Work Text:
Head cocked, Gwinam scents the air again. Breathes deep-slow through his nose while prodding open the door with his fingertips. It was hanging ajar all ominous and blood-spattered – not typically a good sign when it comes to finding a fresh meal, but there is someone alive in there. He can smell them.
One living human is all he needs; they’ll be more than enough sustenance until he can make it somewhere better populated with living. This latest outbreak will be curbed soon. They always are.
In the meanwhile…
Gwinam strolls into the shoddy motel, following his nose. Tracking that scent that’s clean, crisp, and vaguely familiar. It stands out among the dull death clinging to everything else, all bright and metallic and appetizing, luring him deeper into this decrepit shithole. All of the doors are faded, coated in peeling paint that shows bare wood behind it, and the walls are no cleaner. Dirt smudges, dents, crooked yellowing art in ugly frames. A threadbare carpet. All of it complimented in splashes of blood. Wet red glinting in the flickering fluorescent lights overhead.
A snarling zombie darts around the corner up ahead, and he side-steps it. Holds out a foot to trip the mindless bastard, snickering under his breath when it faceplants before scrambling forward on its belly. Pathetic. Probably won’t even be able to find the wide-open exit.
It also disrupted his search, though, and he pauses, nose wrinkling. Rot floods his nostrils for a gruesome moment. He tastes that shit in the back of his throat and almost wants to go maim that zombie asshole –
But then the air clears, and he gets another lungful of sweet and fresh. It’s closer, now. He’ll find its source, soon.
Hopefully before whoever it is dies – it’d be nice to hold someone’s life in his hands again. That rush of power he gets when he makes them beg to live is something he’s missed, but this person might not make it that long. Hell, they could already be dead.
This blood in the hall is theirs. Carries that same smell, a scent that flares up with every step Gwinam squelches through the liquid trail. It’s nothing too impressive, all thin and dribbling in places, but it stands out on the pale green carpeting. Even with all the other grime around.
Whoever this is, they’re bleeding badly – probably still are. Humans are fragile like that.
Gwinam is glad he doesn’t have to worry about that shit anymore. He shrugs inside his stained hoodie, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head until his neck cracks, fresh scar pulling at his skin.
That lucky slice his last meal got in across his throat is long healed. Was too fucking close for comfort, though. Any further to the side and he’d be fucking gone – at least, he’s pretty sure. He’s killed enough zombies via stabbing them in the side of the neck to be worried that the same could take him out. He’s not really interested in testing it.
All he wants is some food, some sleep, and some cleaner clothes.
Hopefully his current prey is weak-but-alive, and wounded in their leg. His pants are still wearable, but all the blood crusted into this sweatshirt is starting to itch.
Ah – a footprint! Soaked red, it shows the heel of a sneaker where this person must’ve stopped. Trying the door, here? No – leaning against the wall for a break. Gwinam’s nose picks up lingering clean blood on the wall, and he brushes fingertips over it. Still wet, it smears some.
Not a splatter, its crinkled pattern would imply it came from clothes or skin or something pressing here for a moment. All the while blood trickled down a leg, into the carpet. Leaving more delicious clues for Gwinam to follow.
Seems like it’s their leg that’s injured after all. Giddiness winds in the pit of Gwinam’s empty stomach, and he’s got a certain spring in his step, now. Following the scuffed line of blood from this poor human’s pathetic, hurried limping as they desperately searched for a hiding place. Somewhere to get away from the zombies and patch themselves up before rushing on toward useless safety – or maybe they just wanted a quiet place to die.
Who knows, who knows. Makes no difference to Gwinam, as he strolls this too-long corridor, rounding the corner in the opposite direction that zombie came from earlier.
The blood dribbled into the carpet is starker, here. There’s been less carnage. Looks safer to idiots – everyone knows it’s easier to play dead if there are more corpses around – and oh, look, there’s blood spread over every doorknob. Smeared handprints.
This poor, bleeding-out human tried every single door, looking for an unlocked one. Maybe they were too weak and delirious with blood loss to be smart about this shit. It’s not like there was anyone at the front desk guarding the master key, and it’s also not like these doors are particularly strong.
Case in point: Gwinam grins to himself when he reaches the final blood-marked door with red pooled on the floor in front of it. It’s locked, or blocked, or something like that. But all it takes is him backing up a handful of steps and kicking out twice with his foot. Sole of his shoe stamping more red on cracked paint as the shitty lock gives, doorframe tearing as it’s forced open, deadbolt ripping through wood like wet paper. And Gwinam barely feels it, when he walks on his wrenched knee. It’s already knitting back together.
His feet scuff against broken wood, and he glances down to find the sorry remains of a chair. So the door was locked and blocked, huh? At least this human tried…
Mouth twitching on a smile, Gwinam kicks the broken chair out of the way while taking a nice deep breath of that savory fresh meat hiding just out of sight. The bed is untouched. A thinning trail of blood droplets leads toward a door on the right.
Some ramming with his shoulder is enough to get this one open. Hook-and-eye lock no match for him.
That tantalizing scent is strongest in here, filling his lungs to capacity. His mouth is watering, saliva gathering under his tongue, and he swallows down a mouthful of it. Thick like blood. Fuck, that thought only makes him hungrier. He’s stepping over dirty tile flooring, blood squeaking beneath the soles of his shoes.
Both shower curtains (one faded, stained beige fabric, the other plastic, stiff with soap scum and off-color with mold) bear a red smudge at one end. And there’s more blood splotched on the lip of this tub – so Gwinam throws the curtains wide –
Only to freeze in his tracks. Eager gaze locked on the last person he expected to see.
“Lee Cheongsan.”
The name falls out of Gwinam’s mouth. Heavy, like that stone vase Cheongsan is hefting as a makeshift weapon, arms trembling with the effort of holding it aloft and ready to swing.
…As if he could do much damage. Sitting sideways in the bathtub as he is. Slipshod tourniquet around his thigh and knees pressed to his chest to better wedge him in while his blood flows down the drain and his sweaty, torn skin goes all pale.
“Gwinam,” Cheongsan says. He doesn’t lower the vase. “What…” A swallow. Gwinam follows the bob of that throat, hunger spiking at the sight. “Why are you here?”
A simple enough question with a simple enough answer. Gwinam is wandering hungrier than usual, and Cheongsan presents the perfect, most appetizing meal to hold Gwinam over until he can reach the next unaffected town to move into –
Only. Gwinam is chewing on the inside of his cheek. Instead of biting into Cheongsan.
He wasn’t expecting to know this person. No wonder the blood smelled familiar.
This…shouldn’t change things.
Gwinam’s knuckles go white on the shower curtains, and when he yanks on them, they come away from the rod. Metal rings tearing, clattering to the floor and into the tub around him and Cheongsan. Gwinam throws the plastic curtain away. Keeps hold of the fabric one.
Shit – Cheongsan should look pathetic there. All slumped and bloody in a stained motel bathtub. But he’s still got that look on his face. He flinched when the curtains were torn down, yeah, but now he’s back to that horrible, cool gaze that regards Gwinam with steel. Stubborn, unafraid. Something like that.
It grates on Gwinam’s nerves like nothing else and he hates that it feels good, right now.
“I was looking for something to eat,” Gwinam answers belatedly, with that shower curtain balled up in his fists. Just to see what Cheongsan will do.
Calloused, bloodstained fingers shift over the vase, and Cheongsan’s eyebrows dip lower. “Well, I don’t have anything for you, this time.”
Hah. Typical Cheongsan. Starting up sparking flares in Gwinam’s chest that can’t decide if they want to be irritated or aroused or something else entirely. “I don’t need your handouts.” He’s never needed Cheongsan’s handouts – just took them because he wanted to – because it was better than searching for himself – when the local coroner would find him in the alleyway and hand over scraps – let him slip inside for a nibble if he promised to be discreet –
He’s brilliant in his own way, this Cheongsan. Keeping Gwinam fed at his lowest so he’d take his hunting to other neighborhoods. A mangy stray cat, or some shit. That’s what Cheongsan sees him as. Doesn’t fear him right. Never has.
“Besides,” Gwinam continues, insides flaring up at the way Cheongsan rolls his eyes, “you’re enough of a meal on your own.”
At that, Cheongsan’s jaw ticks. His grip on that stupid vase tightens, and his nostrils flare as he hefts it. Like it’s a warning – like it could do actual damage. “Fuck off,” he spits –
And then he throws the goddamn vase, with way more force than Gwinam was expecting. Heavy stone clipping his shoulder as he leans out of its way, vase sailing right into the mirror that shatters loud and explosive, reflective shards raining down over the sink, skittering to the floor around Gwinam’s feet. No way every zombie in the place didn’t hear that racket – the hell is Cheongsan trying to do?!
Why the hell does it make Gwinam grin even though he’s so fucking angry? Nerves all alight and stomach yawning ravenous and Cheongsan smelling so fucking appetizing, fuck. Gwinam tangles his fingers tighter into this stupid shower curtain he’s still got hold of. For some reason.
“Go eat someone else,” is Cheongsan’s demand, chin jutted out. Piece of shit.
Gwinam only shrugs, expression pinching on a narrow glare. “The zombies will get you if I don’t.”
“Oh,” Cheongsan scoffs. He glances Gwinam up and down with big, glossy-brown eyes, inclining his head on half a nod. “And you’re supposed to be better than the zombies?”
As if on cue, a shrieking pair of zombies come hurtling into the motel room. Stumbling over the broken chair by the door, causing a racket as they bump into walls, knock over a lamp, and trip their way to this bathroom –
Gwinam lurches for the shower rod without thinking. Yanking hard until it comes free of the walls, his feet crunching over glass as he hefts blunt-sharp metal like it’s a spear, aiming for the first zombie’s neck. It slices through with a squelch – sideways, because coming from the front at this angle won’t do shit – and Gwinam tosses aside the shower curtain while throwing his weight into the rod, pushing and steering until the end of it finds that second writhing zombie.
He forces them out of the bathroom. Shoves the shower rod through the wall like a stake. Both zombies writhe on it for a moment before falling dead-still. Dark blood spurting out from their necks, coating Gwinam’s hands, splattering his face. He spits out a mouthful. Disgusting.
Stomping to the hotel room’s door, he slams it shut. Hauls the bedframe over. Then the desk. The heavy, old-fashioned TV. That’s how you barricade. Take notes, Cheongsan…
For additional privacy and to block out the stench of undeath, Gwinam closes the bathroom door, too. Props Cheongsan’s precious vase in front of it to keep it that way, when it threatens to fall back open.
That done, he turns to find Cheongsan watching him with widened eyes and mouth agape. Fear, maybe. Shock, too. Gwinam wants to chew that expression right off, but instead he just glowers at it and turns his back on it. Thank fuck the water in this motel still works, so he can wash this grime off. Rinse his face (and mouth) of rotten blood.
“See?” He turns when he’s finished. Pink water dripping from his filthy sweatshirt sleeves as he jabs a wet finger into his own chest. “I am better than the fucking zombies.”
Cheongsan sucks in an audible lungful of air, like some kind of ragged gasp, and more rattling breaths follow. Was he holding it all this time? “You still bite like one.”
Ungrateful bastard. If he didn’t smell so fucking edible right now, Gwinam would consider undoing their defenses and letting the zombies have at him, just so Gwinam could have some fun watching that sturdy body torn apart in so many gnashing jaws.
As it is. Gwinam is starving. And Cheongsan is the only food around.
…Why, then, is he still stuck leaning against this stupid sink, broken mirror glittering all around, staring at that defiant, deflating shape of Cheongsan in the tub? It would be so easy to just. Eat.
“I told you – don’t ever fucking compare me to those things,” Gwinam finds himself snarling out. He may’ve been bitten long ago, but he’s not a fucking zombie. Isn’t fucking dead. He’s fully alive. Better than, even! “I didn’t have to save you just now, you know.”
Cheongsan only shakes his head, like some kind of disappointed parent. His mouth is tugged into a grim line. “You’re such a piece of shit,” is what he says, as if he’s got any right to.
Aggravation clawing at his back, Gwinam stalks forward a step, snatches up that fabric shower curtain – surprisingly unscathed, mostly clean, largely free of blood at least – and throws it at Cheongsan. It hits with an unsatisfying poff sound, and Cheongsan’s red-stained, calloused fingers curl into it. Holding it to his chest. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Gwinam for more than the time it takes to blink.
“Put pressure on that.” More words that tumble out of Gwinam’s mouth without his consent. His gaze flicks to the gash in Cheongsan’s leg. It’s still oozing blood too fast despite the tourniquet. Bits of Cheongsan’s lifeforce dribbling down the drain.
For a handful of heartbeats, Cheongsan doesn’t so much as twitch.
It pisses Gwinam the hell off. “Unless you want to fucking die from blood loss,” he snaps, not at all sure why that would matter. Cheongsan would still be fresh enough to eat, after all. It’s not as if Gwinam would let him go cold.
A scoff coughs out of Cheongsan’s throat. Wet and wrong-sounding. Blood flecks land on his bottom lip. “What difference does it make,” he says flatly. He is moving the shower curtain, though. Rolling it up and pressing it down over his calf. His hands have never seemed so weak before. “You’re eating me, anyway. I’d rather die from this first.”
Maybe that’s it – Cheongsan doesn’t deserve to get his way, or choose his death. Gwinam didn’t get that luxury, so why should this asshole? He should die on Gwinam’s terms. Not bleed out quietly.
With a huffing sigh, Gwinam lurches forward, again. Stomps into the bathtub, scratching it with glass caught in the soles of his sneakers as he crouches at Cheongsan’s side, reaching to press his chilled palms over Cheongsan’s admittedly not-much-warmer hands on that shower curtain. “You’re not pressing hard enough,” he grouses. “Can’t you do anything right, you bastard?”
Cheongsan hisses at the additional pressure, body coiling some. His hands twitch beneath Gwinam’s more slender ones, and Gwinam only holds on all the tighter. Clamps down with inhuman strength just to feel knuckles shift and creak under his grip. He’d love to hold these hands until they break.
“You’re pathetic, if you die from this,” Gwinam says. Stares hard at their overlapping fingers.
More hitching uneven breaths from Cheongsan, accompanied by a pained grunt. His body shifts like it wants to get away from the pain, but Gwinam hangs on. “And you’re walking garbage no matter what,” Cheongsan mutters.
Gwinam grits his teeth. Imagines Cheongsan’s skin breaking between them and is almost overcome by a rush of ravenous hunger. Especially so with Cheongsan this close. Blood flowing out. Pretty red specks of it dotting his lips, still. It only smudges, when a tongue darts out to try and lick it away.
Shit. Gwinam wants a taste.
And, great, he’s staring at Cheongsan’s mouth, now. Chapped and bloodied as it is, Gwinam drags his eye anywhere else. Over sweat-glazed skin that’s all taut looking, thanks to the blood loss. Dark hair stuck to a damp forehead. Scrapes and bruises on a square jaw, sharp cheekbones. Brown eyes that are remarkably clear, and stare right through Gwinam just like they always do; like they always have, from the very first time he met Cheongsan.
Back when Gwinam was starving in an alleyway. Maybe he should’ve eaten Cheongsan, then. Instead of letting him bargain with bits of corpses.
Then neither of them would be here, now. Sweet tang of Cheongsan’s blood on Gwinam’s tongue via the air. Mouthwatering. Sharp scent of sweat and stress permeating Gwinam’s senses and making his brain spin, a little, at this proximity.
God – Cheongsan’s flesh is torn open and Gwinam can smell the meat of him –
Gwinam is leaning forward, closer. Doesn’t have the self-control left to stop himself from creeping forward to get a better whiff of Cheongsan. Glancing between those piercing eyes and grimy, broken skin. Dirty clothes that carry borrowed filth along with at least a few days’ worth of Cheongsan’s own natural musk that is so fucking appealing Gwinam wants to press his nose into it and just breathe.
With his hands clamped down around Cheongsan’s on that wounded leg, Gwinam tips even more. His cheek ghosts past Cheongsan’s, a breath hitching in his ear as he melts lower. Nose pressing to a fluttering pulse point. Digging in. Inhaling deep.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing hot, muggy skin. He drags his face down Cheongsan’s neck. Feels it just as much as he hears it when Cheongsan groans at the contact. “You smell amazing.”
More of those hitching breaths from Cheongsan. He coughs a few times, and the scent of blood gets stronger. His hands shift beneath Gwinam’s. “Asshole,” he’s muttering, nudging weakly at Gwinam’s head with his chin, “at least wait until I can’t feel it before you eat me.”
“Mm…” Gwinam can’t help it, the noise that leaks out. He noses his way into Cheongsan’s hair, then back toward the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Crouching like this isn’t enough, anymore – Gwinam twists his lower half until he falls into a proper seat beside Cheongsan. Grip on that shower curtain shifting to match his new position as he presses tight to Cheongsan’s side, head bent to stay locked in the crook of that tender throat. “Stupid. You won’t die until I kill you.” Gwinam will make sure of that.
Cheongsan shivers. A move that rolls up his entire body, and Gwinam almost trembles right along with him. His jaw bumps Gwinam’s head, again. Like he’s shaking his head.
“Wanna bet?”
The words come out all strange – like Cheongsan has to fight to get them out. It aggravates something in Gwinam’s gut. He licks at the skin under his mouth once, and relishes in the way Cheongsan goes tense.
“The hell does that mean?” he says, lifting away only far enough to seek out an open cut. There’s one here, on the hinge of Cheongsan’s jaw, and Gwinam’s tongue darts out for a taste. Rich. Fulfilling. Makes Cheongsan shiver all over again. Poor bastard.
A strangled sound comes from Cheongsan’s throat. It’s supposed to be a laugh, maybe. “Even when you try to help, you’re useless,” he says. “You didn’t even notice my other injuries.”
That gives an unpleasant jolt to Gwinam’s system, unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He jerks upright, face wrenched away from Cheongsan’s skin. Those eyes are unreadable where they’re fixed on Gwinam, but he doesn’t have time to decipher them now – drags his own gaze along Cheongsan – flickering here and there to each out of place splash of color – and – shit – god fucking dammit –
Blood. So much of it. Pouring from a hole in Cheongsan’s side that’s so gaping Gwinam can feel it on himself. An ache in his own abdomen.
All that red is glittering dark, quivering with each unsteady breath Cheongsan takes. His leg is fucking nothing compared to this and Gwinam is so astronomically stupid, to let himself get distracted by the thick-tempting scent of so much wrought flesh that he never fucking bothered to find out where the worst of that blood was coming from.
“Fucking bastard,” he wheezes out. Suddenly unsure if he means himself or Cheongsan. “What’d you do?”
“Wrecked the –” Cheongsan cuts himself off with a ragged grunt of pain, when Gwinam pulls his hands off of that leg injury. His voice is even more strained, now. “The bike. In construction.”
Piece of shit. Asshole. Absolute fucking moron.
Why the hell is Gwinam’s heart beating so goddamn fast over this? Why the hell is his single functioning eye so wet and hot? The scar on his other throbs as if he’d be crying over there, too, if he could. It’s dumb as hell.
The shower curtain has so much red on it by now that it’s impossible to find a clean spot to shove against Cheongsan’s bleeding side, but Gwinam bundles it up and pushes down anyway. Ignoring the way that Cheongsan cries out, paying no mind to the hands that shove at him. They’re usually so capable, those hands. Might as well be fucking kitten paws right now. Cheongsan is – fading.
“Stoppit. M’already…” Cheongsan trails off with a heavy swallow. His throat bobs with it.
As ever, Gwinam’s eye tracks that movement.
Cheongsan is still watching him. Those eyes are still trained on Gwinam, even as their fire starts to dim. It makes his spine itch and his stomach roil, to see Cheongsan turning into a pathetic caricature of himself, like this.
Something that shouldn’t matter. He’ll still make a perfectly good meal. Gwinam can still eat him.
Any second now – whenever he feels like it – he can – feed.
A tear scours down Gwinam’s cheek, and rage flares hot in his chest. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t matter.
By rights, Cheongsan should’ve died weeks and weeks and months ago. Gwinam never should’ve let him live this long, never should’ve fed off of his scraps and hung out with him in that shitty alleyway behind the morgue like they were anything other than predator and prey. Shouldn’t have let Cheongsan bully him into surviving off of stale corpses, whenever he was in the neighborhood. Should never have gone back to that neighborhood at all, if that was the only viable food on offer there.
But he did all of that. Like a fucking spineless idiot.
And now – now he’s nudging into Cheongsan’s side, siphoning warmth while it’s still available from him. Abandoning the bloodied shower curtain in favor of cupping both palms to Cheongsan’s face. Tipping it toward himself.
“I’m not fucking useless,” he tells those eyes. They spark at him. It does something to his insides. “I can save you.”
No matter how much the rest of Cheongsan slumps toward death, his eyes remain alert. Their gaze drops to Gwinam’s mouth, because of course he knows what Gwinam means. He’s infuriating, like that. Already shaking his head to dismiss the idea. Like he’d rather die than ‘sink to Gwinam’s level’ – he’s said so before, in those exact words, the uppity asshole.
Tough shit. Gwinam’s already decided that Cheongsan doesn’t get to choose his fate. That’s the only reason Gwinam is even here. Curbing his hunger and getting that appetizing blood all over his hands instead of in his belly.
“You want to die?”
Cheongsan doesn’t respond. His eyes gleam at Gwinam but give nothing away.
“Or should I feed you to the zombies?”
Fat chance of that happening – and Cheongsan can tell it’s a bluff, too. He raises one of those thick-dark eyebrows of his, blood-flecked lips twitching at one corner. “Fucking liar,” he slurs out, words tumbling clumsy through a mouth that Gwinam is suddenly ravenous for. “Don’t be so…”
Whatever the hell he meant to say is dropped. His broad shoulders shrug halfhearted, and another sorry excuse for a laugh scoffs out of his nose.
“Gwinam,” is what Cheongsan apparently settles on.
‘Don’t be so Gwinam.’ What a shitty fucking insult from a shitty fucking human. Gwinam is Gwinam – he’s got nothing else to him but himself, such as he is, and that just so happens to be pretty goddamn starving, right about now, and pretty goddamn fed up with this high and mighty and dying Cheongsan, too.
Shuffling further forward, impossibly closer to Cheongsan, Gwinam wedges his knees beneath that deadweight. One around Cheongsan’s back, the other at his thighs. Effectively putting Cheongsan in his lap, for all intents and purposes, as his fingers thread through all that dark hair, holding Cheongsan’s head up-and-turned, so that they’re nose to nose. Breaths puff weakly against Gwinam’s lips. They taste metallic and sweet.
“Lucky for you,” Gwinam says, tilting until his mouth brushes Cheongsan’s, “I’m hungry, right now.”
The first bite he takes is on that quivering, blood-flecked bottom lip. Chapped skin catching between his teeth – he doesn’t draw blood, here. Just nurses that lip between his own on something like a kiss, and revels in the rush of air over his cheek as Cheongsan exhales in shock.
When Gwinam pulls back, there’s a line of saliva connecting them. Cheongsan’s eyes are dazed. Gwinam has no fucking clue what he’s doing – not really, other than following his hunger – but he sucks on Cheongsan’s round, bruised cheek next. Pulls blood from a scrape and rolls his tongue over torn flesh while Cheongsan whimpers out in what could be protest or pleasure. No way to tell.
Gwinam takes his suckling not-bites lower, then. Teeth skimming the corner of Cheongsan’s jaw. Mouth open over his pulse point that’s fluttering so weak, by now. Kicks up a minimal fuss when Gwinam marks it, skin worked until it’s purple.
He licks his way down Cheongsan’s neck, tongue curling around that Adam’s apple when it bobs on a gulp. It’d be so easy to bite, here, and rip it clean out – just the thought makes Gwinam’s chest leap –
But that’s not what he’s after. Despite what his instincts crave.
So he lets his hands trail down. Out of Cheongsan’s hair, along the sides of his neck. When Gwinam reaches the collar of that t-shirt, he grips it with both hands. Pulls rough-quick, tearing cotton open wide, shredding the sleeve down Cheongsan’s shoulder. Leaving all that skin bare. Soaked in a cold sweat and trembling. Tan with ashen death creeping in – blood pumping beneath it, still – muscle hot and flexing –
A hand pushes at Gwinam’s head while he’s busy nibbling his way along Cheongsan’s collarbone. Stronger than expected, that touch doesn’t really deter him, much. Not even when it grabs his hair and tugs.
Cheongsan is mumbling something. Lots of swear words that Gwinam can barely hear, his own blood is roaring in his ears so loud as he tracks the flow of Cheongsan’s. Nosing at flimsy, bruised skin.
The shoulder under Gwinam’s mouth is rounded. Freckled some, from hours of sunlight. Days spent at the beach, probably. He kisses the broad curve of it, down around to where the meat of Cheongsan’s bicep is – and, fuck, Gwinam is so hungry he aches – insides hollow – Cheongsan dying in his arms – fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gwinam bites.
His teeth puncture flesh and sink in, blood rushing into his mouth, down his throat. A rich, savory mouthful that he groans around, with Cheongsan’s sharp cry filling his ears.
It tastes good. Better than any meal Gwinam’s ever had. He pulls away without tearing, retracting his teeth and marveling at the ring of oozing puncture wounds left behind. A permanent mark delivering permanent damage, sure, but his stomach is still empty as fuck. So he shifts lower, to a strong forearm – and he does tear, here. Clamping his teeth all-the-way shut, his chest shuddering with Cheongsan’s heavy sob when Gwinam rips a chunk of meat free.
He chews it slowly. He’ll only get to taste it once, after all. His eyes flutter closed as he rolls the flesh over in his mouth, and he presses his nose into the crook of Cheongsan’s elbow. It’s slick with blood, now. Gwinam half slumped over Cheongsan, whose pulse is thudding loud. Healthier and strong.
Seems like he’s changing already. Fucking overachiever…
With one last inhale, Gwinam lifts free of Cheongsan’s arm. He stares into wet brown eyes while deliberately swallowing the mouthful of Cheongsan. One more bite. Just one more.
Cheongsan’s mouth is open and panting. His hand flops useless out of Gwinam’s hair. Tears trickle down over his cheeks and Gwinam is pressing forward to lick one away before it registers. Sharp salt on his tongue. He leaves a smudge of blood behind.
“Asshole…” Cheongsan whispers, a wobbly, barely-there kind of thing.
It makes Gwinam chuckle. Laughter against slick skin as his mouth glides for Cheongsan’s upper arm, again. His teeth sink in one last time, close to his very first bite, and Cheongsan jolts with this one. His entire body jumping in place, his unbitten arm lurching to wrap around Gwinam’s shoulders, weirdly enough. It grips here. Fingernails pinching at Gwinam through his sweatshirt while he takes another mouthful.
Fuck – it melts in his mouth. Fresh blood swallowed down with tender tissue, worked even more pliant between his teeth. His lips brush the wound as he chews. Slowly. To savor it. Divine flavor he wants on his tongue forever.
Before long, Cheongsan tightens his hold even further. So much strength in him now that it startles Gwinam into swallowing that last mouthful of flesh, the bastard.
Gwinam’ll get yelled at any second now, surely. Not that it fazes him – he’s more than happy to linger here at Cheongsan’s chewed up arm. Lapping at the holes he’s made, curling his tongue to gather rich mouthfuls of blood before their taste starts to go sour. Too much like himself to be appetizing or nourishing anymore, though Cheongsan still smells fucking amazing. Better, in fact.
The yelling doesn’t come, though.
Instead, Cheongsan…
Fuck, Cheongsan’s mouth presses to Gwinam’s ear, sharp teeth pinching at the lobe of it. “Piece of shit.”
That voice is so low it wrenches a shiver up Gwinam’s spine. Cheongsan’s mouth is still on him, nuzzling into his hair – he can feel Cheongsan smelling him, sucking down gulps of his scent – or something like that – it’s strange, being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. Courtesy of fucking Cheongsan, of all people.
It’s got Gwinam overwhelmed. All of his senses firing at once. Full steam. The only thing filling his nose his mouth his mind his stupid garbage heart – is Cheongsan. Whether Gwinam wants him or not.
(He does.)
“Told you I could fucking save you.”