Work Text:
a 2018 morning.
It’s not like Seokjin opened up a new tab in Chrome and purposely searched the entirety of the South for a house haunted by an old spirit, but a budget needed to be stuck to and ghosts weren’t really that bad, get over yourself Yoongi.
The house ran cold, with a heating system that never worked and a geyser that refused to warm their water supply. Back when they were looking for a bigger place to stay, Jeongguk took one look at the cottage and asked for the Heaven’s protection. Ever the theatric, Seokjin let out a great wail before snorting right in Jeongguk’s face and bounding into the place. Seokjin thought Medium’s were bullshit and Jeongguk, with his raw determination to fight Seokjin, called himself a ‘baby psychic’ without a hint of humiliation.
It was common knowledge, by then, to have known that bullshit meant two different things in the head of a Pisces and a Sagittarius. That was a few years ago, about five. Now it was still just Seokjin and his fiancé Jeongguk sharing a living space with Yoongi, who absolutely despised the sparring pair.
That very morning, Yoongi had woken up to the sounds of harsh grunts which undoubtedly belonged to Jeongguk. They only grew in pitch and raspiness as Yoongi debated whether or not to get out of bed. He feared the engaged couple — sue him. They were as ruthless as they were chaotic and sometimes Jeongguk is a bit too stubborn for an unbothered Seokjin. It was revealed later, that someone (Jeongguk) refused to take his fiancé’s cashmere sweater to the dry cleaners on his way to work.
The cursed cottage only egged the pair on.
Jeongguk argued, “You only send me there because I slapped that homophobic balding manager once.”
“Which even in narrative, is an absolutely thrilling story,” Hoseok added.
“Everything is thrilling if you’re dead,” Jeongguk rolled his eyes.
“You’re right, except for maybe when you do that thing with your fingers and Seokji—”
Hoseok was an odd fellow, a dead boy with an optimist’s heart. He had a conflicted soul that remained too exuberant to rest. He was murdered in the 1800’s by some college students that went overboard when they caught him kissing a boy in the forest. As a collective, they tried not to dwell upon it. Yoongi would find himself asleep in the ghost’s arms, only to be attacked by the brutal image of a lost boy that deserved to be breathing the air of the metropolitans he wanted to conquer with the power of his love for music.
Yoongi had no qualms with admitting that his heart would beat to the sound of the kitsch guru’s laugh, but he needed caffeine before the world began picking at him.
He was sitting on a barstool at the marble island in the kitchen, taking small bites out of an oven warmed croissant. Jeongguk left for work five minutes ago, with a sweater in one hand and a new pad of watercolour paper in the other, but not before giving his love a kiss for every eye roll and tongue click sent in his distinct direction.
“Our garden has the skeletal remains of a closeted b-boy. I don’t think we need to spend money on a garden gnome,” Yoongi grouched.
Hoseok laughed, “Aw, come on, Yoongi. I’m dying for company!”
That earned him a kiss on the cheek from Seokjin. Yoongi was only slightly jealous. Emphasis on the jealous, as if the slightly was not even there.
Once his mug was drained, Yoongi got up from the chair and stretched his arms as high up as they could go. He included a yawn for extra measure, nimbly covering his widened mouth and nose with his left hand, because he might just have been self conscious.
He retired to the bathroom shortly after, eager to spend his day off from work lazily lounging about in a bathtub with warm water and a honey-infused body scrub. He lit a few tea light candles and submerged himself, basking in the heat. He grabbed his kindle — it was the fourth day and he still hadn’t completed Purple Hibiscus. That type of delay was kind of unacceptable.
Fully enveloped by words that were strung together to lead him on, he missed the sound of Seokjin knocking on the door, asking if he could come in. He let himself in after Yoongi answered in silence, squawking when he noticed Seokjin’s figure.
Seokjin took a seat on the floor beside the bathtub, laying his hand on one arm, while his other hand played with the soap suds on top of the water. Yoongi placed his reader on the side counter by the basin, careful of the water.
“Honey, you haven't fed in a while,” Seokjin uttered.
It was a delicate voice that was stressed by softened eyes and twitching fingers that longed to reach out and touch.
Yoongi adored it, the attention of one specific human. Seokjin spared nothing when he handed himself over to Yoongi, a master at reading emotions and acting accordingly. He hummed an english song with a small smile on his face, waiting for Yoongi to say something.
“I’m hungry, hyung,” Yoongi whispered, frightful of his reaction because the last thing Yoongi wanted to be was a burden.
“Why do you always go so long without asking?”
“I don’t want you and Jeongguk to feel like I’m using the both of you,” Yoongi replied.
“It’s just blood, Yoongi-ah,” Seokjin tittered.
“But it’s yours,” Yoongi said defiantly.
Seokjin shook his head and shifted to sit cross-legged, as opposed to balancing on his toes in a squat. He studied Yoongi with a cocked head and sighed fondly, he was pliant with pouted lips and droopy eyelids with his head resting on his knees where he hugged both legs his chest.
Yoongi watched as Seokjin brought his thumb to his mouth, sucking on it before urging him to do the same.
“It’s okay, dumbass. Bite me, my battle scars are fading,” he urged.
Seokjin pressed the pad of his thumb up against the soft skin of Young’s lips. Yoongi struggled to find purchase on the side of the bathtub, but eventually clung onto Seokjin’s wrist with both of his hands.
The picture of a small, bat hybrid hanging onto a slim wrist of a 20 something year old was nothing short of desperate, but shame was shed at the front door, especially when living with Seokjin for seven years and counting. Yoongi salivated as he increased the pressure of his fangs against the fingers, temporarily sated by the sudden rush of excitement. He mumbled something inconceivable and looked up at Seokjin through eyelashes that were heavy with falling water droplets.
The sensation of having your skin nicked by a bat hybrid’s fangs was nowhere near as uncomfortable as having a needle stuck into one of your veins. In fact, all it was, was an incision that grazed the softer layers of skin to expose the thinnest veil of blood. Yoongi applied more pressure, bit harder and grew desperate as his need arose. All you could hear was little gurgling sounds and a gentle lapping of his tongue that closely resembled a feeding babe.
Seokjin let the feeling wash over him with closed eyes, torn between wanting to watch Yoongi feed, but ultimately respecting his wish he made all those years prior. Once Yoongi let go of his wrist, but kept his finger in his mouth, Seokjin noticed the tremble in his body. Wordlessly, Seokjin grabbed a towel, allowed the water to filter out through the drain and wrap a wet Yoongi up in a cotton towel in order to pet him up.
“You look so sleepy,” Seokjin drawled. “Are you sure you’re going to handle seeing that demon boy you met at the flower shop?”
“M’gonna visit Joon,” Yoongi mumbled.
“You don’t bite him the way you bite Jungoo and I, though,” Seokjin teased. “Timid, timid, naughty hybrid.”
“Don’t mess with me,” Yoongi bared his fangs in a failed attempt at a threat.
A heavily satiated Yoongi was a delight for any organism’s senses. They’d be positively charmed to see him in that state of being aware beneath a thick blanket of down feathers, struggling to keep his head afloat.
Rivulets of water fell down from the ends of his muted magenta hair, finding purchase on the sharp just of his collarbones, just as the morning sun placed kisses onto the very tip of his nose. Hoseok was cooing in the background, watching a gentler Seokjin handle a situation hardly anyone ever mastered.
By the end of it, he was dressed in a flannel that drowned his figure and the ends nearly reached his mid thigh section. It was an interesting, blocked choice of white, black and red, coupled with a mustard beanie that covered everything but his pink fringe that needed an urgent cut. He stole a pair of patent black, leather boots from the deeper end of Jeongguk’s wardrobe and a very pretty, not-engagement ring that he found on their dressing table that caught his eye as he was leaving. It was a simple band with protection spell engraved onto the outside and a tiny crescent moon that feeds to the overall witchy feeling. Jeongguk’s, most likely.
He gathered his lipgloss and notebook from his work bag and placed it into his leather handbag before shouting out a goodbye to whoever was in the house, reminding them not to wait up.
an afternoon.
Yoongi found himself shared between two of the people he loved the most — an anthropologist obsessed with pop culture and media and his boyfriend, the glitzy prince of South Korea’s digital media scene. The three of them were walking along a path at a botanical gardens that took about an hour to get to by train.
“I was thinking about Jimin’s rights as a demon fucker,” Yoongi started and further elaborated when he heard Namjoon choke on his spit. “Does that make Jimin peak Satan, or something?”
That earned him a hearty giggle from the star himself, “I don’t think I’m peak Satan, but I presume it means I sold my soul to the devil.”
Yoongi fake gagged.
“My demon baby boy,” Jimin cooed, “aren’t you, Joonie?”
Namjoon’s grip on Yoongi’s hand tightened for a split second before he let go completely, embarrassed noises escaping his rounded mouth. Jimin was radiating the type of light the flowers never knew they needed and if Yoongi really pondered over it, maybe the sunlight wasn’t so bad after all.
Over the course of the day, Yoongi grew exhausted with the beating down of the merciless sun. There were odd days where he braved the daylight, but he favoured the happenings of the night in true bat fashion.
It was Jimin that noticed Yoongi’s sluggish actions and delayed responses. Yoongi thought he was being discreet about the fact that his bloodlust was at an all-time high, but it was Jimin and credit was due.
“It’s getting late, how about we call it a day and you all can come back to my place and just pet my cat and drink coffee?” Jimin suggested.
“I’m only coming for Chubs,” Namjoon clarified.
The couple bickered about it, passing the buck onto Yoongi every now and then, all too eager to see the passage of blood make itself evident on the soft plains of his cheeks whenever he was called pretty.
Back on the train, the trio seemed to be lost in their own world. They shared steady glances and promising smiles, comforting hand brushes and tender thigh rubs. Yoongi had his head resting on Jimin’s lap, once again a beacon sitting between the couple. His eyes were painfully glued shut in an attempt to curb the pain, but all he could think about was that his name had a unique ring to it when Namjoon whispered it to Jimin.
The last thing Yoongi remembered was Jimin massaging soothing circles onto his back, while he endured the pain without alarming a single person. Namjoon was saying something sweet about the monstera they saw in the glass house earlier. His voice was light, as if his dimples when he smiled didn’t house the secrets of the universe Aristotle and Dante wanted to discover.
an evening.
Contrary to popular belief, the Witching Hour belongs to the twilight and its glorious atrocities. The sun was setting in the East, or was it the West? The sun was setting and the world was changing. Colours — a lonely type of blue defeated by streaks of warmth that saw the cats come out to play. Blue found a way, whether it kissed the stars or kneaded at the pitch black sky, the blue was always there, behind closed eyelids that housed the phases of a then waning moon.
There was music coming from outside, boosted bass that could be felt through pathetic vibrations of the windowsills. Chubs, the Rag doll, was crying from another room. The windows and the cat wailed in pain and Yoongi wanted to reach out, but he found himself fighting against a transparent confinement, his body a sack of aching muscles and tissue. His body was responding to various sensations, despite his eyes being unable to open, let alone focus.
Someone had their fingers carding through his hair, someone was drinking wine, someone was singing a human lullaby and three people were in love. He felt himself fully regaining composure when his breathing evened out and the angelic song abruptly stopped.
His name left the lips of his lovers when he finally managed to open his eyes.
“Sore,” Yoongi moaned. “So sore, Joon, Jimin.”
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Namjoon asked, before placing a hand to Yoongi’s forehead, checking for a fever.
Yoongi grimaced. His insides felt like they were burning up, but he was so cold. Jimin ceased his calming ministrations and left the room only to return a beat later with a tiny ceramic bowl placed protectively in the palm of his hand.
“Ah, Jin hyung warned me about this stubborn little bat boy this morning, but I didn’t think it’d actually manifest so early on,” Jimin said, grateful for the fast pace at which Namjoon caught on.
“Bloodlust is a dick,” Namjoon voiced. “Since you’re going to feed, you might want to come closer, unless you want a limp Jimin on top of you.”
“I’ll drink when I get home,” Yoongi insisted.
“And risk not feeling you suck me dry?” Jimin snorted, “Fat chance.”
Namjoon levelled Jimin with a stern look, but ended up smiling dopily when he faced Yoongi. “I promise, hyung, it’s all consensual. We just want you to feel better.”
“No, I—”
Jimin cut him off, “Pinky promise. Joonie and I both pinky promise that it’s okay. Give us your pinky, Batman!”
“Count Dracula,” Yoongi corrected.
“What?”
“Batman’s not a vampire and Dracula obliterates cishet men,” Yoongi explained.
“Fine then, baby Dracula,” Namjoon started. “So fussy.”
“Hand your pinky over to us and let us begin the ceremony,” Jimin ended.
Jimin’s choice of words were always so melodramatic. They were drastic and overbearing and sometimes funny, like they were back in eleventh grade all over again, looking for ways to describe the plot of Macbeth in the most elusive way possible.
The three of them partook in Jimin’s pinky promise ritual, an odd boast for someone who took Satan to bed, but eager eager so eager to make the pain go away that Yoongi went along without a fuss.
“‘Obliterate’ is a big word for a baby boy,” were the words Jimin uttered as Yoongi found purchase in between his spread legs.
So there Yoongi was, his first day off from work in what felt like forever, seated chest-to-chest in The Park Jimin’s lap, his arms wrapped around his neck. That position proved to be the most fruitful for a needy Yoongi and a Jimin that loved to just be there.
There were only three reasons as to why Namjoon dipped his index and middle fingers in that ceramic bowl Jimin brought earlier. It was a sticky mixture of honey and ground cinnamon, probably nothing more than a teaspoon’s worth. It was on his fingers, but then it was on Jimin’s neck, the smear tainting his skin in such a way that it emphasised the rawness of the gold. If the view wasn't enough, the saccharine scent became overbearing only seconds later and Yoongi felt his mouth begin to water.
Both the honey and cinnamon were natural antioxidants meant to help him feel less disoriented and to help keep the wound on Jimin’s neck free from Yoongi’s venom, as well as speed up the healing process.
It was sweet and through all the dizziness, Yoongi failed to realise he had latched onto the side of Jimin’s neck, his fangs almost having reached their full extent without breaking the skin. It was Yoongi being satiated with the taste of a lover in his mouth, the touch of a lover on his lips and on his hips, a pair of hands belonging to his second love.
Jimin and Namjoon had always been gentle with him. They were tender, not just their hearts and it shined through no matter the occasion or person. But with Yoongi they were especially more. It was the way they never let his hand go or when they'd take him home despite living an entire suburb away. Little things like sparing time and with it, hoards of understanding and respect.
There was love in Jimin’s blood and Yoongi was certain he was choking on it.
before. like 1980s before
Yoongi knew a boy that had an odd affiliation with the night. They both used to be the first ones at the library on Saturday morning, similarly, they took wordless turns at sneaking in snacks to share with each other. It was a type of loved based on night owl yawns in the early morning and whining about the imperialist nature of the english language. It was mono symbolic and so very comforting, being tortured beside one another.
“Tough day, huh,” Taehyung commented.
“It could be worse,” Yoongi replied.
“I’m just glad you came.”
University was a sated little thing and Yoongi needed secluded skinship, some type of excuse to drink until the rising sun would kiss the very tip of his nose.
Balancing upon an unstable cliff, Yoongi set out one night. He double knotted his Converse and made sure to put on his least stretched out choker with die-cut crystals that matched the slight glint his nose ring gave off. He layered his Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five hoodie with a flannel scarf and a knitted beanie that he received from his grandmother the previous Christmas.
He took a bus to the outskirts of the city, where his nose ring would be the least of his worries. The whiskey there was cheap too. He heard that from around.
The 80’s, in all their progressiveness, was the conservative vice Yoongi was grappling against. He focused on his breathing. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Breathe in, one-two-three, breathe out, one-two-three. Anxiety was never a simple thing, not like ending a sentence with a period or distancing yourself from people who’re apolitical. Yoongi was working on it.
The Icecube, as questionable as it was, still required some type of identity from its patrons. The bulky person that stood outside the pub let him in without a fuss. Yoongi bowed his head and headed straight to the far end of the room. The walls weren’t bare anymore, they had posters hung up haphazardly, a complete contrast to the ruined cream he saw three years prior.
A bartender that was balancing empty beer cans on a plastic tray made their way over to him. “What can I get'cha, pretty?”
“Just a whiskey on the rocks, please,” Yoongi answered and then as an afterthought, “with a twist.”
The bartender smiled with a promise to be back soon. They seemed to be from out of town, but Yoongi couldn’t place the dialect. It would eat at him the entire night, but at least it was something to occupy his mind with.
The bar was a mix of indigenous folk music and crude pickup lines exchanged across the room. There were an odd number of people dancing with drinks in their hands, but mostly, patrons were lounging around with spread legs and intoxicating smiles. The shuffle of bodies moving to and fro grew to become background music and Yoongi found himself entranced by the lull of it all.
Observation was a skill Yoongi would give himself credit for on a good day. On a bad day, it was some bullshit he learned when he was too scared to leave his bedroom. The weather, his mood and most things else all resided in a biome of independence. Taking it day by day, fleeting moment by fleeting moment, that was the help the shrink suggested — be it short breaths in a time of immense panic or the small smiles offered in passing.
“Fancy, Mr Yoongi. Fancy seeing you here,” there was Taehyung, a beam before him.
“Hi, uh… Tae,” was all a shellshocked Yoongi managed to get out.
Yoongi believed his words to be reserved for the library exclusively, an evident inconstant.
“Take a walk with me,” were the words that changed his life.
before. like 1980s before.
11am the next day.
The pain was everywhere and not once did it work alongside empathy. There were red streaks impairing his vision, images similar to an environment blurred by dripping blood that varied in opacity.
Somewhere beneath the bone, he felt emptier than usual. There was no anxious tremble, the only constant in his life. There was no sense of urgency, no nagging in his head egging him on. He was all empty, emptier, emptiest and it made worlds of sense if the pain was anything to go by.
It was the whiskey with the lemon twist and the refill after that, after that and very well after that. It was a means of placing the blame on the conventional. The dizzy spells? A simple hangover. The bite marks on his neck and his arms and on his thighs? He must have gotten laid last night. It was the nose ring, it was always the nose ring that got the boys.
Placing the hurt aside, there was something profound that was clawing away at his insides, something that made him want to claw at his outsides all the way in. The neighbours could hear his agony, those that he had had no idea he was screaming out about. They were piercing and maybe if the curtains were drawn it would burn less, but there was the impossible task of getting out of bed and it hurt, it hurt too bad.
He weighed the option of calling Taehyung. The thought of him was spirited even in Yoongi’s drunken haze, a divine vessel with a mind that exceeded lateral thought. He was sitting opposite Yoongi in the booth last night, although that could have been wishful thinking on a certain gay’s part.
Taehyung was wearing a flouncy shirt with some artsy-looking scribbles printed onto the soft fabric. He remembered that.
If he shifted forward a tiny bit he would be able to look at himself in the mirror that made up his cupboard’s door.
Taehyung had heels on, shiny boots with glitter all over it.
It was a struggle, but Yoongi managed to get himself aligned with the mirror. He looked at the markings on his neck first.
Taehyung, who wore pants with frills at the very bottom, took his hand while they were walking. Taehyung led him somewhere dark.
The bites were unusual, to say the least. They were an evenly spaced out pair that looked like fangs sunk onto his now searing, red skin.
Taehyung asked if he could kiss him. Taehyung called him pretty and baby boy and all the things he dreamed about and they kissed and kissed and kissed. Rumour has it, they kissed so much that after it all, Yoongi’s lips were stuck in a pout permanently.
The bite marks were sore to the touch. It was tender and by accident, Yoongi pressed too hard and blood began oozing out of the wounds.
They shared cheesecake flavoured ice cream after that.
The pain increased significantly. His insides felt like they were being squeezed into dust and he was yearning, his mouth wanted something to eat, to suck, anything. He was just hungry.
(˼●̙̂ ̟ ̟̎ ̟ ̘●̂˻)