Chapter Text
Waking up with a hangover was nothing new to Johnny Cage.
Waking up with a hangover craving blood and hissing at the sun, however, was an entirely new, fucked-up territory of weird. Johnny, with his skin burning up in the bright afternoon, had stumbled to the nearest hospital and demanded they give him a blood transplant, or something, anything , to stop the awful pangs of need for blood that made his canine teeth ache and his stomach hurt.
He had seen enough vampire movies to know when his life had become one.
Once the initial growing pains had passed— thankfully his new vampire canines hadn’t fucked up all the dental work he had done as a teenager, but figuring out how to use whitening strips had been a pain in his ass— it wasn’t so bad. It only took a small amount of convincing for the local blood bank to strike a deal with him. Money for blood, and Johnny was fine with that.
Life passed as normal, except now he drank blood instead of eating normal people food. Not too bad. Oh, and he had to keep an umbrella on him at all times to protect himself from the sun, but other than that, his new life was almost underwhelming.
Johnny poured a bag of O+ blood (his favorite) out into a wine glass, then headed over one of the multiple reclining chairs beside the pool to catch some moonlight. Sunbathing was out of the question nowadays, but moonbathing, as he put it, wasn’t too bad. It was peaceful.
His glass was almost empty when the front buzzer went off. Not expecting company, Johnny quickly took a look in the mirror to check that he didn’t have any remnants of blood on his lips, then headed over to the front door monitor to see who it could be at his door so late.
To Johnny’s surprise it was only Kenshi, standing on his doorstep in a spiffy suit, looking tired. The red blindfold, which had once been his, was the same as ever, and a strange feeling stuck in his throat. Johnny wasted no time unlocking the door.
“Well, look who it is! Come in. What are you doing here so late?” He flashed a crooked smile.
Kenshi must’ve heard the smile in his voice because he smiled back and followed Johnny inside. “Hello, Cage,” he said, “I was in the area and decided I should stop by.”
“At… 12:26 at night?”
Kenshi merely shrugged. “Work was late today. And anyway, what are you still doing awake? Don’t movie stars need their beauty sleep?”
“Yeah, well. This actor doesn’t.” They shared a laugh, and Johnny led them both to the plastic lounging chairs he had been sitting in a minute earlier. Kenshi slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of the seat. Johnny continued, trying not to admire the way the red of his dress shirt accentuated the tattoos on the man’s arms. “You want a drink or anything? I… don’t have too much to eat, though, so if you’re hungry we gotta order something.”
Kenshi waved him off. “I already ate, but some wine might be nice. I know you have the good stuff.”
Johnny smirked, his sharp teeth flashing in the light of the moon. “That I do, my friend.”
While he went to search the wine cellar for a drink Kenshi would like, he reminisced about when they first met. Beating the shit out of him and tying him to a chair probably didn’t make the best first impression, but their friendship had come so far that first impressions didn’t hardly matter anymore. Thankfully. Johnny knew he would be dead if it weren’t for Kenshi. He still saw Mileena’s fucked up teeth in his nightmares.
He grabbed a few bottles and a glass and found Kenshi in the same spot he had left him, looking peaceful in the light of the moon. Johnny was no artist— in the traditional sense of course, he would die on the hill that directors were also artists in their own right— but if he could, he would’ve painted Kenshi’s portrait right there and hung it up on the mantle.
“Here,” Johnny said softly, and poured some wine in the glass. “This was one of my favorites.”
“Was? Not anymore?”
Johnny opened his mouth, then shut it. “Uh, s-still is.” The stuttering was completely unlike him, but if Kenshi suspected anything suspicious about his behavior he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a sip and hummed approvingly.
“It’s pretty good.” Relieved, Johnny poured more for him then took his seat next to his friend.
They sat in silence for a long time while Kenshi sipped on his wine.
Almost an hour had passed until Kenshi spoke up once more, sounding almost shy. “Johnny, could I ask you a favor?”
Johnny had been lost in his own head, and nearly didn’t hear him. “Huh? Sure, anything for you, man.”
“Could I…” Kenshi sat up to face him. “Could I touch your face?”
Johnny laughed, then soon realized that Kenshi had not been joking. “Oh, you’re serious,” he whispered, “Oookay, then. Heh. Why not? Want me to sign something, too?” As soon as the words left his lips he regretted them. If his heart still beat, it would be pounding out of his chest. Curse him for using asshole humor to cope with his internal panic, okay?
Kenshi looked slightly angry and maybe a little embarrassed at Johnny’s poor reaction. “Nevermind,” he said simply, then turned back towards the moon.
Johnny’s throat seized up. “Ah, no, Ken, I’m sorry. That… I didn’t mean…” He cursed softly, then faced his friend. Swallowing nervously, not trusting his mouth to speak, he gently rested a hand on Kenshi’s own and pulled it up towards his face. “You can. Of course you can. I’m sorry, I was being a dick.”
Kenshi let out a breath, then quirked the corner of his lips up ever so slightly. “I’m getting some mixed signals, Cage.”
Determined, Johnny held Kenshi’s hands firmly to his cheeks. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Go ahead and knock yourself out.” Then, ever so slowly, Johnny moved his hands and allowed Kenshi to explore his face with the pads of his fingers.
He allowed his eyelids to flutter closed as he enjoyed the gentle touches of the calloused skin, breathing out and relaxing his shoulders. It felt really nice; nobody had touched him like this in a long time. If Johnny were a little less egotistical, then perhaps he would feel selfish for enjoying this so much, especially since it was supposed to be for Kenshi’s benefit, but the thought didn’t bother him. Afterall, what Kenshi didn’t know…
Soft breath fanned across Johnny’s face as Kenshi’s fingers traced down his cheeks and over his crooked nose. His friend lingered a bit there, on the bridge of his nose, simply feeling the shape of the cartilage. Johnny tried not to react, sitting stiffly in his seat, knowing that blind people became quite perceptive with their other senses, but couldn’t help the way his lips fell slightly open.
Kenshi’s thumb trailed lower and found his lips that he just couldn’t seem to close, brushing over them with such a softness that it was hard to believe these same hands had been Yakuza. Johnny’s breath hitched.
“Sorry,” Kenshi whispered, broken from the spell, and moved to pull his hand away. Except the pad of his thumb nicked Johnny’s sharp canines, and a bead of blood fell out of the wound, into Johnny's open mouth.
If this were a movie script, Johnny would most certainly send it back to the writers for being too cliche, with a big red ‘X’ through the entire scene.
But instead, Johnny swallowed the tiny bead of blood and nearly choked on the warm taste as it overwhelmed his mouth and his throat and his tongue. Something seemed to snap inside him and he jerked away, feeling his teeth lengthen and his usually blunt fingernails sharpen into claws. Even though he had just eaten, hunger like nothing else coursed through him. If this was what happened after a tiny drop, he could only imagine what an entire mouthful would be like.
Kenshi apologized again, sounding extremely embarrassed now, but Johnny barely heard it over the buzzing in his ears.
“You…” Johnny began weakly, almost gutturally, strangled, “you’re good…” He cleared his throat. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “No worries, really… I understand that blind people have to feel around for things sometimes… and get hurt in the process…” He was rambling now, but he couldn’t stop. It served as a distraction for the awful, strengthening urge to tower over Kenshi and drain him dry right there. “But a-anyway, are you okay?”
Nodding, Kenshi raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it was just a little nick. I never knew your teeth were so freakishly sharp, Cage, but I guess it’s my fault for getting so close. Are they cosmetic, or have they always been like that?”
Johnny swallowed thickly, still tasting that goddamn delicious fucking fresh blood, and curled his clawed fingers into the fabric of his pants. “Oh, yeah, nah. They’re just… cosmetic. Just a test for a future movie. Costume director wanted to make sure that they were, uh, sharp enough. Or realistic enough. Or something.”
Kenshi sat back on his chair, seemingly satisfied, or at least done , with the face-touching. Johnny tried to do the same. “Really? What’s the movie going to be called?” Kenshi asked.
“Uh. Vampire… Blood Terror. ” The words fell painfully flat, blatantly lacking his usual enthusiasm. Johnny tried not to cringe. “The title is a work in progress,” he hurriedly amended.
“I see…” Kenshi trailed off, and Johnny knew he wasn’t convinced. Oh, god. If Kenshi found out he was a vampire— that he drank human blood to stay alive— then who knows what the man would do. Most likely either kill him, or leave him and never look back.
None of those options sounded in any way appealing.
And then there was the matter of Kenshi’s blood. That fucking taste was like nothing he had ever had before, savory and sweet and metallic and tangy all at once, intoxicating.
He wanted more. God, he wanted more . If he could buy another tiny drop for a million dollars, he would do it in a single, undead heartbeat. At the thought, his mouth began to water, his fangs buzzing in his gums.
And the source . The source was sitting right next to him. It would be easy to simply take it. It would be so easy to hold Kenshi down and sink his teeth deep enough to draw out every drop. It would be so easy to hypnotize Kenshi and force him to bare his throat for him.
Oh, what he wouldn’t give…
“Cage?” Kenshi’s voice broke through his thoughts and he startled, realizing that he had left claw marks on the side of his chair.
Johnny laughed shakily, rotating his shoulders to get himself to relax. “Sorry, what’d you say? I… I was just lost in thought thinking about some awesome ideas for the movie.”
At this, Kenshi frowned. “Is something wrong? You’re acting unusual.”
“I…” Johnny thought about lying, but instead opted to not tell the whole truth . Cristina always used to hate when he did that. “I’ve… just been feeling under the weather recently. Nothing you gotta worry about, Ken.”
“I didn’t realize you were sick.” Kenshi downed the rest of his wine, looking guilty. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just barged into your home unannounced.”
“Well, it’s better than what you did last time,” Johnny joked, then congratulated himself when it successfully lightened the mood. “At least I don’t gotta tie you to my kitchen chair.”
Kenshi laughed and stood up. “True, true. Alright then, I suppose it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Thanks for the wine, and the company. I appreciate it.”
Johnny tried to give him one of his signature, lopsided smirks. “No problemo. Like I said; for you, anything. But… I’ve got plenty of guest rooms if you want to stay. Just take your pick, I don’t mind.” He half hoped that Kenshi would decline the offer, and half hoped that Kenshi would never leave. The taste of his blood still lingered, taunting.
“Thanks, but I already have a hotel close by. All expenses paid, so I should probably use it. But… I’ll keep in touch, okay?”
Johnny swallowed, nodded, then trailed behind his friend as he skillfully made his way to the front door. He couldn’t stop staring at the blood red dress shirt that flexed around Kenshi’s muscles as he walked. “Sure thing,” he answered absent-mindedly. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Hours after Kenshi had left, Johnny could still taste his blood. It sat in the back of his throat and made itself known every time he swallowed, and breathed, and moved his head a certain way. AKA, constantly .
“Fuck,” he cursed, sending his claws (still out, for some reason he couldn’t determine) straight through the nice, expensive leather of a nearby armchair. Stuffing and shredded bits of leather flew everywhere. When he realized what he had done, he cursed again, louder, “Fuck!”
Vampire life had been going pretty decent when he had been living off of bagged blood, all things considered. But now, after getting a taste of fresh blood— Kenshi’s blood— he had no desire to return back to his old ways.
Was everybody’s blood this delicious? Or was there something about his friend specifically that made it so good? Did it have to do with Sento? Johnny didn’t even know how he could find the answers to any of these questions, and that frustrated him to no end.
On the third consecutive day of tasting that blood in his mouth (he had tried everything under the moon to get it to go away, including garlic, which had hurt like a motherfucker and made him feel like an idiot for thinking it would work), Johnny decided that he had to experiment.
Under the light of the moon he threw on the shittiest clothes he owned and prayed that nobody would recognize his face as he wandered the Malibu streets, looking for an easy meal. Well, he wasn’t gonna kill anybody, just somehow find a way to sample some blood.
Johnny searched alleyways and side streets, but found no luck. He ducked into a nearby bar and surveyed the people inside. The country/pop hybrid music scraped at his sensitive ears, along with the multitude of people having their own conversations, but he dutifully glanced at every inhabitant as he made his way to the bar.
“What can I get you?” Asked the bartender, and Johnny frowned.
“Nothing for now, thank you. I’m just looking for someone.”
The bartender looked him up and down. “Alright, just holler if you need anything.”
For a moment there, it seemed the bartender might’ve recognized him.
He turned his attention to his surroundings, fighting to push down his uneasiness. To his right there was a girl and her friends sipping on their fruity drinks, and past them, near the wall, was a group of rowdy men throwing darts. Johnny furrowed his brows, listening to the sound of rapid heartbeats. Unlike the movies, he couldn’t smell blood outside of the body unless there was a wound, so it was hard to tell what anyone in the building might taste like. Nobody in particular stood out as good eatin’.
Until, of course, one of the men stood up and began to harass one of the girls like an asshole. Johnny had to resist the urge to smirk. Perfect.
He got up from his barstool and placed a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Clearly this girl doesn’t want to talk to you. Why are you bothering her?” Johnny asked, trying to appear unassuming, like a good samaritan.
The guy scoffed. “What? Who the fuck are you? Get your hands off of me!” He slapped Johnny’s hand away and turned back to the girl to resume his harassment. “So, like I was saying–”
“ Come with me, ” Johnny ordered, layering his voice with mesmer, ignoring the way everybody’s eyes fell to him. “ You will remember none of this ,” he told the prying eyes around the bar. They quickly turned away. The man had no choice but to obey with empty, deadened eyes, following Johnny out of the bar and into the cool night air. “Good,” said Johnny, and pulled him back behind the dumpster. “...Good.”
They were alone. It was time to see if fresh food would solve his problem.
Johnny hesitated. This felt all wrong. This felt disgusting. Afterall, this was an actual living, breathing human, not a bag of blood. What if he accidentally killed the man? What if somebody found out?
But he was hungry, and the taste of Kenshi’s blood was still poisoning his mouth, so Johnny disregarded his concerns, leaned forward, and grabbed the man’s arm with clawed fingers. Johnny could feel the panicked pulse underneath the tender skin of the wrist, and in that moment nothing could stop him from bringing that hypnotizing beat to his mouth and tapping into that scarlet well with his canines.
The blood that flowed into his mouth was tinged with alcohol, and it certainly wasn’t as great as the drop he had the other day, but it was warm and fresh. He lost himself in it, drinking and drinking and drinking in large gulps until the man suddenly collapsed, seemingly dead except for the weak pulse that only Johnny could hear, into the dumpster.
Johnny pulled away with an annoyed snarl, panting, his chin dripping in hot blood, and could barely see through the haze of bloodlust and drunkenness that clouded his vision. “Hah… holy shit,” he breathed, chest heaving. The thumping music of the bar was replaced with a ringing in his ears.
He hadn’t felt this great in a long fucking time. It felt like a river of pure power flowed through his veins, like he could run a thousand marathons and still have the energy to run another.
But despite all that, he craved more. He needed more. This man hadn’t been enough. Maybe he got more then the taste of Kenshi’s goddamn fucking blood would finally fade away and he could forget all of this happened. The world blurred as he prowled the streets with a bloodied face, looking for more bodies to drain.
He was full, but still not satisfied. Could nothing satisfy him?
Drug and alcohol infused blood pulsed through his body, making his limbs twitch and move on their own accord. His vision was red around the edges, and, lacking the rationality to fight back any longer, he gave in.