Work Text:
Jimin felt as if he was on fire. He slowly put his hand on his stomach, feeling the four scratches deep inside of him, blood gushing from the wounds. His heartbeat roared loudly in his ears, each breath more difficult than the last.
He blinked twice, feeling a tear leak out from his eyes and spill onto his cheek, inching it's way down his face until it reached his neck, where the wound began. He wasn't sad. No, he was just in agony, feeling as if he was being dragged through the depths of Hell and back. The… monster... had attacked him furiously, it's claws digging into his skin, tearing it apart mercilessly, leaving four slashes that stretched from his neck down to his hip. The pain that followed was something he had never felt before, tearing his breath from him, preventing him the single mercy of crying out loud from the mere shock of the blow.
And now he was dying. He was sure of it. If not from the depth of the wounds and the eventual blood loss, then the poison that was eating him from the inside out. Jimin closed his eyes briefly, wishing for anything to ease his pain, but all he could hear was his own shallow breathing, his body struggling to take in even simple oxygen. Sometimes when he opened his eyes, he could see the hazy figure of another boy in front of him, lean with a square smile. Sometimes he saw the boy's friend, more well-built and muscular. And other times, he saw their leader, a man with broad shoulders with a laugh that sounded eerily like windshield wipers.
He thought back to how he got here. How his simple, human life was thrown into such a crazy world where monsters sprung from thin air, where beings from another planet fought back with glowing blades that seem to have a life of their own, where dark symbols decorated their bodies, flashing an inky black even in the shadows of the night.
-------------------
Jimin had grown up as an adopted child, used to neglectful guardians all his life. He bounced around foster homes, moving all the time, making few close friends, learning to only form temporary relationships with girls or boys - anyone who could pleasure him. Sometimes it was a girl he whispered to in bed at night, smiling softly at her while he unbuttoned her dress, and other nights it was a boy he had pinned against a wall, rough kisses and heavy breathing the only sounds in the pitch-black room. And when the night was over, he kissed them goodbye, not even sparing words to make it more intimate. Because it wasn't. He couldn't understand intimacy, since all it took was a few months before the government forced him to transfer homes again, and then he was far, far away from any boy or girl he knew before, never to see them again.
Sometimes he danced when he didn't have anything else to do, watching street performers in the evenings and imitating them in front of a mirror at home. He hummed the music to himself, sometimes singing it out loud, closing his eyes and envisioning the sharp moves mixed with the fluid ones, creating a work of art he hoped to emulate. But he had no idea if he ever did it well enough, because once again, he would move away before he was able to find the street performers again.
By the time he was nineteen and free of the forced moves, he had grown used to such a nomadic life, and he continued it, comforted by the familiarity and freedom that came along with it. Because what else did he know to do?
So sometimes he lost himself in the haziness of alcohol, dropping by a club for fun, challenging anyone and everyone to drink more than him. He always won, of course, since he knew he could hold his liquor more than anyone else, but then he would drink even more to entertain himself, waiting for the relaxing effects of the alcohol to take over his mind, and then waking up on the side of the street, his shirt lost and the smell of perfume and cologne all over his body, lipstick marks across his chest and dark spots decorating his collar bone.
He knew that whatever he did, any grudges held against him or threats or clingy lovers, Jimin would lose them eventually, starting over again somewhere else, forgetting all that happened in the city before. He had the freedom to make a name for himself in the short time he was there, and then disappear without a trace, where the name Park Jimin was nothing but a mysterious memory in those he met. His favorite cities were Los Angeles and New Orleans - those cities he got to experience everything, see everything, taste everything. He stayed there for a few years, living first as a shadow, and then learning to dominate the social life of the city, taking home famous figures with nothing more than a half smile and the tilt of a head, and in the morning, he had all their secrets. And secrets were the currency of such cities. He could get anything he wanted in exchange for a few accidental words, slips of the tongue, and then rumors would spread like wildfire and nobody would know the source of it. Eventually, word would get around that it was Park Jimin who had the power to either shatter reputations or raise them with just a few muttered words in the dark. And then he would disappear again, bored, anxious for something new. This time, he was on a train again, headed to the northeast from whispers across the country of magic from the old ages. He heard fantastic stories of restlessness and the stirrings of old folklore in the heart of New York City, where sons and daughters of angels and demons lived. It was the perfect place to own. The stories he could tell, the bragging rights. And his name would go down as a legend in the underworld of secrets. It might take a few years, but he had confidence that he could once again slip through the cracks of the city and discover the hidden world beneath the shallow layer, where secrets live and drama churns and romance sprouts, in the smallest alleyways and the largest buildings of New York City.
And so he did. For a few months, he stayed under the radar, refusing the spotlight and watching instead, determined to know how the city worked. On boring days, he would lighten his jet black hair to a bright orange and exchange his drab clothes for a plain shirt, translucent in the sunlight, just enough to draw the attention of any wandering eyes. And then he would perform, dancing to any music that floated his way. Sometimes, musicians would stop and play a song for him to improvise to, and he would do just that, smiling and enjoying the admiring looks, holding their gazes just long enough until they dropped their eyes from his, curious but shy.
He remembers most vividly one night, as he was dancing in the last rays of sunshine and the shadows were growing longer behind him, he had caught the attention of another boy. Jimin was dancing, beads of sweat running down the nape of his neck, dampening his gray tank an even darker gray, and he looked out into the crowd, noticing the boy in the back, standing in the shadows. The boy was not really a boy - a couple years older than he, twenty-four at the most - with a beanie partially covering his blonde hair. It was the eyes that Jimin was drawn to, a beautiful dark brown with depths of secrets hidden within them. The rest of the dances were for the boy in the back; he chose his favorite songs and danced to them, slowly and fluidly, his eyes flickering between his own body and the boy. Jimin ended his performance with a single bow, a small smile on his face and his fedora turned over on the ground in front of him to accept any parting gifts. He turned around, packing up his things, waiting for the last onlookers to trickle back home out of the street, but when he turned back to glance at the street, the boy was in front of him, his eyes now a dark black.
Jimin smirked, playing his game once more. “Did you want another dance? A private show?” He turned back around, feigning disinterest, but his heart sped up when he felt a body press into his from behind, rubbing softly against him. Jimin turned around to face the boy, taking a step backwards at their proximity, his back hitting the wall of the building behind him. The street was silent now, save for the distant thunder of cars and horns typical in New York, and Jimin was alone with this boy, backed up against a wall.
The boy placed both his palms on the building, leaving Jimin trapped between his arms. For once, Jimin wasn't the one in control. It was a novel feeling, but there was something in the boy's eyes that prevented Jimin from even trying to reverse the situation, and so he stayed there, unmoving, his heart thudding inside of him as he felt a rush of adrenaline when the boy took a step closer, their bodies once again rubbing against each other, the thin cloth of their shirts the only thing separating them.
Jimin reached up, his thumb traveling along the lower lip of the boy. The boy's eyes flashed, and in an in instant, Jimin's hands were pinned to the building, engulfed in the rough hands of the stranger. They stayed like that for a while, chests heaving, touching, staring at each other until Jimin was sure he had memorized every detail on the boy’s face. White skin, pouty lips, eyes that darkened to a pitch black when they looked into his own, revealing a million memories. The boy finally leaned closer, their lips brushing against each others, leaving invisible trails of fire, and Jimin's eyes closed of their own accord, feeling it all, allowing himself to be kissed.
It only lasted a second. He felt the boy bite his lip, harder than he was used to, and then the heat that sparked between them was gone. His hands fell to his sides, and he opened his eyes, only to see the empty street in front of him and a few drops of blood on the ground.
For weeks, Jimin searched the streets for the mysterious stranger, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of sudden disappearances. He danced every night, waiting for a glimpse in the crowds, the blonde stranger to show himself again. He had unfinished business with him, untold secrets, layers beyond layers still shadowing the boy he had only just met, the first steps towards underground power in the city. But Jimin didn't see him again, sometimes catching a flash of blonde in the crowd, only to lose sight of it in an instant, and he wondered if he had ever really seen that blonde at all.
For the next few months he continued to lie low. So he wandered the alleys of New York City, smelling the dusty fumes of the darkest streets, seeing the bustle of everyday life, hearing the shouts of laughter inside shops that never closed. One night, he had been jogging around one of his favorite small streets, with just enough side lamps to brighten the cracked road, exercising to keep his strength up.
He sensed it before he heard it, a figure moving silently behind him, its footsteps carefully matching his own steady pace. Jimin stumbled, pretending to lose his footing for a moment before continuing his jog, hearing the padding of feet change it's pace behind him just before it matched his own once again. There was no doubt he was being followed. Fleetingly, he let his mind wander to the blonde stranger who had evaded him for so many months - was it finally the boy again, coming back to finish what they had started? But instinct on the streets told him it was something predatory, dangerous, with motives not to tease or make love but to hurt.
He saw a pathway onto a busy road surrounded by filled-up bars and late-night shops and headed towards it, knowing that once he was out in the open, he would be safe. So he jogged towards it doggedly, his breath coming out faster as he struggled to maintain a steady pace away from whatever it was behind him, hiding the feeling of unease that was growing inside, taking comfort in the fact that he had avoided situations like these before and could fight back if necessary. Jimin was just steps away from the street, his safe haven, almost out of the darkness, when it hit him.
He felt the blow on the side of his head and he collapsed onto the ground, lightheaded already from the sudden shock, blood dripping from the wound. He turned over, his hands forming a protective shield above his face while he jumped back up onto his feet to face his attacker.
His eyes widened at the sight in front of him, his arms dropping to his sides as all feeling faded from him, his nerves shocked, his muscles paralyzed. A dark figure was looming over him, blood dripping from its teeth, eyes as dark as the pits of Hell itself. It was a monster, with long claws in the place of hands, and a deformed body that looked like it formed straight from the ashes of a fire. It's mouth was nothing but a cut in its face, a gash that extended from one ear to the other, cracked and scarred with a row of fangs sharp enough to cut through human flesh as if it was paper.
Jimin shuddered, feeling fear like he had never felt before, dropping back onto the ground, unable to tear his eyes from the nightmare in front of him. He saw a claw raise up, poised to strike at him, and he did nothing but stay there, lying defenseless in front of the monster, awaiting his death. The monster roared, as if from delight, and he cringed away at the harsh sound, his heartbeat roaring in his ears, but then he noticed the monster swaying to one side, lurching away from him.
The roar was from… pain? He had no time to dwell on that fact before he saw another figure leap from the shadows, a blade glowing to life after a shout, slashing at the monster's heart. Another figure followed soon after, shouting at the monster while they worked together to kill it. Jimin struggled to his feet, unsteady from the blow to his head, but the monster lunged at him once more, ignoring its own wounds, its eyes boring into his own, almost as if he was communicating with him: I will steal the soul from the filth you are.
Jimin felt pain along his side as its claws sunk into his body, ripping his skin apart, spilling his blood onto the dirty concrete below him. He felt the tips of the claws deep inside, ice cold and a burning hot, sending tremors through his entire being as poison shot into his system and straight to his heart. He collapsed again, feeling the icy hand of death clutch at him, his life force flowing into the ground in a mass of dark red. And then Jimin’s mind shut off, unaware of the two strangers who saved him, unaware that they were trained shadowhunters fighting demons, sons and daughters of angels who he had been hearing whispers of across the country so many months ago.
--------------
And so he lay there, barely able to even gasp for oxygen as he darkened the sheets below him with dark red blood. Jimin shut his eyes against the pain as a figure above him placed a cold object against his arm. He winced, more from surprise than from pain, enjoying the coolness of the object against his burning skin. His breathing quickened as he felt the tip of the object move on his arm, as if the stranger was drawing a symbol on it. But the coolness quickly morphed into pain, agonizing pain, and he shuddered away, feeling his own skin melt where the object bad touched him, branding a symbol into his arm. Jimin felt a scream tear from his body, the sensations overwhelming him. He could feel his own blood rushing through his body, his heart beating weakly, the veins in his neck popping as he clenched his hands into fists in an instinctive way to shut out the pain.
The object clattered onto the floor, and Jimin heard the stranger take a deep breath of surprise and worry through the thumping of his own heart. His muddled mind struggled to make sense of what was happening before him, but it was clear the stranger was as shocked as he was. Jimin opened his eyes, previously shut tight, seeing a blur of movement and a single sentence escape the stranger:
“He’s a human that carries the blood of the angels.”