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Mickey doesn’t like Jimin.
It’s a disappointing start to an otherwise pleasant trip. Jimin looks at him with the fat jut of his lower lip sticking out, the pout exaggerated and absurd and carefully hiding how bothered he is by an old dog rejecting him.
(Hoseok coos over him insistly, pinching at his cheeks with little crab fingers until a real smile breaks loose. He loves Mickey, but dogs are dogs. You can’t expect them to love everyone, as he informs Jimin in his highest pitched voice).
His parents are another story. Jimin’s nerves have him at his most charming, and Hoseok’s pretty sure that by the time dinner’s over, he’s been replaced as favourite son. There’s something wildly appealing about that if he’s honest, watching his boyfriend slot so comfortably into his life.
He’d thought he’d be terrified of it, when they started this. And sure, there’s a little anxiety when watching his sister tease, his parents enquire after job prospects, his dog growl, but he’s so full to overflowing with happiness, it doesn’t really compare.
Hoseok loves Jimin. He wants Jimin to be a part of his life like this. A part of him.
“Hoseokie--” Jimin breaks off to laugh, the sound breathless and wild as Hoseok presses him back into the door, mouth at his neck, hands under his shirt. “Hyung, hyung, I love you, but if you think we’re fucking under your parents’ roof--”
“We don’t have to fuck,” Hoseok assures him. His voice vibrates over the thin skin of his throat, and Jimin arches his neck despite his works, silently begging more more. He scrapes his teeth over the spot, chases the faint red mark with his tongue. “I’ll stop if you want. Do you want me to stop, baby?”
Fingers work into his hair, a gentle touch that quickly turns sharp, sparks skittering down Hoseok’s spine as Jimin clenches his fist, jerking his head back. Hoseok can’t tell whose chest is heaving more, his from touching or Jimin’s from being touched, but he thinks he’d gladly give up more of his breath to make this man feel good. To be close to him.
“You’re impossible.”
Hoseok nods, and the sharp smile that curves over Jimin’s mouth is enough to make him whine, high in the back of his throat. Jimin doesn’t relax his hold, but he does pull Hoseok in close again.
“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and Hoseok shudders at the pinch of his pointy little canines, and does.
Kissing Park Jimin is a full body experience. He’s sweet about it sometimes, all teasing licks and kitten nips. He likes to be on top, likes to press Hoseok back into the mattress and straddle his waist, likes to dip in and pull back the second Hoseok’s tongue dares to dart past the seam of his lips. The barest brush of his mouth hovering over Hoseok’s is like kissing an electrical socket, every nerve in his body lighting up, sensitising his toes and the tips of his fingers and the edge of his teeth.
And then sometimes - like now, with Jimin’s legs hitching up around his waist, Hoseok’s hands under his ass to brace him, the two of them locked together like a pair of drowning swimmers - sometimes the only sweetness is in the curl of pleasure that comes from being consumed like this. Jimin kisses like a starving man eats, and Hoseok thinks if someone had described it to him he’d be disgusted; he’s always been turned off by men who are all tongue and saliva, who try to control his response, who want too much from him.
But Jimin’s hand is tight in his hair and the other settles at his neck, the webbing of thumb and forefinger resting just so at his Adam’s apple. Hoseok can feel it every time he swallows, every time he draws in a too-shuddering gasp, and it sparks a whole cycle of heat that has him breathing hard and heavy; he knows he’s holding Jimin up, but even with the weight of him in his arms, it still feels like Jimin is carrying them both in the clench of his little fist.
“Gorgeous boy,” Jimin praises, and it makes him weak in a way dirty talk never has before, not with any other person. “Precious, beautiful boy. Aren’t you mine, hyung? Aren’t you all mine?”
Hoseok tries to reply, but the kiss is too wet for words. It slips out as a moan instead, the sound working itself out around the fat press of Jimin’s tongue. It feels somehow too big in his mouth, like there could never be enough space inside of him for all of Jimin; he whimpers, in want, in disappointment, in fear of being disappointing; he relaxes his throat and feels the outside bob of his Adam’s apple up against Jimin’s hand again; he makes a cavern of himself and begs Jimin to fill it.
Sometimes he imagines he does. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Some distant part of Hoseok thinks it’s supposed to be, but when he pictures Jimin sliding past the root of his tongue, slithering down his esophagus, it’s not disgust he feels. Desperation lights him up from inside out, and he thinks he feels it, the thick press of something impossible, sweet and salt-tasting all at once, something Jimin, and Jimin, and Jimin.
Usually, that’s when the energy for this sort of fuckery leaves him. Overwhelmed by his own want, his arms sag in their sockets, his easy strength abandoning him for like, his boner or something. Jimin will slip from his grip and kiss him soft again, will thumb away the spit from his chin and stroke his hair back into place, will take him by the hand and lead him to bed and tuck him into the gentle curve of his body bowing to make room for Hoseok. It never feels strange in the moment, although Hoseok remembers blushing something fierce the first morning after, embarrassed by his own need.
Except this time, it doesn’t.
Keyed up by his own desperation, he thinks he might shake apart under the force of his need as Jimin pulls back. There’s no relief from it like usual, no sudden lassitude suffusing his bones. Jimin drops out of his hold, but Hoseok is still full of him, the muscles in his throat fluttering at the strain, drool wetting the front of his shirt. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s hard, dick straining against the soft cotton of his underwear, hips jerking uneven and needy to grind him into Jimin’s thigh.
And Jimin surrounds him, arms wrapping tight around his chest, hands soothing up his spine as the tension in his body winds tighter and tighter, until Hoseok thinks he might explode, overflow, thinks that the only thing left to come out of him is more Jimin--
“Swallow, baby,” Jimin is saying, and Hoseok obeys without even thinking, choking and gagging around the impossible width of Jimin in his mouth, in his throat, down to his gut. Soft lips suckle at his ear, little shushing sounds working through him with every stroke of Jimin’s hands. “And again. Take it all in for me, baby. I love you. I love you.”
The world fuzzes grey at the edges, or maybe it’s orange. Hoseok swallow again, again, working at it until it can slip past the tight ring of his throat and all of a sudden, it’s easy. Air rushes into him and he can move his mouth again, hinge his jaw right, move his tongue in a way that makes words instead of whimpers.
Jimin pulls back. There’s worry in his gaze, and resolution. Trembling, Hoseok brushes a thumb over his mouth, smearing away the spit there.
“I love you,” he says back, and it sounds as awful as it is true.
*
His mother pinches his cheek before they leave, tells him love looks good on him. Hoseok squirms under her care-worn hands, protests loudly about being babied, hugs her too tight. Jimin blushes profusely when she turns her praise on him, bows too deeply, loops a thumb and forefinger around the delicate bend of Hoseok’s wrist and gently leads him away.
The day unfolds.
The people pressing in on him at the train station are enough to make Hoseok dizzy. Jimin slide’s his hand up to Hoseok’s elbow, guides him carefully to the edge of the crowd where he can breathe.
“All right?” Jimin asks uncertainly. His grasp bites into the soft flesh of Hoseok’s arm, and something squirms in his gut. A thrashing, needy thing. Hoseok wonders if he swallowed it last night, or if that merely awakened it. If it’s been there the whole time, and he’s only just now fed it.
“Fine.” Hoseok straightens, drawing a smile over his mouth. “Yah, you take my parents too seriously. I don’t need you to look after me, Park Jimin.”
“You don’t need me at all.” The station’s electrics flicker green over his gaze, some strange trick of the light. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t need you to be okay, hmm? Let me worry for you.”
The squirming in his gut settles. He reaches out, brushes Jimin’s fringe back off his forehead. He looks so young like this. So serious, and so sweet.
“If it makes you feel better.”
“It does.”
The train eats up the space between Gwangju and Seoul; Hoseok knots his fingers through Jimin’s and rests his head against the window, watching the land rush by. If he lets his eyes unfocus enough, he can imagine the two of them staying in place, the world turning under them.
Jimin has always been so full of movement - it’s a part of what drew Hoseok to him in the first place separated him out from the other anonymous bodies twisting under the flare of Itaewon club lights. There’s something intoxicating about the thought of being still with him. An ache blooms in Hoseok’s chest, and he doesn’t look away from the landscape unspooling before him when he asks--
“Did you know? When we met, that it would be me?”
A vague question should prompt a vague answer, and Hoseok isn’t even sure what he’s asking. But Jimin just squeezes his hand, humming gently.
“I had no idea.”
Twilight sweeps the city as the train starts to slow. Something has changed in the world in the time since Hoseok left it, or maybe it’s just changed in Hoseok. He lets Jimin bundle him into a cab, drifts out of reality and back in, his only anchor the little fingers clenched firmly around his. Sharp nails bite into the meat of his palm, but it doesn’t feel like a surprise to see his wrist wet with blood by the time they’re safe in their apartment.
“Balcony,” Jimin murmurs, tugging him towards the glass sliding door leading outside. “Come on, baby. I need you to look at the sky.”
*
Jimin is a monster.
Hoseok thinks that there exists, somewhere in his history, a version of himself that would be terrified. But it’s been a slow death since then, and he can’t place his finger on the day, the week, the month. He sits splayed in Jimin’s lap, head lolled back against his shoulder. Thighs spread on either side of Jimin’s knees, the cityscape spread out before them; he can barely see the stars, but it’s sort of a relief, to be hidden from the world like this. He doesn’t think this should be seen.
“I was just going to eat it that night you know,” Jimin murmurs. His tongue flicks over Hoseok’s palm, works too-long between his fingers. “Crack you open and take what I needed. Move on. But you were so - lively. Alive. I couldn’t do it.”
The inevitable stretches out between them, ties them together. Hoseok knows a lot of things that he didn’t before; that Jimin is a monster, that Jimin has been taking from him for months, that Jimin has given him a gift in exchange. He can still feel it, the stone lodged in his stomach; knows that if he gets up and walks away now, Jimin will let him go.
Knows that a kumiho needs hearts to live.
“Take it now,” he says, before he can swallow the words down.
“What?”
“It’s already yours,” Hoseok explains. “So take it.”
For a moment, Jimin says nothing. Hoseok can feel him thinking about it, though, in he way his breath picks up, how his tongue curls achingly slow over the tips of Hoseok’s fingers, the slow stirring of his dick against Hoseok’s ass.
“It’ll hurt,” Jimin says softly.
“You gave me your bead of knowledge. I know exactly what it’ll do.”
He hears the hesitation in Jimin’s silence. And he feels the acquiescence in his mouth. Jimin takes Hoseok’s fingers in deep, teeth scraping sweetly over the sensitive skin, working away the last of the blood.
For now, at least.
Jimin’s hands work delicately, plucking at the buttons of Hoseok’s shirt, one at a time. Hoseok can’t help but laugh at the care he takes when he knows now that Jimin could just rip through it, make a mess of the shirt before he makes a mess of Hoseok.
“Shh,” Jimin huffs spilling the hot tremor of nerves into the crook of Hoseok’s neck. “You look good in this shirt, I didn’t think you’d want it to get dirty.”
“Not really my biggest concern right now, babe.”
Jimin kisses his neck, soft at first before he suckles at the skin, bruising it pink and then red and then purple. Hoseok arches with the increasing pressure, each drag of Jimin’s tongue drawing the tremulous need running through his veins to a finer point. He reaches back with his hand still wet with Jimin’s saliva, drags it through his hair to hold his head in place.
It’s good, feels good, feels better when Jimin’s lips peel back and Hoseok has a split second of anticipation before those sharp little teeth scrape over his throat, the pressure and the pain building, building until he thinks he might burst with it. Jimin has bitten him before, has left him red and raw, but not like this. Not when the hunger is something literal, when the urge to feed it with his body comes from his gut as much as his dick.
Jimin’s teeth might be sharp, but they’re still teeth; the pain of his skin giving away under the force is a blunt shock, shattering through his nerves in a wave of agony. He hears himself whimper at it, the dull throb radiating through his body to settle in the pit of his stomach where there’s some sort of terrible crossover of sensation. All that pain rewiring to promise - of pleasure, of more pain to come, he can’t be sure yet but it’s enough to make his thighs tremble. Impossible to tell if he’s fighting off the need that way, or feeding it, each tiny shift making him aware of how open he is and how open he’s about to become.
Gentle hands ease his shirt back, peeling it down his arms. Blood spills after it, hot and thick and not unlike the teasing brush of Jimin’s fingers as they trail over his biceps, his forearms, thread over the back of his hands. There’s something grimly delightful about the way he guides Hoseok then, dragging his fingers through the thin line of red that’s made it to his belly, laughing softly as it leaps under the ticklish touch.
“You like it,” Jimin whispers, breath hot on the wet wound he’s wrought on Hoseok’s shoulder, enough to make him shiver. “I thought you’d be scared. I thought you’d hate me.”
Hoseok pants, arching his neck for Jimin to work his tongue over the bloody punctures. It stings something wicked, and there’s trepidation pulsing along the crossed wiring of sensation, the dread knowledge that if this hurts now, it’s only going to get so much worse.
“I’m fucking terrified,” he says, twisting abruptly until he can kiss Jimin, taste the iron on his tongue, the tang of his own essence. “Isn’t that better? Doesn’t that make it good for you?”
Jimin groans, grabbing Hoseok by the hips. And some part of Hoseok has known that he must be strong, but there’s a big difference between knowing that and feeling the way he’s moved like a doll, each limb arranged until he’s draped shirtless over Jimin’s chest, arms loops behind his neck, legs still spread over his, dick hard against his stomach. He can feel Jimin under him, too, the press of his cock through too-tight jeans, wonders why the fuck he choose to wear them if he knew they were going to be doing this tonight.
Maybe he thought I wouldn’t say yes.
Maybe he didn’t think we’d like it.
“Hyung.” Jimin licks his throat again, bites a wandering line of kiss down to his nipple, the left one. “You’re always good for me, hyung, you’re perfect.”
There are a lot of things Hoseok could say to that. He thinks he kind of surprises them both by gripping the back of Jimin’s neck, his nails scratching over taut skin. He bites at Jimin’s lip, hard, harder than he’d ever dared to when either of them seemed human, relishes the salt and the heat he wins from tearing through thin skin, the taste not so different from his own.
“Then eat me already.”
Jimin takes him to bed. Sheds his own clothes like they’re nothing more than a hassle, draws Hoseok’s sweats off his hips like he’s something to worship. He nips at his thigh on the way back up, bites at the dip of his waist, the soft skin of his stomach.
“Here,” Jimin whispers, tracing his fingers over one of Hoseok’s ribs, over his heart. “And here.”
He drops his head, tongue following the path of his fingers. It’s a delicious counterpoint to the throb in his neck but it’s not what Hoseok wants, and he doesn’t think it’s what Jimin wants either. He’s about to ask again - to demand, to take the tremulous thing fluttering in his chest and force it down Jimin’s throat, but then Jimin is biting again and it punches the breath out of him.
It’s no teasing nip, no threat of something worse. He picked a sensitive spot for it, the side of Hoseok’s chest, under his arm; the pain crests in a wave and Hoseok thinks he mut be making some kind of noise, a whine or a wail ripping out from behind his teeth as he feels the fibre of his skin give way on a ragged edge. There’s no clean cut to make, no natural crease to tear along.
Hoseok rips. It hurts. For a second, a blissful forever, that’s all there is.
And then Jimin does it again.
The flood of sensation overwhelms. There are lips, soft on parts that have never been exposed before. A tongue that probes deeper, drawing out the pulse of blood, washing hot over the rest of a body that feels strangely whole outside of the violence being done to it in this one, specific spot.
“Again,” Hoseok pants, arching so hard the springs under him creak from the force of it, the bite in his shoulder stinging from the sudden pressure. “Again, again, Jiminie, more.”
He gets what he wants. Fingers, this time, the same small fingers he’s licked and sucked and held and babied. Working into the crevices of him, sharp points that serve as exquisite counterpoint to the blunt hammer of agony pounding the rest of his body, like his brain has given up on determining the cause.
Through the bleary film of sweat and tears, Hoseok can see Jimin. The green phosphorescence of his eyes highlighting his hunger, the flash of white teeth stark against a mouth streaked red. Red mouth, red lips, red chin, that’s Hoseok smeared up over the arch of his cheek, Hoseok dripping from his jaw, Hoseok inside him even as Jimin cracks open his chest cavity in a slow, inexorable stretch.
The tremulous thing is him now, his whole body shuddering from the rush of adrenaline demanding flight from limbs gone lax from overstimulation. He lives in a body of torn sensation, of brutalisation turned devastating need. He doesn’t even know what it is that he needs, just that he doesn’t have it yet. That he might die if he doesn’t get it, and he might die if he does.
He hears the snap before he feels it. The strange chill of cold air touching something that’s never been touched. I’m terrified, he’d told Jimin, but this is when it swamps him. The sheer insanity of allowing his lover to do this to him, the certainty that this is the end.
“Ji--” His voice cracks on the first syllable, and it occurs to Hoseok that he has been screaming.
“I’m here, baby.” The words slip through his consciousness like syrup off a spoon, sweet and distorted. A wet touch, tenderness only, fingers through his - Hoseok squeezes, he thinks, or he thinks about squeezing. The touch stays, an anchor of something in an ocean of everything. “We’re so close. We’re nearly there. I love you, Hob-ah. Do you love me? I love you so much.”
“Ss--” Speech seems impossible, but it’s very important that Hoseok gets this out. It’s imperative that Jimin knows, before the end of him. He squeezes harder. “Stupid.”
Hoseok would not be doing this if he did not love Jimin.
It probably breaks some rule of etiquette to laugh while you’re fist deep in someone’s chest, but Jimin giggle breaks over his awareness like a balm. “Sorry, you’re right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A kiss. Hoseok’s sure it’s a kiss. “Are you ready? I won’t do it until you’re ready.”
The word rips out of his chest before Jimin can get to his heart. “Please.”
“Okay.” It’s definitely a kiss, soft lips on his forehead. “You’re so brave, Hob-ah. So brave and so good.”
He pulls.
Hoseok hadn’t anticipated the drag. The pain, oh sure, he’s made of pain now, a raw and pulsing thing lighting him up from the inside out. He is incandescent with it. But there is, ultimately, an understanding there; he has been in pain before, even if not to this extent. He has felt the jolt of adrenaline, the jittering demands of his body to escape or embrace it, the strange thing that coils in his gut and his groin tighter and tighter and tighter until he thinks he’ll break to pieces with it--
But the drag. The shift of bone and muscle. The displacement. The heart inside of him has always been inside of him; he has never had any expectation that it would relocate. He’s felt it before, thrumming under his fingertips, after stress, after dance, after sex, after waking up in the morning and seeing Park Jimin’s face smiling blearily up at him. To feel it directly, instead of muffled through layers of fat and bone and skin, is something obscene. Transcendent.
Jimin drags and Hoseok stretches, the fibre of him pulled taught, tighter - tearing. There is blood in his mouth (his own, bitten through his lip), on his hand (Jimin’s, bitten through with the tight squeeze of Hoseok’s fingers). It spills out of his body and smears over Jimin and soaks into the mattress until the world is red, and the world is Jimin, and Jimin is smiling down at him through the haze of it all. He kisses Hoseok’s forehead and he kisses Hoseok’s cheek and he kisses Hoseok’s mouth (bitten through) before the raw, rasping sound of his own screams dies and Hoseok realises he’s being spoken to.
“--so well, so good for me, my perfect, precious, beautiful boy. I’m so proud of you, Hob-ah. Hobi, Hoseokie.” Laughter rings like bells in the space between them, fills the gaping maw of Hoseok’s chest. Jimin tips his head back, giddy, and there’s blood streaked down his throat, he’s covered in Hoseok now. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you did this.”
Hoseok can’t believe he did this. He thinks he’s supposed to be dead now, all body and no brain, but here he is staring up at his lover, chest heaving, nerves burning, a hard lump of stone pulsing in his gut.
“So.” His voice grates its way out of his throat. “So. Are you g--”
But a bubble of blood bursting over his lips cuts him off from any clever remarks, and Jimin is shushing him in between fluttering kisses, licking at the iron spill of it, and Hoseok’s mouth, and the ragged wound his own teeth had bitten into it, and Hoseok might not be able to speak but he finds it in himself to kiss back. The hand not squeezing Jimin’s lifeless manages to hook around his neck, and there’s no strength left in him, but he doesn’t need that to keep Jimin here with him.
“In a moment.” Jimin answers him anyway, are you going to eat it, or was this just for fun? “In a moment, just let me baby you for a second, okay? Let me love you for this, you glorious, nightmare man.”
It’s probably weird that Hoseok is hard right now. Is it weird? He thinks his barometer for weirdness has probably shifted slightly in the last twenty four hours. He thinks it’s probably shifted in the last twenty minutes. He thinks it shouldn’t be physiologically possible without a heart in his body to pump blood to his dick, but he stops thinking at all when Jimin’s blood slick hand curls around him.
It doesn’t - it’s not good. There is no good in the wake of what they’ve done to him; he has been stretched open and left out of shape, and everything that he once new how to feel has to take a new path, transform itself into a new sensation or be lost. But he arches into the touch, shuddering for more of it, the slide turning tacky and strange as blood dries and pre-cum spills from the head, swiped away by Jimin’s clever touch. More, he wants, more and more and more. If Jimin is to have everything of him, then he will have everything of Jimin.
Maybe he says it, or maybe it’s just obvious in the hollowed out need of his body. Hoseok doesn’t know, only knows that Jimin’s thumb is at his hole, blood and spit and pre-cum a mockery of lube as he works it inside, draws it out. The specifics of which fingers stretch him open anew are beyond Hoseok at this point; he ruts into the touch with a mindless desperation. Or maybe it’s single-minded, fed by a devastating need for everything.
Is this what it is to be hungry? He wraps his legs around Jimin’s waist, dragging him in, demanding. Jimin’s dick slips against his rim, enough to make him gasp before he pulls him in, inside, taking the whole of him in one sweet slide.
Jimin shudders. Hoseok can feel the trembling, working through Jimin’s body and into his. Their hands find each other again, lace together, tight, tight, and if there were holes in their palms before they seem to be gone now - healed, or as though they were never there at all. Jimin rocks into Hoseok, once, twice, again, again, fringe falling into the startling shine of his eyes as he lifts Hoseok’s heart to his mouth, and bites.
There’s nothing about the heart that indicates it once belonged to Hoseok. It doesn’t come with a flower stamped on it, or little squirrel ears; it looks like meat, fat-wrapped muscle trailing the torn machinery of Hoseok’s circulatory system. And yet there’s something unspeakably intimate about the way Jimin’s teeth sink into it, working through tissue and prompting another spill of blood, so dark it could be black. He rolls his hips up into Hoseok as he chews, the picture of decadence, and all Hoseok can do is pant, and watch, and pull him in close so that he can lick the red from golden skin.
“More,” he whispers, squeezing his legs tighter around Jimin’s waist, his fingers around his hand, together, together. Jimin bites again, kisses his chin, kisses his clavicle, kisses the bare skin between two ribs that had been a gorey mess not minutes ago. “More.”
“Anything,” Jimin pants; he rests his face on Hoseok’s chest and Hoseok cards trembling fingers through his hair as he chews, and fucks, and takes every last bit of Hoseok into him. “Everything.”
Hoseok can’t even be sure if they come. He’s not sure he cares; there’s no end to what they’ve done to each other here. They lie tangled on the bed together, inside each other, and eventually the heart is gone. Jimin draws his fingers over the bow of Hoseok’s lips, and Hoseok takes them gently inside, suckling away any remnants .
It’s well past dark now, their room lit by the haze of light pollution filtering in from outside, and not much more. Hoseok sighs, the sound too-loud and satisfied in the silence between them. Jimin’s hair is soft as he threads through it, tugging idly, smiling at the quiet hum of pleasure it draws from Jimin every time he does.
They don’t speak. The moment is too precious for that, the words available to them too small. But Jimin does tug at their hands, joint fingers trailing over his chest and lower, until they’re splayed over the flat plane of his stomach. An idle flutter of heat swoops through Hoseok’s tired nerves, before he registers - slowly, softly, sweetly, what it is Jimin wants him to feel.
Heartbeats.