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At the strike of midnight, King Jeno hears the Christmas bells chime over his kingdom, and he almost remembers who he is. He was the one who decreed that the bells should chime, after all.
Had the bells been louder, he might have been pulled back to the surface. Or, perhaps, had the blood not been so loud in contrast, he might have stood a chance.
But it’s so warm on his throat, being pumped into his system so smoothly. He could be floating in the ether for all he knows.
He feasts on blood until there is only a drained body in his grasp, licking every last drop of it from the gash of his teeth on both skin and flesh, deep enough to see bone. He even licks the corners of his mouth dry. With his eyes closed, he can taste the full extent of it and feel his body brimming with stolen life.
Once satisfied, he tosses the carcass of who once was into the river.
What a heavenly night.
The Christmas ball takes place every year on Christmas Eve night. It is customary for the King to attend and to make a show of his enjoyment. He should dance, he should mingle, he should grace the guests with his striking otherworldly smile. A godly King such as he should flaunt his perpetual youth, his mesmerizing appearance. Youth is power. Especially when you’ve maintained it for centuries.
Two hours into the ball, he disappears.
His absence doesn’t go by unnoticed, but nobody stresses over it as much as Sir Jaemin.
Well into the night, the king returns to his palace drenched in blood.
Nights such as these are a regular occurrence, and Jeno has lived as a creature of the night for long enough to know how to slither back into his chambers unnoticed. Looking at himself in the mirror is horrifying now that he’s regained his senses. He’d worn a peal white satin gown for the ball, fitted at the waist. He had looked angelic when he’d first put it on. At that time, he’d thought of Jaemin, who always wore the pearl white garments of the King’s guard.
Jaemin has never had one single drop of blood show on him outside of battle. The same cannot be said of Jeno and the mess of dried, dead blood that he is. He’s ashamed of his cruelty. He wants to vomit, but his vampire body is not capable of such a thing anymore.
Despite all of this, when Jaemin knocks at the door, Jeno lets him in. Even if does so with trembling hands. Nights like this were not new, but Jaemin did not know of them yet. He’d had them under control for decades, only recently they’ve come back stronger than before, more frequent too. So far, he’s managed to keep this one secret from Jaemin.
Tonight, it ends.
Jeno steels himself for rejection. Jaemin is the Commander of his personal army, the unofficial advisor to the crown, an esteemed friend, and most often than not, something else entirely that Jeno is too afraid to name.
The kingdom without Jaemin would not be the same. His absence would be felt in battle, in court, and in Jeno’s cold heart too.
He almost doesn’t let Jaemin in.
Almost.
But then, he has to. Jaemin deserves nothing but honesty, and the right to choose. Jeno wouldn’t have him any other way.
Jaemin is visibly shocked when he comes in and sees Jeno. His first instinct is to search for wounds on the king’s body. When he finds none, and he takes a step back, Jeno thinks this is it. Jaemin will leave him.
He doesn’t.
He doesn’t even raise his sword or look at him in disgust.
“Is there any chance someone has seen you, your grace?”
“Not anyone who would recognize me.”
“And the bodies?”
Jeno has to look away.
“Dumped in the river.”
Jaemin stands like a statue by the door. Tonight, he’s worn black. Such a striking contrast with his snow-white hair, styled to perfection to frame his face. Youth shines brightly on him too. But his youth is real, unlike Jeno’s. His youth is human.
“You may ask,” Jeno tells him.
“What would I ask?”
Jeno clears his throat. Is it really cold, or is it just the distance between them chilling in his bones?
“About tonight.” He says.
Jaemin shakes his head. “It is not my place to be curious.”
“I am saying it is your place. You’ve earned it.”
Jaemin contemplates him for a moment.
“I trust my King.” When he says it, it seems final. Yet he grips the hilt of his sword tighter. Jeno wouldn’t have expected anything less from the Commander of his Kingsguard. He is the best Jeno’s ever had in his long long life, and he isn’t so by being naive or letting his guard down easily.
Good, Jeno thinks. You should not let your guard down around someone like me. If I lose myself around you I might try to have you, in more ways than one.
“You are a loyal subject,” Jeno says instead.
“I am.”
“But I wouldn’t want you to be loyal to me out of fear, Commander,” I’d rather let you go than keep you around because you fear the alternative.
“That is not why I am loyal to you, your grace. I wouldn’t be a good Commander if I let fear dictate my actions.”
He’s right, as he most often is. That’s precisely what made Jeno first notice him. It is part of what still makes Jeno seek his counsel.
What is it then, that makes you loyal? Jeno almost asks. He would’ve if Jaemin had not spoken first.
“I will find a servant to draw you a bath.” He turns to leave, but Jeno stops him with a hand on the door, arm stretched in front of Jaemin’s face.
“I cannot be seen like this by a servant.”
“They’ll know better than to speak a word of this.” It’s a threat, sharp and deadly. He grips his sword tighter, as if to let Jeno know he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if the servant dared to open their mouth.
Jeno clenches his jaw. “There is no need. I will draw the bath myself.”
Jaemin gasps.
“My King, that is not proper–”
Jeno cuts him off with a steel gaze. He takes a moment to gather himself and find the strength to speak. As a King and as a vampire both, he’s had to face a lot of demons, he’s had to brandish himself into bravery, but in this shared private moment, he doesn’t want to put on a show. He wants to give Jaemin himself.
So he tells him, honestly: “I have taken care of this a million times before.”
And it weighs heavy between them, each and every word a cruel and somber confession. I've given in to hunger countless times before. I’ve maimed, drained, and killed like this so many times that I have lost count. I will do it again.
Jaemin faces him fully, both of them standing at equal footing, equal height, gazes leveled. He does not shy away. Doesn’t seem any more willing to abandon Jeno than he was minutes ago, or earlier today at the ball, or any other day for as long as he’s been in Jeno’s life.
“Without any assistance?” Jaemin asks.
“The fewer people know, the better.”
“I know.”
“Now, you do.”
A pause.
“Then I will assist you. You mustn’t do this alone.”
Jaemin makes to leave once more. Jeno stops him. “Where are you going, Commander?”
“I will draw your bath. You can rid yourself of your soiled garments and leave them by the foot of the bed. I will burn them after I leave.”
“You will do no such thing. You’re a Commander, I will not have you do a servant’s work.”
“And you’re my King. I cannot leave you to do this on your own.”
“I already told you: I’ve done this before. I am used to it.”
“Before you were alone. Now I am here.” He says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. After a breath, his features soften, if only for a brief moment. “My King, please let me.”
The depth in his voice stirs something in Jeno’s gut. Something that sends a shiver up his spine.
Oh, how easily Jeno caves in, how pleasant it feels to do so. A King must wear armor at all times, because even his palace is a battlefield. But with Jaemin, he often fantasises about taking it all off and being seen. Sometimes, he forsakes an item or two. And, oh, how his heart soars when Jaemin looks at him through those breaches. When Jaemin looks and stays. When Jaemin starts to seek them out and protects them with his own body, making sure nobody else can see. Nobody but him.
Jaemin unsheathes his sword and removes his outer garments, until he’s left with nothing but his pants, his boots, and his undershirt. All the sparkles and embroidery have been put aside, and yet Jeno finds him to shine even more just like this.
The cotton of his shirt is a shade lighter than his olive skin, complimenting it the same way the sun compliments the expanse of the desert. With only a layer to him, the shape of his body is evidenced. Jeno particularly loves how much smaller his waist is compared to his shoulders, how delicate it seems to be, despite the fact that there isn’t much that is delicate about Jaemin, the human in charge of a vampire’s army.
Under his glowing skin, there’s hard muscle, no doubt. Jeno has seen it. He never grows tired of it. He hungers for the sight almost as much as he hungers for blood in the dead of the night.
Jeno removes the blood-soaked clothes from his body while Jaemin goes into the other room to prepare his bath. His chamber falls deeper into silence as he slowly undresses. It is standard to undress completely for a bath, he has done it a million times, thinking no more of it than he thinks of breathing. And yet, he hesitates before stripping the last piece of underpants, growing warmer. Heart picking up pace.
What is this effect Jaemin has on him?
When will it see an end?
Will it ever?
Does he want it to?
Jeno ambles into the other room. Jaemin is bent over the large stone bath, one hand dipped into the water - no doubt to test its temperature. He seems pleased, if still focused.
Jeno clears his throat. He has to force himself to keep his hands at his sides and his shoulders drawn back under Jaemin’s gaze. He pretends to inspect the room, even if he knows this place like the palm of his hand already.
Jaemin clears his throat.
“Your bath is ready.”
To find Jaemin’s eyes is to burn.
Jeno is a Vampire, he knows sin, he knows there’s nothing but hell waiting for him after this long cursed life of his. And yet, he feels wicked when he looks into Jaemin’s eyes then, wicked to enjoy the flames licking at his insides, to want to burn. He swears he sees flames in Jaemin’s eyes. Do you feel this too? Am I all the more wicked for craving you in this way, when all you want is to serve your King?
While Jaemin scrubs the blood off of his skin, still without questioning why his beloved King is covered in blood at all, Jeno allows himself a second to wonder if there’s any limit to what Jaemin would do to serve him. If he asked, would he get on his knees, not to bow, but to lick his way inside Jeno, to pleasure him?
Such questions should remain in thought. Pure fantasy.
“Thank you, Jaemin.”
The use of Jaemin’s name instead of his title seems to throw him off guard.
“It’s my duty.”
A punch to the gut.
Jeno inhales as Jaemin scrubs blood off his back.
“What would be of us if we’d met in different circumstances?” Jeno muses.
“And what would those circumstances be?”
Jeno lets his mind wander. He builds a fake reality for them in the blank canvas of the starless night sky outside their window.
“If I were not King. If you were not bound by duty to be with me. Would we be friends then?”
“I can’t imagine this Kingdom without your rule.”
When Jeno turns around, Jaemin is closer than he foresaw. Their noses almost bump. Jaemin’s skin is damp, his hair too, almost as if he’s also bathed. With him naked as he is and Jaemin stripped of his armor, it’s easier to imagine them as nobodies, as equals, as two men who share their time because they want to.
Jeno wants.
What does he want exactly?
So much that he cannot say anything at all.
“If you want to leave, if ever you do not wish to be beside me anymore,” he starts, knowing Jaemin is staring at him through one of those breaches in his armor. “If you ever like to stop this, whether it is being the commander of my army or answering my calls on the days I feel lonely…”
“... I thought you called for me to hear my counsel on those occasions.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I value your counsel more than anything. But I also value your company.”
“Your grace…”
Jeno sees his breath hitch. His cheeks are delightfully rosy. Jeno wishes to feel their warmth on his lips.
“Jaemin.”
“You’ve left me speechless.”
“That’s quite the feat.”
Jaemin chuckles, his gaze dropping to the bubbles of soap floating in the water. His long lashes are like the wings of a black butterfly.
“Indeed I always seem to have something to say, don’t I?”
“I treasure your every word.”
Jaemin looks back at him, surprised by the candor of Jeno’s words.
“I might overstep my boundaries if I speak.”
“I have told you, you can.” As a matter of fact, please do. “You’re washing blood off of my body. You’ve already seen me at my worst tonight.”
“It is not the first time. After battle–”
“Battle, Jaemin. Surely, you must know – you are the Commander after all. I did not come from battle.”
“You did not.”
“Are you not scared? Do you not want to know why?”
“You’re a vampire. Something like this was bound to happen.”
“Why are you loyal to me? If it’s not fear, what is it?”
“Belief, admiration, respect…” Jaemin trails off. He rises from his spot beside the bath and walks off to the other side of the room, turning his back to Jeno.
“Why does it sound like you have more yet to say?”
Jeno rises from the bath as well, water rippling in waves and overflowing, crashing on the tile floor like waves in the night sea. Jeno stands in the middle of the bath, water reaching just below his knee, poised and commanding. Gone is any of his reticence and bashfulness.
“Why are you loyal to me? Even after you’ve seen what I do.”
Water drops slide down his naked body. Jaemin seems to follow them with his eyes.
“If you must know…”
Jeno climbs out of the bath, wet feet leaving puddles on the floor as he moves. Jaemin watches him come closer with curiosity. He doesn’t cower, doesn’t step back. He meets Jeno as he always does, steeled, back straight, eyes at the same level. He could be a King. He might be a much better King than Jeno, even.
“I would like to know. If you’ll allow me,” Jeno says.
Jaemin’s features soften ever so slightly.
“I know that being a vampire comes with a price. So does being a King, so does being the Commander of an army. I might not have been in your shoes before, but I know what it’s like to be covered in so much blood that I no longer recognize myself. It’s the price we pay for peace. If you weren’t a vampire, the Kingdom wouldn’t prosper as it does now, as it has done for centuries, ever since you rose to the throne.
“I am loyal to you because you are a King who still knows when to ask for permission even if he has the power to take anything he wants regardless. A King who does not demand anyone else to clean his mess. A King who says thank you. A King who seeks my company to share a story and a laugh. A King I admire, I respect and I…”
A deep breath.
“...Love.”
Jeno smiles. He cups the side of Jaemin’s face with his hand, finding his jaw blunt against his palm, raspy like sand from the hint of stubble growing, and yet warm under his touch. So, so, warm.
“Would you call me Jeno?”
“Your grace–”
“Jeno.”
“But–”
“Please. Please say my name.” He slots his thigh between Jaemin’s legs, naked chest against Jaemin’s clothed one, dampening the cotton of his shirt and gluing their bodies together. The sight of Jaemin is unholy. Red on white. Not from violence this time but from the ardor of being touched. Jeno rides his thigh farther up between his legs. “If not, I can always find other ways to get it out of you, Commander.”
Jaemin doesn’t cave. Not when Jeno applies more pressure between his legs, not when he adds his hand, fitting it around Jaemin where he knows it feels good, when he strokes him until he grows in his palm.
Jaemin barely makes a sound.
He looks towards the ceiling as if seeking salvation. Gold streaks of light grace his shimmering skin. Jeno almost loses himself on the expanse of his neck. Jaemin has such a long, beautiful, delicious neck…
His own vampire blood rises up, to the back of his neck, until it reaches the corners of his eyes. Jeno pulls himself together with a deep breath. He’s about to withdraw his hand from Jaemin, afraid that Jaemin might not truly want any of this. He’s been quiet and pliant this whole time. Jeno’s starting to believe he misread the signs.
And then Jaemin pulls him back in, his heavy hand on top of Jeno’s, guiding him, pressing him harder against his groin, showing him where he likes it more – how he likes it.
Finally, a whimper escapes Jaemin, and he shuts his eyes. His bottom lip glows pretty and red where he bites it, as if to not let another stray sound pass. Jeno drinks it all in the same way he does with blood.
His downfall.
His reason for living.
Foreheads pressed together, they breathe into each other, warmth palpable in the air between them, the smell of night, the iron of blood, mixed together.
“Let me hear you.” Jeno pleads, almost touching Jaemin’s cheeks with his lips as he speaks. Never a pious man, he still puts all of his devotion into his movements, stroking Jaemin until the pleasure pooling in his gut is too much to keep inside, until he has to let it out. To cry. To call out Jeno’s name.
Jaemin presses his lips together in a thin line, his cheeks burning scarlet and eyes darker than coal. Brimming with life that is his own, in the most wicked of ways.
Jeno could devour him completely.
Jaemin makes little sounds, ephemeral whimpers that come from the back of his throat. He leads Jeno’s hand under his pants, dragging his palm down the expanse of his tummy, until Jeno can curl his fingers around his cock. How does he manage to feel tender and yet sound so rough at the same time? How can he be made of sharp bones, hard muscle, impenetrable armor, and yet feel smoother than silk?
“You’re incredible,” Jeno breathes out, unable to keep quiet. With his free hand, he comes to cup Jaemin’s chin, dipping his thumb inside his mouth. Jaemin is quick to reach for it with his tongue, to hollow his mouth and suck it like it’s his favorite toy to play with.
Something about the way Jaemin looks at him through it all makes him tremble. Jeno drops his gaze, to Jaemin’s neck, to the hollows just above his collarbones, a telltale of how tense his body is, how hard it is for him to breathe too. Jeno buries his head right there, lips finding the protruding bones and kissing, tongue sliding across skin until Jaemin shivers.
He’s still letting Jaemin take the lead, their joint hands still stroking Jaemin together, picking up a faster pace. Jeno is all too willing to let him do as he pleases, even if he is so worked up himself that he might be dripping. He’s happy to be feeling Jaemin, to be the one riling him up, the one to make his heart race as it does.
A king should never submit to another’s whims like this. He shouldn’t. But if it’s Jaemin… If it’s only the two of them behind closed doors, then he’s all too willing to let go of his kingly duties, his incessant war for power. Oh, how wonderful it is to let someone else take control and just follow along. How wonderful, when it is someone he trusts the way he trusts his Commander.
He’s trusted Jaemin with his life for a long time.
He just never knew trusting him with his cock would feel this liberating.
Jeno wants to kiss him.
Before he can do it, Jaemin turns around, offering his broad back to Jeno. He presses his backside against Jeno, making him cry out from the faintest friction alone. A sound nurtured in his groin, roughened by his dry throat, and slick from his salivating mouth.
Jaemin is quick to guide Jeno’s hand back to his cock, each thrust of Jeno’s hand making the Commander’s body press against Jeno’s hardness in a rhythmic tease of almost that drives him further and further away from his sanity.
Hearts too frenzied, blood pumping too fast, thoughts faded into primal instinct only. Jeno cannot stop himself when his fangs come out, when they rip into the crook of Jaemin’s neck and finally - finally - he screams.
Blood.
Velvet on his throat.
A pool of warmth in his gut.
For the second time that night, Jeno almost loses himself. He almost forgets who he is, what he’s doing, who he has against him. He would’ve, if Jaemin had not remained so vivid and loud.
Pressure against his throbbing cock, loud in it’s ferocity, the slap of flesh against flesh. Jaemin doesn’t stop, and his relentlessness for pleasure despite the violence of Jeno’s vampire nature having turned against him, becomes everything that Jeno can focus on.
Jaemin.
Jaemin. Jaemin. Jaemin.
Blood drips down Jeno’s chin into the fabric of Jaemin’s shirt, but Jeno doesn’t care to lick every last drop of it, even if it tastes like heaven.
He prefers to burn from the feel of Jaemin’s body.
If this is hell, then he will forsake life.
“I’m…almost…” Jaemin manages to say, the gravel in his voice driving Jeno closer to his orgasm. “Your grace–”
“Jeno.”
“Fuck.”
Jaemin lets go of his hand, palming the wall in front of him to keep himself steady, even though Jeno’s been holding onto his chest for dear life.
Jeno licks a messy trail over his earlobe, nibbles on it, almost purrs from how crazy the taste of him makes him feel. He’s close too. So close.
Jaemin spills into his hand, thrusting into it, using it and abusing it while he does so, riding out his orgasm until he can barely stand on his knees. Jeno lets him. Until he stops, and then uses the same hand to finish himself, the notion of having Jaemin wrapped around his cock - even if in this twisted way - sending him over the edge.
Their breathing is loud, echoing through the walls. Jeno is smiling, catching a glimpse of Jaemin’s profile, when he spots a figure hovering by the entrance.
They plunge into an abyss of deafening silence. Jaemin’s posture changes in the split of a second, all hints of vulnerability that Jeno had just been shown, gone just like that. His Commander is back. He seems to grow larger, as if his body has an armour built in his own skin, and it has come out and covered him from head to toe.
Jaemin comes to stand in front of Jeno, keeping him out of the servant’s sight. The gaping wound on his neck is all that Jeno can see. Blood drips down his stressed undershirt.
You did that to him, his own voice accusing in his head.
It hits Jeno, like a sword to the throat, that the skin around his eyes still burns, that there’s a kind of pressure in his gums that is not human. He still has his fangs out. His eyes are still bloodshot and red.
He doesn’t look human.
The servant has seen everything.
“Leave us.” Jaemin commands.
The boy cowers in response, as if the order has cut him. Before he can leave, Jaemin adds: “Wait for me outside the door.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The servant all but runs out, footfalls quiet in the dead of night.
“He won’t dare speak.” Jeno says after they hear the door close.
“No, he will not.”
Jaemin eyes him then, his features softening for a brief moment. It feels as if there’s something he wishes to do or say, but all he can muster is that show of tenderness in the corner of his eyes, the smoothness of the line on his lips.
Jeno takes it. He loves this. It makes his heart beat almost the same way it used to when he was human.
Soon enough, Jaemin’s moving about, putting his evening’s clothes back on, sheathing his sword back on the holster around his waist. The same waist that had been under Jeno’s grasp just minutes ago, bony and hard, cutting into him so sweetly. The thought of it dries his mouth all over again.
Jeno follows after him, naked as he is, after cleaning his hand on a leftover towel.
“I will take care of the problem.” Jaemin says, already dressed and ready.
Jeno notices a loose strand in his hair and comes closer to fix it, dragging the movement in time, as if that would keep Jaemin here with him.
Jaemin lingers for a moment, his eyes following Jeno’s hand.
A wavering breath later, he’s gone.
Jeno is left wondering why his last words sounded so much like something else.
Like I will take care of you.
Jaemin leads the servant to a secluded corner of the palace. A lonely flame above the servant’s head lights them in dancing orange hues, the rest of them dipped in darkness.
First, he asks.
What were you doing there?
Who sent you?
Why would you enter the king’s chambers without permission?
He makes sure his sword is visible to the servant at all times, that the flame lights it perfectly, reflecting fire in its silver surface.
The servant talks as much as he cries, keeping his sobs quiet after Jaemin threatens to slit his throat if anyone else hears him. Naive and frightened, the boy obeys, covering his throat with his hands, as if that would stop the Commander’s sword.
Once Jaemin gets his answers, the sobs cease.
The boy falls to the floor, blood flooding the stones under his feet.
He can’t allow for rumors of Jeno’s true nature to spread over the palace, but he can deal with spilt blood and rumors of murder. Those, he knows all too well. Those, he can twist in his favour.
Ah, what an unholy night.