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drip like poison

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To the common outsider looking in, Yoongi is quite frightening.

 

Pallid skin that stretches tight over his bony build, doing little to mask the black veins that snake around his body like routes on a roadmap. They tend to scare people off, so he’s taken to dressing in garments that drape him from head to toe, exposing only his wrists and neck. One would think that it might prove suffocating at times to wrap up so thoroughly, but living for millennia as what is - essentially - considered a corpse provides him with his own built-in air conditioning system; only, the lack of a beating heart is the AC unit and he doesn’t have to pay any bills. It’s great, really.

 

He’s had hundreds of years to study how merciless a gale can be, undeterred by any obstacle in its path as it hurdles through landscapes with a destination so urgent to reach that it pauses for nothing in its way.

 

This is how Yoongi walks.

 

He imagines that it might be a little off-putting for people to bear witness to a man quite literally parting the red sea as he strides down the street, so he makes it a habit not to leave his apartment much. It’s not like  he’s able to go out frequently, anyways, what with the whole disintegrating-into-ashes-underneath-sunlight thing. Night has always been more peaceful, he’s found, and that’s why he prefers to slip out just as the sun sets to roam around the city to compensate for what he is unable to experience during the daylight hours.

 

Understandably, his neighbors are more than just a little suspicious about his schedule. The all-black attire he’s taken to cloaking himself in doesn’t help matters either. They probably think he’s a contracted killer, but no one’s filed a complaint yet, so he decides to leave that particular issue alone until it arises on its own.

 

For all these reasons and many more, Yoongi knows that he is quite frightening. Or, at the very least, unsettling.

 

Which is why Jeon Jungkook is the most refreshing thing Yoongi has ever experienced.

 

Fresh out of high school and dipping his toes into the shallows of his first semester at university, the boy isn’t frightened by much. Or anything at all, really. The foolhardy bravado of youth is usually something that makes Yoongi wrinkle his nose, the stench of arrogance too much for his heightened senses, but Jungkook isn’t boastful about it. He’s not deceitful with it, either. He genuinely, truly believes that the world is his oyster and let Yoongi be sent to eternal damnation if he hadn’t found himself instantly endeared by it.

 

They’d met at a gas station, where Jungkook had been working the graveyard shift. What instantly struck Yoongi was how-- young the boy was, to be on duty at three in the morning. What kind of trouble he’d be confronted with, a pretty little thing like him entertaining twilight’s shenanigans.

 

(What Yoongi has come to learn over the years, though, is that nothing is what it first appears as.)

 

When he commented on this, Jungkook had no problem informing him about his black belt in Taekwondo, the multiple days a week he spent in the gym, and the self defense class he co-instructed on Saturdays. In his words, he was prepared for anything, sir.

 

Then Yoongi had let his fangs free from their sheaths and gave him a big, blinding grin, and it all went uphill from there.

 

From that day onwards, Yoongi habitually stopped by the 7-11 on his nightly excursions. Until habitually stopped by turned into hanging around for a couple hours turned into loitering until daybreak turned into spending Jungkook’s entire shift with him.

 

He doesn’t have an excuse. He’s lived too long and seen too many things to let something as rare as Jungkook slip through his fingers.

 

The boy insisted that Yoongi tell him stories from back before there had been cable, or electricity, or any other amenity Jungkook deemed too modern for the period he yearned to hear about. His favorite tales are the ones from The Three Kingdoms, and who is Yoongi to deny him?

 

If Yoongi’s dour attire, or glinting fangs, or penchant for prolonged periods of intense eye contact ever bothered Jungkook, he showed not a hint of it. In fact, it only served to draw him in deeper towards Yoongi; the macabre aura he carries with him, the victorian lilt to his vernacular, the forthright way with which he communicates...it seemed to entice the boy beyond reason. When Yoongi thinks on this, it makes sense that their first kiss was directly after Jungkook had asked where Yoongi fed from and Yoongi replied, care to find out?

 

Moments like those are what make Yoongi smile fondly to himself  late in the day, when he’s wrapped up in bed and waiting for Jungkook to come over after his classes are finished.

 

The familiar sound of keys inside the front door lock has Yoongi’s smile stretching even wider. He’s missed his boy today more than usual.

 

“Honey, I’m home!” Echoes throughout the apartment. For all of Yoongi’s exorbitant amount of wealth he’s amassed over the centuries, he prefers the cozy two-bedroom to any of the mansions he’s lived in previously. He finds himself missing the comforting hustle and bustle of city life, after a while. And plus, in the city he’s closer to--

 

“Come, Jungkook-ah. Hyung is hungry today.”

 

Jungkook freezes for a moment, stood motionless in the frame of the doorway, before his face splits into a wide grin. If Yoongi didn’t know any better, he’d say the boy enjoys feeding more than he does.

 

Eventually, though, come Jungkook does. He lets his bookbag slide off of his shoulder and fall to the ground with a solid thump, completely unconcerned with anything other than maintaining eye contact. He takes his time shrugging his windbreaker down the slopes of his muscular arms, all too aware that Yoongi sometimes loves nothing more than to just sit back and enjoy the show. Right now is not one of those sometimes, however.

 

It’s been a good while since Yoongi’s last fed. Almost edging on too long a while. His human instincts beg patience, to let his lover enjoy making a spectacle of himself, to drink in the sight before him instead of the blood underneath his fangs.

 

The Beast hisses for something more.

 

Jungkook has got his jacket off now, and is preoccupied with teasing the hem of his shirt up above his abdomen. He lets one hand handle the lifting of the fabric while the other traces muddled shapes across the flat expanse of his muscles. His nails dig into the golden skin there and he sucks in a sharp breath, knees threatening to buckle underneath him. Yoongi can feel himself starting to salivate.

 

They never break eye contact, which is a testament to Jungkook’s fearlessness. The boy never looks away; not when Yoongi’s irises make the shift from dull black to crimson, not when Yoongi’s fangs slither from their cave, not when Yoongi’s throat begins to thrum with a predatory growl. If anything, it only excites Jungkook even further, spurring him on to raise his shirt all the way and tuck the end into his mouth, leaving both hands free to toy with his chest.

 

The growling heightens when Jungkook clenches a forefinger and thumb around his nipple and keens.

 

Now, Yoongi is a creature nearly as old as time itself. He’s had lifetimes to perfect the art of self-control.

 

He’s also had lifetimes to realize the debilitating weakness he has for pretty things.

 

And right now, there’s a pretty thing--a pretty, young thing practically prostrating himself for Yoongi’s consumption.

 

(God, does Yoongi ache to take and take. )

 

Still, though. He’s not a caveman. He instead tamps down the Beast, which tells him to fly across the room and devour the fine specimen a mere five feet away, and leans back against the headboard. Folds his arms across his chest. Tilts his head. Lets his lips curl up into a smirk as he lets Jungkook continue on with his little performance.

 

His boy has now taken to sucking on one handful of fingers as he trails the other down to the front of his pants, which have grown cramped. Yoongi lets him grope himself for one, two, three seconds, before he interjects.

 

“Ah, ah, ah. Were you given permission to pleasure yourself?”

 

“Wh-who says I-- ngh, gotta ask you?”

 

“Jungkook. Remove your hand.”

 

It’s a familiar back-and-forth banter. Jungkook likes pushing Yoongi until he snaps, until his hand is forced, until his Beast rears its ugly head and makes Jungkook obey. Yoongi likes making Jungkook happy.

 

The boy undoes his trouser button and lets his hand slither below the waist. He catches Yoongi’s eye one last time before an unabashed moan escapes his parted lips as he throws his head back to present the milky expanse of his neck.

 

That just about does it.

 

Yoongi lunges from the bed before Jungkook can draw another breath, grabbing ahold of his wrists and pinning them against the wall where he’s got Jungkook pressed up. It takes barely any effort to hold them there. He squeezes a bit harder, just to watch Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation of his wrists being held in a vice grip; there will be bruises tomorrow, no doubt.

 

“This is what you were after, love?” Yoongi murmurs quietly into the crook of Jungkook’s neck, inhaling deeply and allowing himself to get drunk off of his boy’s hearty scent. “You want me to be mean? You want it to hurt?” The juxtaposition between Yoongi’s soft, lilting coos and the suffocating hold he has on Jungkook’s wrists is driving the boy mad. He can tell.

 

Jungkook’s legs begin to quiver.

 

“Dear me. You’ve bitten off quite a bit more than you can chew, hm? Didn’t your mother ever warn you about strange men and what they’ll do to you if you aren’t careful?”

 

“It’s n-not polite to play with your food.”

 

“But, darling, it’s my food. Is it not fair for me to be the one to decide how I’ll dissect it?” Yoongi ghosts his fangs along Jungkook’s neck and savors the whine he receives in response. “How I’ll take it apart and deconstruct it and devour it? Wouldn’t you say that’s right? It is mine, after all.”

 

Oftentimes, when Yoongi is on the precipice of sinking his teeth into Jungkook’s supple flesh, he’ll pause right before he bites. To remind himself of the self-control he possesses. To remind himself that this is a privilege, that he is lucky to have found Jungkook in all his youthful fearlessness. To remind the Beast that draining this boy dry is not an option.

 

He’s had to distract almost all of his partners throughout the years with pleasure in order to make feeding bearable. Two puncture wounds to the neck wasn’t something most people could sit through without something to take the edge off.

 

This is what makes Jungkook even more of a gem in Yoongi’s life.

 

It’s the fact that feeding is inherently a pleasurable experience for him. The first time Yoongi had drank from him, he’d come so hard that he passed out for fifteen minutes. Completely untouched.

 

There is something about today -- something about the way Jungkook has been especially mouthy, something about the way he’s struggling in Yoongi’s grip -- that tells Yoongi this time is going to be very, very similar to their first.

 

He licks the spot he’s planning on drinking from, lathing his tongue back and forth over the sunkissed skin beneath him. Jungkook tastes like the most intoxicating mixture of honey and apples, sweet and boyish and reminiscent of the summers of Yoongi’s childhood. It’s almost second nature to lose himself in preparing the skin; mere licking turns into sucking, and that evolves into pressing a dark, heavy mark into the side of Jungkook’s neck.

 

Mine, Yoongi yearns to carve into his being.

 

Jungkook is just...he tastes so good. Quickly, Yoongi is releasing his wrists and instead shifting his hands down to grip at Jungkook’s hip bones to pin him even harder against the wall. Now that his arms are freed to move of their own accord, Jungkook throws them across the broad expanse of Yoongi’s shoulders; one hand clutches at the back of his silk robe, and the other digs into the strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

 

“Please,” he whispers, “just--just do it…”

 

But Yoongi is far past the point of a mere feeding. What he wants is to feast.

 

He brings his tongue out between his lips to roll the flesh between his teeth, pulling upwards just to drag the skin with him and have it fall back into place with a neat plop when he releases it from his mouth’s hold. Not a second passes before he dives in again, drawing the skin back into his mouth to repeat his ministrations over, and over, and over until he can hear Jungkook sobbing for mercy.

 

His boy attempts to buck his hips up, absentmindedly in search of some kind of friction, and Yoongi tightens his grip just to slam his ass back into the wall. The framed pictures strung up above them shake.

 

“Hyung, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, I need it. I’ll be good, promise. I’m yours. Go ‘head ‘n take me.”

 

Yoongi sinks his fangs into Jungkook’s neck.

 

There is nothing like fresh, young blood. Better than a crisp, ice-cold glass of water on a sweltering summer’s day; better than a lover’s embrace; better than sex. Yoongi can’t think of a cohesive way to describe it. All he knows is that his eyes roll back up into his skull, and his grip goes slack on Jungkook’s hips, and he whimpers at the relief it brings him.

 

Jungkook is, by far, the sweetest he’s ever drank from. But not to the point of saccharinity -- no, Jungkook is just on the right side of tastefully candied, like chamomile tea accented with a tablespoon of honey.

 

Yoongi’s chest kicks up into a low purr as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks. And Jungkook just lets him, fingers tangled in his hair as he pets his boyfriend like the placating touch one would grace a dog. Honestly? He’s too far in heaven to be offended.

 

There is a moment where Jungkook seizes up and begins to shake, and fuck if that doesn’t scare the undead life out of Yoongi. But the younger’s wanton moan and suddenly still hips are all the explanation Yoongi needs for his nerves to die down. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s come just from a feeding, and it most definitely won’t be the last.

 

Eventually, he grows content. He can’t say how much time has lapsed in between the initial piercing of skin and the fullness of his stomach, but it’s enough time to have put a cramp in his legs and an ache in his back from maintaining the same position for so long. Gently, carefully, he extracts his fangs from Jungkook’s neck and lathes his tongue over the puncture wounds, hoping to expedite the healing process. He presses his lips to the gargantuan bruise in a silent apology before drawing away and swiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

 

“Thank you, angel,” he rasps, purr still an undercurrent beneath his voice.

 

“Of course, Yoon. Cuddles now, though.”

 

“Cuddles it is.”