Work Text:
It was deep night already; he should have left three or four hours ago, but the strain to his muscles was a welcomed pain; he didn’t have more sweat to sweat; the steps kept becoming sharper and more refined which each pass, and, at the same time, he kept finding different errors that he had to correct.
The place was cold. A majestic mirrored room with marble floors and a high roof held by white marble pillars, only slightly decorated. It was December 1st, and the dance had to be ready and perfected by the end of the week.
It was his third consecutive year as the danseur, and he wasn’t planning on giving up the place anytime soon.
Then he heard it.
A loud knock against the big glass doors of the balcony. The room was on the third floor of the grand building, so it was no easy feat to get there. He dismissed it, probably a big bird. Maybe a cat.
It would be nice if it were a cat. He had always wanted to have one. But he had been part of an itinerant company for a while, and that was no life for a cat. Then, he had joined the grand ballet company, and he had only a couple of hours for himself a day, that, also wasn’t life for a cat.
Ignoring it once he thought about it being a cat was difficult.
The difference in light inside and outside made it impossible for him to see anything. If it were a cat, it wouldn’t be there anymore, anyway. But what if it were hurt?
He fell on his pirouette, bending his ankle and yelping.
Damn, he was getting distracted.
It was okay; it’d only be a look, and it would serve as a quick break for his ankle, and he would be back to the dance to polish the last movements before going home.
He opened the big crystal doors; thankfully they weren’t locked for the night yet, as he was the one responsible for it.
In front of him, a man with long black hair stood with a hand on the railway, the other on his side, covered in blood that was also drenching his dark silk shirt, opened almost all the way, revealing a deeply scratched chest.
“What’s- What?” Minho exclaimed, looking around for the source of the harm and moving forwards just in time to catch the man falling on top of him.
He felt his knees buckling, threatening to fail him and leave both of them outside on the freezing night, over the snow collected on the balcony.
But he was strong, stronger that his build let on, and he could drag the man inside, getting himself covered in blood too; from where his chest was plastered against the man’s, to his thighs and legs, where the blood from his side was dripping, leaving him not only damp, but wet with it.
It was too much blood; everything smelled metallic, repulsive, like he was back in the slaughterhouse he had worked on to pay for his ballet classes.
He held himself against the wall inside and slid down with the man on top of him. Once they hit the floor, the man opened his eyes again. He looked relaxed, like he wasn’t dying, but falling asleep.
“Pretty boy, you should had let me die.”
Minho was taken aback by the words. That was really what was going on, wasn’t it? There was a man dying in his arms.
The room didn’t seem to be cold anymore, his muscles didn’t hurt, his ankle wasn’t protesting the strain of being on his knees, holding the man’s body over his lap, an extra weight on it.
He couldn’t feel the man’s heartbeat; he wasn’t sure how to do so; should he take his pulse? He couldn’t feel his breath either, even when he tried to put his finger against his strong nose; nothing came out.
His skin was clear as the marble on the floor, and his veins very prominent even when almost all the man’s blood wasn’t in his body anymore.
“It’s there a way- can I help?” Minho asked, his voice coming out rough, too many hours of not talking, even before everyone left; he didn’t talk to the company usually, keeping to himself, putting all his energy on his dancing.
The man opened his eyes again and smiled. A cruel little smile, laughing at both of them; when he opened his mouth again, Minho realized it was bloodied too, his dry lips were bleeding.
“Blood.”
Minho squinted his eyes. Yes, ‘blood’, blood was everywhere, all over him, and all over Minho too. But also, blood?
“I need your blood.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Minho answered, and the man laughed, tried too, holding his body with the little strength he had left, coughing some more blood that, luckily, didn’t leave his mouth.
“Me neither,” he answered, and he closed his eyes again.
Minho wasn’t going to let a man die in his arms. He tried to slap his cheek and get him to open his eyes again; but as he got his arm over the man’s face, he felt an unbearable pain on his wrist.
He yanked his arm back, the man’s head following it.
“What the hell!” Minho looked at the damaged wrist, bloodied, a deep cut on it from yanking his arm back when the man bit him; because that was what had happened, the man had bitten him.
“Sorry. Just, let me go,” the man whispered, licking around his lips, trying to get each drop of blood that hadn’t made it to his mouth.
Minho could see the way he was looking at the wounded wrist, hungry, like he was keeping himself back from attacking it again.
It was delirious. Minho was no doctor, but he knew it didn’t work like that; it couldn’t. Drinking blood… that was out of dread stories, not something that happened in real life.
But if that was what could save the man…
He had to try.
He took one last look at his wrist; the blood was dripping off the wound; it felt so warm, his life sliding down and away from him in such a neat string of red. Then, he looked at the man, eyes closed again; his side had almost stopped bleeding, but that wasn’t a good sign at all, Minho knew.
He moved his hand over the man’s mouth; it didn’t even take a single drop for him to notice; maybe he could smell it, or maybe he felt the heat; either way, he hurried to get the wrist over his mouth once more.
Minho felt the pain again, stronger than before, maybe because it was perforating already tender skin. He sank further into his shins, and his ankle protested it, but the pain on his arm was way stronger.
It felt as if the whole extremity was being sliced open and then salted. He scrunched his eyes, bit the insides of his mouth hard enough to make them bleed; he felt them slicing open under his own teeth.
Whatever the man biting him was, it wasn’t human. He didn’t have the teeth of a human, at least, or the strength a dying man should have.
Then, as quickly as the pain had come, it was gone.
Relief.
Relief like he had never felt before, nor the nights of drinking out, forgetting about the disappointed faces in his family when he decided to be a dancer, ever brought to him; neither like the soft delicate skin of his beloved hyung, to whom he would never confess to, felt like in his dreams.
It was worse than both; he could feel himself getting desperate if he never got to feel it again.
And then, as his eyes closed for just a moment, relishing the feeling, the heat started.
All-consuming, making his body tremble, like he had been injected the serum some idiots talked about, the one that was supposed to revive some poor old man’s desire.
He felt his whole body burning, desire pooling in his lower stomach.
He opened his eyes again and pulled his arm away, just a little, making the man move with it; he really seemed to be recovering, his veins softening sightly, and the deep lacerations on his chest closing.
Minho would be far more surprised if he weren’t feeling so… needy.
He heard himself, an undistinguished noise of shame, as he tried to gain access to his own crotch, the man still laying over him.
He took pity on Minho. He looked up for just a second, saw Minho’s desire in his eyes and smiled around Minho’s wrist, his lips caressing his skin and making him shiver.
He let go for a moment, licking at the wound and making it close; Minho was breathing quickly, even the movement of the man getting off Minho’s lap was almost too much for him.
The man moved, made Minho open his legs further, and, when he felt like it wasn’t enough, he pushed them away with his own knee.
Minho felt humiliated, his erection so clear even with the unbearable pressure of his dance belt. But the man didn’t even acknowledge it, just getting himself in between Minho’s thighs and getting a hand under his chin.
“What’s your name, pretty boy?” he asked, his voice sultry, his mouth messy with blood, the white of his fangs almost completely gone by the red.
“Minho,” he whispered, unsure if giving his name to him was like giving it to a fairy.
“I’m so sorry, Minho. Are you hurting anywhere?” the man asked; Minho shook his head. “That’s good,” he said; he took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and straightened, but his neck kept bending forwards, trying to reach for Minho’s like a magnet to metal. “I’ll go then-”
Minho caught his arm, almost made him fall forward, his hand landing right between his knees and Minho’s crotch, his head almost knocking against Minho’s shoulder. He stayed there even when Minho let go of his forearm.
“What’s your name?” Minho asked. His voice was dripping honey; he felt disgusted with himself, the way he was so uncontrollably wanting that stranger man to stay, to touch him.
To bite him again.
“Chan,” he said, a smile showing his dimples.
“You’re still hurt. We should get you to a doctor-”
Chan's smile widened; he moved to peel away the place where the silk shirt had stuck to his skin with dried blood; it seemed to hurt, but, under it, as Minho saw, the wound had already healed itself.
“You should go to sleep, pretty boy; forget about this.”
“How am I supposed to forget about this? This is- This is law-defying. Who the hell are you?”
“I already told you. But don’t worry, you’ll forget anyway.”
“I don’t want to.”
Chan laughed; Minho squinted his eyes. Then he moved away.
“It was nice meeting you,-”
“Minho.”
“Minho,” Chan smiled; his teeth were clean again, pearly white. “Be sure to rest plenty.”
Minho was left gaping and on his knees, seeing as the man left from the same balcony he had appeared on.
It was like a bad dream, a sordid nightmare because of his own repressed desires. And he felt so tired.
Tired enough to just lie back against the wall and let himself drift off to sleep.
---
The next morning found him at the practice room; he must have passed out during his own training. Weak.
He tried to move his muscles; nothing hurt too much, except for maybe his wrist and his ankle, but he didn’t remember falling… ah, yes, there had been that one failed pirouette. It made sense.
He went to the showers and put on the clothes he had gone to the studio with last day, a thick coat too, protecting him from the morning cold as he walked back home, to the little one room attic he could afford with his pay in the busy city.
It was cold enough to still keep on the coat, even when the heating was supposed to be on in the building.
He drifted to sleep again, in his dreams a man appeared, his voice was like a whisper, and Minho kept trying to get closer and closer to hear him, but it was never enough, even sitting on his lap, the man’s lips brushing his ear, it was not enough.
Minho woke up in shock, not sure who that handsome man was or why he had dreamt of him.
That afternoon, he stayed late at the studio, and his eyes kept darting towards the balcony, like he was expecting to see something there.
On his way home, he felt like he was being followed; he couldn’t shake the feeling off even when each time he turned, he didn’t see anything or anyone weird.
It went on for weeks.
And then, during their first show, a face in the audience caught his attention.
Handsome man, strong nose, long black hair slicked back, plump lips slightly open in awe. His eyes always following Minho, his director told Minho to tease him.
Minho shook it off; he didn’t think of it as he got ready to go home, even when he felt followed again, like someone was breathing on his neck, stepping his same steps.
The next night, the man was there again. Minho didn’t see him, but his first dancer told him, giggling, saying that he looked rich and would make a good husband, if only she liked boys. Minho's smile twitched; she was too liberal; it wasn’t that weird in ballet, not as weird as it was in the rest of the world, but even so, she shouldn’t tell.
The man kept coming. Again and again. Minho or some other member of the company would catch a flash of his face, always in awe, always looking at Minho.
But he never stayed back, never tried to talk to any of them; he even brushed off the lady selling the tickets when she offered meeting the company, saying he just really liked the show the first time.
He was always alone, arrived two minutes before the start of the show and left exactly as soon as the first bow was over.
And just like that, the play run was over with and the man disappeared again, never crossing a word with anyone, much less Minho.
But the sensation of being followed didn’t end.
Minho connected the two, the mysterious man and the feeling of being watched; not because he had any actual proof, it simply felt right, plausible, somehow, for the mysterious man to keep observing him from afar.
He tried to be cautious, always going back home with some other dancer or trying to stay not as late at the studio.
It worked. And when days became longer, the sensation almost completely disappeared. Whoever or whatever was following him would never do so if it was still light outside. So Minho pushed himself to wake up earlier and go to the studio before practice started, instead of staying late.
It worked. For a while.
“We all are getting old; it works like that, Minho. I think you have one more year as the danseur before they pick a younger one,” the other dancer said.
He was mean. He was trying to be so. Pick on Minho because in all their years at the same company, he had never ever come closer to surpassing Minho.
But that didn’t make it less true.
“At least, I’ll know what I’m missing, instead of just fantasizing about it,” Minho spat back, pouting a little at the end like he was still talking about himself, and not throwing it all back to the mean dancer.
The other man gritted his teeth. Minho finished changing and went out the building, not caring about taking anyone with him back home, not even the pretty girl that had been accompanying him lately.
He was right, that fucker; he was right.
The years kept passing, and he was getting old for a danseur; of course, he had more years than a ballerina but someday, soon enough, they would drop him. Tell him they would have one last dance in his honor, if he was lucky enough. One dance where everyone would comment on his undying beauty and grace.
Like he was already dead.
He kept squaring his jaw, shaking his head, trying to shake the feeling away.
He knew he shouldn’t, but when a pub at the corner of the road appeared, with its warm light and lively atmosphere full of people throwing away their lives… he couldn’t resist it.
The owner recognized him. He said that everyone who came there after the show talked about his beauty more than that of the ballerina. Minho smiled and got the free beer the man offered.
After that, one became two, became three… and then a couple guys were giving him shoots, and a woman twice Minho’s age, with his boobs way too visible, was putting a shoot there and making him take it with his teeth as the crow cheered. The hours kept dancing around him like the handsome guys did, so close to him that he could almost taste them, even when they always ended up leaving with one of the hookers.
He left the pub tumbling, the clock far past midnight, and someone was following him.
Each time he turned, he felt his brain slapping against the sides of his skull; but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of someone being there.
“Stop following me, creep!” he shouted in the middle of a small street. He was going crazy. No one answered, of course; no one was there with him.
And then he heard it.
“Help!”
And that voice he recognized. A girl from the company, the pretty girl that had been going back with him. She lived a few blocks away from his; they would always talk at her door for a while before she got in. They talked about cats and the prima ballerina and her eccentricities, and the pretty girl would get very shy talking about her and Minho would tease and-
He found her in an alley, cheek against a wall as a man raised her skirt.
Minho had been a fighter when he was still part of a wandering troupe; he still remembered how to make teeth jump out of mouths.
He was quick; he hit the man and heard his knuckles breaking more than felt them; the man’s jaw cracking open, he fell to the side.
The pretty girl got herself together just enough to run off from the alley as the other man tried to get up.
“Was she your bitch? Fuck!” the man slurred, spatting blood to the ground.
Minho didn’t give him the opportunity to stand up, kicking his stomach and making him curl over himself, trapping Minho’s leg. He tried to bite him; Minho felt the pressure as he kicked away, freeing his leg.
He was reminded of something, just for a moment.
But then the man was moving again, and taking a knife out of his pocket, just quick enough to slice through Minho’s pants in a desperate attempt, slicing his leg but not deep enough for it to be close to life-threatening.
“You need that for girls to listen to you, don’t you?” Minho said.
The man laughed.
“Pretty boys, too.”
That was the last thing he said.
Minho felt a current of air just as he was getting ready to fight for his life. And the man wasn’t on the floor in front of him anymore, but at the back of the alley, throat sliced open.
“Fuck!” Minho exclaimed.
It had been too quick, and Minho wasn’t sure if that thing was going to get him too; he tried to back up, but in an instant, it was over him, holding him to the wall. On his knees in front of Minho.
“You’re the man”, Minho whispered, recognizing him; and then he yelled, “Let me go!”
“It’s okay. You’re hurt. I’m sorry; I was too slow. Let me heal you.”
“What? What are you talking about! You just killed a man!”
“Do you really care about him?” he asked; raising his head.
“Chan,” Minho whispered. The man, Chan, smiled, showing his dimples.
It washed like a wave over him. Minho remembered parts of it; he must have mixed some of his dreams in too, because he was sure he hadn’t let a man drink his blood.
Had that really happened? It just couldn’t.
Chan ripped the cut in his pants further apart, getting access to the wound underneath.
“It’s not like they were salvageable, right?” Chan said as an apology, looking up and moving Minho’s foot so it was on top of Chan’s lap, letting him take a better look at the wound.
Minho would have replied something like that his mom was a skilled seamstress and she very much could have salvaged the expensive pants. But he was still in shock.
Chan pressed around the wound, making Minho wince; he apologized after.
“It’s not too deep, but it’s not good for a dancer to have an open wound. I know you won’t treat it properly.”
“How do you know that?” Minho asked, swallowing. Minho knew how Chan knew things about him, like that he was more worried about the dance than his body; Chan knew it because the one following him had been him; it had to be him.
Chan looked up again, batted his eyelashes and smiled, like that would render him innocent of all charges.
“I can help heal it, but…”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You don’t have to move from here.”
“I didn’t know you had a first-aid kit up your ass, sorry.”
Chan laughed, still looking up at Minho, his hand still holding Minho’s leg.
“You do remember me, a little, at least, right?”
“I think I do,” Minho said, as Chan pulled the two halves of his broken pantleg apart, and licked his index finger, before he started to try to clean the blood away. “There’s no way that’s going to help. I need my leg, please don’t get me an infection.”
“Do you like cats?”
“What- Yes,” Minho answered. Chan did the same again, cleaning a little more, but it was far from enough to even get rid of the superficial blood, much less do something, whatever Chan was trying to do, to the wound. “What’s does that have to do with this?”
“You know they lick their wounds? It’s good for them.”
Minho laughed; “I knew you were crazy, but I didn’t suspect you believed yourself a cat.”
“Meow?” Chan said, looking up; Minho laughed again. “You have a beautiful laugh,” Chan said; Minho looked away; he tried to look annoyed and take his leg off Chan’s thigh, but Chan didn’t let him. “Just let me try this, yes?”
Minho rolled his eyes. A big part of him was sure that Chan was going to drug him, and he was going to wake up in a dimly lighted basement in a rural area, defiled and missing some organs. The other part, way smaller, was getting increasingly heated at the continuous image of Chan on his knees in front of him, in a dimly lighted alley, his mouth so close to his skin as he-
“What the fu-” Minho tried to move his leg away again.
“Shh, I promise I won’t bite,” Chan said, keeping him still.
“So are you going to lick my wound? That’s not better!”
“Don’t yell. Someone is going to find us, and him,” Chan pointed with his head to the body at the end of the alley, “if you keep it up.”
Minho swallowed as he realized Chan had killed a man a few minutes prior. If he wanted to lick his wound, so be it. He would risk his chances of infection before having his head cut off in an alley.
Even if he would end dead both ways.
“Relax,” Chan said, caressing Minho’s other leg.
Minho trembled; he closed his eyes, and then he felt it.
A tongue dragging alongside his wound. It felt painful at first, but the feeling quickly changed to that of a balm. He gaped, moving a hand to Chan’s shoulder and scrunching the fabric of his coat.
Chan kept licking. Minho felt him sucking at one point, just for a moment, dragging a little more blood out, like he was trying to get more of it. His head knocked against the wall, and he opened his eyes; under his heaving chest, he could see Chan’s head, and only part of his face.
Minho moved his hand from his shoulder to Chan’s head and pulled back; Chan resisted for only an instant but then went with the movement, showing a stunning bloody grin.
“Are you-”
“Yes,” Chan answered before Minho could formulate the question. “Look, pretty boy,” he added, looking backwards.
Minho squinted; his wound was indeed healing, smaller than before, and the blood, obviously, was gone, all over Chan’s lips instead.
Minho huffed, “Who would have thought that you were a cat, after all.”
Chan smiled, “envious? I can call you kitten, if you like it that much.”
Minho rolled his eyes and tried once again to get his leg off Chan’s, but Chan still had a powerful grip on his ankle.
“A little more, please. Just tonight,” he whispered; and left a soft kiss on Minho’s side knee, covered with the pants.
“You want to… lick my wound for longer?”
“I want whatever I can get from you.”
“You really are a crazy stalker.”
“I-” Chan laughed, finding no way to defend himself. “I guess I am.”
“You were following me these past months.”
“Yes,” Chan confessed. Minho trembled, a mix of fear, rage, lust and comfort that it had been Chan and not anyone else, washing over him.
“And you want to lick my blood now.”
“I do. I won’t hurt you-”
“Because you know how it tastes, you drank my blood before tonight,” Minho whispered. It was clear that nothing had been part of his dreams, that he had really found Chan on that balcony months ago, almost dead, and he had really bitten his wrist and drank his blood to recover.
“You shouldn’t remember it so well.”
“I’ve always had a privileged memory.” Chan huffed, his hand drawing circles on Minho’s already healed leg. “You can bite me again.”
Chan's eyes opened bigger than Minho had ever seen.
“I- I shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t,” Minho repeated, his eyes still locked onto Chan. He could see the veins on his neck throbbing, and the way he was swallowing, again and again, like he was in front of a good plate of meat.
It was the case, wasn’t it?
Minho took a deep breath and looked away, waiting for the pain.
But then he felt Chan letting go of his ankle. He was quick. Bended to get a hand on Chan’s shoulder before he could move away. They locked eyes again, and Minho nodded.
It was pure morbid curiosity that had him wanting to be bitten again, wasn’t it? Or maybe the need to confirm that he hadn’t gone crazy; that, even if he forgot the next day, for a moment he knew that it all had been true, from start to finish.
And maybe, just maybe, it was better not to remember, anyway.
“Is this okay?” Chan asked, licking his lips; Minho nodded, just once, almost reverent.
Chan tilted his head, looking up lie he wasn’t the wolf but the sheep; then, he turned to Minho’s leg; he kissed the spot first, lightly, and then he bit down on Minho’s calf, making Minho almost lost his balance, gripping at the wall for dear life.
Right after, he felt it again.
The relief, the heat running all over his body. Chan’s hands on his legs, pinning him in place, making him shiver; his teeth had sunk so deep that it felt like they were still inside, even when he was now sucking the blood that was leaking out the new wound, careful not to lick it so it wouldn’t close.
Minho’s breath was quickening, and his fingers were getting bloodied, rubbing against the harsh wall, but the pain was inexistent, he couldn’t feel it on his wounded leg, nor on his tired muscles.
“You’ve been drinking,” Chan muttered against his skin; Minho nodded. “You taste sour today.”
“What? Do you want me to apologize?” Minho tried to spat back, but his voice came out too soft, like he would actually do if asked.
Chan chuckled; he kissed over the wound that had started to close, and Minho took a deeper breath, then, Chan dragged his fangs alongside it, down to Minho’s ankle.
“You really would put anything in your mouth,” Minho said, feeling the little nibble over there, around the small of his ankle and so close to his sock.
“Almost,” Chan answered, looking up again.
Minho looked down at him, pass his face where he had been focusing all the time, down to the way Chan’s legs opened around Minho’s other leg, making his pants strain against the shape of his thighs, the shape of his hard cock.
He swallowed, tried to look away.
Chan rested his head against Minho’s raised leg, caressing the outer side, giving Minho goosebumps.
“Do you like that?” Chan asked, rubbing his head against Minho’s leg.
“Bite me again.”
Minho saw Chan’s reaction, his eyes opening widely just for a moment before turning predatory, dark. He kissed his leg again, then teared his pants further, Minho took in a deep breath, a second away from telling him to get him new ones before he felt Chan’s fangs against his skin, slowly dragging against it, as if he was looking for the best spot. He probably was looking for an artery so it would bleed right out, maybe killing Minho.
Minho was being way too reckless.
He knew nothing about Chan. He had seen him once, and then he had caught glances of long black hair. Minho knew nothing about him but that he was dangerous.
But people he knew like the palm of his hand had hurt him deeply before.
Knowing someone wasn’t a promise of loyalty, and not every stranger could be bad, like his mother had told him.
Still, maybe the stranger that had bitten him before, fed off his blood and killed a man moments ago, wasn’t a good choice to lay his trust on.
All talk in his head stopped the moment Chan found a spot he liked. He looked up at Minho as he lapped his tongue over it. Chan’s mouth was on the inside of Minho’s thigh, far too sensitive; even the soft wind over the wet spot was almost too much.
Chan sucked the meat between his teeth and Minho’s breath hitched, but the bite didn’t come till Minho’s hand on Chan’s hair tightened, pushing him into his thigh.
Minho liked pain.
He had always thought it was a subtle way of knowing things. That something was dangerous, like the fire on his mom’s stove; something was changing, like his body when growing up made his back hurt so much he would almost faint; that he was learning something, like the steps to a new dance, memorized by muscle, heart, and plain pain.
He also liked the way it made him feel alive.
But he mostly liked the way pleasure and pain interlaced so profoundly, and he liked giving someone the power to give him both.
He usually wasn’t brave enough to do so.
But Chan hadn’t given him other options.
Minho’s head hit the coarse wall again as he felt the teeth sinking in. It felt more real than the first time, even when his adrenaline was probably equally high. He could feel the fangs piercing his skin, like powerful, fuller, needles.
He felt the blood flowing out of him, the suction of Chan’s mouth and the soft caress of his hand as he tried to appease Minho’s pain; as if the warmth of his hand against the cold of Minho’s skin would make him forget that he was being mauled.
Chan lapped at the wound, closing it way too soon; but Minho couldn’t say anything about it because suddenly he was being pulled off his feet, his other leg over Chan’s shoulders too.
“What the hell are you doing?” Minho yelled, then tried to grip the wall for dear life.
Chan seemed a little gone as he traced his lips up Minho’s leg to his crotch, resting his head on Minho’s thigh and looking up like a puppy.
“Don’t worry; I promise I won’t let you fall,” Chan answered. He took one of Minho’s hands from the wall and kissed his knuckles, leaving it on top of his head after.
Then Chan looked up again as he traced a hand to Minho’s waist, untucking his shirt from his pants, then moving it even higher till the hand was resting right under Minho’s chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” Chan whispered. His breath was coming out hot and wet, and right against Minho’s crotch.
Minho felt divided; desperate to feel that mouth on him, to have Chan anyway that he would want him; but he couldn’t forget about the sour smell of blood in the air.
Chan moved his other hand up too, resting it in a mirrored position to the other one, and then he moved his head up too, making Minho feel like he was losing balance, but he didn’t move an inch, even when Chan’s plump lips in his stomach were making him shiver.
The shirt was covering Chan’s head, and Minho couldn’t see anything, but he was sure he was getting bloodied as Chan kissed him and moved his hands to grip his chest finally.
Then he felt it again, the drag of teeth against his skin. Chan bit down, and it was impossible for Minho to ignore the jump of his cock, fully hard, straining against his pants and against Chan’s neck. He tried to move, desperate for some friction, but he was so scared of falling off that his movements were shallow, ridiculous; the movement was made even more difficult by Chan’s mouth anchoring him, keeping him still with two sharp hooks piercing him.
Chan moved, giving him a twining fresh wound on the other side of his belly button, close to his hip.
Minho moaned; he tried to bit his lip to keep the sounds away after, too embarrassed that someone was going to catch him, a renowned danseur, held up by a man biting down on him again and again, making him whine like a slut.
He could feel his underwear getting wet like his eyes were, but he didn’t have the strength to say anything, all bitter remarks and playful orders long forgotten as Chan kept drinking from him.
He must have bitten him one or two more times; it was impossible for Minho to know accurately when his whole body was already feeling like he wasn’t real anymore but a jelly made of pure lust.
He kept making sounds, grunting and moaning and answering Chan’s words telling him how pretty he was with nods that had no meaning.
It was sweet torture. His whole body on fire, he would open his eyes and look down and see his shirt had been ripped open, but couldn’t remember when; he noticed that he was higher, Chan on his feet, but he didn’t have space in his mind for his fear of highs.
He needed to do something. Minho felt so nauseous with desire and pain that he was going mad, or had gone already. And Chan kept lapping his tongue all over his stomach, his hard earned form, and dragging blood all over it, biting and licking, wounding and healing.
It had to stop before Minho let himself die like that.
He grabbed Chan’s head, pulled on his long hair, made Chan grunt and look up at Minho for the first time in what felt like days.
But it was enough for Chan to realize what he was doing, and he was quick to get back down on his knees and whisper apologizes that still had no meaning to Minho.
“Look at you, you’re so hard, isn’t it painful?” Chan asked then.
It made Minho’s ears ring with embarrassment, but he nodded.
“Let me help you, pretty,” Chan whispered.
Minho hated it.
The kids had been so mean to him at school, calling him ‘pretty boy’ laughing at him. The first time he had liked a boy, he had thought Minho was ‘pretty like a girl’; it was enough for him to try fucking him and leave him hurting and crying at the bay when it didn’t work.
But the way Chan kept saying it…, it made it feel so different. Like the compliment it had always supposed to be.
And when Chan’s hand came tracing his shape down to rest at his hips, as he kept looking up, the word falling from his lips again, Minho almost believed him.
“Please,” Chan said then. Minho squinted his eyes. “Just for tonight, let me have you, okay?”
“Just for tonight,” Minho repeated, and Chan nodded, his hand moving to grip Minho’s hard dick, making him jut his hips up and scrap his back against the wall again.
“I promise to leave. You’ll never see me again,” Chan answered. He undid Minho’s pants, lowering them as much as he could with his own neck in the way. But it was enough for him to grip Minho’s dick over his underwear and then fish it out the overture.
“You kept coming back to the dance hall,” Minho said; he sounded sure, but he needed the confirmation he got with Chan nodding his head slowly as he started to stroke him. Minho sucked in air through his nose. It felt way too good; his dick was wet enough for Chan’s fist to feel heavenly, and it had been so long since someone else touched him that even if it wasn’t, it would have felt equally as heavenly.
“I couldn’t hold myself back. But I’ll now, I promise.”
Minho was almost on the verge of coming, and then he felt Chan's hand rounding his base and his tongue licking at his tip. It was so weird, so shameful to think that something like that was even a possibility that Minho’s surprise starved off his approaching orgasm.
He griped Chan’s hair more strongly, breathing quickly as Chan’s tongue licked at his slit, making Minho’s eyes roll back and his throat run dry.
“How can I believe you?” he asked, voice small. He was holding Chan’s hair so hard that he was certain he was pulling hair out, but Chan appeared too preoccupied licking fat strips from the base of his cock up to the tip, then swirling around the tip to worry about his hair. Minho began to wonder if vampires could eat more than just blood.
Chan looked up at him and asked:
“Do you want to?”
And before Minho could answer he was swallowing him whole, making his eyes turn back and his head hit the fucking wall again as he arched his back, trying to get deeper, feeling Chan’s throat giving up to him and opening, velvety warmth swallowing him whole as he came.
When he came back to his senses, his feet where at the floor, his back firm against the back, and Chan making sure he wouldn’t fall with his hands at his hips as he breathed against his neck.
Minho tugged on his shirt, making Chan get his head out the crook of his neck and look at him; he looked like a puppy again, a bloodied puppy who had just swallowed him dry.
He supposed he should feel disgusted, but he could feel his dick trying to get hard again as he kissed Chan, messy and deep like he had never done before.
Chan pushed him against the wall softly, putting a hand between his head and the rough surface. Minho wanted to laugh and tell him it was way too late, that he must have little wounds already all over his head and back because of the wall; but it was hard to talk with Chan’s tongue on his throat, like he hadn’t got enough of Minho already, like he never would.
“You feel so good, taste so good too,” Chan whispered against his lips, and moved to kiss down Minho’s throat, sucking close to his Adam’s apple, “please, one more time, please.”
“You’re going to kill me,” Minho whispered, but he was baring his neck already despite his protest.
Chan dragged his nose against it, taking quick breaths with the same rhythm with which his hips started to rut against Minho, the friction against Minho’s bare cock way too much.
“Please, kitten,” Chan whispered, mouth hot against Minho’s pulse point, the nickname going straight to Minho’s cock.
He was already half-hard again when Chan finally bit him after pleading one more time; and when he moved his hands down to get Chan’s cock out too, he was definitely fully hard and leaking, closing his eyes after the moan that Chan let out when Minho touched him.
Chan was big, and his hands weren’t; that was the bottom of it. But it didn’t matter, because even if he couldn’t make his fingers meet, he knew how to make this right, too many hours spend playing with himself; and even if he didn’t, Chan was way too blood-drunk to care; he could come untouched like that, had done so years ago when he drank off his master, and he knew he could do it too if it was Minho’s sweet blood.
Minho twisted his wrist, and Chan was spilling over him, his mouth huffing hot over the already closing wound on Minho’s neck. To his embarrassment, Minho followed suit.
He felt so warm, Chan was holding him up again, his legs had given up; but he also felt too cold, probably because of the blood loss, he may really die, his eyes closing as Chan kissed him one last time.
When he woke up, he was alone in his room. He almost jumped out of the bed, remembering everything.
He was relieved that he was alone and alive. He found a brief note on the nightstand:
“Sorry, kitten; it was nice meeting you one last time. It won’t happen again, I promise;
Chan.”
Minho tried to throw away the note and tried to forget, but two months later the note was still safely saved in his nightstand drawer, and his memories of Chan were clear as water every time he woke up.
Even the day he woke up in pure confusion, his hands tied to his back, a coarse rope trapping him against a cold column in a dark room, his neck bleeding and some scary eyes looking at him.