to meet his. His voice is quiet but steady when he asks, “Where?” and for a second, Simon has no idea what he’s talking about. Then, it hits him like a ton of bricks. He’s asking where Ghost wants to fucking bite him to drink his goddamn blood. Asking it like he’s asking for directions to mess – or, he thinks almost hysterically, where he wants to go for dinner. Will it be my neck then tonight, mate?
A different man might have cracked, broken down into the deranged laughter that threatens at the back of his throat, but Ghost is not that man. As it is, he swallows the laughter and it burrows somewhere behind his ribs, the first crack in the porcelain shell that is Ghost remaining seemingly, outwardly, unphased by the shitshow that has become the beginning of an apparently very long life.
“Your arm,” he grunts instead. If König has noticed the half a second, aborted breakdown he doesn’t comment on it, starts taking off his gloves almost as soon as the words are out of Ghost’s mouth. Obedient, and that sends a quick thrill down Ghost’s spine that chases out the last of whatever freak out threatened to overtake him.
He tosses his gloves on the floor, pushes his sleeve up to his elbow and holds his left arm out to Ghost.
Simon lets his eyes trail over his thick forearm, the deep veins on the back of his hand and feels the first pangs of a hunger not unlike desire, liquid hot and curling from the same place deep in his gut.
He was hungry before, but now he’s ravenous.
He moves to stand between König’s legs, and his thick thighs part for him easily, but slowly. He slides down further in the tiny chair, the languid shifting of his hips damn near sensual with his blood pounding in Ghost’s ears. His knees brush Ghost’s thighs as he holds his arm up, tensing just slightly – Ghost almost missed it, bowled over with an entirely new kind of blood hunger, more intense than even that first one – but not, Ghost thinks, in fear.
König’s eyes, finally, are locked on him. They linger over the lower half of his face, still covered, and Ghost wonders if he’s just curious, and whatever bizarre fucking vampire thing is crossing eating and fucking in his mind all of a sudden is projecting something he suddenly, desperately needs onto König.
And then he pulls his mask up, just enough to bare his mouth and fangs and sinks his teeth quickly, under some misguided impression that might make it hurt less, into the thick vein at König’s wrist and knows he isn’t imagining it.
For several long moments he knows nothing at all, except how fucking good this is. Like eating and coming at the same time – which shouldn’t feel as good as it goes – it’s less about the taste than the feeling, thick and heady and threatening to make him lose any sense of restraint with each long pull of blood down his throat, warm and tart. It’s nothing like the blood bags, which felt strictly like food, and closer to MRE’s than anything else.
König grunts once when his teeth pierce flesh but then falls silent. His other hand comes to rest at Ghost’s hip, further blurring the line between drinking and sex, but it also reminds him that there’s someone attached to the arm he’s sucking on, fingers clutched tight around the wrist to hold it still, and for that he’s ridiculously grateful. It pulls him out of the reverie long enough to pull away, stopping again just short of real fullness.
He doesn’t go far, pressing his lips once to König’s wrist in some sort of apology. He regrets it almost immediately, and instead of taking his mouth off König’s warm skin immediately – something he’s finding impossible to do, with the lingering drops of blood still welling from his arm – he does something infinitely worse, and swipes his tongue across the neat puncture marks to soothe them.
König gasps, a soft, pretty sound that bounces around Ghost’s head and buries itself in deep, and draws his eyes up to his face. Which is covered, of course, and his eyes are closed. Not clenched shut, but relaxed, short, pale lashes almost invisible against the dark paint around his eyes.
Ghost’s eyes fall to his broad chest, rising and falling quickly, his breath coming in short pants, and then to his hips. And the outline of his cock, half hard in his pants.
And Christ – even half hard, it’s fucking huge. He can’t tear his eyes away, absently licking at the last few drops of blood falling from König’s arm and watching his hips jerk minutely forward.
Whatever the fuck just happened to him, that sudden rush of desire so strong it pushed out any and all rational thought – it looks like it happened to both of them. König’s eyes are still closed, his thumb rubbing soft circles into Ghost’s hip. He doesn’t seem to realize where he is, and Ghost doesn’t feel like reminding him just yet.
Thank god König decided to do this somewhere private.
It takes a few seconds, after Ghost licks the last drop of blood from his wrist and lets König’s hand fall roughly back into his lap, for the other man to open his eyes. He hasn’t pulled away yet, still bracketed firmly by König’s powerful thighs, his hand gone still and heavy against his hip.
Ghost watches his eyes, hopes they don’t drop any lower than the still exposed, bloodstained line of his lips.
He seems to come to himself suddenly, his legs falling away from Ghost’s thighs, bare arm pulling back to brace against the back of the chair. It makes an ear splitting screech of metal on metal as it slides back across the floor much more roughly than it was pulled there, and Ghost lets his wince carry his eyes up from the chair to König’s covered face, his eyes looking anywhere but at Ghost.
He’s steady on his feet, at least. It looks like he was right. Whatever quantity of blood Ghost just took from him – a pint, maybe, he’s no fucking expert – doesn’t seem to have had any effect on him at all – on his health, at least.
Before he leaves, he needs to say it. Ignores how fumbling and somehow intimate it sounds when he says, “Thanks,” already halfway out the door and feeling somewhat like a coward for it.
König’s hand on his arm, a gentle but firm pressure that stops him from practically running out the door doesn’t make it feel any less like he’s been caught trying to sneak away from a bad decision before it wakes up and he needs to face it in the cold light of day.
“Let me know, if you need more.” Ghost grunts an affirmative and hightails it the fuck out of there, heading straight for the showers. He turns the dial to frigid and stands under the spray until his teeth are chattering.
Other than being unable to look König in the eye for days, he feels great. Drinking fresh blood, aside from apparently have the same effect on his dick as being sixteen did, makes him even stronger, faster, and more alert. He pushes down the nagging feeling that he’s cheating and does his fucking job. Does it well.
The next couple of days pass quickly. The infiltration and transport to a different, equally godforsaken part of the country go well.
Ghost is riding so high on the feeling of being invincible that the crash, when it happens, hits him with a speed and force he imagines is comparable to a collision with the ground following a parachute malfunction.
He might survive that, now, but it wouldn’t be pleasant, and neither is the sudden onset of hunger so strong it has him hunched over on the cot, clawing at his sleeping bag until it tears under nails that have recently turned too sharp. Until it gives way to cold, hard concrete and he can claw at that too, and anchor himself to the earth.
When the wave of nausea passes, he only hesitates for a moment before heaving himself up to his feet, making his way across the compound towards where he knows König has been sleeping.
König opens the door after three brisk knocks, a scarf tied loosely around the lower half of his face.
The only light in the hallway comes from two command strips of LEDs set into the floor, and there are no lights at all in König’s temporary quarters. He might think that this, and the smears of black paint still clinging to the skin around his eyes is enough to hide the rest of his face, or he might just not care. Ghost hopes it’s the latter, because with his vision the way it is now, he can clearly make out the deep set of his eyes, the scar cutting through one thin, sharp brow, even the flecks of grey at his temples.
König lets him in without a word. The door shuts with a loud clang, the sound echoing behind it through the narrow hall. Ghost pushes down a sudden, unbidden feeling of shame, like they’ve been caught sneaking around.
He starts towards König, not sure what he should even say in this situation and opting for silence, but König stops him with a hand against his chest.
Something vicious and self loathing bubbles up behind his ribs before König speaks. Of course he shouldn’t have come here, no matter how hungry he is. Not after the last time.
But König isn’t kicking him out. “Not my arm again. It was sore last time. There were some issues, with the aiming.” Ghost grins, under the mask he hastily thew on before coming here.
“I didn’t notice.”
König’s answering laugh is soft, a little breathy. They’re both speaking quietly. “Just a little. Somewhere else?” All Ghost can do is nod, surprised König is letting this happen at all. Grateful, and in some deeper, partially hidden part of him, a little excited.
He looks König over in the dark, surveying joints and muscles he’ll need out in the field. He’d picked the arm last time because it’d been the first thing to come to mind. Seemed the easiest, the least intimate choice, but this time he thinks about it more carefully. Tactically, gaze briefly landing on his neck under the scarf, but dismissing it because it might limit his visual range.
König is still under his gaze, not offering any suggestions of his own. He seems to be leaving the reins to this thing they’re doing entirely in Ghost’s hands and that’s – more satisfying than it should be.
Finally he lands on his chest, bringing a bare hand up to tap just under his collarbone. “Here?”
He phrases it as a question, but has little doubt König is going to agree.
And he’s right, König once again stepping back, pulling his shirt up over his head with one hand, the other holding the scarf in place before Ghost’s fingers have even left his chest. The shirt is tossed in a similar manner to the gloves, landing on top of König’s open sleeping bag.
They stand there for a long moment, just looking at each other. Ghost isn’t sure how much König can actually see in the dark, but his eyes stay on Ghost’s face, no longer looking away. Waiting for farther instruction.
He considers the chair again, dismisses it almost immediately. The image of König’s hips rolling as he adjusted himself in the chair hasn’t left his mind for long since that first time, and he doesn’t need to – can’t – see it again so soon.
Although, he doesn’t know if his only other option is much better. König’s height would make doing it standing up a little awkward, and he’s still slightly concerned about him fainting, or at the very least losing his balance and taking a nasty fall.
He gives König a short push towards the cot, and he gets the message. He lies down easily, long legs spreading to accommodate Ghost’s bulk without instruction, and this is almost worst than the chair. Much worse, when he raises himself up on his elbows to look up at Ghost, still standing, frozen above him. Ghost curses the damned night-vision that came with the change, falls heavily to his knees.
König settles back against the cot, too narrow for him on his own, let alone the two of them crowded on top of it, König’s sleeping bag crushed underneath them.
Ghost takes a second to stare, hands resting on a chest like a brick wall. Watches the muscles in his abdomen clench as Ghost runs a bare hand down his chest, bringing the other to brace on his shoulder.
He kind of regrets just going at it the last time, so this time he looks up at König and asks, still whispering, “Okay?”
König nods once, head still flat against the hard pillow at the head of the cot, his long hair fanned out around it, spilling out against the floor. “Ja.”
With that one simple word Ghost’s lingering restraint, thinning by the second the moment König opened the door, soft in his sleep clothes and with half of his face bare, for the first time, snaps. He sinks his protruding fans into his chest, just under his collarbone.
He has to push harder, past the resistance of solid muscle and König sucks in a rough breath. His hand comes up to cup the back of Ghost’s head almost as soon as his teeth pierce König’s skin, supportive. His other hand finds Ghost’s hip again.
The smell of his blood hung thick, almost palpable in the air with the removal of his shirt, and tastes just as good the second time. Tastes like an addiction, just like the feeling of König’s large hands against him, his skin hot and rough under Ghost’s hands.
He takes it slow this time, letting his hand explore the scars littered across König’s stomach while he sucks the blood from his chest at a lazy drip.
When Ghost’s wandering hand brushes farther down his stomach, trailing through the fine hair just above the low hanging draw of his pants, König’s back arches under him, driving Ghost’s fangs further into his chest.
It pulls a low moan out of both of them. Ghost’s is trapped against König’s skin, his mouth suddenly filled with the rich taste of his blood, lips pressed close against König’s heated chest.
Once König’s silence is broken, it’s like a dam has burst. There’s a string of German, curses and bitten off sentences Ghost can tell by the breathy gasps that interrupt them, the clenching of König’s fingers against his hip.
He starts to pull away, reaching that sweet spot just before he’s truly full. Just the very tips of his fangs are embedded in König ‘s chest when König stops him. His hand tightens at the back of his head, fingers twisting in the short strands. He tries to say something, something quick and desperate in German until he shakes his head roughly against the sheets and finally says, “Nein. Don’t stop. Last time – last time was not enough. Take what you need, sir. Please.”
Fuck but Ghost can’t deny that. He should, shouldn’t give in to temptation knowing just how close to the edge he is. Knowing he could really hurt König.
But he can’t, years of discipline broken down by one fucking bite in a mission gone tits up, and now he has someone’s blood in his mouth, a hard body tense but willing underneath him and he can’t stop himself from taking what he needs.
He sinks his fangs back as deep as they’ll go and König sighs against him, his body relaxing under him like it feels just as good to have Ghost there, drinking his blood as Ghost feels doing it.
God, it feels fucking amazing to finally be full, for the first time in months. This time when he pulls away König lets him, but he doesn’t go far. He licks at the blood still rising in pretty, miniature pools against his chest. Short, slow swipes of his tongue that set König shivering underneath him, hips rolling up into where Ghost has sunk most of his weight onto him.
He gasps at the contact, rock hard and aching since the first taste of König’s blood on his tongue – is powerless to stop himself from grinding down, one small indulgence leading to the complete and utter ruin of his remaining self control.
König’s hand shifts against his hip, calloused fingers pushing roughly past the waistband of both his sweats and his underwear to wrap, dry, against his cock. The friction is electric, just on the right side of painful. Ghost lets his head fall heavily to König’s shoulder, his other hand slipping to the base of his neck, fingers under the collar of his shirt. His hips still work against him, almost as an afterthought. All of König’s attention seems to be on him, on the pressure of his hand against Ghost’s dick and the sounds it draws from him.
He twists his hips on the upstroke, palm teasing the head, wringing a rough moan from somewhere deep in Ghost’s chest. He does it again, and Ghost’s hand scrabbles where it’s trapped against their stomachs, scratching at the skin in his haste to shove his hand down König’s pants.
When he finally does get a hand on him, König cries out, his hand squeezing around Ghost like a vice, fucking perfectly.
The sound is muffled against Ghost’s shoulder and the scarf around his neck, and if both of his hands weren’t currently occupied he’s certain he’d have yanked the damn thing off without a second thought.
They settle into a rhythm, barely. It’s rough and hard and lacking in any kind of finesse – König’s hand tight on the back of his throat, one of long legs thrown over the back of Ghost’s knees, pinning him down.
He’s let himself collapse against him, dead weight, and König barely seems to feel it, the force of hips rocking up into Ghost’s fist jostling him against his chest. The pressure from his leg dragging him back down, even closer.
He comes with a shout that echoes in the tight space, nails digging into König’s bare shoulder. The smell of blood rising in the air only makes it feel like his orgasm could last forever. He latches his mouth onto the long, jagged tears left by his teeth, all lips and tongue, and looses himself in the slick feeling of König moving to pump his own cock, fingers tangled with Ghost’s, the slide eased by Ghost’s release, caught against their stomachs.
When König comes it’s almost silent, his body drawn tense against him, the hand on his throat clenched in a spasm that, before, might have chocked him. Now, it’s a strangely satisfying pressure, and the hand drops from his neck quickly, coming to rest at the top of his spine instead.
For a long while they’re still, sharing a muggy air under their masks. In the afterglow of a fucking earth shattering, blood haze induced orgasm, he almost wants to take it off. Do something sappy and strangely, more intimate than what they’d just done, like kiss him.
He doesn’t, and eventually the unpleasant sensation of his own come drying on his shirt makes him push away from the strangely comforting embrace of König’s arm. He dislodges his leg easily, not entirely sure if it’s due to the vampire strength or König going boneless beneath him. Likely a little bit of both.
With no more cot to roll onto, he pulls himself to his knees on the floor. He desperately needs a shower, they both do.
His eyes find König’s in the dark, surprised and yet not to find them looking back.
This should be the part where it gets weird, if it wasn’t already. He’s still not sure what the fuck just came over it, is even less sure what came over König. The only thing he is sure of is how much he doesn’t want to talk about it. Luckily for him, it doesn’t seem like König is the talking type.
Figuring a shower at this hour is less likely to wake the squad than all the shouting that just took place, he jerks his head towards the door, and König pushes up from the cot to follow him.
They step into separate showers, and König is either already gone by the time Ghost gets out, or just standing in there with the water off. Either way, Ghost walks back to his room alone, hoping to catch at least an hour of shut eye before they have to be up in the morning.
He purposefully does not think about at as he lies back down. If he’s gotten good at anything over the years, it’s compartmentalizing. This thing is a little harder to stuff into a box and forget about than most, but he manages, at least for the night.