Archive of Our Own

He spots the cloud of dust as it billows up. A mail truck, rolling carefully down the dirt road half a mile from his house. He never gets mail. Or visitors. For the last couple of months, he’s only left when he’s had to eat. A breeze ruffles his hair and smears dust over the expanse of dry grass. He meant for this to be something of a hermitage, a place where he could reflect and assemble his thoughts and ambitions until he grew bored enough to begin another life as a seemingly young man among a fresh batch of strangers. But he’s not bored, not yet, and the approaching vehicle makes his stomach twist with nerves.

Suho blinks, and the mail truck materializes before the stoop. The messenger places an envelope into his outstretched hand. He tears it open. Dear sir, it begins. Innocuous enough, really, until his eyes land at the page’s end. Next to the sender’s signature, delicately inked, is a blossoming lotus.

It takes him a week to buy new things, get packed, and take the train to the university. Once settled into his accommodations - he got a text from an unknown number that the key would be hidden under the potted tulips on the step - he gets a haircut, a fresh pair of glasses, and, first thing Monday morning, he learns his new name.

“Welcome, Professor,” says the administrator who meets him on campus and shakes his sweaty hand. “Allow me to show you your office, and we’ll get to signing the paperwork.” He’s led into a room with a desk, a bookshelf, and another pot of tulips. The fresh nameplate on the door reads Kim Junmyeon, ph.D, Associate Professor. The administrator is picking documents out of a folder when the clack of heels announces a new presence in the room.

“Oh! Good morning, ma’am. Serendipitous. Professor Kim, this is Chancellor Zhang.”

And it’s her, of course it’s her.

♦

Back then she was Qiu Jin, but he knew her, and she was immortalized, as Jianhu Nüxia. It was on the shore of Jianhu that he found himself, some twenty years after his turning. It was summer, an unseasonably hot one, and he was grateful for the breeze that flitted off the water and cooled his damp shirt. He watched his reflection in the lake’s famous mirror-like surface, a blurry man with the appearance of one half his age blinking back up at him.

Xiumin had sent him here on, what he always said with a sour twist of his mouth, “family business,” a term meant to disparage his present allies. Favour for a favour. I help you, you help me. I pull some strings in Anqing, and maybe some Manchus hang from those strings. You plant gunpowder in the Japanese ambassador’s pipe, and maybe it explodes his face off. That sort of thing. Although not quite as ambitious as his partner in crime, he believed in Xiumin’s vision, and was on the next wagon headed lake-ward.

Yellow Lotus was their name, a small-fry syndicate hardly worthy of the term at the time, but they had men and guns and a base of operations, more than other triads could claim after the Qing showed the reach of their law enforcement a few decades previous. A very need-to-know basis sort of ramble, and thus the sort he disliked, but Xiumin felt confident enough sending his lover into the fray, and he himself had confidence in Xiumin. It was when news arrived that one of their men had been arrested in the adjacent province that things started to get hairy. “If you start finding slit throats, get out,” Xiumin had told him, pressing their foreheads together. “Do what you need to do to and come back to me safe. Something big is going to happen. I feel it.”

Unfortunately, the person sent to meet him at the lakeside, a hulking tumour of a man with a face like a thumb, had picked up on his skittishness pretty early. He was very image of a Red Pole, the living bludgeons of these kinds of organizations. Shiv - his name was literally Shiv - kept a particularly menacingly eye on him on their way to the home they’d fashioned into a hideout.

“Do you have any tea?” he asked, throat dry with anticipation. Shiv ignored him and started trimming his fingernails with a hunting knife.

They’d gotten word that Manchu soldiers had increased their presence in Shanyin, and, having dropped the right rumours in the right places, expected them to attempt an ambush on the hideout after Jianhu Nüxia arrived there that evening. Burn the house down, maybe, and destroy her allies, too. His job, being small, quick, and agile, would be simple - getting Jianhu Nüxia out through the second floor while the Lotus thugs instead trapped, and presumably executed, the Manchus in the building. From what he’d heard, it was Jianhu Nüxia who offered to be the bait, much to the protest of her supporters. He figured that in the case she was killed, she’d be ideal martyr material. Smart.

The sky got dark. Shiv was now using the knife to pick at his teeth. And then things went very, very sideways.

“They’re not coming,” the runner gasped at them, wild-eyed, after being let in through the back door. “They’re at the school.”

Something in them hadn’t expected men with guns to storm an academy of young girls, regardless of whether or not their target was priming them for armed revolution. But these were soldiers, not spies, and they should have known they’d prefer demoralizing their enemy with a public massacre than disrupting them with a secret assassination.

It wasn’t pretty. One of Nüxia’s students was shot in the shoulder trying to protect her. Lotus bodies littered the dirt pathway leading away from the school. One of the frightened girls told them, through the cloth she used to clean her broken lip, that they’d carried her away.

Xiumin’s words came back to him. Get out.

He was one foot back into the street when he was whiplashed by a human roast pulling his shirt. In the next moment, Shiv’s hunting knife was at his throat and its owner was reminding him that he had a contract to save Jianhu Nüxia from the Manchus.

“She dies, you die.”

The undead bleed out as the living do, so he agreed, and with haste.

The plan was flawed, made no better from his lack of sleep and by the looming shadow of the towering, knife-wielding man over his shoulder. But they knew where she was being held, and they had a secret weapon - Nüxia’s second cousin, a splitting image of the matriarch herself, whom they stole from her farm on the outskirts, bound, and gagged within the day.

Bait-and-switch. Beginner stuff.

It was two more days before they got in, and got the real Nüxia out. He’d drained the lookalike dry to the point of near unconsciousness, that he might lessen the pain and keep her from speaking. Then Shiv had beaten her until she was unrecognizable and near death.

Two guards dead, but they hoped the others would interpret it as a failed attempt to free her.

Jianhu Nüxia herself was torture-aged and torn, face swollen and bruised where it was not bloody.

“You saved me,” she said, when they finally got her out into the cool night air. Coal glittered where her eyes used to be.

“I die if this goes wrong,” he confessed. He didn’t want to feel good about this job. The whole thing tasted spoiled. “I have to.”

She clutched his wrist. “Be my guardian,” she coughed, specks of blood spotting his jacket, “and I shall be yours.”

She insisted she be there for the execution the next morning. Nüxia had her hair sheared but for a short, matted braid down her neck, an eyepatch concealing her swollen brow. One hand clutched a cane, one rested in a sling, and adorning the rest of her was a ratty, stolen farmer’s garb. He stood beside her. A son escorting his injured father to the village to watch a public spectacle, like everyone else.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered up at her double.

The headsman lifted his blade and they watched Jianhu Nüxia die.

Back on the lakeshore, she looked at him with those same coal eyes. “Thank you,” she said in Korean, and squeezed his arm so hard that her nails left marks in his skin. “My guardian.” Su-ho. Shiv gave him an unsettling smile.

He took her to Xiumin. Some hundred miles away, imperialists were burning her manuscript.

Alas, this delicate kerchief here is half stained with blood, and half with tears. “Make me live forever,” she said.

♦

She goes by Zhang Li Yin now, and runs a different manner of school, but she is the same. Long dark hair. Ageless dark eyes. A stern face that defrosts as soon as she smiles. Back in her office, Suho can’t stop shaking his head in disbelief. “Making little radicals again, are you?”

“Always. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. How did you come to be here, Auntie?”

“I took the train.”

“Nice one.”

“Thank you. I’ve missed you.”

“So much so that you decided to employ me?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He gives her a suspicious smile. “Why do you want me under your eye?”

“Oh, nothing so duplicitous. I heard about what happened with your blood synthesis project. I was one of your anonymous funders, in fact. I knew you would be frustrated and in need of both a distraction and a source of income. You were difficult to track down, I have to say. I’m glad you found your way here.”

“You are endlessly benevolent, Auntie.”

Li Yin regards him seriously. “If I’m frank, I also wanted a friend I could trust to be near.”

“I don’t want to be involved in anymore-”

“You don’t have to be. Have my back, and I will have yours. Like old times.” Mobsters. They’re into favours. “In that vein, I trust you to be discreet.”

Suho sighs, turning to look out the window. “Always, Auntie.”

He’s assigned to an upper-year lecture that convenes three times a week in an auditorium that smells nostalgically of the 1970s, cigarette smoke and hairspray mulling quietly under the bright fragrance of these modern students, sharp and desperate but generally better groomed. He arrives early on his first day to set up his computer next to the podium, fiddle with the lights, and review the syllabus he’d put together after sending his letter of acceptance. Li Yin had given him a lot of curricular freedom. “Give your plan to the department head in person,” she’d recommended with a sly smile. “She’ll take one look at you and approve anything you want.”

He lounges as nondescriptly as he can in the front row while waiting for his class to assemble. The first eager students are already organizing coloured highlighters next to their notebooks, scribbling in the date, titling their pages in diligent “PHILOSOPHY 404”s. He plays with his cufflinks. Maybe this was a bad decision. In another ten years, perhaps he’ll be a gardener. No overhead projectors. No questionably fragrant youths. He thinks longingly about azaleas for the next five minutes.

The auditorium titters when, at last, he goes to stand behind the podium. “Holy shit,” goes a sheepish, masculine voice, and Suho waits impatiently while the nervous laughter dies down. The tinny shutter sound of a cell phone camera echoes in the room.

The trials of being uncommonly beautiful by the standards of the modern world.

Suho clips the mic to his tie. “Good afternoon. Welcome. I will be your instructor for this course, Dr. Kim. I trust you’ve all read the syllabus I sent out last week. If you have freshly enrolled in this course, please see me after class so I can add you to the mailing list.” God, he hates this inanity. “Let’s get started with an overview of the aims of this course.” It doesn’t help that one of the students is whispering something in his neighbour’s ear. The sound distracts him so much that he stops mid-sentence while explaining something perfunctory about grading.

“Excuse me.”

The kid’s face shoots up, wide-eyed.

“Yes, you. Your name, please.”

Every face swivels. The kid mumbles something after nervously looking side to side at his peers.

“Speak up, please.”

Someone guffaws. “Kim Jongdae, sir.”

“Based on your introductory readings, tell me one framework through which we can analyze sexual pathologization in nineteenth century Europe.” He basks in the silence that follows.

“Uh.”

Suho blinks expectantly.

“Could you maybe repeat the question? Sir?” Even at a distance, Suho can see the sheen on his brow.

“Not at the moment. Moving along.” He usually doesn’t like using public embarrassment as a teaching tool, but he wants to establish his expectations during lecture hours before his students develop too many bad habits. Kids these days are too prone to back-talk. Kim Jongdae doesn’t speak for the rest of the hour.

The first few weeks pass without much incident. He was never as adaptable as Li Yin or Xiumin, but he settles in reasonably well, adjusting to this new routine. He finds a quiet coffee shop he likes, and marks his papers there. If Li Yin is free, and she’s typically not, they have lunch together, though this often means ordering a cocktail at the campus bar or driving to her place where she keeps a little reserve of blood in her high-security wine cellar.

He’s content to accept the advantages of knowing Li Yin, and, by extension, having a measure of her connections at his disposal. She advises him on where best to feed to maintain discretion, and occasionally sends him home with a bottle or IV bag of the good stuff. When her supply runs low, though, he goes back to his habit of preferring to collapse into bed in the evenings instead of finding himself dinner.

When Li Yin leaves town on Yellow Lotus business, Suho gets hungry and irritable. He spends his weekend running low-priority errands, because he’s too wound up to mark assignments and too frustrated with the incompetence of his TAs to delegate. Clad in jeans, jumper, and baseball cap, Suho rubs his temple with the hand not occupied with maneuvering a damnably squeaky shopping cart through a poorly-lit discount grocery. Now and then, he chucks whichever non-perishables he likes to keep in stock should a colleague come over for a surprise visit. He eats for show when he has to, but his body has a poor time of putting any of the nutrients to use.

“Professor Kim?”

Shit. Suho sighs at the wall of rice before turning. It’s that student, small, sunny, loud. The one he unabashedly humiliated on the first day of class. He feels a twinge of guilt. “Oh. Hello. Kim Jongdae, right?”

His face lights up with embarrassment, relief, and he coyishly swings a bag of oranges by his side. “Yes, sir. I wasn’t sure it was you. You look like a normal person.”

“Uh. Thanks. So do you.”

“You could pass as a student, is what I mean. You look a lot older in glasses and all that tweed.”

“I think it’s polyblend, actually.”

Jongdae laughs, a twinkling, contagious sound. “My mistake, sir. I mean it though. How old are you, sir? If. Ah, if I may ask.”

“You may not.”

Jongdae hurtles on without pause. “You look so young. How’d you come to be here? There’s not a lot about you out there. What I mean is- ah- I can’t even find your alma mater-” He scrambles after Suho as he pushes his cart down the aisle.

“I am a credentialed instructor, Mr. Kim, never fear.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Were you a child prodigy? Sir?”

“Not in the least. Good genes keep me looking youthful. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Jongdae hums, fiddling with his oranges.

Suho rolls on aimlessly, trying to conjure up a polite response that will make him go away. He wants to be respected as the authority in his classroom, but he doesn’t want to be an asshole. Not again, anyway. “So-”

The smile Jongdae gives him is blinding. “I’ll see you in class, sir. Have a good night.” He’s gone in a moment, oranges swinging, twinkling eyes glancing back over his shoulder for one last look.

♦

Suho is obliged to attend a department meet-and-greet the following Thursday night, but, expectedly, the local philosophers host more of a wine-and-dine. It takes place in one of the older faculty buildings, probably chock-full of asbestos but spruced up tonight with white tablecloths, hors d'oeuvres, and a cash bar.

He has a hard time getting along with his fellow professors, in part because he’s over twice their age and because his youthful exterior more often than not leads them to use their haughtiest tone with him. He wishes Li Yin were here, but she’s not, so he orders a very tall glass of red and busies himself with drinking it in the corner. No one tries to talk to him until he’s returning to his corner with a second beverage.

“Evening, sir.” It’s him.

“Well. Good evening, Jongdae.”

“Enjoying yourself, sir?”

“Socializing tires me, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah?” Jongdae watches him over the rim of his glass when he takes a sip.

“Kalinski has been talking about metaphysics over there for at least half an hour. Between you and me, I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs than endure that again.”

“Then if you don’t mind, sir, I’ll stay here with you.”

Suho smiles. “You’re not part of this department, are you, Jongdae?”

“No, sir,” he says unashamedly. “I snuck in for the free food.”

“Ah,” Suho tuts, adjusting his tie. “Tell me, then. Why are you taking my course?”

“Oh. Because I had a spare slot and I guess I wanted to milk my student fees for all they’re worth before I graduate. And because I thought it would be interesting, and it is, so I stayed.”

“You surprise me.” Jongdae lifts a shoulder. “What are you planning to do after you graduate?”

“I don’t know,” he says, suddenly defensive.

“You won’t hear judgment from me,” Suho assures him. “You don’t need to decide right now. Try lots of things.”

“Thanks.”

“I - and you, I suspect - value learning for its own sake. You may not be the wealthiest man in the end, but it’ll have been worth it in other ways.”

“What if I don’t find anything and can’t feed myself?”

“There’s always marrying rich.”

Jongdae laughs, watching him hotly. “Does academia pay much, sir?”

Suho doesn’t miss the implication, and can’t help smiling into his drink. “Not particularly.”

“Ah, a shame.”

“Mm.”

He spends most of the night in the corner with Jongdae, a handful of excuses at the ready should he ever feel the need to be rid of him. But tonight, the feeling never comes. Though not the sharpest conversationalist he’s met in his long decades of life, Jongdae is funny, and pleasant, and charming, and sweet. Something about him makes Suho’s shoulders relax, his smile grow wider, his lungs fill with fresher air. He makes him feel youthful, nostalgic for a young adulthood he never really had.

“Well,” Jongdae says when their discussion reaches a natural pause. “I should probably head home. Class tomorrow.” A shy little smile. A tilt of his head. Innocent, and somehow unmistakably suggestive.

Suho takes a breath to offer him a ride, but clears his throat at the last moment. “Walk safe,” he says, damnably hoarse.

Jongdae’s eyes linger on his. They flit to contemplate Suho’s mouth, a movement so brief that he almost doesn’t catch it. “Thank you, sir.”

“I enjoyed talking with you,” he blurts out.

Jongdae looks back over his shoulder and beams. “Me too.” Then he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and positively struts away.

When Suho gets home, he collapses into bed without even bothering to undress. “Fuck,” he tells the ceiling. The ceiling ignores him.

♦

He notices Jongdae more in his lectures, his sweep of the auditorium narrowing in on him quicker and quicker as if by instinct. Jongdae never responds with more than the barest of blushes, but it is entirely distracting. He sits in perfect nonchalance, diligently taking notes, resting his chin in his hand, brushing his bangs from his eyes.

His breath hitches when it’s Jongdae who taps on his door late in the week, ostensibly to take advantage of Suho’s office hours.

“Kim Jongdae. What do you need?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I just wanted to go over next week’s readings with you, if that’s okay. I’m going to miss class.”

“That’s fine. Why?”

“I’m singing for my little cousin’s birthday party.”

“Oh. That’s-” Cute. “-nice.”

Jongdae smiles sweetly. “Don’t think I’d willfully skip your lecture, sir. I’m in danger of some mild-to-serious piñata-related violence if I don’t show up.”

“I’d hate to see you bludgeoned by a hoard of children.”

“You and me both, sir.”

His questions are insightful enough for Suho to doubt subterfuge on Jongdae’s part, though it doesn’t stop him from shifting here and there in a way that makes him feel far too warm. Jongdae leans over his desk in eager interest when his professor explains something. He fiddles maddeningly with the ring on his left forefinger. He runs his hand through his hair. He nods, endearing, puppy-like.

When Jongdae stands to leave, he’s distracted by Suho’s bookcase. “Kirkegaard, sir? You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not. My opinion doesn’t negate his historiographical importance, though.”

“Is that your fancy way of saying that they make you teach him anyway?”

“Yep.” He leans back in his chair, stretching the muscles he’d tensed during their meeting. “He deemed the notion of life for life’s sake as primitive. I’m too attached to the little pleasures.”

Jongdae’s cocked hip is entirely too diverting. “You’re a hedonist, sir.”

“No. But I find asceticism old-fashioned, and impractical. Don’t you?”

His mouth curls up. “I was raised Catholic, sir. It’s complicated.”

“Ah. In any case, the notion of objective truth is no longer congruent with my worldview.”

“I picked up on that, given your curriculum content.” Jongdae tilts his head. “I can’t figure you out, sir.”

“No?”

“Your personality is hard to pin down.”

Pin down. “Truthfully, when we live so many lives, it’s hard to keep track of ourselves, too.” When Jongdae pinches his lips tight to keep from laughing at him, Suho smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I’m prone to platitudes around my students, I think.”

It makes him feel a bit giddy, all this flirtatious dancing, and the way Jongdae is able to get him to speak, to ask, to smile. Suho’s grateful for the desk between them; he needs a physical buffer to keep his hands away from what he increasingly notices is an exquisite little body.

They fall silent. Jongdae falls serious. The arousal is coming off of him in waves, but for once his face is stony. For half a moment, the room is wound tight and hot, and they know, the both of them know, and-

A curt knock on the door snaps him back into reality. Suho’s lungs fill with alarm, though he tells himself he’s done nothing wrong.

“Come in.”

Li Yin enters, the clack of her shoes somehow reprimanding. “I apologize for interrupting. Professor, may I speak with you?” Jongdae, recognizing the Chancellor, bows low, murmurs thanks, and excuses himself.

Suho blinks up at her, trying to recover from the atmospheric whiplash. “You’re back from your thing.”

“Yes, I thought I’d check in.”

Suho is distracted, short of breath, horny as hell. “Okay.”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Li Yin glances down Jongdae’s escape route. “So.”

“Nothing.”

She regards him coolly before turning her heel. “If you hurt that boy, I’ll gut you myself.”

♦

A long life can lead one to question fate and its existence, its potency, and its sense of humour. Both the romantic and the cynic in Suho convince him that this was fate.

He doesn’t want to believe he’d be so careless, otherwise.

It starts because some cretin, some unwashed, loathsome freshman bumps into him on his walk to work. It’s a fresh morning, sunny and brisk, and Suho is fretting over a lock of hair that keeps escaping its pomade confines. He’s hungry, and Li Yin’s been squinting at him, so he’s avoided both her and her “wine” cellar. It’s not a good day to fuck with Professor Kim. And yet, and yet, the fool whirs past him on a skateboard, and Suho’s coffee - the little pleasure keeping him from jumping through a window - tumbles from his hand, burning his hands and staining his pristine felt jacket.

The kid doesn’t even apologize, which settles it for Suho. He picks him out as his next drink, his sense of karmic justice perhaps a little polluted both by a past of vigilantism and by his petty annoyance that anyone have the audacity to inconvenience a literal monster who’s just trying to make an honest living. Li Yin’s going to be pissed, but whatever.

He doesn’t know the student’s name, but he christens him “Steve” because it sounds just douchey enough to satisfy Suho’s ire. He tails the boy for the next few days, learning the ebb of his schedule, getting a sense of his crowd, his habits. Regular stalker stuff. Vampirism can be tedious.

On a Friday afternoon, he makes his move. He lies in wait in the old music building, where the fourth floor is undergoing renovations and thus abandoned. Suho’s learned that Steve goes there every afternoon after class to smoke a joint. When he spots him, Suho corners him in the stairwell.

He doesn’t feel the thrill anymore, the electric tension in his muscles like he did when he used to hunt with Min. But there is still a struggle, the blink of shock, a breath of resistance from the confounded prey. Repressing the urge to pacify him with a swift blow to the head - every bruise and bump is a risk - Suho clutches one of the boy’s wrists and presses his teeth into the vulnerable flesh there, releasing sedative until the body slumps soundlessly to the concrete steps. He sticks Steve’s skateboard under his arm and throws the owner over his shoulder.

He collapses into an empty office, huffing under the weight of this idiotic meat. Even limp body aside, it does look a little like a set from a horror flick. Carpets pulled up, bits of electrical tape and inexplicable debris littering the stained floor. It’s hardly a five-star restaurant. But it’ll have to do.

Suho is salivating. He locates the marks he already inflicted on the student’s wrist and lowers his head to his meal, careful not to unnecessarily tear skin. Clean punctures leave subtler bruises. He’s good at this by now.

And then it all goes very, very bad.

A figure in the doorframe. A pair of horrified eyes on his mouth, where the first bloom of red is clouding his white teeth.

There’s no clear protocol when it comes to dealing with witnesses. The quickest solution, of course, is death (bad), or in a pinch, thralldom (also bad), but it’s him, god, it’s him.

Kim Jongdae makes a sound in his throat, a sound uncannily like that a hare makes before it knows it’s going to die, a sound he never wants to hear from him again.

“Sh-shit- Professor- I-”

He’s wiping his lips with the back of his shaking hand, he’s crossing the room, he’s aghast. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I come up here to study!” Jongdae insists, pleading, sweating, scrambling back into a corner with wild eyes. “It’s quiet and no one- and I- please, Professor, shit-”

“I know how to keep mouths shut,” Suho growls, and he’s telling the truth - Li Yin’s crew wasn’t fucking around a hundred years ago.

“I’m so- I didn’t mean- I won’t tell- please-”

“This can’t be fucking happening.”

“I swear, I swear-” Jongdae sinks to the floor and hugs his knees to his chest. “I just- I’m sorry-”

Suho twists away from him, trying to steady himself. “Fuck!” He worries at a fingernail. “Shit.”

“I w-won’t say anything. I’ll do whatever you want. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Then silence, but for the laboured breathing of the boy who just saw him eating a peer. Suho cradles his face in his hands. He stays like that for maybe thirty seconds, maybe thirty minutes. Finally, Jongdae takes a jagged breath, peeking through splayed fingers at the slumped body in the corner. “So. He’s, ah. Is he still alive?”

“Yes.”

“And why were you, ah- I mean, you don’t have to say- ah-”

The damage is done. “Vampire,” he says, brusque, impatient.

Jongdae nods dazedly, lips pressed tightly together, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Okay. That’s. That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz.

“Professor? Don’t kill me. Please. Okay?”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Flicker, buzz. Jongdae absently spins the wheels of Steve’s upturned skateboard.

“Shit,” says Suho. He wants to be blunt, cold, but Jongdae looks so vulnerable in his corner that he can’t help but ask. “Are you alright?”

“I, ah.” Jongdae looks up at him. Blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you stand?”

“I’m. I’m gonna stay down here for a second.”

“Okay.” Flicker.

Thirty seconds, thirty minutes.

“What are you going to do with that guy?”

“I... haven’t decided yet. Incidentally, do you know him?”

“No.”

“I’ve dubbed him Steve in the meantime.”

“He is so a Steve.”

“You don’t seem very concerned about your colleague.”

“I trust you to come up with something. Anyway, guy’s a dickweed. Who the fuck skateboards anymore? Is it 1999?”

It’s a relief and a concern that Jongdae is becoming more himself. It’s a relief and a concern that he’s not yet bolted from the room. Maybe he’s dialing 911 in his pocket. Maybe he’s killing time until the police show up.

“So, um. Can I ask you something?” Suho gives him a tight nod. “Can you tell one by sight?”

“One what?”

“You know, uh.” Jongdae flails with his hands. “One of you.”

“No, contrary to popular myth.” He gestures at himself. “No red eyes, or pale skin, or fangs as such. I sleep. I like sunshine.”

“You stay young, though.”

“Physically, yes.”

“Can you recognize each other?”

“Not in my experience, typically. Sometimes there is something ageless in the eyes, or in the gait.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know the year I was born,” he says carefully.

“Give me an estimate.”

“No.”

Jongdae’s unfazed. “When you do the thing” - he exaggerates chomping motions with his jaw - “do the people become like you too?”

“Tactful. No, we can feed without contaminating the victim.”

“Victim?”

“They don't die, not if we’re careful. Depending on the feeding method, they can survive. Many will tranquilize the subject, another talent of ours, until the wound, and thus the evidence, can fully heal.”

Jongdae swallows. “So, what? They’re in a coma until the bite marks go away?”

“Coma is not completely accurate, but yes, that is the principle. It involves a measure of tale-weaving.”

“What do you mean?”

“Explanations are required when someone mysteriously disappears then returns light-headed and without memory of the past several hours. Many will target those who have no one, those who wouldn’t be missed. Some, though, have qualms about picking out the most vulnerable and lonely people in society.” Suho lifts a shoulder. “Sometimes it’s easiest to go for them when they’re asleep, but the breaking-and-entering usually required for that kind of thing needs its own clean-up, too. You need something believable, and embarrassing enough that people won’t ask questions. Since young people heal most quickly, there are rote fictions.”

Jongdae stares. “That’s… That must be frustrating.”

Jongdae is sympathizing? “There are alternatives. There have been many instances when one of us will engage in a partnership of sorts with a- with someone we can use for feeding.”

“What, like they let you, uh, suck their blood?”

“Yes.”

“Why would someone agree to that? What do they get out of it?

“It depends. It is often sexual in nature.”

“Oh.”

“A fetish, for some.”

“Right.”

Suho folds his arms. He should probably stop talking. He doesn’t know why he’s talking.

“So how do you turn someone into a- well-”

“It is analogous to secreting a poison. It is a voluntary act.”

“Have you ever-?”

“No.”

“Why would somebody do that to someone else?”

“There are many reasons. Vengeance. Loneliness. Love.”

“Which was it for you?”

“Hard to say. I thought love, at first.”

“So the person who turned you, who-?”

Suho takes a breath. “It didn’t work out.”

♦

“Fishing village” would be a generous name for where he grew up. A couple of huts with thatch roofs, a dock, and a handful of hardy little tethered boats. But it could be worse. The inlet protected them from winds, and they only got flooding once every few years. He wasn’t good at fishing, but he had a charming face that seemed to help loosen the purse strings of prospective buyers. His family couldn’t compete with locals in the nearest town who sold their product fresh; his father, then, used his waning energy drying and pickling, and he, the son, plied the goods in town.

They met on a wet afternoon. He was wringing out his shirt when a young man’s head appeared over the edge of his cart.

“You smell like fish,” he said.

“Of course I do. I’m selling fish.”

The young man thought this was tremendously funny. “My name’s Min,” he said finally. “What’s yours?”

Min was small and had clever, cat-like eyes. He came by the cart the following week, and the week after that. They became friends.

“You should come to my father’s house,” he said one day.

“I can’t. I have to get back before dark.”

“I suppose that’s wise. You have to get home before the gangshi come out.”

“Gangshi?” He wiped his palms on his knees. Walking corpses that awaken at night to steal life from the living.

Min nodded. “It’s bad luck to look upon one.”

“I should think so!”

Min smiled his clever feline smile.

He started to look forward to his regular trips into town, even though the arrival of the rainy season made his trek an unpleasant and treacherous one. Once, his cart got stuck in the mud where he’d set up shop, and Min had to trudge through knee-deep sludge to rescue him.

“There’s no way you’re going to be able to make it home in this. Come on.”

He’d suspected that Min was well-off, but his home made it clear that his friend had a more luxurious life than anyone he’d ever known. Min said that his father was one of the last of the seonbi, great scholars whose knowledge rotted away in isolation when the country closed its borders to the rest of the world. His concentration on Min’s words faded in the dense, heady smoke that drifted from another room.

Min brought him to a corner of the house where a man with lowered eyes brought them dry clothes. An assortment of personal belongings littered the mats, including something fluffy in a wicker basket.

“You have a pet hare?”

“It’s a rabbit. My brother got it for me. He’s a soldier so he sees lots of places and brings me lots of interesting things.”

“Can I pet him?”

“Yes.” Min watched him. Blinked inquisitively. “It looks like you.”

“What?”

“You remind me of a rabbit, somehow.”

It felt like a compliment, so he smiled. And then there were hands in his hair and a mouth on his mouth.

“But we’re men,” he’d protested weakly against Min’s full, perfect lips, even as he clutched at the collar of his friend’s coat with damp hands.

Between kisses, Min told him how his oldest brother had met one of the British sailors in Geomun-do. They’d become lovers, he said, providing increasing detail of what he’d supposedly seen them doing together as the cheeks of his listener grew pinker and pinker.

His brother’s foreigner was tall with curly dark hair, Min told him, and hardly spoke at all, but best of all he’d gifted him a box of sweets from home, which Min in turn shared. “Butterscotch,” Min proclaimed in his best English accent, making him part his lips so he could place one on his tongue. It was foreign and strange. It was also sweet, melty, and perfect. They kissed lazily until falling asleep, entangled, mouths coated in candy.

He trudged back to his village in the morning, legs aching from the sodden ground, lips shiny from the transgressions of the previous night. His head span with disbelief at what he’d done, and he could only anchor himself with the hope that he’d seen Min soon so he could do it all over again.

His parents beat him for being out after dark, invoking tales of gangshi. When he told Min upon their next meeting, he laughed at their bumpkinish superstitions.

Superstition, it turned out, had its merits.

“I want to show you something,” Min said on the night that everything changed. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said.

Teeth. Teeth, and blood.

In the haunting silence, while his body soaked in hot, exquisite pain, Min’s rabbit screamed.

They ran away from home. He never heard from his family, isolated and insignificant, again. Ten years passed, twenty years. They never grew any older. They studied. They struggled. They consumed. Min held his hand through everything.

“History,” Min whispered when the first Japanese ship breached the horizon.

♦

“So what happened with him?”

Suho blinks the memory away, and Kim Jongdae’s face falls back into focus. “We were together a long time, but someone who lived so spontaneously could never understand the meaning of forever. I was already too reliant on him when he got bored of me. He ended up marrying some woman because it suited him at the time. It was a whole thing. Said he couldn’t see me anymore. He tracked me down after she died but I didn’t have it in me to forgive him.”

“I’m sorry.”

Suho shrugs. “It was a long time ago, and I’ve moved past it. Such as we are, we go on and we take what happiness we can find. Those who run out, they kill themselves. I am not ready to die. Not quite yet.”

“That’s… bleak.”

“It is what it is.”

“Tell me why you like me.”

The change of topic startles him. “What?”

“Why do you like me?”

“You- you are disarming.”

Jongdae laughs weakly. “Disarming?”

“I don’t know. I’m accustomed to possessing all of the power in relationships. Given my circumstances, most interactions are very low stakes, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

“Forgiveness not granted.”

“Tch.”

“The way you laugh is so cute.”

“Cute?”

“I mean scary. Mean and scary. Help.”

Suho bats him on the shoulder. “In any case, I feel unbalanced. Perhaps because I don’t trust you. Perhaps because I’m afraid of having to harm you.”

“You don’t have to harm me, sir.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Well, you don’t have to be so ominous about it.”

Suho licks his dry lips. “Tell me why you like me.”

“You’re disarming too.” A shared little smile. Jongdae’s voice lowers conspiratorially. “And sir, you probably know this already, but you’re really fucking attractive.” When Suho says nothing, Jongdae takes a dizzy step closer. And another.

“You’re my student,” Suho reminds him.

“Yeah, and you’re some ageless undead deathlord or whatever, so we have bigger problems.”

“I can’t believe you’re coming onto me after what you just witnessed. After what I’ve just told you.”

“Why? I want you and I know what you are and that isn’t stopping me from wanting you. So.”

“Dalliances like these never end well, Jongdae.”

“I don’t care. Dally me, sir. Dally me right good.”

“For the love of god.” He’s so pretty. Pretty, pretty eyes.

“We don’t have to make it complicated,” Jongdae continues with a touch of wheedling. “I’ll drop out of your class. Can we?” He tilts his head, wide-eyed, incorrigible. “Sir?”

Suho feels his dick stirring in his trousers, and bites his lip. He’s been fucking for decades and he’ll be damned if this sunny-faced twenty-some-year-old boy is going to try and undo him. But when Jongdae takes another step closer, Suho feels more vulnerable than he has in years. Helpless, selfish, desperate, his nostrils flare that he might better breathe in the scent of this precious boy.

“Touch me,” Jongdae whispers against him, heady and imploring. “I know you want to. Please.” But it’s the boy who moves first. The smell of his skin is warm and intoxicating, and Suho rubs his cheek against it greedily when Jongdae wraps his arms around his waist and rests against his shoulder. Jongdae shudders against his neck and emits a little oh. “I didn’t expect you to be so warm.” His breath tickles Suho’s ear.

He feels raw, embarrassed that Jongdae can probably feel the wild hammering of his heart inside his chest, so needy that his ears ring, so powerless that he doesn’t notice he’s gripped Jongdae by the hips hard enough that he whimpers a little at the pressure.

“Fuck, I want you to wreck me. Hey. Did you make up all that shit to get me into bed? You just a creepy pervert who bit into some guy for jollies?”

“Yeah.”

Jongdae quivers with laughter. “I would have believed you if you’d said you were an angel, too.”

“Which would you prefer, Kim Jongdae-ah?”

He brings his hands to Suho’s shoulders and walks him back against the wall. “Don’t care, sir.”

His blood trills. Jongdae, mouth drawing up in a smug crooked smirk, presses his hips against Suho’s, rolls them. “God, you make me so fucking hot. You’re not even trying.”

“I - shit-” Suho takes him by the arms and switches their positions and curls his fingers into Jongdae’s, pinning him by the hands against the spotty drywall. His mouth is at his throat in an instant, lips grazing the sensitive skin behind Jongdae’s ear.

“Fuck, I- are- are you able to bite me without- you know-”

“Taking a chunk out of you? Mhm.”

“Oh, good. I like biting.”

“I bet you do.”

“I like lots of things, Professor.”

He grabs a handful of Jongdae’s ass, kneads. “I bet you do.”

Jongdae is so achingly pliant, so vocal, so delicious when Suho starts to suck and nibble, relishing in how his skin glows even in this dim, ramshackle office, the way he bucks helplessly, the breathy urgency in his gasps despite that Suho has hardly touched him yet. Suho is losing himself, boozed on Jongdae’s skin, when the boy makes a strangled sound and jerks under him.

“Oh, shit!”

Steve is stirring.

♦

“I can’t believe we’re handling a body on our first date.”

“This isn’t a date. And it’s not a body if it’s alive.”

“Is that what you’re gonna tell the police?”

“Shut up. Pass me the bottle.”

They slosh beer about his person, Suho sighing at their sloppy handiwork. “Drank too much, blacked out, doesn’t remember. I’m leaving it up to you to do any necessary rumour-work.”

They pilfered his wallet for an ID that might reveal his name and address, the latter of which turned out to be a shabby townhouse a few blocks from campus. The former, serendipitously, was Stephen Baker. Jongdae couldn’t walk because he was laughing so hard (“Steve,” he wheezed, wiping tears away). A peek through his texts indicated he had roommates (“He overuses the eggplant emoji, sir. Are you sure you don’t just want to kill him?”), so Jongdae knocks twice on the door, their soaked freshman sprawled on the welcome mat, and they bolt.

Suho wrinkles his nose once they’re back in his car. “I smell like beer now.”

“You don’t like beer?”

“I don’t like smelling like beer.”

“Let’s get you out of those clothes, then, sir.”

Suho revs the engine. “The moment’s over, Jongdae.”

“If Steve hadn’t cockblocked us-”

“Can we stop talking about Steve? We’re done with Steve.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Disgruntled silence settles over them. Jongdae pouts at his lap when Suho asks him where he lives. Get him home, get him gone.

“So just so we’re clear- uh- we’re not gonna fuck, or...?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Do you want me to get fired?”

“No, sir, I want you to get f-”

“Aren’t there throngs of horny fratboys who would be more to your liking?”

“I don’t usually go for guys, actually.”

“Women, then. Hollowed-out melons. Whatever the fuck.”

“Most girls - and melons - don’t give it like I like.”

The insinuation makes him weak. An incorrigible little bottom bitch. Suho drives through a red light, fingers trembling on the wheel. Get him home. Get him gone.

Jongdae’s voice is strained. “I can’t tell you how tempting it is to touch you right now. You look so sexy. I want to blow you in a parking lot, shit.”

His grip tightens. He clenches his jaw.

“God, but I would love it if you pulled my hair and fucked my mouth.” Jongdae squirms and whines. “Shit, I just thought about you cumming in my face. Ngh.”

Suho’s whole body is shaking. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“We were gonna do it anyway.” Frustrated, Jongdae groans. “Look. Look. Can I just- what if we just- can I watch you fuck yourself or something- like I’m so wound up and I need to know if your dick is as beautiful as it is in my head-”

The seatbelts lock when Suho slams on the protesting brakes, throwing the vehicle into park in on dark, empty residential street.. Jongdae oofs in surprise. “Get in the back,” Suho says hoarsely. Jongdae doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s so eager to comply that he trips on his way out of the passenger seat.

Suho joins him in the backseat, belt already discarded, pants already unbuttoned. They’re not large men but nor is it a large car, and when he takes Jongdae by the shoulders for the second time that night, Suho’s body cramps in the confined space. He sucks, licks at the untidy splotches on his neck where he nipped him earlier, threading eager fingers into lush dark hair, tugging, relishing the volume of every breath, gasp, helpless hum. When Suho pulls away to look at him, Jongdae’s hot eyes are imploring him for instructions, boundaries.

Heaven, he’s so, so gorgeous, streetlight on his face, pupils blown wide behind thick lashes. “Let me- okay- can I fuck your face?”

“God, yes,” Jongdae whispers.

Their urgency smoothes the awkwardness of their confined shuffling, and eventually they’re able to maneuver into a workable position. Jongdae, on his back with his knees folded up, parts his lips hungrily while Suho kicks off his pants and underwear, not even bothering to take off his shoes. He leans over Jongdae, his view of the boy upside-down but still stunningly beautiful, and slides his palms onto the younger’s hitched knees for leverage.

“Three taps on the hip if it’s too m-”

“Yes, yes,” Jongdae moans impatiently, sights on the desperate, heavy cock just inches above his mouth. He clasps Suho by the waist and pulls him close. “Fuck. Better than I could ever have-”

It’s dirty and desperate and perfect, Suho thinks, easing his dick between Jongdae’s exquisite lips, reveling in the wet warmth of his mouth, gasping at the wash of skillful tongue over his head, then his frenulum, then his shaft.

“Oh, fuck.” His eyes tremble shut. It’s been a long time. A really long time. He hasn’t even dicked off in weeks. He takes in a breath through parted lips. “Fuck.” Jongdae, tongue swirling sinfully, guides Suho’s hand to his hair. Suho laughs. Eager. “If you’re good,” he promises.

Jongdae manages to pout around his dick, and it’s so intolerably endearing that Suho thrusts forcefully and suddenly between his lips. God, but he takes it beautifully. Clever boy, clever mouth, gorgeous, full clever mouth of cock, gorgeous, gorgeous. Jongdae wraps his fingers around the base and twists in time with his tongue. It takes Suho’s breath away. A muffled whine reminds him to tug generously at Jongdae’s locks, thick, soft, glossy, so beautiful, so beautiful. His lips quiver and he moans around Suho, sucking him with all the delectation of a connoisseur.

“Mm. Mm..” He lets his head fall forward, hair in his face, and meets an eyeful of Jongdae’s swollen cock straining against his jeans. “Fuck, Jongdae.” One of his hands slides down from Jongdae’s knees to squeeze appreciatively at his inner thigh, and then at his crotch. “Baby.” He tugs his hair again and Jongdae whimpers, swallowing around Suho with a zeal that has the latter moaning powerlessly. “Fuck, you take it good, fuck, your mouth feels so good.” He pulls him closer by a fistful of hair, Jongdae’s face flushed, his eyes watering, his nostrils inhaling what air they can from the the trimmed, curly patch of hair where his breath is hot and stifled.

He pets his hair, he praises him, he cups his nape and presses deep into the exquisite wet warmth, lets himself buck and tremble and moan and be weak, so, so weak for Kim Jongdae, flushed for Kim Jongdae, hard and aching for Kim Jongdae. He won’t last, not in this clever mouth, so he chokes out what warning he can for the boy below him, lips pink and shiny, chin dripping, jeans tented.

“In y-your pretty mouth or on your pretty face?”

Jongdae taps his own cheek with one trembling finger, and Suho pulls his dick from his mouth without time to spare before his vision goes bright behind his eyelids and he’s coming against that pretty face, against those cheekbones, in all the glossy hair from which he grip won’t loosen, onto that smug, clever, clever mouth. Jongdae licks Suho’s cum, kitten-like, from his lips.

“Ohhh. Fuck. Oh, fuck.”

Jongdae looks far too pleased with himself. He arches to tongue Suho’s dick, and Suho whimpers through a grin.

“Are you okay?”

Jongdae nods, smiles.

“I’m going to jerk you off, okay?”

Jongdae nods harder, smiles wider.

“Come here.”

Jongdae scrambles upright so Suho can strip him naked from waist to knee. He swallows, letting his forefinger follow the perfect trail of dark hair leading southward from his bellybutton. “Baby, baby.” He sweeps his thumb over the leaking tip of his darling dick, watching Jongdae’s eyes flutter shut, his fingers grasping the shirt Suho never got around to removing, pulling him close, close. Suho handfucks him tight and fast, lapping his own smeared cum from Jongdae’s sweet face all the while. Jongdae’s precious little whines, hoarse from having his throat assailed, already have Suho’s pelvis throbbing again. He’s only silent in the moment before he comes, and then he’s twice as loud, lewd mewls echoing uncannily in the car.

There’s cum on the upholstery, but if Suho can get blood out of it, and he has, then semen should be a piece of cake. They lie against each other for a few minutes despite their mess, breaths heavy.

“Thank you.” Suho can’t bring himself to respond, so he ruffles Jongdae’s already-mussed hair. “Can you take me to yours so I don’t have to show up at my house like this?” Jongdae gestures to his soiled clothes and body. Suho is remiss to agree, but having his dick sucked has always made him more agreeable.

♦

His townhouse is near the campus, thanks to Li Yin. It’s dim, but clean, decorated in blues and greys and purples. Jongdae takes it in curiously when Suho stands aside to let him in.

“Um. Can I borrow some clothes, sir? I think we’re pretty much the same size, and-”

Obviously, he has qualms about bringing Jongdae into his bedroom, and knows that this whole stunt is Jongdae’s idea of getting him in the sack, but he’s too tired to fight.

“Take whatever you want,” he says, waving a hand at his closet when they’ve reached the bedroom on the second floor. Jongdae makes utterly adorable sounds of contemplation while he roots through the racks and shelves. Suho resolutely turns away when Jongdae begins to undress.

Jongdae looks sidelong at him. “You had my dick in your hand not half an hour ago, and now you’re being prudish?” It’s all Suho can do to keep his eyes averted when the sound of fabric brushing against Jongdae’s body is so close, when all of that warm skin is so, so close. “Actually, do you mind if I take a shower? There’s dried-up cum on my neck and stuff.”

Suho exhales into his hands. “You’re being awfully imposing, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Washroom is there,” he says wanly, gesturing. “Clean towels under the sink.”

“Thanks. You wanna help me clean up?”

“No,” he chokes. “No.”

“Your loss.”

If he thought the sound of him undressing was stressful, the noise of Jongdae in his shower is torture. Suho spends the length of it on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands, trying to make sense of the night he just had, and dwelling over what to do about the wet, naked student in his house. If he thought their little stint in his car would quell his sexual frustration, he was poorly mistaken. He wants to do it all over again, wants to take his time, wants to hold Kim Jongdae against the slick wall of his shower and fuck him senseless. Wants to kiss him. God, but he wants to kiss those full, perfect lips. Wants to taste every part of him.

Jongdae exits the ensuite with wet, messy locks and Suho’s shirt unbuttoned, he well-muscled chest on display, his cheeks flushed and glowing. Suho stands too abruptly. His pounding head reminds him that he hasn’t had a meal in a long, long time.

“Squeaky clean, sir.”

“Okay. Then. It’s time for you to leave. I have to go, ah. Eat.”

“We’ll order something.”

“No, I have to eat.”

“Oh! Oh. Right, I forgot that was a thing.”

“You forgot.”

“Yeah, I forgot you were an immortal monster of legend for a second there.” Jongdae shakes his damp head like a dog. “How often do you have to do it?”

“Not often. I can usually stretch it out to just a few times a month. But somebody interrupted my last, ah. The last time.”

“Oh, right. I guess I did. Sorry. I can make it up to you by sucking your dick again, if you want.”

Flippant as it was, Suho’s cock aches just at the suggestion. “No. No, that won’t be necessary.”

Jongdae fiddles with his sleeve. “Couldn’t you just- ah- use me?”

Jongdae. Jongdae’s blood. “Absolutely not.”

“How come? I already know about you, and I’m offering, and there’s less clean-up and cop-dodging, right?”

“No. No. It would be inappropriate.”

“More inappropriate than having your penis down my esophagus?”

He sputters. “No- n-no no no-”

“What, then? Is there a risk of, uh. Killing me and stuff?”

“Not by accident.”

“You couldn’t have just said ‘no,’ huh?”

“It’s intimate,” Suho snaps, “and we’re too close already.”

Jongdae pinkens. “So you’d rather do it with a stranger you have to knock out and dump on a doorstep again? Professor, ah-” He intertwines their fingers, nervous, testing. His skin is moist from the shower. “Junmyeon-hyung? I want to help you.”

The informality sits sourly in Suho’s gut. “Jongdae.”

“I want you to feel good all the time.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish. Hot skin, lashes, lips so close. “I- we could try, but-”

Sunshine. “Yeah! Where do you want me?”

Suho rubs his eyes wearily. “Just. Alright. Stand here.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Will me puncturing your skin and drawing your blood out hurt? Of course it’ll hurt.”

“Don’t be so cranky about it.”

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. “Try not to move and remember to breathe. Tell me if it hurts too much or if you feel like you’re going to pass out.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

He trusts him. Fool boy. After a steadying breath, Suho brings the crook of Jongdae’s elbow to his lips. Soft skin on soft skin.

“Wait, aren’t you gonna use my neck?”

“No. The wounds will be more visible there.”

“I’ve already got like forty hickeys there. And besides-” Jongdae bites his lip.

“What?”

“I want to hold you while you do it.” It’s the stupidest, sweetest thing Suho’s ever heard, and he hates him for it, but he hardly hesitates to lean into his shoulder instead, surveying a throat that’s already achingly familiar to him. “Ah-” Jongdae shivers when Suho’s breath tickles him, and he flinches away. “It’s okay,” he coos against Suho’s hair. “I want to. It’s okay.” His eyelashes are so pretty. He’s so pretty. This angelic child, smiling at him, holding him, tilting his head to the side to expose himself, vulnerable, eager.

Despite his encouragement, he feels Jongdae’s adam’s apple bob nervously when he lets his teeth sink against him, feels his grip tighten around his waist. Soft skin, delicate. The first warm trickle in his mouth frightens him. Yes, intimate. He’s unused to willing participants. He’s unused to Jongdae. He’s unused to all of this.

Jongdae’s breath hitches but it’s beyond Suho’s power to hesitate now, his mouth wet and hot with Jongdae’s blood and his tongue relishing how good he tastes, how good it feels to feed, to feel full, to be filled. Suho whimpers, overstimulated. Weakly, Jongdae pulls him closer, cock brushing Suho’s leg. Suho’s soap is fragrant on Jongdae’s clean skin. He’s vibrating.

A low whisper. “You make me so hard, Professor.”

Suho gasps away, blood dripping down his lip. “S-stay here,” he says, his head spinning and his crotch aching. “Here, sit down.” He slips from the room to collect the necessary supplies and returns to a pendulous Jongdae pouting on the edge of his bed.

“Are you okay?” Suho asks breathlessly, fingers making deft work of bandaging the punctures dotting his neck.

“Yes,” Jongdae hums, dreamy, letting himself sink further down onto Suho’s pillows. “Dizzy. All my blood’s in your mouth or in my dick right now.”

“Lie still, and I’ll get you some water.” Once gotten, he presses the glass to Jongdae’s lips and tenderly brushes the clammy bangs from his eyes.

“God, I want you to fuck me. Hard and slow. Warm.”

Suho swallows. Strokes his paled cheek. “Not while you’re compromised like this.”

He whines, eyelids fluttering drowsily.

“You need food, and water, and rest. You’re no good to me if you collapse.”

“I’m very good to you and you know it,” Jongdae murmurs, eyes shut, lips curling.

Good to me. “Jongdae.”

The pout intensifies. “Let me stay here.”

“You can stay if you sleep on the couch.”

“But I’ll be coooold. You took all my blood out.”

“I’ll get you some blankets.”

“Aw.”

He arranges a cozy little pallet for Jongdae then guides him gently to the couch.

“Tuck me in.”

“Jongdae.” Damn him. Damn his puppy eyes. Suho double-checks his bandages before flicking the light off. “Sleep now.”

“Kiss goodnight?”

Suho smiles down at his feet. “Another night,” he says, and retreats into his bedroom.

♦

Jongdae’s snoring - because of course he snores - wakes Suho up early in the morning. He peruses his pantry for something to feed the boy, but, finding only wine and pasta, decides to make the latter for breakfast. Jongdae rouses to the sounds of cooking - because of course he does - and ambles into the kitchen with a sleepy smile. Suho is certain he overcooked this sad excuse for a meal, the noodles bloated and squishy, but Jongdae doesn’t seem to notice, happily eating them up after clasping his hands in fleeting prayer.

“Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful. “What are we going to do today?”

“We?”

“Yeah.”

“You can go home.”

“But. But.” Jongdae sticks his lip out. “I’m so dizzy and frail.”

“You’re insufferable. Listen, if you demand on loitering here, I’ll need to get more for you to eat. We need to replenish your blood.”

“We?”

“Ugh.”

He’s ambivalent about leaving Jongdae alone in his apartment, but the alternative might be him collapsing in the middle of the street. He drops the television remote into his lap, looks at him sternly, and tells him he’ll be back within half an hour. Suho steps out to pick up some milk and fresh produce and returns to his apartment to find Jongdae cuddled deep in his bed. Snoring.

“Kim Jongdae.”

He stirs. “Mmrph? Oh, hey.”

“Jongdae.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not sounding sorry at all. “Smelled good. I was sleepy. It smelled so good.”

Suho’s heart aches. He’s so. He’s so-

“Snuggle me,” whines the pile of blankets.

He sets the groceries on the floor and pads quietly across the room.

“Snuggle meee.”

Suho lets his fingers brush over the duvet. It’s hard to breathe all of a sudden. “Why should I?”

“Because it’ll be warm and soft and wonderful and you ate my blood and I deserve it.”

He folds the blankets back, revealing a mess of sleep-scrunched hair. He pets it. Yeah. Warm. Soft. Wonderful. Jongdae squeaks, a pleased little kitten, when Suho sits on the edge of the mattress to remove his socks.

Part of him expects Jongdae to be naked, glowing skin hot and perfect within his little nest, but when he wriggles beside him, he turns out to be wearing Suho’s bathrobe.

“You’ve certainly made yourself at home,” Suho grunts, but all of the tension bleeds out of him when Jongdae pulls him into his petulant arms, warm, warm, warm, so warm and sweet. God, the smell of him, the delicate smell of him, the masculine smell, the sleepy smell of Kim Jongdae clings to his sheets, and Suho breathes it in, in. He hides against Jongdae’s forehead and nuzzles his curly fringe. “Is- is this okay?”

“It’s the best,” Jongdae whispers emphatically.

They stay like this for a long time, inhaling, exhaling, Suho too nervous to move lest he follow his urges to shift up against him, sneak into his bathrobe, greedily take all that this boy would willingly offer him. He’s spent his life tiptoeing just to keep himself fed and employed without discovery, but now, now he’s frightened that a wrong move will ruin much, much more.

Jongdae cups his jaw. Suho lets his eyes fall shut. It feels so good. Feels so good to be held like this. His other palm moulds to Suho’s low back, pulling him a little closer. All surrenders to softness.

For the first time, they kiss, the mildest meeting of lips, a feather-brush of skin on skin. All of the breath in Suho’s lungs leaves him in a sigh, and when Jongdae chases his mouth for more, Suho gasps to reclaim it. Plush and insistent, Jongdae tests, he tastes. His thumb sweeps Suho’s lower lip once, twice. His tongue traces his teeth. They kiss again and again and again. Heat blooms between his legs, but so does it blossom in his lungs, his core, his blood.

Suho’s given up on heaven, because it must be a sin to feel this good.

They nap in each other’s arms, Suho too warm and sleepy to muster the strength to send Jongdae home upon waking. He stays a second night.

♦

Through a mouthful of instant mashed potatoes on Sunday morning, Jongdae says, “Let’s date.”

“No.”

“C’mon, please?”

“There’s absolutely nothing in this for you.”

“If it works out, I’ll have a young, hot boyfriend for the rest of my years.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Tch. Mouthy. Might have to do something about that.”

Suho represses a smile when Jongdae melts against him for a kiss. “I’m too old for you.”

“But people have treated you your whole life as if you’re a young man, right? That’s got to shape the way you see yourself.”

“That was very nearly insightful.”

“Be nice. Why do you think I tried to sleep with my professor?”

“It’s all coming together now.”

“Is this how relationships with you people usually go?”

“You people?.”

“Sorry.”

Suho rolls his shoulders. “There’s no usual with us.”

“Is this what you were to that other guy?”

“He didn’t routinely feed on me when I was mortal, no.”

“Does it feel weird to have a, uh, volunteer?”

“Yes. You’re weird.”

“Maybe more persistent than you’re used to, but I’m hardly weird.”

“What’s your deal?” Suho asks abruptly.

“What?”

“Your deal. What’s with you. Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know things about me. You know I’ve seen some bad shit and done some bad shit.”

“You sound like a budget drama.”

“I’m serious.”

He folds his arms, eyebrows raised, unconcerned. “Yeah, you eat people and stuff, but you have to, and I think you’re doing okay. Listen, hyung. Anyone can see that your spirit is gentle and good.”

“You like my spirit, then?” Suho mouth tightens into a droll little rosebud. “Drew you to me, did it?”

“No, I was drawn to you because you’re really fucking hot. But yeah, you’re cool.”

“I’m cool.”

“Yeah. And I like that we can take care of each other.”

Suho clears his throat to dislodge the rebuttal caught there. “I. Ah.”

“You’re so cute.”

“You wouldn’t like me if I looked as old as I am,” he accuses, suddenly defensive.

“You’re probably right,” says an unbothered Jongdae. “But, like, if you were a half-rotted corpse, you probably wouldn’t be able to get it up, and it’s kind of important to me that you can.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Sorry.”

After a shy silence, he remembers something. “How did your cousin’s thing go?”

“Huh?”

“Your cousin’s birthday. You sang.”

“Oh. It was good. Good cake.”

Suho brushes fictitious lint from his top. “I, ah. I don’t know anything about you.”

“Well, we have all day.” Jongdae’s smile grows until his eyes are crinkly with pleasure.

♦

It becomes a routine during the next couple of weeks, Suho using Jongdae for meals. He tries his best to maintain, at the very least, the illusion of distance, by insisting that Jongdae sleep at home. Still, he sees Jongdae outside of class at least once a week despite not having to feed so often. He tells himself he needs more sustenance due to the stress of his work (he doesn’t).

On a Sunday, Suho, who already regrets trading numbers with Jongdae, pulls out his phone and dials.

“Hey. It’s me. Come over, okay?”

“What are you wearing?”

He takes a deep, calming breath. “Let me put it this way. If you’re not here in an hour, I’m getting Steve.”

Whine. Click. Dial tone.

He paces anxiously, hungry or horny, he can’t tell which, until he hears Jongdae knock at his door within half an hour.

“Hey, handsome. Eager, are we?”

Suho purses his lips. “Why didn’t you come to class this week?”

“I did on Monday, but I got a hard-on and had to leave.”

He tries to stifle his outburst of laughter in hands. “Oh my god, Jongdae.”

“A friend who skipped asked for the notes and I had nothing to show for the lecture except a really detailed drawing of your lips.”

“Oh my god, stop.”

“Only if I get to kiss them.” He doesn’t give Suho a chance to protest, Jongdae’s warm fragrance filling his senses when he leans in to claim his mouth.

He forgot how good this felt, clouded by hunger and irritability and the worry that Jongdae might not show. He lets Jongdae lap at his mouth for a moment before pulling away.

“So. Ah.” Jongdae clears his throat sheepishly. His cheeks are pink. “You need to-? You thirsty?”

“If, ah. If you’re still comfortable with this arrangement, may I…?”

“Fuck me first.”

He wants to. “No, Jongdae.”

“How come?”

“I just. I don’t want it to be like an exchange, you know what I mean?”

“When when are you gonna fuck me, then?”

“I don’t know. Never.”

“I thought you said you weren’t ascetic.” It gets a laugh out of Suho. “Think about what Michel Foucault would do.”

“Admittedly, he would probably choose to sleep with the beautiful man.”

“Inspirational. Let’s bang.”

“Jongdae, I just don’t feel comfortable. You don’t have to provide this- ah- service to me if you feel it’s unfair. You’re not obligated. I don’t want you to feel like I’m leading you on.” Exasperated, he looks up at the ceiling. “Shit, this whole thing is-”

“Okay, okay. No need to go all pubescent about it.” Jongdae cranes his neck to the side. “C’mere, you big doofus.”

He shakes his head, unable to keep from smiling. Instead of going to Jongdae’s throat immediately, Suho touches his lips to the curly corner of his mouth, soft, soft. He will never get enough of kissing him.

“You like me,” Jongdae sing-songs softly, fondly.

“No I don’t.”

“Oh, just shut up and do your thing.”

He tries to grumble, but the hot relief of blood in his mouth floods his senses and transforms his admonishment into a groan of pleasure, muffled against the paradise of Kim Jongdae’s pliant skin.

When Suho is done, and Jongdae bandaged, they retreat to the bed for rest and cuddles.

“I like this routine.”

Suho smiles into his hair. “Mm.”

“It’d be better if you fucked me, though.”

“Jongdae.”

“Let me suck you off again.”

“No, you’ll pass out.”

“Hyuuung.”

“You’re such a contrary thing. It’s intolerable.”

“You like me.”

He feels the soft brush of Jongdae’s lashes against his cheek when he leans closer. This time, Suho can’t bring himself to retort.

♦

After one particularly tedious workday, which included not only a fire drill that required him to stand outside in the rain for twenty minutes, but a stubbed toe and a performance review, he collects Jongdae from campus and drives him expressly to the front door of his apartment.

“Why are you being so spontaneous?” Jongdae drops his bookbag on Suho’s couch. “You don’t even have dinner prepared for me.”

“Sorry,” Suho says, feeling unsettlingly powerless as he paces the length of his living room. “I just- ah. Wanted to spend time with you.”

Pretty eyes crinkle up at him. “You’re the cutest. What do you want to do?”

“Ah. Whatever. Sorry. Whatever you want.”

“You loser. Let’s order pizza and watch something.”

It’s uncannily relaxing, sitting pressed up against Jongdae’s leg in the dimming light of the evening, smiling indulgently while his companion laughs obnoxiously at the television. Half a pizza later, Jongdae’s head starts to droop, and he mumbles into Suho’s shoulder.

“Am I sleeping over?”

“If- ah, if you want.”

“I want to. Can I shower?”

“Okay.”

The familiar thrum of nerves is already making his palms sweat. He diligently, although perhaps futilely, begins preparing Jongdae’s pallet on the couch. Then he sits, stiff-backed, in a chair and tries to read to drown out the sound of water in the next room.

Jongdae exits the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. And the towel’s on his head. Saliva wets Suho’s mouth when his eyes settle on that gorgeous little ass.

“All done!”

“Good. Now go to bed.”

Whine. “I don’t wanna.”

“Fifteen minutes ago you were falling asleep.”

“So?” He grins wickedly. “Eyes are up here, hyung.”

“Tch.”

“Eyes are still up here.”

“You’re so fucking cocky, you know that? I can’t stand it.”

Jongdae scrubs at his wet hair. “What? I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.” He spreads his arms, letting his weight rest on one leg. “Right?”

“No,” Suho concedes grumpily, trying to relocate his spot on the page and failing when the wet, beautiful boy straddles his lap.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Jongdae. Give it a rest.”

His dick is already hard against Suho’s hip. “Hey. This’ll all be so much better after we fuck.” He sinks his fingers into his shoulders. “You won’t have to be so tense and blue-balled all the time.”

Admittedly, he’s finding it difficult to remember why he’s been so obstinate about the sex thing when Jongdae, naked and more than willing, is sitting in his lap.

“Fuck me,” he hums in Suho’s ear, loosening his tie so he can pull it over his head. “Fuck me like you’ve been dreaming about fucking me.” Hot breath. “Hold me down and fill me up like you own me. You want it. I want it. Junmyeon-hyung.” He grinds down on Suho. “Please, I need you so bad. I’ll do anything you want.”

Weaker. “Jongdae, I-”

“Please.”

Shit. Shit. “Bedroom.”

Jongdae darts, and is sitting prettily and clutching the edge of the bed when Suho catches up to him. “Fuck, please, please.”

“On your front, please, Jongdae.”

He really does have a beautiful ass, firm and round and begging to be ploughed. At the sound of the bottle popping open, Jongdae’s whole body melts against the sheets. “Thank god, thank god, thank you.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for neglecting the niceties.”

“Just call it foreplay, you dork. And I don’t care. I’m just glad you’re finally-”

Suho traces his rim. Jongdae clenches beneath his slick fingertip, so he does it again. Then he breaches him ever so slightly. Jongdae whimpers.

“Oh my. Responsive, aren’t you?”

“I’m gonna be straight with you,” Jongdae huffs, squirming. “Like, not straight, obviously. But. Um. That part of me is really sensitive and if you don’t start fingering me immediately, I’m gonna call the cops on you.”

Suho laughs, marvelling at Jongdae’s needy whine when he prods a little more. “You’re not just stroking my ego?”

Jongdae wheedles into the pillow and presses his ass back against Suho’s hand. “I’ll stroke your ego later. Me first.”

“Turn back over,” he instructs. As pretty as Jongdae’s ass is, his face is prettier, and Suho wants to watch it if he already has the boy squirming with a finger.

“A-ah…” Jongdae lifts his pelvis to give Suho better access, curling his hands into the bedsheets. The blush on his cheeks is intoxicating. He kisses Jongdae’s knee and pink begins to mottle his chest, too.

Suho breathes in sync with the movements of his finger, then fingers, lips parted with near wonder, little groans sneaking through every time Jongdae tosses his hair, every time he mewls with pleasure. His belly glistens from his leaking cock.

“You’re a treat.”

“I- I’m- so- you-”

“Could I make you cum just like this, I wonder?” Suho murmurs, purposely stroking him everywhere but his dick, lingering at his rim, perineum.

“N-no. Please, please-”

“Hmm.” Suho gently withdraws from him to hitch up his legs, Jongdae’s thighs coming to rest on Suho’s shoulders.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, gasping aloud when Suho dips his head.

“Is this okay?”

“Nobody’s ever- I haven’t- ah-”

Suho peeks up at him. “You’ve never been eaten out?”

“Oh god, fuck, you look so- no, I’ve never- are you- fuck-”

“May I?”

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Yes. Fuck-” The last of his breath crashes from him like a wave, followed by a gasp so adamant he’s left with a hiccup in his throat, a sound that has Suho already humming happily against his asshole.

Eating Kim Jongdae’s ass is the most fun Suho’s had in a long, long time. Jongdae is so responsive that he has to hold his hips just to keep him still enough to continue. Pressing him down makes Jongdae moan all the louder, his breath coming in increasingly desperate gasps the harder Suho fucks him with tongue and fingers.

He’s near tears, poor thing. He comes spectacularly all over himself. Suho thinks he might be in love.

♦

In spite of having piles of work to do that week, Suho spends the better part of his afternoon staring out of his small office window with a peachy smile. As wildly inappropriate he knows his behaviour is, he’s indulgent of the new warmth in his chest, a warmth he hasn’t felt for many, many decades. Kim Jongdae is everything he needs. For once, for now, until his next class, he isn’t going to think about the consequences of his actions.

A knock at the door brings him back to reality. His heart leaps, thinking that Jongdae’s making an impromptu visit.

It’s not.

The hair, the clothes, the tasteful lip piercing are new, but the face, the coy, mischievous face, is the same.

Xiumin smiles. “Hey, rabbit.”

♦

Suho starts making coffee, if only for something to do with his shaking hands. The department kitchen is empty, it being a Sunday, and Xiumin looks bizarre amongst its plain, old-fashioned furnishings. There’s a rip in the knee of his snug black jeans.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in.”

“Uh huh.” As if he’s ever done anything in his life without an ulterior motive.

“So.” Xiumin sucks at his lip ring. “Who’s the new boytoy?”

Something like nausea flickers in his gut. He’s been watching him. “No one.”

“You gonna turn him? Or are you gonna drop him when he gets old?”

The mugs clatter when Suho retrieves two from the cupboard. “See, this is your problem. You’re so fickle and entitled and you think that everybody’s time belongs to you.”

Xiumin hops up to sit on the kitchen counter and kicks his wee legs. It’s endearing, and Suho hates it. “Sorry.”

A silence settles between them. Suho tries to stay angry at the tiny angelic face of a man he used to love. Finally, he says, “You dyed your hair.”

“Huh? Oh.” He scratches at his scrunchy blonde locks. Suho curses internally. Of course he’s dyed his hair. It’s been decades. He needs Xiumin to leave, but can’t figure out how to make him until he knows what he wants. “You like it?”

“No,” Suho lies.

Another silence, then, “I miss you sometimes.”

The air is thick and awkward, and Suho doesn’t miss how Xiumin’s legs spread the slightest on the counter, how his full lips part, how his sharp eyes fix him with a heady stare.

“Sometimes?” Suho’s response is gravelly, so he clears his throat, but he can’t bring his limbs to move. “I’m flattered.”

It’s always like this. Push, pull. He’s showed up in Suho’s life once or twice since the woman he left him for died, but never to offer or repair what Suho wanted - certainty. Certainty in a long, abhorrent life.

Xiumin blinks slow, like a drowsy cat.

“You need to leave now,” Suho says.

“Why?”

“I don’t know what your M.O. is. I don’t want you here.”

He chuckles, stretching his arms over his head. “You really hate me, don’t you? Has it really been so bad, your life? Do you hate me every day for turning you?”

“I hated you for leaving me.”

“You left.”

“We’re not discussing this again.”

“I came and found you after.”

“We are not discussing this again.”

“Fine.”

Suho stares at the wall. “We were supposed to be in it together,” he whispers. “I chose you, not this life. Stretching on forever. Always wondering how I’m going to have to go. Murder, accident, suicide.”

“How is that different from any other life, rabbit?”

“They get to die naturally.”

“Naturally? What, wither away, in pain and age and irrelevance? You have more choice than most people, both in life and in how you end it. You should take advantage of it.”

Suho says nothing. The coffee machine clicks.

“So. What does he taste like, hm?”

Suho glares at him through splayed fingers. “Like butterscotch,” he says. “He tastes like butterscotch.”

♦

He should have known it wouldn’t be the last he’d seen of Xiumin, especially considering his interest in Suho’s lovelife, or, more specifically, Kim Jongdae. When he sees them chatting on the campus street corner where he’s arranged to meet Jongdae, he nearly loses it.

“You.”

“Oh, hey, Professor. You know Minseok-hyung?”

Suho cricks his neck turning to glare at Jongdae. “Minseok?”

“I’m the president of the campus book club,” Xiumin says proudly. “Jongdae-ah and I were just discussing this week’s book. Jongdae-ah, you’ll be there on Tuesday, right?” Jongdae smiles in affirmation.

“You’re the- I can’t- why on-”

Xiumin shrugs.

“Why?” He grabs Xiumin by the collar. “Why?”

Xiumin winks over at Jongdae. “Does he like it rough with you too, kitten?”

Jongdae blanches, but only gets out half a sputter before the clack of heels behind them makes all three turn.

Li Yin faces them darkly. “We need to talk.”

Suho doesn’t think he’s felt like this since coming home late to his parents’ house. They told him his misbehaviour would mean facing the wrath of gangshi. And now he is.

He’s fucked up so bad that he isn’t sure what Li Yin is going to be angriest about. Does she think that Suho wants to turn Jongdae? Is he getting fired for fooling around with a student? Is she in cahoots with Xiumin?

They reach Li Yin’s office, Jongdae looking even more nervous than Suho feels. When the Chancellor approached them, he probably didn’t think that he and his classmate would be dragged along, too. He keeps wiping his palms on his jacket and his eyes are tense and watery. Xiumin, however, could not look more at ease. He unwraps a lollipop and promptly pops it into his mouth. He slumps into the only chair opposite Li Yin’s desk, leaving Suho and Jongdae fidgeting on their feet.

Li Yin turns to face Jongdae, of all people. She lifts his chin with a gentle finger. He blushes. “Do you know why you’re here, Kim Jongdae?”

“N-no, ma’am.”

“Are you studying hard?”

His whole body is trembling. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s good to hear. You may go now, Jongdae.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

Without even a fleeting look at Suho, he scrambles out of the room.

A protective urge briefly overwhelms Suho’s anxiety. “Was it really necessary to scare the shit out of him like that?”

“He’s not nearly scared enough. And neither are you.”

Suho saved her, and Xiumin turned her, but Li Yin exudes such authority that both of them squirm under her gaze like schoolboys. “Xiumin. What are you doing here?”

He raises his eyebrows innocently. “Studying.”

“How did you know we’d be here?”

“I didn’t.”

“Horseshit,” Suho mutters. He turns on Li Yin. “Why did you let him come here?”

“I didn’t. Believe it or not, my job does not entail meticulously background-checking every prospective student.” She slams a palm on the desk, and they jump. “No shit at my institution.” The chain on her banker’s lamp is rattling ominously. “You leave my students alone, and each other alone. Are we clear?”

Xiumin smiles angelically around his lollipop. “Yes, ma’am.”

♦

Jongdae runs a hand through his hair. “So Minseok-hyung is the guy who-”

“Yes.”

“And now he wants to get back together with-”

“Probably not. Who knows what he really wants. How long have you known him?”

“I dunno, a couple of months? Since the beginning of last semester, I guess.”

They’re at Suho’s apartment, and Jongdae is perched inquisitively on his couch, fiddling idly with the pillow on his lap. Suho paces. He hasn’t stopped pacing since leaving Li Yin’s office.

“So the Chancellor is... like you, too.”

“Yes.”

“Another jilted lover?”

“No. She’s an old friend.” A surge of anger heats Suho’s blood. “Xiumin. He didn’t… try anything with you, did he?”

“Minseok? Nothing major.”

“Nothing major?”

“Well, you know. The obligatory flirting.”

Dammit. “He’s going to use you.”

“Well, I like being used, sir.”

“Jongdae.”

“You’re adorable when you're jealous.”

He sputters. Dammit. “I- Shit. I want- I want you to be mine.”

“Come and get it, then.”

You have more choice than most people, both in life and in how you end it. You should take advantage of it.

Fine. “Let’s fuck,” Suho says resolutely.

Jongdae flings the pillow off of his lap and undoes his belt in three quarters of a second.

It’s heady and blurry, each man’s urgency spurring the other into further breathless disarray. Suho cages Jongdae’s legs with his own between kisses. The couch creaks when he grinds into his hips.

“I love the way you feel,” Jongdae gasps, pressing his fingers eagerly into the tender skin below Suho’s ribs. “Your waist is so little, hyung. It’s so pretty.” He lifts his head up and sucks at the lobe of his ear. “You’re so beautiful. My mouth waters when I look at you.”

He huffs a laugh, pressing his nose next to the fading wounds on Jongdae’s neck. Jongdae smells sweet and woodsy. Clean. “Bedroom. If you’re going to be saying more intolerable things, I’ll need more space to toss you around.”

Jongdae laughs and patters away like a veritable kitten. When Suho catches up with him, Jongdae’s spread on his comforter, undone belt dangling tantalizingly from his belt. Suho is upon him again in a dizzy moment.

“I can’t believe this is finally happening. Been dreaming about this for a long time.” Jongdae lets himself be shoved deeper against the bed. He melts when Suho touches him, and inhales dreamily. “You smell nice. You wanna know something? The first night I stayed here, when I used your shower? I just. Oh, god, this is embarrassing. I popped open your shampoo bottle and smelled it and wanked.”

Suho’s suddenly too hot. “Oh. Well. I didn’t know.”

“It was really hard to keep quiet. I wanted to yell your name. I thought about you hearing that and getting hard in the next room and bursting into the bathroom and fucking me.”

“I was hard in the next room.”

“Fuck.”

They move together, lips in eager unison. Suho's already painfully hard in his slacks. His dick throbs desperately at each of Jongdae's kisses, touches, whispers, lewd, incorrigible whispers.

"Fuck me."

"Yes.”

Shirts off. "Bend me over and fuck me into your mattress, sir."

"Y-yes."

Pants off. "Wreck me. I've had it coming."

"Yes, yeah, you have."

Socks. "I don't want to be able to walk tomorrow. Got it?"

"Got it." He whimpers into Jongdae's shoulder when fingers curl around his dick. "God."

Boxer briefs. Jongdae strokes him while he reaches for the lubricant in his nightstand. He’s been so reluctant these last few months, so withholding, but there’s no hesitation in his movements now. He’s never wanted anything so badly.

Jongdae hitches his legs up to accommodate Suho’s fingers, wriggling and whining as he’s stretched open. He’s begging by the second finger.

“Patience, gorgeous. Almost.”

“Please, please.”

“You’re so pretty with your bangs in your eyes. All mussed for me. Beautiful.”

“Hyung-”

“Okay. Are you ready, baby?”

“Yes. D-do it. Sir.”

One of them keens when Suho’s cock slips past his rim, or maybe it’s both of them, or maybe it’s the universe itself, because good god. “Fuck, Jongdae-ah. You have a tight little ass for someone who acts like such a slut.”

Jongdae’s whole body trembles when he laughs, and Suho has to bite his lip from reacting to the little rivulets of pleasure wetting his nerves. “Been saving it for you, sir.”

He nips at the vulnerable skin above his adam’s apple. “Liar.”

“It’s not my fault that y- ohh, oh, fuck.” Suho cuts him off by stuffing him full. “Th-that you- ah, fuck it, something about you h-having a b-big dick-”

Despite his aggressive promises, Suho moves gently, instinctively, all indulgent rolls and melodic moans. Beneath him, Jongdae is already a heavy-lidded mess, damp lips pink with kissing and parted with pleasure. His cock slaps against his belly with each of Suho’s thrusts, wetting his skin with precum, and it’s messy and it’s perfect and Suho can’t get enough.

They’re both too desperate, too wound up from months of not fucking, for either of them to last much longer, particularly when Jongdae starts clenching deliciously around Suho. His hips stutter, the pressure intoxicating.

“Jongdae-”

“Come inside of me.”

Suho wraps his fingers around the base of Jongdae’s cock.

“Fuck me. F-fuck-”

He spills in Suho’s hand, hot, wet, creamy. It’s all he can take before following suit, chasing his orgasm with desperate pumps until they’re slumped together, ears ringing, too warm, sweaty, sticky, entirely enamored.

When Suho finally pushes himself up to clean them up, Jongdae is grinning crookedly.

“So?”

“Mmmngh.”

They kiss until they’re too sleepy to kiss, cuddle until they’re too sleepy to cuddle. Suho feels entirely content, entirely present. He could stay here forever, heavy-limbed and satisfied, with Jongdae forever. A missing puzzle piece, placed. Normality. Euphoria. Life loves a paradox.

♦

Jongdae shakes him awake in the area of six o’ clock, blinking wearily and throwing on the previous night’s clothes. “I gotta go, hyung. Talk later, yeah?” Suho watches his silhouette loom close and mewls contentedly when he’s pecked on the cheek. “I’m so not going to do good on this midterm.”

Suho hovers in the warm cocoon of not-quite-sleep for another hour, happy for a reason he can’t place, vaguely cognizant of the empty space beside him. When his alarm goes off, he bolts up in bed and furrows his brow. He feels good. That’s weird.

He slept with Jongdae.

He smiles soft.

He showers and dresses and fixes his hair prettily. His morning at work passes slow, dizzy, while he waits on tenterhooks for Jongdae to contact him. His head is full of Jongdae. When the boy himself finally knocks on Suho’s door, he looks flushed and sheepish.

“Excuse me, sir? I need you to sign my drop forms.”

Peering over his glasses, Suho grins. “Oh. Hi.” His heart thumps erratically. “You’re really going to cut my course, Mr. Kim?”

Jongdae shuts - and locks - the door behind him. “Yeah, well, I’m finding it kind of hard to concentrate given that the professor fucked me.”

“I see. Is that what you wrote on the form?”

“I thought Pursuing a different academic path would suffice for the dean’s office.”

“Mm, you’re probably right.” Jongdae looks delicious in track pants and a slouchy grey sweater, the neckline low, his collarbones bare and enticing. “You made it home before your exam? Did it go well?”

“Nope. It’s okay though. One of my professors told me I could always marry rich.”

Suho smiles helplessly. “Come here.”

“Sir?”

He sets his glasses delicately on the desk. Suho spreads his legs a mite, then pats his thigh. Jongdae bites his lip, saunters, lowers himself gently onto this throne of a knee, and hums when he’s taken firmly by the face into a hot, languid kiss.

“Hyung, I really do need you to sign-”

“Later,” Suho whispers, already hands-deep into Jongdae’s shirt.

“Thank you,” Jongdae murmurs contentedly, sweeping his tongue across Suho’s, “for last night.”

“Mmm. I missed you this morning.”

“I’m here now.”

“You’re here now.”

Within the minute, Jongdae is fully straddling Suho, who has both of his palms full of Jongdae’s asscheeks.

“Clothes off.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yes I can.”

“Oh, my mistake.”

Suho shuts the blinds while Jongdae shuffles out of his garments. It’s only been twelve hours, but he forgot how beautiful his tight little body was. “How sore are you?”

“Not sore enough. I have lube in my wallet.”

“Of course you do. Fetch it for me.”

Jongdae makes a show bending over to retrieve it from his discarded pants.

“Your ass is exquisite.”

“Thanks.” Jongdae presses the little packet into Suho’s fist, then retreats coyly, mischievously.

Suho’s having none of it. He grips him by the hips and spins him to face his bookshelf, nibbling on the soft flesh behind Jongdae’s ear.

“We’re really doing this?”

“Why suddenly hesitant?” Suho smiles against his neck, and Jongdae shivers. “Now that I’ve had you, I’m remiss to let you go.”

Jongdae gasps when a hot palm strikes his ass. “Works for me, sir.” One slick finger breaches him, then two. Suho has to concentrate so not to pound into Jongdae the way he wants to.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Sore. I don’t care, though. Nngh. If you bail on fucking me in your office, I’ll never forgive you.”

“You’re such a treasure, Jongdae.”

Jongdae twists to kiss Suho while he preps him. They’re both white-knuckled against the bookshelf. At three fingers, Jongdae is loud. The thought of his neighbouring colleagues hearing him nail a student in his office turns him on, but if he wants to keep his job, he needs to exercise at least a little caution. “Shh, Jongdae. Be quiet for me, honey.”

“C-can’t. Fuck.”

Suho pumps himself to fullness. “Try. Hush, baby.”

The slide past Jongdae’s rim is so good he has to clench his jaw and throw his head back to stop from making noise. He can’t help but growl when Jongdae rolls his hips back, his arms flexing in an effort to push himself harder against Suho’s dick.

It’s tense and fast and filthy and not nearly as quiet as they should be. Their breath is loud and laboured, the bookshelf rattles incessantly, and when they really get into it, one of Kim Junmyeon’s framed degrees slips from the wall and shatters.

Jongdae lets one quip loose. “Next t-time, bend me over y-your desk.”

God, the thought of it alone. “I’m going to regret saying this during sex,” he pants in Jongdae’s ear, thrusting relentlessly against his sweet spot, “but I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Jongdae comes all over his shelf of Cartesian anthologies. Such a shame.

♦

Suho has a spring in his step the next day. That giddiness you get when you have a crush. He likes Jongdae, and really, truly accepting that floods his whole body with gentle relief.

Jongdae won't be in his classes anymore, but he's still arranged to see him at the school when they have a free moment under the guise of finishing up the administrative necessities of dropping a course. Suho arrives on campus early to tidy up and fiddle with his hair.

What he finds within his office petrifies him.

There's blood everywhere. On the blinds, on the stack of papers he has to grade, on his potted tulips. On the ceiling. Blood in the empty space in his bookshelf where his Cartesian anthologies used to sit. He pulls the door close, shutting himself into this stage of horror.

The smell is unbelievable. Coarse, sickly, metallic. He sinks to his knees before they give out. Shaking, he draws his phone from his pocket.

She picks up after two rings. "Suho?"

"I need your help," he nearly sobs. "I think Xiumin did something. My office, it looks- it looks like- I don't know what he wants. Fuck, Li Yin, please help me." He can't stifle the whimper bubbling from his throat. "Oh my god." Shit, shit, shit. "I have to find Jongdae. Fuck!"

"Calm down," Li Yin tells him in cool, measured tones. "Stay where you are. Don't leave. Don't talk to anyone."

"I- I have to find- Jongdae's supposed to meet me.”

"I told you not to get mixed up with that boy."

"You told me not to hurt him!"

"Thanks to you, Xiumin might."

Knuckles rap on his office door, and adrenaline chokes him. "Jongdae?"

"Yeah, it’s me. Why do you sound weird?"

"Li Yin, he's here."

"Bring him to Summerhill. Don’t speak to anyone. Have him walk some distance behind you. Use the basement entrance. It’s 0408 on the keypad.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make sure no one gets into your office. Make sure he hasn’t gotten anywhere else. And then find him.”

Jongdae knocks insistently at the door. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t leave the basement until I get back,” she says. “Go now.”

He puts his phone away and wipes his hands on his jacket. “Jongdae?” he says through the door. “Go down to the lobby and wait for me. Don’t ask questions.”

“Huh? What’s the matter?”

He’s going to fucking cry. “Jongdae!”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

He only waits until he can no longer hear Jongdae’s footsteps, too anxious to have him out of sight. He joins him in the lobby and relays his instructions, and doesn’t say another word before striding ahead to his destination.

As Chancellor, Li Yin’s official residence is on campus, a grand old limestone character house covered in ivy and creeping moss. He slips through the gate and down the narrow stairs to the basement, punches in the code, pulls open the heavy security door, and ushers Jongdae inside. Even Suho feels a bit uncanny, cowering in an old dungeon of a powerful mob boss, bottles of actual blood hidden behind some hidden panel for which his eyes nervously search.

“Hyung, tell me what’s happening.”

The noise makes him start. The basement is probably secured like a bunker, given its contents, but Suho can’t help feel like there’s a SWAT team outside with their ears pressed to the foundation. He squints in the dim light.

“I will,” he says, his voice a whisper of its own account. “I promise. But later.” He brings their mouths together, in part because it’ll shut Jongdae up, in part because he doesn’t know what will happen tomorrow. Even if Li Yin cleans everything up, he’ll have to leave the school. Jongdae will probably be relocated, just in case. No trail left intact. Suho idly wonders whose blood is coating his office. Shit, shit, shit.

Where his palm rests on Jongdae’s neck, he can feel a nervous pulse. But Jongdae sinks eagerly into the kiss, melting, so responsive, so good, such a good boy.

“Hey.” Suho lights up his phone and takes Jongdae by the hand. “Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

There’s a dark office further down the hallway with a writing desk and chairs, so they set up camp and cuddle quietly while waiting for an update from Li Yin. Suho can feel that Jongdae is still bursting with questions, but he seems to have picked up on the seriousness of the situation, and lets himself lean quietly against his shoulder.

It’s an hour, maybe more, until Li Yin’s silhouette in the doorframe has them tumbling from their seats in alarm.

“We know where he is,” she says, hand on her hip, “so it’s just a matter of getting him. My people are on it. It’s probably best if you both go home for the night.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Suho mutters.

“Fine.” Li Yin tosses a set of keys. “Jongdae, take Professor Kim to your apartment for now. Take my car.”

“What if the police show up?” Suho asks.

“They won’t. Go. Don’t leave until I come get you.” She sweeps her long hair up into a ponytail. “Christ, I hate clean-up.”

Jongdae hand is pale and clammy when Suho drags him from the house and into the cool, quiet air of the evening. “Is it bad that I think that was really hot?”

“Jongdae. Not the time.”

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

“Give me the keys.”

“She told me to drive you.”

“Give me the keys and I’ll fuck you in the library before you get expelled.”

“Deal. Let’s go.”

♦

In the small space of Jongdae’s bedroom, Suho explains.

“Why is Minseok-hyung doing this?”

“I don’t know. If he can’t have his way, then no one can. Because he’s selfish, and childish, and bored. Because no one loves him anymore. Because he’s alone, and sad, and confused, and an asshole.”

Jongdae slips his hand into Suho’s. “I’m sorry this is happening.”

“Me too. I’m sorry you’re involved. I hate it.” After a long silence, something occurs to Suho. “Jongdae. Remember when we fooled around in my car and you made me bring you to my flat because you didn’t want to go home with cum all over you?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“You don’t have any roommates. You don’t have any roommates who would have seen you.”

Jongdae goes tense with barely-contained mirth. “No, sir.”

“You tricked me into taking you home with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hate you.” Suho resolves his anger, and Jongdae his glee, with slow, soft kisses. “You have such a beautiful mouth,” the former murmurs, dipping again and again to drink from curly lips. He can feel Jongdae’s abs tighten against him when he laughs. A strand of his hair tickles his cheek. He was to be utterly engulfed in Jongdae.

“You do too. So cute. So round. Ah, you’re adorable.”

“Round?”

“Round like your cheeks.” Peck. “Round like your bum.” Pinch.

“Hey!” Pinch pinch pinch. “The disrespect-” And then Jongdae’s mischievous hands are in his shirt, down his pants, prodding and tickling and wreaking all forms of havoc. Squawking, Suho struggles for his wrists and, when found, pins them to the mattress above Jongdae’s head.

“Got you.”

“Mm. You sure do.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“This would be so romantic if we weren’t on the lam because your old lover framed you for murder.”

“It sounds pretty romantic to me. Although the Linkin Park poster does kind of ruin the atmosphere.”

“Hey, they used to be good.”

“The hairy one is staring at me.”

A brusque rap on the window has Jongdae yelping.

“It’s Li Yin,” Suho says, moving to lift the sill so she can slide soundlessly inside.

“Things are under control,” she says without so much as a hello. “Not to sound like entirely cliché, but meet us by the barge north of the school in ninety minutes. We’ll have details sorted by then.”

“We can’t go now?” Suho asks.

“First of all, I need to go collect Xiumin. Secondly, your boyfriend has an erection, and out of the kindness of my heart, I’m going to let you take care of that.”

Jongdae sputters indignantly while Li Yin slips back outside.

“Insatiable, aren’t you?” Suho hums, glancing down at the issue at hand.

“It’s not my fault,” he whines.

Suho tugs him down on the bed. “Are we going to use this time to talk, or to fuck?”

“Uh. Fuck?”

“Good, because I really love fucking you.”

Their mouths mash together with the desperate urgency of two people eager to distract themselves, but dispelling the darkness of earlier events is easier than Suho anticipated. Here, now, with Jongdae, he lets his brain quiet and his body take control.

The boy quivers and gasps through the preparation, squirming as Suho’s fingers twist deep, deeper. When all their clothes are in a pile on the floor, he looks him in the eye.

“Ride me,” says Suho huskily.

“Oh. Please.”

Jongdae sinks onto his dick, the filtered glow of the streetlights illuminating the planes of his face, his ecstasy, into something truly baroque. Suho basks in it, basks in him, soaks in comforting weight above him. Jongdae's broad shoulders look absolutely delicious. His bangs in his eyes. A smirk at his lips. Jongdae rolls and rocks and grinds.

“Sweetheart,” Suho whispers.

Time is running out.

♦

She’s there with half a dozen Lotus toughs, her small frame unnervingly intimidating next to them save for the one tall, twinky pink-haired boy who’s more preoccupied with the shine of his Glock until a bulky guy shows up with Xiumin, whom he literally holds by the scruff of his collar. He has an ugly red gouge in his arm. Bite marks.

Suho wants to be furious at him, but Xiumin has never looked more like a disgruntled kitten. Jongdae rubs circles into the small of his back. He’s not sure why Li Yin even wanted them here. He doesn’t need an explanation, or closure. He just wants Jongdae to be safe, and to adore him in peace.

Xiumin doesn’t have time to say much before Li Yin slaps him across the face. “You fuck.”

“Ow.”

Another. “Shut up. How dare you.”

Xiumin glares back, and for a moment he’s the powerful, ageless being who turned her a century ago. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

His shirt in her fist, she tugs him dangerously close. “I absolutely do. Start talking.”

He spits out a glob of blood. “You think I’m scared of dying? There’s nothing you can do to me.”

“I will fuck you up, you little pissbaby. You show up to start shit in my neighbourhood? For what? You fucking child. What the fuck did you hope to accomplish?”

He scowls at her. “You have no proof I did anything.”

She nods brusquely to the tall boy. “Lu Han, get him the fuck out of my face.”

Xiumin’s man-handled into the backseat of a black sedan. Very triad. He hears Lu Han debriefing him in a high, threatening whisper.

“What are you going to do to him?” Suho asks, as Li Yin pulls him aside. “Part of me really though you were going to throw him off the dock with concrete shoes.”

“No,” she sighs. “The three of us, our history is too much. Besides, I hate waste. He’s cunning and good, and I’ll try to remind him of that.”

“By what, recruiting him into your gang after distracting him with the pretty boy with the gun?”

Li Yin smiles conspiratorially. “He has a type.” Suho coughs in acknowledgement. “Leave Xiumin to me, Suho. I’m not so naïve as to think he might ever be controlled, but I am, after all, an educator. He needs to learn that there are consequences to his actions.” She rolls her shoulders. “If nothing else, I’ll try to keep him off your back. Find him new support in his life. Nothing worse than an immortal fuckboy with commitment issues.”

“Li Yin. Thank you. I’m so sorry for all of this. You took me in, and I became a burden. I want to make it up to you.”

She exhales, long and wearily. “It wasn’t your problem to clean up. My staff, my turf. He should’ve known better.”

“Yeah, well, he was never very good at articulating his issues in a way that wasn’t utterly theatrical.”

“An accurate assessment.”

“Auntie, why are you helping me?”

“You saved my life once, Suho. It might be hard to believe, but I genuinely want you to be whole, and happy. And I think coming here has helped you, despite this latest unfortunate episode.” An embrace. “By the way, consider yourself officially relieved of your position. Your stipend will be deposited by tomorrow morning.”

The softest smile. “Thank you, Auntie.”

She faces Jongdae, who’s been unsubtly eavesdropping from a few feet away. “And Kim Jongdae, you’re suspended until further notice.”

Nervous bowing. “Ma’am.”

Suho spares no last glance for Min, but smiles when he hears the kid, Lu Han, holster his gun and addresses his captive:

“Ready, rabbit?”

♦

“What did I do?” Jongdae asks, chagrined, after bringing up the last of Li Yin’s executive orders. He shivers against the wind off the lake.

“Aside from sleeping with your professor?”

“Oh yeah.”

Suho reaches for his hand. “It was a gift. She’s giving us time together, if you want it.”

“Oh. Well. That’s…” He plays shyly with Suho’s warm fingers. “...really nice, actually. What about school, though?”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll take care of that too.”

“So. Wait. What is happening.”

Suho tugs him to a halt and traces his jaw with a delicate finger. “Jongdae. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. All of this. The flirting, involving you in the whole Steve thing, using you to feed. Mixing you up in the business of the literal vampire mafia and an old partner. I put you in a lot of danger, and I took advantage of you in a lot of ways.”

“Hey-”

“Let me finish, okay?” Gently, he brushes a stray lock of glossy hair behind Jongdae’s ear. “I just. Want to apologize. Sincerely. Because I’m about to ask you something and it’s selfish and I don’t want you to think I’m entirely without remorse.”

“Yes, yes, a million times yes.”

“God- can you just be serious for one second?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

He takes a deep breath of evening air. “I want to try this. Try us.” When Jongdae doesn’t say anything, he nervously patters on. “Like, ah. Together. With you. Me and you. Shit, I-”

Jongdae kisses him, deep, slow, reverent. “You. You complete dingus. I chased you for what, months? I stayed when I found out why you’re so hopelessly out of touch with the present. I stayed even though you can’t get away with calling me baby during sex. Do you think there’s even the slightest, teeniest, tiniest possibility that I’m not head-over-heels fucked for you and wouldn’t want to be your boyfriend until my colon prolapses and maybe even after that? Now take me back to your place before I storm off, because it’s fucking freezing out here and I want your dick up my ass.” At Suho’s loss for words, Jongdae pats his cheek. “Save your speech for after. You can thank me for indulging you later.” His eyes twinkle with moonlight. “But I find asceticism old-fashioned, and impractical. Don’t you?”

He really, really does.