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San has not yet mastered the art of concealment.
He is too newly made, too raw in the strange grace of his rebirth. Everything about him feels in flux, as though he has not yet settled into the shape of what he’s become. The new stillness of his body unnerves him; the silence of his own heartbeat feels like a secret he shouldn’t be allowed to keep.
Even when he stands perfectly still, there is something wild and ungoverned in him, some residual pulse of life that has not yet been trained into the sleek poise of immortality. He moves like a man trying not to disturb the air, all that enormous strength pulled tight beneath the surface. His frame is large, broad through the shoulders and chest, a form sculpted first by human labor and later sharpened by the strange, exquisite violence of transformation.
The change did not diminish him; it refined him. His body, once warm and living, has been remade in another image—every muscle taut with unnatural precision, every motion deliberate, honed, terrifyingly smooth. Beneath his clothes, power gathers like a shadow, patient and unspent. When he shifts, the fabric pulls against him; the light finds the hard cut of his arms, the line of his throat, the quiet strength waiting in the cage of his chest.
And yet, for all that immense physicality, there is hesitation in him. A gentleness he cannot seem to lose. He handles the world too carefully now. When he reaches for something, it’s always with the mild uncertainty of a man who still remembers what it was to bruise. His hands, broad and capable, sometimes tremble when they meet softness.
He has the look of something caught between predator and penitent. A creature half-aware of its own power.
He wasn’t made in the dark glamour of ceremony or choice. The turning had been messy, cruelly accidental—a passing thing in the ruins of a night he can’t remember clearly. Blood, smoke, the sound of something tearing loose from the world. He woke alone by the river, feverish with thirst, terrified of the way dawn burned his eyes.
By the time Wooyoung found him—half-starved, half-mad—he was no longer certain he was real. He remembers the scent of him first: salt and smoke and something living. A heartbeat. A voice that did not flinch. Wooyoung didn’t run when San tried to speak through blood-dried lips; he only stepped closer, eyes steady, and said quietly, you’re not gone yet.
Now, San lives in Wooyoung’s spare room above a shuttered tailor’s shop at the edge of the tainted city. It’s small, quiet, full of dust and soft light that never reaches too deep. He keeps the curtains drawn and the floorboards creak when he moves. Sometimes, late at night, he hears Wooyoung humming from the kitchen, small human sounds anchoring him to a life he no longer belongs to.
And his fangs—his fangs will not obey him.
They glint when he speaks, catching the lamplight in flashes too quick to hide. In the mirror he no longer looks at, he would have seen how they betray him: two sharp points of ivory that mark him as neither man nor ghost, glimmering like the memory of a threat. He tries to keep them tucked behind his lips, tongue pressed nervously to his teeth whenever he speaks, but they slip free the moment his focus falters.
Sometimes, when his mind drifts—when his thoughts wander toward the warmth of human breath, or the sound of rain against the windows—they press too sharply into his own mouth. The skin of his lower lip breaks easily now; his body’s fragility is strange and selective. The first prick is always a quick shock, searing, gone before he can react. Then comes the taste: a bright bloom of iron and salt that spreads over his tongue, both foreign and achingly familiar.
Tonight, it happens again.
The moment is small, almost nothing. A flicker of inattention, a slip of sharpness against soft flesh. Then the sound: a quick intake of breath, low and involuntary, torn from the back of San’s throat like a confession he hadn’t meant to make. His hand moves halfway to his mouth before stopping. He tastes the copper bloom of his own blood, somehow warm and metallic on his tongue, and stills, as though the very act of feeling it were an admission of weakness.
The scent of it rises between them, faint but unmistakable. San’s expression twists, caught somewhere between irritation and quiet sorrow. His body is too still, too composed, the controlled stillness of something dangerous trying not to be. Only his mouth betrays him—the faint tremor at the corner, the slight pull of his lips as he swallows the taste away. His eyes, dark and half-glassine in the dancing firelight, lift toward the hearth. The flame paints small, trembling reflections across his skin, as though the light itself is uncertain what to make of him.
He stares at the fire for a long moment—the human flicker of it, the small, imperfect warmth. He misses it more than he wants to admit.
“Again?”
The voice breaks the silence easily, soft and almost teasing, but there’s something warm threaded beneath the exasperation. Wooyoung’s voice—low, textured, familiar—carries through the quiet like a melody that belongs to another life.
He’s leaned against the edge of the old oak table near the window, his back curved in an elegant line that speaks of comfort, ease, control. The glass in his hand catches the dim glow from the hearth; the red within it gleams darkly, nearly the color of blood, though it’s only untouched wine, long forgotten.
The firelight transforms him. Shadows curl along the sides of his face, sculpting the sharpness of his jaw, the gentle slope of his cheekbones. His lips, full and flushed from the lingering heat of the room, tilt upward in a smirk that never quite becomes unkind. A few strands of damp hair cling to his forehead, glimmering each time he moves, the rest falling in soft waves that catch the faint scent of rain.
He looks impossibly mortal standing there. Delicate, yes, but not fragile. His presence fills the room, quiet yet commanding, the way candlelight fills glass. There’s no fear in him, not even curiosity; only something steadier, like knowing.
“You’re going to ruin those lips,” Wooyoung murmurs, words laced with weary affection. “I told you, you’ve got to stop biting yourself.”
San doesn't answer right away. The words hang between them, heavy and familiar, another small reminder of what separates them—warmth from cold, pulse from stillness, life from what comes after. His gaze drops, his throat working as though swallowing could make the shame smaller. “I don’t mean to,” he mutters, the sound rough, almost broken. “It just happens.”
When he finally looks up, his eyes flicker briefly to Wooyoung’s before darting away again.
Wooyoung exhales softly—not quite a sigh, more a quiet surrender. The line of his shoulders eases as he pushes away from the table and crosses the space between them. Each step lands with deliberate quiet, a rhythm San could almost mistake for a heartbeat if he still had one to hear. The air shifts as he draws closer; warmer, thicker. San can feel it brushing against his skin, the subtle disturbance of a living presence moving through stillness.
When Wooyoung stops before him, the world feels smaller, concentrated down to this shared space, this breath of air that doesn’t quite belong to either of them. San sits on the couch, shoulders tense, knees apart in unconscious invitation. Wooyoung stands so close that his warmth seeps through the air. His knees nearly graze San’s as he leans forward slightly, close enough that San could tilt his head and touch him.
He doesn't.
Wooyoung’s hand lifts, slow and searching, as though asking permission from something unseen. His fingers hover in the space between them before they descend, his thumb brushing gently against San’s lower lip where the skin has split.
San goes very still.
The warmth of the touch is almost unbearable. It burns in contrast to the unnatural chill of his body, seeping through the thin layer of skin until he can feel it everywhere, sharp and radiant. His breath catches—reflexive, useless.
Wooyoung leans closer, his voice softening into something almost prayerful. “You’re bleeding,” he murmurs. This time, the words are not a scold but a confession. Awe threads through every syllable, quiet and unguarded.
His thumb lingers, tracing the faint smear of red before the skin begins it's attempt of knitting itself back together. Under the low light, the wound gleams briefly, fragile and human. Wooyoung’s gaze follows the motion, then flickers to San’s mouth, to the faint edge of his fangs glinting behind parted lips. A breath slips from him, not fear, but fascination. He looks at San as though looking at something sacred and dangerous all at once. Something exquisite.
And then, as if drawn by instinct, Wooyoung’s hand slides along San’s jaw. The pad of his thumb comes to rest beneath his chin, and with the gentlest pressure, he coaxes San’s face upward.
San’s body obeys before his mind catches up. His eyes lift, locking with Wooyoung’s.
The effect is immediate, almost electric. Wooyoung sees it then: the hunger carved into the depths of San’s gaze, raw and unmasked. It isn’t just thirst. It’s starvation. The need to touch, to taste, to remember what warmth once felt like.
He shouldn’t.
Every instinct in San insists on it—sharp, primal, absolute. He shouldn’t breathe in this close, shouldn’t let the scent of living skin wrap itself around him like a memory. He shouldn’t let the warmth of Wooyoung’s touch seep past the thin threshold of his control. And yet he does.
Wooyoung doesn’t move away. His hand stays exactly where it is, thumb resting just below the split in San’s lip, as though the smallest shift might break the fragile balance between them. His touch is light, but there’s intent behind it—a steady insistence that makes San feel seen in a way he’s not ready for. The soft heat of human skin radiates against his cold flesh, a reminder of all that separates them and all that still binds them in this quiet, perilous intimacy.
When Wooyoung speaks again, his voice has gone quieter, lower, so close that the words seem to form against San’s mouth rather than reach him from a distance. “Still healing slow,” he murmurs, half to himself, the sound almost lost in the hush of the fire. “But you’re getting better at it.”
The gentleness of it undoes San more than any cruelty could.
He doesn’t trust his voice. His mouth is too dry, his tongue heavy with the memory of blood—iron and warmth and something heartbreakingly human. The taste lingers, stubborn as guilt. He can feel his fangs shift against the edges of his lips, a pressure building behind them, subtle but relentless. It feels like hunger and shame woven together into something he can’t name.
The ache deepens. His body remembers what his mind denies.
He swallows hard, a sound too loud in the small room. It seems to echo off the walls, amplified by silence. The fire pops once in the grate, then goes still again, its faint light flickering over the hollow of Wooyoung’s throat.
Wooyoung tilts his head slightly, studying him with a calm that borders on defiance. There’s no fear in his gaze. Only patience, deliberate and steady, the kind that feels more dangerous than courage. The air between them hums, alive with something neither dares to name. It trembles on the edge of danger, but refuses to fall.
He’s close enough that San can hear it now—the quiet rhythm beneath Wooyoung’s skin, that soft, steady pulse. A heartbeat. It thrums faintly through the air, through San’s chest, through the hollow where his own no longer answers. The sound catches him off guard every time. It’s an impossible melody, alive and utterly beyond him.
It’s exquisite torture. San shuts his eyes, as if that might drown it out.
For months, San has lived in its company, surrounded by the soft music of Wooyoung’s existence. That heartbeat has become his compass and his curse, the constant proof of life inside the walls they share. He’s learned it by ear without meaning to—the way it slows when Wooyoung reads in the evenings, quickens when laughter breaks from him unexpectedly, deepens when he sleeps.
He’s memorized it the way he once memorized prayers.
But sitting here, with Wooyoung standing before him, the sound is too near. It floods his senses, seeps into every crack of his restraint. His throat tightens; the hunger stirs, cruel and unfamiliar. He wants to pull away, but he can’t. The room feels smaller by the second.
San’s name falls from above him, from Wooyoung’s lips, fragile and dangerous—a sound meant for invocation, not for ordinary speech. It strikes the air between them and quivers there, faint and deliberate.
He shouldn’t have spoken.
It awakens every starved instinct buried beneath San’s borrowed calm. His hunger, which he has spent nights caging with iron discipline, stirs with the slow inevitability of the tide. It moves through him like a fever, spreading heat where no warmth should live. He feels it in the hollow of his chest, in the long, aching stretch of his throat, in the sharp throb behind his teeth.
Wooyoung’s pulse calls to him.
It is the softest of sounds—steady, human, unbearably close. A rhythm San cannot imitate, cannot replace, yet cannot live without. Each beat sends another ripple of longing through him until even stillness becomes unbearable.
He wants.
It terrifies him, the rawness of that wanting. The violence coiled beneath it.
He remembers the first few weeks after his rebirth: the dissonance of strength, the sick realization of what his hands could do if he stopped caring. How doors broke beneath his touch. How glass shattered when he tried to be gentle. He learned quickly that the world was suddenly too soft for him—that the very air bent differently around his body. Since then, he has moved with the restraint of a man forever on the verge of breaking something he loves.
And now, sitting before Wooyoung, that fragile discipline unravels thread by thread.
“Wooyoung,” he murmurs, the sound low, almost pleading. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”
A flicker of light from the hearth catches in Wooyoung’s eyes. He doesn’t step back. “Don’t I?”
San’s breath falters, more habit than necessity. “If I lose control—”
“Then don’t,” Wooyoung replies simply. His voice is calm, quiet, but there’s a current beneath it—something fearless and infuriatingly sure.
San’s jaw tightens. His fangs press against the inside of his mouth, aching with the sharp, exquisite pressure of denial. “You think it’s that easy,” he says, though the words are barely sound, shaped more from despair than reproach.
Wooyoung’s gaze softens. “I think you’re stronger than you believe.”
The words find their mark. They sink deep, deeper than any blade.
San’s hands twitch where they rest on his knees. He can feel the tremor in them—the tremor of wanting, of fear. His whole body hums with tension, the unnatural precision of his new form at war with the remnants of human restraint. Every sense is sharpened, every thread of air alive with the scent of warmth and blood.
Wooyoung steps even closer.
The distance between them collapses until there’s nowhere left for the air to go. His knees hit San’s, and for an instant, neither of them moves. Then San exhales, a soundless surrender, and shifts, spreading his legs just a bit more to let Wooyoung stand between them.
The motion feels heady, intimate in a way that takes him apart from the inside out. The heat of Wooyoung’s body seeps into the space he’s made, slow and deliberate, until it fills the air around him. He smells of rain and smoke, and beneath it, the living sweetness of skin. At the base of his throat, the rhythm flickers, fragile and defiant, a golden pulse mocking the stillness in San’s chest.
“Look me in the eyes, San,” Wooyoung says, and though his voice is soft, it leaves no room for disobedience.
San opens his eyes and obeys. He always does.
Their gazes lock, and the world contracts.
For one suspended moment, time grows thick and viscous; the air trembles with unspoken longing. Firelight dances across Wooyoung’s face, gilding his skin in warmth San can no longer feel. In his eyes, San sees his own reflection—pale, trembling, poised between reverence and ruin. He looks monstrous. Wooyoung looks back as though beholding a miracle.
The sight fractures him.
Without meaning to, San bows forward, the motion as instinctive as breathing once was. His body bends beneath the weight of something vast and uncontainable—craving, hunger, despair—until his forehead finds rest against Wooyoung’s stomach.
The contact is a shock. Heat radiates through the thin weave of fabric, alive and merciless, burning against his cold skin. It spreads like wildfire through his body, racing up his spine, blooming behind his ribs in something that feels dangerously close to life. Beneath that fragile barrier of linen, he can hear the muted rhythm of Wooyoung’s pulse—a low, insistent thrum, steady and human and impossibly near.
He lingers there, unmoving. The world seems to fold inward until all that exists is the soft rise and fall of Wooyoung’s breath beneath his brow. His own chest remains still, motionless as carved stone, and the contrast rends something open inside him. He presses a fraction closer, not in hunger but in need, as though proximity alone might remind him of what it once felt like to be human. His cool, useless breath ghosts across the fabric.
Wooyoung’s fingers find his hair. The touch is feather-light at first, hesitant, then deepens into a slow, careful stroke that steadies rather than startles. “Hey,” he whispers, voice quiet but unyielding, as though coaxing a frightened creature out of the dark. His thumb traces a gentle path along San’s scalp. “Come here.”
He resists for a moment, the tension in his body taut as drawn wire, but Wooyoung’s touch does not falter. Patient, persuasive, he guides him back, inch by inch, until San submits. The movement feels ceremonial, slow enough to belong to some ancient rite. When at last his back meets the couch, the air leaves him in a soundless sigh.
The room exhales with him. Firelight flickers, shadows shifting across their faces.
Wooyoung follows the motion, lowering himself with the same deliberate care until he straddles San’s lap. The heat of him seeps through every layer between them. For a breathless instant, neither moves. They hover in a balance so fragile it feels like it could break under the weight of a heartbeat.
San's gaze lifts, entirely uncertain.
“Please,” Wooyoung says then. The word flickers, soft and devastating, a plea and a prayer entwined. It carries the weight of surrender without the shape of fear.
Something inside San gives way—his restraint, his composure, the illusion that he can bear this distance. His hand rises slowly, as though moving through water thick with light. The motion is hesitant, until his fingers hover beneath the curve of Wooyoung’s jaw. He cannot bring himself to close the distance. The air between them hums, alive, unbearable.
He can truly hear it now, the river of blood coursing through living veins. It’s not just sound but vibration, scent, presence. It calls to the emptiness within him like prayer calls to a god.
Hunger climbs his throat, desperate, merciless. His lips part. His breath catches on the edge of nothing. He could have Wooyoung in a heartbeat. One movement—too quick, too strong—and all that warmth would turn to ruin.
His hand shakes where it hangs between salvation and destruction.
“Wooyoung,” he rasps, voice torn raw. The sound barely exists, a ghost of breath shaped into syllables. “You cannot comprehend what it costs me to stay my hand.”
Wooyoung’s breath catches, but his gaze does not waver. With infinite care, he reaches for him, fingertips brushing the back of San's wrist. Then, gently, inexorably, he guides it upward until San’s cold palm meets the heat of his throat. The contact is searing. The frantic beat beneath his skin strikes through San like lightning. He feels it echo in the hollow where his own heart should be. It feels like penance—like grace masquerading as punishment.
“I understand more than you think,” Wooyoung whispers. The words spill out soft as silk, but their truth cuts deep. “I’m not afraid of you, San-ah.”
The words strike him like an oath. Something sacred. Something damning.
San’s head bows as though beneath invisible weight. Hunger coils in his chest, a living, writhing thing, knotting tight around his ribs and crawling up his throat. His thumb drags slowly along the delicate column of Wooyoung’s throat. Beneath his touch, the pulse flutters, defiant and alive. He could end it. He could consecrate it. He could dissolve into the warmth of it entirely.
His fangs throb, a phantom ache born of hunger and desire, intertwined with utter denial. His mouth floods with the imagined taste of life, the pulse of it echoing like a distant drum he can never again join. Yet beneath that fever, some dim, stubborn ember of humanity claws at him, demanding stillness where instinct screams for ruin.
He leans closer. The motion is painstaking, deliberate, every inch of restraint trembling beneath the skin. His lips hover over the tender hollow of Wooyoung’s throat, where warmth gathers like spilled sunlight. The air there hums with the pulse of living life, vibrating against his senses. When his breath drifts across it, Wooyoung shivers not from fear, but from recognition, from the quiet acknowledgment of the need coiled between them.
The sound that escapes San is torn from somewhere deep and wretched—a quiet, fragmented thing, half hunger, half prayer. “I can’t,” he murmurs, the words collapsing as they leave him. “If I lose control, if I forget myself—”
“You’ll learn how to control it,” Wooyoung whispers, voice wavering but steadfast. “I know you will.”
Something inside San frays quietly, irrevocably. His lips find the curve of Wooyoung’s throat, ghosting there in a touch much too gentle to be called touch at all. The warmth of living flesh meets the chill of death restrained, and he inhales, slow and uneven, as if scent alone could replace blood, could sustain him.
He does not bite.
Instead, he presses a devastating kiss to the pulse that calls his name. The act feels like confession, like worship carved from agony. The tremor that overtakes him is violent, unstoppable, reverberating through every nerve. And when he speaks again, his voice is a whisper of ruin against the place where his teeth long to sink in.
“I would rather starve," he breathes, "than ever take the chance of hurting you."
Wooyoung's breath hitches, a small, almost imperceptible sound, sharp as ice in the marrow of his bones. His fingers thread into San's hair, firm yet feather-light, grounding him. It is a devotion so acute, it threatens to shatter the fragile veneer of composure San has so desperately clung to. It is a trembling born of faith, of surrender, of something older and more dangerous than mere desire.
"You won't," Wooyoung murmurs, the words low, almost sacred, carried on the flutter of his breath. "You won't hurt me, San, you need this."
San's throat tightens around the resonance of his name, a constriction born of need and disbelief. He longs—achingly, unbearably—to believe him, to tether himself to this delicate conviction that Wooyoung offers. To trust it more than the hunger coiling through him, molten and insistent, a living thing beneath his ribs, quivering and threatening to spill into ruin. He feels it there, everywhere, thrumming beneath the surface of his cold skin, a river of fire and longing that refuses to be bridled by reason or restraint.
His hands flex, claws of restraint against Wooyoung's hips, yet even in their hesitation, in their almost violent stillness—there is an urgent, tremulous need to anchor himself to the boy, to taste the warmth of his life without succumbing fully to the savage hunger that gnaws at him.
"Do you even know what you're saying?" San breathes, voice low and ragged, threaded with the thrum of desire and fear interlaced.
"I do," Wooyoung replies, his own voice shaking but resolute. "I'm asking you to trust me, the way I trust you."
The confession, soft as a dying wind, tears through him quietly, leaving nothing untouched. It is a shattering of self, a breaking apart of everything he has held fast to since the first stirrings of this ravenous rebirth. Veneration and hunger twist together, a double helix of longing and dread that tightens around his chest and refuses release.
San leans forward, forehead pressed against the curve of Wooyoung’s shoulder, seeking both solace and dominion, the warmth of him, the undeniable proof of life that sets his senses ablaze. For a long, suspended heartbeat, time itself seems to stall: the universe collapses into the exquisite, unbearable silence of his own suspension, punctuated only by the thunderous, irrepressible pulse beneath his lips. It is too bright, too sharp, too sacred, and yet it is everything he has ever wanted.
Then Wooyoung tilts his head back, a gesture so unguarded, so achingly deliberate, that it feels like a sacrament older than words. His throat is bare, unarmored, offering itself with quiet certainty and an unspoken challenge that only amplifies San’s torment. The scent of him—warm, alive, irrevocably human—floods San’s senses, drowning him, inflaming every nerve, every cell, every cracked fragment of restraint that has held him in check.
His fangs ache with the promise of sin and salvation alike. The world narrows, collapsing to the fragile, thudding beat beneath his lips, and the rest—the cosmos, the night, the shadows—fades into irrelevance.
“Please,” Wooyoung whispers, his voice so soft it might have been a sigh, yet so sharp it cleaves through the tension in San’s chest. “I don’t want you to starve, San-ah. You can only go for so long without it.”
The words tear through San’s chest. For a heartbeat, he forgets to breathe.
He goes utterly still, the weight of it sinking deep into him. The gentleness wounds more than any blade could. “There’s—there’s other ways,” he manages, though his voice breaks halfway through the sentence, rough and raw, as if the words themselves scrape against his throat.
Wooyoung’s lips part. He doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers, still caught in San’s hair, tighten—not in command, not in fear, but with the smallest tug of insistence. The touch is grounding, intimate, as though he’s holding San to the present, refusing to let him slip away into the panic and self-denial that always seems to follow.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low, steady, and unbearably kind. “Maybe,” he says. “But you don’t want the others.”
The truth hangs between them, quiet and undeniable, pulsing in time with Wooyoung’s heartbeat. San closes his eyes, and for a moment, he almost hates how right it feels.
The air thickens until it feels alive, and San can hear everything—the whisper of fabric when Wooyoung shifts, the uneven rhythm of their breathing, the pulse beneath that delicate stretch of skin calling to him like a siren’s hum. The world has narrowed to this one point of gravity, where life itself seems to gather and wait.
He leans in, lips and breath grazing the nape of Wooyoung’s neck. The scent of him hits sharp and heady, a pull that ignites the hunger coiling deep in San’s chest, rippling outward until even his hands feel unsteady, trembling with need. More than anything he’s ever wanted, he aches to touch, to taste, to claim the fullness of him, to know him in a way that leaves nothing hidden.
Wooyoung tilts his head a fraction to the side, a gesture small enough to seem casual, but deliberate in its invitation. His pulse leaps once beneath the skin, quick and strong. He doesn’t speak right away; when he does, the sound is quiet, breath threading through words that barely form. “Go on.”
That is all the permission San needs.
San’s mouth finds the place where warmth gathers, the hollow just below Wooyoung’s jaw. The skin there is soft, alive, carrying a rhythm that makes his head spin. He hesitates only a moment longer before pressing his lips to it—then lets his fangs break the surface.
The first taste sears through him. It is not what he expected; it is richer, more complex, full of warmth that rushes through his body like a current. For an instant, he forgets the stasis in his own veins, the silence where his heart used to be. The hunger that has haunted him since his turning flares bright, fierce, impossible to contain.
He drinks in measured pulls at first, careful, cautious. But control is fragile, and it fractures almost immediately under the onslaught of sensation. The taste is intoxicating—salt and fire, and something that feels like sunlight distilled into liquid form. It courses through him, dizzying and bright, stirring memory with every swallow.
A sound escapes him, low and involuntary. His hands slide to Wooyoung’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to steady himself. The world begins to blur around the edges—he can hear nothing but the soft melody of blood moving, feel nothing but the warmth flowing into him and the pulse against his lips.
Wooyoung moans softly, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of San’s neck, guiding him closer rather than pushing him away. His head falls back further, breath catching with each pull, and his body relaxes into San’s hold, as though trusting him completely. The air grows heavy with heat, with something between surrender and connection.
San loses himself for a moment—too long, too deep. The hunger drives him to draw harder, to follow the pulse as it quickens. He tastes the shift, the faint surge of adrenaline in the blood, the sharp edge of life in motion. It fills every hollow place inside him, quieting the ache that has ruled him since death.
When reason finally pierces through the fog of instinct, it takes effort to stop. He pulls back slowly, mouth lingering against the wound before his tongue smooths over the marks, coaxing it closed. The taste lingers, metallic and sweet, ghosting across his lips.
San lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with need, but his gaze locks on Wooyoung, who is flushed with parted lips, chest rising and falling in a ragged, beautiful rhythm. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin catches the light, and every curve, every shiver beneath San’s hands, strikes him like revelation. He wants to memorize it all—the softness of his throat, the tautness of his jaw, the way his pulse jumps under each brush of San’s fingers.
Wooyoung’s gaze lingers on him, wide and mesmerized, drinking in the sight of red smeared across San’s face—coating his lips, streaked along his jawline, staining his skin in messy, intimate trails. There’s a savage, bewitching beauty to it, a rawness that makes Wooyoung’s chest tighten and pulse with need.
Without thought, without the slightest pause, Wooyoung leans in, and his lips find San’s with a softness that belies the heat coiling in his chest. The first brush is tentative, as if testing the waters of a storm he cannot resist. Metallic tang clings to his tongue, mingling with the faint salt of sweat, and it makes his stomach twist with a heady, dizzying need. He tastes San—the warmth, the sharpness, the lingering trace of his own blood—and an almost desperate possessiveness flares within him, a desire to claim even a fragment of what has already ensnared him.
The kiss shivers into life, trembling, faltering, then gathering force as Wooyoung presses closer, seeking more, needing more. Their mouths align, teeth barely grazing, tongues brushing, each movement slow, deliberate, worshipful yet hungry. Heat blossoms between them, radiating outwards from their mouths to their chests, their waists, the points of skin pressed together, igniting every nerve. The taste of iron and sweetness, sharp and overwhelming, floods Wooyoung’s senses, and his body responds without thought, arching into San, hands tangling further in dark hair, knuckles grazing the cold skin of his neck and shoulders.
San’s hands move upward, brushing against the soft curve of Wooyoung’s ribcage, sliding with exquisite care along the ridges beneath the skin. Every motion is a study, a mapping of contours he had only ever traced in thought before. Wooyoung’s chest rises and falls in ragged cadence, and the tremor in his fingers sends a ripple of elation and hunger through him.
Wooyoung’s moans grow, soft and unrestrained, carried somewhere between sighs and murmurs, each one urging San closer, deeper. It’s a surrender that intoxicates him far more than the blood ever could: to be trusted so entirely, to be invited so wholly. San’s hands roam lower now, sliding beneath the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt, fingers pressing against warm skin, tracing the hollow of his lower ribs and the gentle sweep of his abdomen. Each touch makes Wooyoung shiver, his head lolling slightly, lips parting into quiet, almost breathless moans that echo like music against the dim walls.
San leans in, forehead brushing Wooyoung’s temple, breathing mingling with the faint ferrous flavor still on his lips. His hands are insistent but tender, exploring with a hunger that is both carnal and devotional, mapping every curve and plane. Wooyoung tilts his head back, exposing the hollow of his neck again, shivering under the trail of San’s fingers along the sensitive line from collarbone to shoulder. There is a bliss in Wooyoung’s expression—a half-lidded surrender, a slow smile twisting at the corners of his lips, the kind of light that seems to shimmer beneath the skin.
San’s hand slides firmly down the curve of Wooyoung’s spine, pressing him closer until their bodies align in a near-sacred symmetry. Everything narrows to the space between them: the heat of shared skin, the steady rise and fall of Wooyoung’s chest beneath his hand, the subtle tremor that runs through him every time San’s presence brushes too near. Each touch is deliberate, almost ritualistic, as though they are mapping one another, learning the hidden topography of muscle and sinew, of warmth and pulse.
His lips hover just above the curve of Wooyoung’s jaw, so close that he can feel the warmth rising off his skin. The scent that reaches him is dizzying—clean soap clinging to the edges of sweat, the faint salt of exertion, and something ineffable that is purely Wooyoung: the way sunlight and sleep and quiet breath might smell if they could be held in a single breath. San lingers there, inhaling as though he might memorize the pattern of it, the way it changes with each shallow exhale.
When he finally lowers his mouth to the tender space beneath Wooyoung’s ear, the kiss is deliberate, a slow press of lips that lingers heavily. His tongue grazes the thrum of a vein, tasting the faint metallic whisper beneath the skin—the suggestion of blood, the echo of life. There is no rush in him now, only the meticulous patience of someone trying to understand, to listen, to learn the body beneath his hands. He follows Wooyoung’s pulse with his mouth, tracing its rhythm, pausing when it stutters, adjusting when it races, moving with the ebb and swell of Wooyoung’s surrender until each motion feels like a shared breath.
Wooyoung arches against him without thought, the motion unguarded and pure, his body offering itself in quiet trust. It steals San’s breath—the simplicity of that trust, the vulnerability of it. Wooyoung’s sighs spill out in ripples, warm against San’s skin, each one fragile and unsteady, anchoring him even as they both begin to drift. His hands clutch at San’s shoulders, nails digging through fabric, desperate for something solid. The slide of their bodies—the friction of cotton against skin, of warmth meeting warmth—sharpens into something unbearable. Every brush of contact, every shared inhale, seems magnified, as though the world beyond the space between them has gone utterly still.
"…More," Wooyoung whispers. "Can drink more, Sannie, it's okay."
The words strike like a bell through fog. San freezes, lips barely parted, the taste of him still lingering on his tongue. For an endless second, he can’t breathe. The urge to take more—to have—rises sharp and undeniable, but so does the weight of responsibility that has always kept him grounded. The air feels heavier now, charged with the collision of want and restraint.
“I—” His voice comes out rough, halting. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Wooyoung.”
But Wooyoung only presses closer. Their chests meet, and the faint rub of fabric between them is unbearable, too much and not enough. His voice, when it comes again, is a sigh that wracks through both of them. “Want you to,” he whispers, soft and wrecked, as though confessing a secret meant for no one else. “Please… don’t I taste good? Want you to be full.”
San’s breath stutters. The words slide into him like a blade sheathed in velvet—soft, irresistible, dangerous. His name on Wooyoung’s tongue unravels him, every syllable dipped in want. The pulse beneath Wooyoung’s skin thrums like an invitation, like a promise he shouldn’t accept.
“Young-ah,” he breathes, helplessly. His hand slides up, finding the back of Wooyoung’s neck, fingers threading through the fine hair there, holding him gently. The tremor that passes through him is unmistakable—a shiver born of fear and longing in equal measure. He tilts Wooyoung’s head back slightly, and his eyes catch on the faint, half-healed mark on tanned skin. It’s a small thing, hardly visible, but it feels monumental, proof of a boundary already crossed.
The sight of it breaks something inside him.
And then Wooyoung moves—just a subtle shift of his hips, a slow roll that drags against San’s lap in a rhythm that feels like sin incarnate. The sound that leaves San’s throat is low, involuntary, something between a groan and a prayer. His control, so carefully held, snaps. Heat floods him, sharp and consuming, tearing through the remnants of restraint like fire through paper.
Wooyoung’s breath hitches. His lips part on a trembling sound that seems to vibrate through both of them. When his eyes flutter open, they’re unfocused, dark and shining, pupils blown wide with want. “C’mon…” he breathes, voice soft and coaxing, every syllable threaded with want. “Please…”
The word slides through the air like silk, curling around San’s resolve. Wooyoung moves again, slower this time, a languid grind that sends a shiver through both of them. The tension between them hums, electric and fragile. Each breath is a plea, each heartbeat a surrender.
San’s fingers tighten against the back of his neck, grounding himself in the warmth of Wooyoung’s skin. He can feel the pulse there, racing beneath his thumb—a rhythm that seems to call to him, urging him to follow. The space between them collapses; his forehead rests briefly against Wooyoung’s temple. Their breaths mingle—ragged, uneven, indistinguishable.
The room feels smaller now, the air thick with heat and shadow. The firelight flickers across their faces, catching on the sheen of sweat at Wooyoung’s collarbone, the trembling at the corner of his mouth. San can taste his breath, can feel the soft tremor that runs through him with each roll of his hips. Every movement, every sound, feeds the ache curling low in his body until restraint feels like a thread ready to snap.
San’s breath comes rough against Wooyoung’s skin, shallow and ragged, a silent mirror of the storm coiling low in his chest. Every nerve feels alive, buzzing with the impossible effort of restraint—holding back when every instinct in him screams to take, to claim, to drink. His hands grip the curve of Wooyoung’s body lightly at first, brushing along the softness of his ribs, tracing the subtle swell of muscle, feeling the heat that rises to meet him. He can sense the quickening pulse beneath his fingertips, each beat frantic, urgent, fluttering like a trapped bird beneath his hand. The intimate sound sets his senses on fire, a blaze that runs from his chest through his limbs, leaving him torn between desire and control.
Slowly, carefully, San shifts his weight, adjusting the angle so that the press of his body aligns perfectly with Wooyoung’s. His hand drifts lower, sliding along the curve of his side, fingers brushing against the gentle tilt of his hips, coaxing him to move, to roll, to arch. It’s a subtle guidance, soft but insistent, a choreography of want that Wooyoung responds to instinctively. San’s chest tightens with the exquisite ache of connection. He lets himself linger in the contact, memorizing the way Wooyoung yields, the softness of his skin under his palm, the warmth that spreads like liquid fire through them both.
Their lips meet again, lips and tongue tracing, tasting, seeking, lingering. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory, a delicate dance of curiosity and need, but it deepens almost without thought, urgent now, edging toward desperation yet still tempered by an unspoken tether of control. Wooyoung presses into him, chest to chest, every inch of his body pliant, warm, a living invitation, and San feels the ache coil tighter, sharper, unbearable in its intensity.
Wooyoung’s hands slide down to San’s biceps, nails grazing lightly over taut muscle, anchoring himself, searching for purchase, for some sense of grounding as he surrenders. There’s a silent language in the touch, a desperate, wordless request for more, for closer, for the intimacy of full, mutual surrender. Every press of skin to skin, every shiver that runs through Wooyoung at the brush of San’s hand, every breath that hitches and trails off into a sigh, is a pull, a thread that tugs at San, threatening to unravel every ounce of restraint he’s clung to.
San pauses for just a fraction, forehead brushing against Wooyoung’s temple, letting the warmth of him seep into his senses. “Do you want me… like this?” he murmurs, low and rough, each word weighed with need.
Wooyoung swallows, breath hitching, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “I want—all of you, San-ah,” he whispers, voice shaking with urgency.
San shifts slightly, easing one hand beneath Wooyoung’s back, the other still resting on his hip, and carefully guides him down onto the couch. Wooyoung lets himself sink into the cushions, pliant and open, tilting his head to the side, lips parted. San’s chest tightens at the sight, every inch of him alert, every nerve coiled with desire.
Wooyoung’s chest rises and falls in shallow, urgent breaths. "Fuck, closer," he murmurs, voice husky.
San leans in, pressing his body down just slightly, feeling the warmth of Wooyoung beneath him. With a deliberate motion, he guides one of Wooyoung’s legs up and around his waist, sliding his hand to cradle the back of his thigh. The movement pulls them even closer, bodies aligning in a taut, electric connection, their crotches brushing, a friction so small yet so devastating it sends a jolt through both of them. Wooyoung arches instinctively, a soft, helpless moan escaping him, and San lets out a low, rough exhale, the sound slipping out unconsciously, a release he hadn’t realized he was holding back.
Their lips meet again, slow and consuming, tasting, teasing, as San slides a hand along Wooyoung’s side, letting it drift lower, tracing the gentle slope of his hips. “You feel so alive,” he murmurs, teeth grazing the shell of Wooyoung’s ear. “Every part of you…”
San tilts his head, lips brushing the hollow of Wooyoung’s neck, teasing the sensitive skin there. The faint pulse beneath his jaw, the soft tremor that runs through his body, draws a low, sharp sound from him—a gasp, a whimper, a surrender that twists something deep inside San. He leans in further, lips grazing the curve of Wooyoung’s throat, tongue flicking just enough to taste, to feel, to pull the reaction from him.
He hesitates for the briefest second, tasting the frantic rhythm of Wooyoung’s pulse under his lips, feeling the shiver that runs through him at every brush of teeth and tongue. Then, with a low growl, he presses closer, letting his fangs brush lightly against the soft, sensitive skin of Wooyoung’s neck. The sharp intake of breath that follows is music—raw, intimate, intoxicating.
“Again, please, San,” Wooyoung gasps, nails digging lightly into San’s shoulders, voice thick with need. “Bite me—drink, don’t stop.” His words are frantic, practically pleading, and San can feel the little restraint he has left unraveling tenfold, every nerve alight with the ache of want.
San tilts his head, lips parting, fangs grazing the hollow of Wooyoung’s neck. He bites—not cruelly, but fully, tasting the sweet, copper warmth of Wooyoung’s blood. The sound that escapes Wooyoung is pure ecstasy, a high, shivering gasp that twists through San like fire. Each pulse beneath his fangs sends heat racing through his own chest, and his hands roam possessively, exploring the slick, pliant body beneath him, grounding him even as his thirst surges.
Wooyoung arches, trembling violently, fingers digging into San’s shoulders as he presses into the bite, a low whimper escaping his lips. “Fuck, San-ah—yes—just like that…” His words are feverish, begging, and San obeys, drinking with deliberate, controlled hunger. He traces the bite with tongue and teeth, tasting the sharp sweetness, savoring the shivers that ripple down Wooyoung’s spine with every touch.
San’s hands slide over Wooyoung’s chest, rolling his nipples between thumb and finger, teasing, flicking, while his fangs graze the tender skin of the bite. Wooyoung cries out, hips rocking almost involuntarily, moans spilling in ragged, desperate bursts. The combination of pain and pleasure—the raw, intimate connection of predator and prey—pushes him to the brink.
The effect is overwhelming. Wooyoung’s body trembles violently, every fiber taut with need, as he grinds against San with an almost desperate intensity. Each touch of San’s hands across his ribs, each deliberate flick of teeth along his neck, each soft, scorching brush of tongue, sends jolts of fire spiraling through him. His chest heaves, ragged breaths hitching in his throat, while his hips press upward, seeking more, needing more, unable to stop.
Wooyoung’s fingers dig into San’s shoulders, nails raking through flesh, seeking purchase as if it will anchor him to the earth while his body spins into unabating euphoria. His back arches, trembling, every muscle taut, and his lips part in a shuddering gasp that slides into a moan, low and ragged, spilling around the taste of blood and heat and desire. The mingling of the bite, the soft, insistent press of San’s hands, and the intimate warmth of his body presses Wooyoung further and further over the edge, until a shuddering, ragged scream tears itself free, vibrating through the room, leaving him gasping, utterly undone beneath San’s weight.
But San doesn’t relent. Even as Wooyoung’s body convulses, caught in the aftermath of release, San keeps drinking, slow, deliberate, reverent. Each tremor, each sigh, each rapid, staccato heartbeat is savored beneath his fangs. His hands roam freely now, memorizing the rise and fall of skin, the subtle swell of muscle, the small, involuntary quivers that come only from full surrender. He traces them with possessiveness, fingertips brushing over hot, slick skin, tracing the curve of Wooyoung’s ribs, the gentle sweep of his abdomen, the way his muscles coil beneath the smallest pressure.
Finally, with a soft, controlled shift, San pulls back just enough to meet Wooyoung’s gaze. His eyes, dark and molten, glint with a raw, possessive hunger that makes Wooyoung shiver all over. San’s chest heaves, still thrumming with the heat of exertion, and his hips shift instinctively, rutting against Wooyoung’s, hard and insistent, pressing them together with a friction so sharp it makes the air between them almost sizzle.
“You’re mine,” San growls, low and guttural, the words rolling off his tongue like a command, thick with weight and ownership. “All of you… mine.”
Wooyoung’s breath catches, throat tight with awe and want, his eyes glassy and wide. “San—ah—yeah, yours,” he murmurs, voice trembling, words barely audible over the ragged rhythm of his heart.
San’s hand slides possessively down Wooyoung’s hip, curving around the swell of his thigh, holding him in place as he grinds again, deliberate and sharp. Every motion is a claim, each press of his body a mark of ownership, and the hard, urgent length of him presses insistently, stirring the coil of raw need in his belly until every nerve demands release.
Their lips collide again, hot and claiming, teeth grazing, tongue pressing insistently, tasting, marking, imprinting. Each moan, each shiver that wracks Wooyoung’s body fuels the fire in San’s chest, a streak of hunger blazing hotter with every sound, every movement, every pulse of surrender.
“Look at me,” San demands, voice husky, almost a growl. “See who you belong to.”
Wooyoung meets him without hesitation, heat pooling in his eyes, surrender curling through him like liquid fire. “I’m yours, only yours,” he breathes, fingers tangling in San’s hair, pressing, claiming the man who holds him so completely.
San ruts harder, hips grinding with pressing insistence, each motion sharp, unrelenting, staking claim in the space between them. He buries his face into Wooyoung’s neck again, breathing ragged and hot, fangs brushing sensitive skin, murmuring possessive praises between ragged breaths. Each word, each motion, a mark, a seal on the body and the heart that already belong to him.
The tension coils tighter, unbearable, until San finally gives in to the mounting, insistent ache. With a guttural, shuddering exhale, he releases, pressing every ounce of heat and desire into Wooyoung’s pliant body. The sensation is so intense it leaves them both trembling, pressed together, breath mingling, skin slick and warm, utterly and irrevocably claimed.
Slowly, carefully, San shifts his weight, adjusting the angle so that the press of his body aligns perfectly with Wooyoung’s. His hand drifts lower, sliding along the curve of his side, fingers tracing lazy circles over damp skin as he steadies his breathing. The air around them is thick with heat and iron and something heady, almost sacred—the aftermath of hunger sated and control lost.
Wooyoung’s body is pliant beneath him, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm. His lashes flutter against flushed cheeks, lips parted just enough to let out quiet, breathy whimpers.
That's when San notices it.
The pallor creeping beneath Wooyoung’s skin, the way his chest heaves in a rhythm that’s faltering, uneven—not from pleasure, but exhaustion. His pulse flutters beneath San’s hand, quick and fragile, too faint in certain beats, too urgent in others. The haze of possessive triumph vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sharp, stabbing rush of dread.
“Wooyoung?” San’s voice is low, cracking at the edges as it cuts through the heat and stillness.
Wooyoung blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, trying to focus through the lingering haze. “M’fine,” he murmurs, the words slurred with the remnants of pleasure. His hand lifts weakly, fingertips brushing against San’s cheek in a fleeting, trembling caress. “Just… dizzy.”
San shifts more fully, easing his weight off him, the subtle relief of motion tempered by a gnawing worry. His gaze drops to the tiny, red punctures marking the soft skin of Wooyoung’s neck—the bite he had left moments ago, already knitting closed but still tender, still too raw. He curses under his breath, thumb brushing against the wound with a mix of guilt and frantic tenderness.
“I shouldn't have taken so much,” San says quietly, though his tone carries more fear than reprimand. “You’re too pale.”
Wooyoung exhales a faint, breathless laugh, eyes half-lidded, cheeks tinged with a returning flush. “You say that like I didn’t ask for it,” he whispers, wry amusement threading through the haze in his voice. “Didn’t exactly stop you, did I?”
San swallows, exhaling shakily, running a damp hand through his hair, every motion threaded with guilt. “You shouldn’t have to stop me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve—”
“Sweetheart,” Wooyoung interrupts softly, reaching for him again, guiding his attention back with a gentle, insistent touch. “Hey. I’m fine. Just… need a second. Maybe some water. And…” His eyes flick downward, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips as a faint blush creeps back into his cheeks. “I really wanna change my pants.”
For a moment, San just stares at him—equal parts horrified and exasperated—before a quiet, helpless laugh escapes him. The sound is soft, frayed at the edges, but it’s enough to loosen the knot of fear in his chest.
"Yeah, okay," he whispers, chuckling. "We can change your pants."