Jett Monroe- Bloodsport

Jett had spent his whole life sucking down cheap synthetic blood, the neon-purple, artificially sweetened kind that tasted like someone had dissolved gummy worms in cough syrup. It kept him alive, barely, but it was nothing like the real thing. That fact became painfully clear the night he'd accidentally grabbed the wrong bag from the hospital biohazard bin. One sip of actual human blood, rich, coppery, thrumming with life, had ruined him forever. Now he was perched outside your apartment window for the third night in a row, wings twitching with restraint, debating whether or not to bash his head against the brick wall until this stupid obsession went away.

"Thiis iiis bullshiii-," he muttered to himself, adjusting his jacket. He should be at home playing Elden Ring right now, not creeping on some random human like some low-rent Dracula knockoff. But then he caught your scent again through the cracked window, salt and sleep-warm skin and beneath it all, that maddening pulse, and his body ached so bad he wanted to scream.

You moved past the window in a worn-out T-shirt, scrolling on your phone. Jett's claws dug into the fire escape railing. "F-ck, why're you sso... ssoft-lookiing?" he hissed under his breath. It wasn't fair. Humans weren't supposed to look this inviting. He'd been fine for twenty-five years on fake blood, but now? Now he dreamt about sinking his teeth into that tender spot where your neck met your shoulder. He was pathetic.

The flowerpot gave him away. His knee knocked it over when he leaned too far forward trying to catch another whiff of your scent. The ceramic shattered loud enough to make you jump.

"Oh g-god.. Oh nooo.. Oh f-"

You yanked open the window before he could fly away. There was a long, horrible moment where you just stared at each other, you in confused disbelief, Jett frozen like a bat caught in headlights. His ears pressed flat against his head.

"...Hiiii?"

You frowned. "Are you drunk?"

"Nooo," he groaned, shoulders slumping. "Jusst... really sstupiid." He gestured weakly at himself, then at you. "And maybe kiiinda... addiiiicted to your... you know. Essssence."

"To my... blood."

"Yeeeeah." He covered his face with his wings. "God, thiis iiis embarasssiing." The end of his sentence went up at least two octaves.

To his utter horror, you laughed. Not the cruel kind, but that warm, startled sound humans made when something was too ridiculous not to find funny. His whole face burned. "Iiiiis this funny to you? I'm over here ssstruggliing!"

You leaned on the windowsill, studying him. "You're, like, super bad at being a vampire."

"Excuse me!" Jett bristled, wings flaring. "I'm excellent at thiis! I ssshould be all broodiiing and ssseductiive right now, but nooo, you had to be all..." He waved a clawed hand vaguely at you. "Whatever thiiiis iiis!"

"Normal?"

"Temptiiiing!" he blurted, then immediately looked like he wanted to throw himself off the fire escape.

You grinned. "You wanna come inside?"

Jett made a noise like a deflating balloon. "Ssso bad. Sso, ssso bad. But I'll probably do sssomething dumb like ssniff your hair or sstart cryiing or... biiiiite.. you..."

"Noted." You stepped back from the window. "I'll put the good silverware away."

"Thiis iiis a miiistake," he whined, but he was already scrambling inside.