Chapter Text
Shane really hadn’t given much thought to vampires before he became one. They existed in the hazy background of pop culture: sparkling skin in teen movies, brooding capes in old Hammer films, the occasional meme about garlic breath. He’d laughed about them with his uni friends over warm pints, never imagining the punchline would one day be his own pulse flatlining in an alley behind a dive bar.
The turning itself was a blur he still avoided unpacking. Too much blood on concrete, too many screams that might have been his own, a stranger’s cold mouth on his throat, then darkness, then waking up in a dumpster with new instincts screaming louder than any uni hangover ever could. He was twenty four, freshly graduated with a useless sports psychology degree, and suddenly immortal. Great timing.
The clutch found him before he could do anything truly stupid like walk into direct sunlight or try to eat his now ex-roommate. They were a loose group of maybe eight or nine, squatting in the husk of a grand old hotel that had been abandoned since the 90s. Cracked marble floors, peeling gilt wallpaper, a basement that smelled faintly of damp earth and candle smoke. They called it home. Shane called it salvation.
They taught him the essentials with surprising patience. How to glamour a reflection so mirrors didn’t scream “corpse.”, how to fake a heartbeat when humans got too close, how to hunt without leaving bodies but the one lesson they glossed over or maybe assumed he’d pick up instinctively was control. How to bite without tearing. How to drink without killing. How to stop.
Shane didn’t stop or at least not at first.
His early feeds were messy disasters. A drunk college kid who woke up dizzy and confused, then a nightshift nurse who nearly bled out before Shane panicked and ran. He hated it, the guilt, the mess, the way his stomach still growled even after he’d taken so much, so when the hunger became unbearable and no safe human presented itself, he slunk back to the hotel empty-handed and vibrating with need.
That was the first night he found Ilya alone in the basement lounge.
Ilya was leaning back on the ancient velvet couch, one arm draped over the backrest, long legs stretched out. Even from behind, his silhouette was mesmerizing. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the kind of effortless posture that made Shane feel small and clumsy by comparison. When Ilya turned, red eyes caught the chandelier light and held it.
Shane froze in the doorway.
“You look like death,” Ilya observed in that low, russian accented drawl. Not mocking, just factual.
“I feel like it too,” Shane muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t… find anyone tonight. Not without risking it.”
Ilya regarded him for several long seconds. Then, without ceremony, he tilted his head to the side, exposing the pale column of his throat. The gesture was so casual it almost looked bored.
Shane blinked. “What—”
“Feed,” Ilya said simply. “Before you fall apart.”
Shane’s mouth went dry, or well drier, which shouldn’t have been possible. He took a hesitant step forward, then another. Ilya didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, he just watched with those steady crimson eyes as Shane closed the distance.
The first bite was brutal. Shane’s fangs punched in too deep, too fast and copper flooded his mouth, thick and heady, laced with something metallic and ancient that made his knees buckle. Ilya let out a short, sharp hiss, fingers flexing against the couch cushion, but he didn’t pull away. Shane drank in frantic pulls, small desperate whimpers escaping around the seal of his lips. He was starving. He was terrified and he was trying so hard not to kill the only person who’d offered him kindness without strings.
Ilya’s hand eventually settled on the nape of Shane’s neck, not restraining, just steadying. Warmth seeped through the touch even though neither of them had body heat to speak of. Shane moaned softly against skin, the sound muffled and broken.
Inside Ilya’s mind, alarms were ringing.
This was beyond intimate. Vampire blood wasn’t currency or convenience, it was sacred, venom-laced power reserved for lovers who’d already exchanged eternity, for mates who’d carved their names into each other’s souls over decades or centuries. To offer it freely to a fledgling especially one so young, so uncontrolled was reckless, even dangerous and so intimate in a way that bordered on profane.
And yet.
Shane’s tiny, helpless noises, the way he trembled with the effort of restraint, the eager little sucks that bordered on reverence shattered every wall Ilya had spent eighty one years building. The sting of fangs sliding deeper, the slow pull of his own life-force leaving him, the heat of that desperate mouth… it was devastating. Ilya’s vision blurred at the edges, black spots blooming like ink in water, but he still didn’t speak the word that would end it.
He could have. One command and Shane would have obeyed instantly.
He didn’t.
Shane eventually pulled back on his own, gasping, lips stained dark. Ilya swayed but caught himself, smirk faint and unsteady.
“Better?” he rasped.
Shane nodded mutely, eyes wide and guilty. He didn’t notice the fresh puncture marks already darkening on Ilya’s throat. Didn’t notice how Ilya’s hand lingered a second too long on his neck before falling away.
It became routine.
Not every night but often enough. Sometimes it was his wrist when Shane was too exhausted for theatrics and collarbone when he wanted to feel Ilya’s pulse under his tongue. His throat when the hunger was so sharp it hurt and each time Shane fed, he made those same small, needy sounds. Each time Ilya let him go further than he should have, until his limbs felt leaden and true death hovered close enough to brush fingers against his spine.
He never stopped Shane.
For three months the evidence accumulated. Faint pink scars layered over older ones across Ilya’s neck and wrists like a map of indulgence. The clutch noticed, of course they did. Necks were private territory; offering blood was declaration more profound than any vow. Whispers followed Ilya through the halls, not cruel but curious, maybe even amused along with a few knowing glances that made his jaw tighten.
Shane remained oblivious. To him, Ilya was simply kind, generous and safe.
Then Ilya decided enough was enough.
He took Shane hunting properly.
They moved through the city like shadows, Ilya demonstrating every step with quiet precision: how to read body language, how to choose the lonely and distracted, how to pierce cleanly so the wound closed almost instantly. Shane absorbed it all like a sponge. He learned to glamour lightly, to soothe rather than terrify, to take only what he needed and leave the human dazed but whole.
Within weeks he was hunting alone, confident and controlled.
And he stopped seeking Ilya’s vein.
Relief should have followed, a sense of normalcy and distance.
Instead Ilya found himself tracing the faded bite marks in the mirror at 3 a.m., missing the eager press of fangs, the soft whimpers, the way Shane’s pupils swallowed the red of his irises until only black remained. He told himself it was for the best, that the arrangement had always been temporary.
He lied.
Shane meanwhile grew restless.
Hunting satisfied the physical hunger, it was clean, efficient, morally defensible but it felt mechanical. Hollow. Like drinking water when you craved wine. He started taking stupid risks to chase adrenaline: slipping too close to known hunter territories, taunting rogue vamps in back alleys, lingering too long with a mark just to feel something sharp and alive.
Nothing matched the rush of Ilya’s blood, the taste or the intimacy. The way the world narrowed to heartbeat and heat and the low groan Ilya sometimes let slip when Shane hit the right spot.
Shane didn’t make the connection, at least not consciously.
That was until the hunters came.
They were young and sloppy, but dangerously well-equipped: portable UV floodlights that could sear skin in seconds, hawthorn stakes tipped with silver nitrate, and zip-ties soaked in vervain extract. Shane and Ilya had been following a faint lead on a missing fledgling, nothing solid, just rumors and a trail of unease when the trap snapped shut around them.
They fought hard, fangs and fists against steel and fanaticism, but numbers and preparation won out. In the end they barely made it back to the hotel, stumbling through the service corridors until they reached the basement. The heavy steel door slammed behind them with a final, echoing clang. Bolts slid home from the outside, locking with a mechanical finality that echoed through the concrete.
Silence settled, thick and absolute.
Forty-eight hours crawled by. Then seventy-two.
At least they were safe from the hunters, for now. But safety came with a price. There was no blood, no way out, only cold concrete walls, the weak stutter of emergency lights overhead, and the slow, relentless creep of true starvation sinking deeper into their bones with every passing hour.
Shane unraveled first.
He paced like a caged animal, nails digging bloody crescents into his palms. His breaths came in useless, frantic pants even though lungs no longer needed air. Ilya sat against the wall, knees drawn up, watching with calm that bordered on eerie.
“You need to sit,” Ilya said eventually.
Shane laughed sharp, brittle. “I can’t, it hurts too much.”
Ilya rose smoothly crossing the small space and caught Shane’s wrists before he could draw more blood. He lifted them gently, holding them between their faces so Shane could see the dark rivulets trickling down his own forearms.
“Look at me.”
Shane’s head jerked up. Eyes glassy, pupils blown to black pools.
“You’re going to lose yourself if you keep fighting it like this,” Ilya continued, voice low and steady, the same tone he used to command a room. “Breathe. Focus on my voice, you can control this.”
Shane’s expression shattered. “Please,” he whispered. “Ilya, please. I can’t—I don’t know how to make it stop. Help me.”
Ilya studied him for one heartbeat longer. Then he reached up and opened his shirt with steady fingers, buttons slipping free one by one until pale skin and layered scars were bared to the dim light.
Shane stared at the marks. Old punctures faded to silver, newer ones still pink and raised. A constellation of his own making.
His gaze traveled upward slowly, inch by inch, until their eyes locked.
Ilya’s pupils had dilated until the red was only a thin ring around endless black.
He gave the barest nod.
Shane surged forward.
Fangs found the familiar spot on the side of Ilya’s throat with devastating accuracy. Ilya groaned low and shameless tipping his head further back to offer every inch. Shane answered with a broken, relieved whimper, body pressing flush as rich, cool blood flooded his mouth once more.
God, the taste, thick and dark and perfect. Nothing else had ever come close.
Shane drank with greedy little moans muffled against skin, hips shifting restlessly. Ilya threaded fingers into Shane’s hair, cradling the back of his head, encouraging rather than restraining.
Strength bled out of Ilya with every swallow. His vision tunneled, his limbs grew heavy. True death whispered close again, closer than it had in decades but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Shane was making those desperate, needy sounds. Not when the fledgling’s body trembled with relief against his own.
моя любовь, Ilya thought dimly, affection and resignation twisting together. You’ll kill me and I’ll thank you for it.
Still, some stubborn instinct made him speak.
“моя любовь…” The word came out cracked and thin. “You’re going to drain me completely if you don’t stop soon.”
It took a moment to register, thenShane froze, fangs still buried deep.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly he withdrew. Blood smeared across his lips and chin and his pupils were enormous, breaths ragged and pointless.
He stared down at Ilya with sudden, horrified clarity.
“Fuck. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I couldn’t—” His voice broke on a sob. “Ilya, I—”
Ilya’s legs buckled.
Shane caught him before he hit the floor, arms wrapping tight around broad shoulders, holding on like he could physically keep the older vampire from slipping away.
Ilya managed a weak, crooked smirk. “Still here,” he rasped. “Barely but you’ll have to try harder next time, малыш.”
Shane let out a choked sound and buried his face against Ilya’s blood-smeared shoulder, arms tightening like he could physically hold the older vampire together. They stayed tangled on the cold concrete, breaths unnecessary and ragged anyway, the phantom thud of hearts neither of them had anymore echoing in the silence.
Neither spoke for what felt like forever.
When the quiet finally cracked, Shane’s voice came out small and wrecked.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Ilya’s neck. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I couldn’t stop. I almost killed you.”
Ilya exhaled a faint, tired sound that might have been a laugh if he’d had more strength. “You didn’t.”
“I could have.” Shane pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” Ilya’s voice was rough, but steady. “You’re still learning.”
Shane’s gaze dropped to Ilya’s throat, to the layered scars, old and new, pink and silver and unmistakable now that he was really looking. His stomach twisted.
“And these…” He reached out hesitantly, fingertips hovering over the marks without quite touching. “I did that. All of them. I’m sorry for that too. I didn’t know—I didn’t realize how bad it looked.”
Ilya caught his wrist gently before the hand could pull away. Held it there, pressed lightly against the scarred skin.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly.
Shane blinked. “It’s… okay?”
Ilya’s lips curved, not quite a smirk, but close. Something darker and more knowing flickered in his red eyes.
“I like them.”
Shane froze. His fingers flexed against the punctures, feeling the faint raised edges under his touch. The words landed slow, then all at once.
He stared at Ilya, shock widening his eyes until the blue was almost swallowed by pupil.
Ilya let out a low, rough laugh, the first real one in hours. It sounded exhausted and fond at the same time.
“You should probably inform yourself,” he said, voice dropping softer, “on what it actually means when one vampire lets another feed from them.”
Shane’s mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.
Ilya just watched him, thumb brushing once, almost absently over the inside of Shane’s wrist before letting go.
The locked door stayed shut. The emergency lights buzzed overhead.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them said anything else.