Work Text:
Jimin had been warned about werewolves since before he could even read. Their kind was wild, volatile, and most importantly, tainted. Their blood was a corrupting poison, a sacrilege to the vampiric essence. A vampire feeding on a werewolf was not just unthinkable; it was a one way ticket to being shunned by his own kind.
Yet here he was, backed into a corner of a snow bound cabin with Alpha Jeon Jungkook, the living embodiment of everything he’d been taught to despise. The council’s mission, a fragile, political maneuver to appease both their species, had collapsed spectacularly. For three days, the blizzard had raged. For three days, Jimin’s world had narrowed to a single, agonizing point: the relentless, pounding pulse in Jungkook’s throat.
It was a drumbeat of temptation, and it was driving him mad.
“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Jungkook said, his voice grating on Jimin’s frayed nerves. The werewolf leaned against the kitchen counter, utterly at ease, as if they were sharing a nightcap instead of standing on the precipice of Jimin’s ruin. “It’s just blood. Not like I’m gonna die. I heal fast.”
Jimin’s vision swam, tinged with red at the edges. He could smell it, the potent life force just beneath the wolf’s skin. It was nothing like the refined blood of a human or the powerful nectar of a fellow vampire. This was something primal. Earthy. Electric. It called to the most base, desperate part of him.
“Of course you wouldn’t get it,” Jimin hissed, the words scraping his parched throat. “You’re an animal. You don’t think. You just… a mutt.”
Jungkook just raised a brow, an infuriating smirk playing on his lips. “Hangry much? Starve for all I care. Your funeral.”
The dismissive words were the final snap of a breaking cord. Dignity, rules, decades of conditioning—it all evaporated in a surge of feral instinct.
Jimin launched himself across the room.. He expected a fight, for the wolf to shove him off, to snarl and defend himself.
But Jungkook didn’t. He caught Jimin mid air with an effortless strength, his arms like iron bands, steadying them both as if Jimin were nothing more than a gust of wind. He held him there, pinned against his chest.
Jimin’s crimson eyes locked onto Jungkook’s face. His fangs elongated fully, sharp and ready for use. The hunger roared in his veins, a fire threatening to consume him from the inside out.
And Jungkook? He didn’t flinch. His heartbeat, that maddening, tempting rhythm, remained steady. Not a flicker of fear. Just a deep, unsettling calm. An invitation.
“I could drain you dry,” Jimin growled. His fingers clawed into the soft flannel of Jungkook’s shirt, gripping for purchase. “Burn what’s left. No one would find a trace of you, Alpha.”
Jungkook’s response was to tilt his chin up, a deliberate, devastating motion that exposed the strong column of his neck. The vein there throbbed, a siren’s call in sync with Jimin’s own desperate need.
“Then do it,” he challenged, “Go on. Stop talking about it and take it.”
It’s a trick. It’s poison. It’s a line you can never come back from. The warnings echoed in his mind, the voices of his elders, his own conscience. He hated this. He hated the offer. He hated the wolf for his maddening composure, for the way he’d been flirting with this line since the moment they’d met. Most of all, he hated the part of himself that wanted it so badly he could taste it.
But the scent, oh the scent. Rich, alive, and overwhelmingly Jungkook, finally broke him.
With a broken snarl that was half sob, Jimin buried his fangs in the offered throat.
The world exploded.
The taste was not just blood; it was a lightning strike. It was the heart of the forest after a storm, the raw power of the hunt, the wild freedom of a full moon run. It was wrong, so profoundly wrong it felt like sin. And it was perfect, the most potent, revitalizing thing he had ever consumed. A warmth spread through his frozen limbs, easing the crippling ache in his gut, settling the violent frenzy in his bones. It was a drug, and he was instantly, hopelessly addicted.
Jungkook let out a soft, shuddering exhale, his eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t struggle. Instead, he shifted his weight, carrying them both to the couch and sitting down with Jimin still anchored to his neck, trembling with the aftershocks of hunger and self loathing.
Jimin drank, each pull pulling him further from the brink of death and deeper into moral damnation.
“That’s it,” Jungkook murmured, his voice rough and strangely intimate. His hand came up, his fingers sliding gently through Jimin’s hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him closer. “Take as much as you need, baby.”
The endearment should have disgusted him. It should have made him wrench away.
It didn’t.
Jimin didn’t stop. He couldn’t.