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Cicada summer

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Jungkook lies dying. 

Face down with his shoes on, like some common criminal. Riddled with metal he feels air flood every part of his body and blood seep through his nostrils. 

He is going to die.


The realization is a calm one- definite in nature and the beauty of it all is that he can't even muster the strength to fight.

He lets death drag him under. A crevice in the ocean bed, dark emptiness. 



Something metal touches the bridge of his nose.



Let me die, he thinks offhandedly.

Fuck off. Let me go.


The offending appendage is the bayonet of a rifle, the sort used back in the Vietnam war that hits you sudden and square against the shoulder when fired loosely. There’s blood on the tip- might be his own, his brother's. These are paltry little details. 

He's really going to die now. 

The rifle does some more aggressive poking- no doubt ascertaining Jungkook's current state. Dead, he whispers in his mind.



"This ones still alive"




The rifle turns into a wrist, and further along, a hand. It's small and clean. Startlingly white. Hardly guerilla. But what does death look like?

The hand turns him over, a fat piece of meat rotting in sludge. A face hovers over him; all soft jawline and onyx hair. Pretty. So pretty he might be an angel if his shirt weren’t torn in half and coloured clotted crimson. 

Perhaps he has died after all.


"Jiminie" a voice yells far off.

"Let’s go. It’s getting late"


"This ones still alive" Jiminie comments again, cocking his head like a pistol.


He’s just so marvelous. Lovely but terrifying, makes your skin soak hot and scared.

Let me die, Jiminie, Jungkook prays.

The blood is climbing to my eyes. It's hard. Hard to breathe.



But Jiminie hoists him up, Jungkook’s desperate prayers unanswered. He trudges back to the truck parked slanted where the slaughter began, tires rutting onto streaky mud. Jungkook is rolled into the back tray next to the gun-happy monster with the feline eyes and a scowl. He rests, oozing, petrified, breath rattling in and out like wind through drafty floorboards.


"Yoongi-hyung" Jiminie’s voice sounds, near but high.

"Play nice"


He doesn't die then, he can’t, not with Jiminie stuffing the holes with cotton and dousing him in gallons of antiseptic. He doesn't die later when they reach the barracks; a crude settlement of wood and mud obscured by a few choice boulders. By some stroke of sick luck, he doesn’t die a few days later when the leader rejoins the garrison and asks -what the fuck is this child doing within my ranks?









3 years later





"I'd kill just about now for some ramyeon"


Taehyung would kill just about now for anything. He's a hair trigger ready to blow and Jungkook is always dancing around him, just out of reach. They have a complex relationship founded on ceaseless bickering and a mutual love for chow.


"Hyung" Jungkook interrupts, as dust rises over the horizon. 

"Here they come"


Seokjin drives and Hoseok slumps asleep in the passenger seat, Yoongi squeezed in next to him.

Jimin always rides in the back tray, trim and proper as if it were a throne. His posture is almost rehearsed, sickly elegant. He sits with the guns, the loot, the dead bits and pieces clinging to their jackets and worn shoes.

When the truck comes to a skidding holt before the barracks Jimin slithers to the ground, bare legs blinding in the rising sun. 


"Radio, Kook" he demands, but his tone is gentle and good. 

"Get a room" Taehyung hisses under his breath. 


Jimin hears. He smiles; a scar of white across his tan face. His hand fingers his guns briefly, two shoved into the waistband of his shorts where they rub angry against bare skin. He likes them close, not comfortable.


Taehyung shuts right up. 

He goes back to scowling and lusting over Hoseok, whose toned calves tense momentarily as he drops from the truck.

Hypocrisy, Jungkook notes. 


He trails Jimin back inside, dipping to avoid smacking his forehead against the wooden beams. The ceiling is some makeshift disaster of mud and dried clay. All very elementary. Jimin weaves his way through the equipment; automatics and Glocks scattered like playthings in the dust.

He plops himself down on Jungkook’s hammock which sways dangerously, but he never rests his feet for balance. It would be entertaining to see him fall just once, all his flexibility and practiced coordination gone to shit. But Jimin is as calculated and brilliant as a machine; he doesn’t make mistakes, he can’t. It simply isn’t part of his repertoire.

Jimin fiddles with the nobs of the radio. He bites his lip, a subconscious habit Jungkook has come to attribute with intense concentration. His eyes narrow to slits as static courses through the speakers. It can be hours wrestling this junk, trying and retrying to grasp the thin strips of sound floating somewhere in the air. Their singular connection to the outside world.


“Ah” Jimin mutters.

“I hear her”


A rebel attack to the west of the city has prompted a heightened response from the militia following several weeks of ongoing combat-“


Jimin rakes a hand through coarse hair, chewing on his bottom lip. He gets skittish listening to broadcasts, nervous they won’t do them any justice. He fears they’ll sugarcoat the rebellion or downplay them to petty crooks, regular murderers, pillagers, thieves.


Any civilians with information are urged to call the emergency hotline- 1800-“


What follows is the usual rattling off of aliases, starting with Namjoon and ending with Jungkook. The names go a bit like this.


“Jin, Suga, J-hope, RM, Jimin, V and JJK are all highly dangerous criminals likely armed and violent. Any civilians upon encountering these men are urged to flee or contact appropriate authorities-“


Jimin reclines slowly, bringing his hands up to rest behind his neck. The radio remains sitting on his stomach, blaring inaccurate descriptions of each of them. The announcers’ voice hovers crackly and bored in the muggy air.

He itches at the hem of his frayed shirt.

Jungkook tries his hardest to look anywhere but.


"Namjoonie hyung-"

He has an endearing habit of clipping his sentences midway to pause for breath, regathering thoughts. 

"Wants me to re-train you in hand-to-hand combat. Said he wants you more down the front, the full-on stuff"


Jungkook nods. He recognizes he can’t spend forever cooking meals and restocking ammo- exclusively. There’s at war here.


"Jungkookie" Jimin sits up suddenly to place a rough hand in his hair. 

"You got so big. All grown now. I'm proud of you."




Jungkook flushes crimson as Jimin tangles his fingers gently, eyes melting into crescent-shaped hollows. He hushes his heart which beats hard and fast; that telltale scream-

I love, I love, I love. 




Later on Jimin grasps his shoulder over cold oats to whisper in his ear- (see you 16:00). Jungkook blushes again; his face treacherously expressive. Taehyung smirks, making a crude gesture with his hand. 

Their meeting place is predetermined. Into the woods, down rough-hewn paths and nestled beside the river is a clearing. The trees die off and dwindle to dried grass, splattered with red- Jimin's favourite colour. The carpet of Zinnias touches every part of the emptiness, bouncing in the afternoon wind.

He'd never know Zinnias until Jimin had shown him, slightly embarrassed by the femininity of his secret. He had been very serious about denying his affiliation with flora and fauna. Truth- Jimin could be soft too. He liked flowers and white kittens. Blood ran warm in his veins, not tar nor ice as he'd have them believe. 


Truly evil men do not keep photographs of their children in the sheath of their ruined wallet.

Jungkook's heart had dropped through when he'd first seen their faces. 


"Seulgi" Jimin had murmured.

"And these are- uh- my boys"


It had taken two years for Jimin to speak to him as more than a comrade, a brother in arms. And Jungkook wasn't about to jeopardize their tentative and nuanced friendship for something as inconsequential as his gigantic heart-boner for Jimin. 

So he’d commented very quietly on the general loveliness of Jimin’s little family- and shied his eyes from their frozen faces.




Jimin waits for him by the waterside. He usually arrives first and kills time by whittling a stick or inspecting his guns. His keen eyes rake every groove, switch and pull of the intricate machinery. 

He’s dressed lightly; shorts pulling up to expose his muscular thighs, singlet hanging loose off his body. Through the slits in the sides Jungkook can make out the scars. Rips of white and faded pink crisscross Jimin's packed body. He'd seen it once, seen Hoseok stitch a dying Jimin back together; pushing his innards back into him like an exploded suitcase while whispering fervently- live live live live live.

Right now Jimin is very calmly alive, munching on a crab apple and raking a bare foot through the flowers. Jungkook watches, admiring the harsh motions of his jaw and the way his fingers curl prettily over the fruit. Wind touches his sweaty forehead, a splatter of cool. It lifts his hair, flutters his clothing.


"Right" Jimin says snapping his wrist, sending the apple core flying. It travels impossibly far. 

"Ready to fight?"


They square up, pacing around one another. One foot forward, two back. Jimin’s hair flickers softly in the light, just out of reach. If Jungkook stepped forward he could almost rest his chin to balance against Jimin’s hairline.


"Hyung" Jungkook teases.

"You tiny"


Jimin twitches, the gybe hitting where it hurts and he visibly bristles although his expression remains playful.


"Not too tiny when I pin you down and slice your throat Kookie"


And with that he slams forwards. He is so agile on his feet it frightens Jungkook; pushes him backwards with the sheer force of the offensive. He’s surprised by a sudden hand on his wrist because-what in the fuck is it doing there?

For a second they float like that, Jimin grabbing his wrist lightly, smile damaging.


And then he brings his right arm down hard, hitting Jungkook with a crack across the forearm.

The damage is immediate and intense. Jungkook groans, weight shifting as he cowers over the impact, desperate to flee the pain. It’s fractured. Surely, it must be fractured. He tries to speculate what comes next- forward reading, as Jimin had once advised. Now that Jungkook’s right is damaged Jimin will probably come in with a knee from the left-




Jimin flips his right hand. It whips against the right side of Jungkook’s neck, hand angled and flat. His sharp knobbly wrist cuts direct to Jungkook’s pulse. Pressure point, Jimin would reiterate.

He struggles to stay upright after the blow but moves forward with his fist, angling it into Jimin’s abdomen. It’s a blunt hit, but weighty. Jimin doubles over, the body moving subconsciously to shield the damage. But his brilliance transcends natural instinct- he snaps up with unbelievable speed, hands reappearing to cup the back of Jungkook’s neck.

Oh, Jungkook thinks.

This is not such a bad way to die.


Jimin delivers the Long knee with swift efficiency, dense bone impacting the softest part of the groin. It feels heavy as a tree trunk, or a small-sized boulder. Jungkook topples.

Lying on the ground hurting, throbbing, eyes watering he gets a generous eyeful of Park Jimin. Hanging upside down his nose looks funny, rather snub. Jungkook tries to laugh but he’s winded- he chokes for some time before groaning and coughing up bile.


“The punch was nice”

Jimin’s eyes crinkle with suppressed laughter.

“But you’ve forgotten all your defensive tactics. Get up. From the top.”


“It’s not that I can’t fight” Jungkook wheezes.

“You’re just real fucking good.”


Jimin blushes at the compliment but hits just as hard the second round.




Three hours more and Jungkook is bathed in sweat. His body remains commendably intact, though his ego emerges thoroughly battered. Jimin stands composed, having survived the large part of Jungkook’s assaults. He fights clean. No embellishments or tricks, just excellent pace and quick damage.

Jimin eventually strips down and wades out to the depths in all his naked glory. The water flows around the smooth expanse of his hip, rippling across platinum scars. Jungkook watches the movement of Jimin’s unbelievable ass, his toned back, and tries hopelessly to will his erection away.

Jimin bathes himself meticulously. He cups his hand to collect water and throw over his shoulder, scrubbing with a bruised hand. The water ripples, coating his fingers with silver.



A lot of Jungkook’s nights are spent remembering the way Jimin’s back heaves, movements muted beneath the sunlight filtering through green. The way the shadows dapple his skin and he blends into the air; at one with nature.



Jimin eventually splashes back to the shallows, slinging his legs back into his pants. He rustles in the undergrowth like a truffle pig. Jungkook watches on with curiosity as Jimin produces something from behind a collapsed tree trunk.

It's circular in shape, brown and squat. It's not anything he's seen before. Protruding from the surface of the mystery object are candles- molded into unrecognizable symbols. 


"Jungkookie" the wind touches his cheeks lightly. He’s honest-to-god shining. It’s late and the sun is rimming the mountains; a navel orange in the sky.

"Happy birthday."


"Oh" Jungkook sighs, finally catching on.

"Thank you, hyung. I love it. What is it?"


Precisely three years ago on this day Jimin had extricated him from the grime, placed a gun in his hand. Jimin had continued to give- trust, hope, a firm embrace. A reason to be.


"It's a birthday cake Kook. You eat it."

Jungkook watches Jimin carry out the ritual in wonder- the way he sets the thing down to light the candles, lifting it cautiously towards Jungkook's face.


"You set my present on fire, hyung"

"Just blow the candles you silly thing"

Jungkook cups the air, blowing the pinprick fire into his open hands. He likes the way the smoke traces him like a lover, likes the way Jimin looks at him play with the flame. His eyes immeasurably fond.


"What does it say?"

"It says Seumul, the first letter is Seu, then mul. You see? You're an adult now, Kook. Your whole own person."


And Jungkook tastes cake for the first time, heavy and rich, sugary in scent. Jimin eats carefully next to him, fingers bunched, gestures practiced. Jungkook wonders when he last ate "cake"- if Seulgi ever made cake, if it had been better than with Jungkook.

But he shakes these thoughts and tries to commit to memory his twentieth birthday; characterized by his throbbing abdomen and a half-naked Jimin licking cream from his fingertips, deliberately lewd and smiling at Jungkook through sweaty bangs. 






“Yes Sunbaenim”


Yoongi straightens his spine, makes him quiet. Jungkook stands at attention, his eyes skimming the top of his scalp. A veiny hand reaches up to scratch, once, twice, three times. Lazily. All Yoongi’s movements imitate that of a cat. Or something slyer.


“I’m going on a mission. You come too.”

“Yes, Sunbae”

Somewhere off to the left, Jimin’s head swivels towards the interaction. His ears prick up, almost physically. Both Yoongi and Jungkook pretend not to notice.


“Meet you at the truck, say 14:00?”

“Yes, Sunbae”

And with that Yoongi stalks away, stepping away feather-light through the mortar shells scattering the room. He returns to leafing through the pages of his novella. Jungkook can only read the first two syllables of the title.


Yoongi addresses him with respect that the others lack. He stands to talk to Jungkook and refers to him by name instead of “hey, you”, “maknae”, and so on. Even in anger his belt stays firmly around his waist, his voice hitting hard but never his hand.

Yoongi is a good man.

He looks over to Jimin whose hands rest limply against the sheets. The radio makes stuttered popping noises against his thigh. Jimin’s eyes are passive, faux disinterest. He looks down hastily when he notices Jungkook watching.






They drive past the city where white houses glint neatly in the afternoon sun. Yoongi spits out of the window; a customary practice when bypassing the capital.

They pull up further on, by the outskirts. Close-up the white houses seem larger than life and loom ominously. 


"How's your North Korean"

Jungkook shakes his head in answer.

"Make sure you stay quiet, yeah?"


Even in the nastier parts the streets are still tiled with pristine slabs of concrete. There are buses and there are cars and there are bicycles parked against the guardrails. A child runs past dressed in crisp school uniform, hair bouncing in the wind. Jungkook can almost hear the rustle of starch, feel the damp warmth of an iron pressed against the pleats. He feels like an observer. As if he's watching a foreign film depicting a life so impossibly ideal, it could only be fictitious.

They stop by a convenience store with all sorts of colors emblazoned across its glass front. The writing is illegible to Jungkook, registering only as chicken scratches and squiggles in his mind. He squints at the chunks of letters. 

The doors open themselves and a soft tinkle of sound announces their arrival. Cool air rushes out to greet them. It stumps him, how silky clean everything is.


They pace the aisles and Jungkook finds himself engrossed in the magazines lining the shelves, glossy to the touch. One of them, the man on the cover looks like Jimin. Tastefully erotic, bedroom eyes slanted. Jungkook smiles to himself.

Jungkook joins Yoongi at the counter. The cashier is lovely- small and round, harmless. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt with a rose embroidered over the left breast pocket.  Jungkook can't help but glance at the gentle swell of her breasts, the feminine curve of her waist.

But she's not Jimin- not as raw or exciting nor half as alluring.


She smiles at him, a light blush bruising her cheeks. It’s a violent juxtaposition- her skin is so pale. Jungkook blinks. 

In another life, they could've spoken. She could've been more than the lady behind the counter.

This is not that life.




The cashier bags the items and Yoongi pays, possibly thanking her.

But as they walk towards the sliding doors a shadow slashes the pavement. Three uniformed soldiers stalk past, legs punching against the ground in unison. Yoongi is slipping his change away, totally unaware. He's going to walk out, straight into them-



"Yoongi-hyung, stop" Jungkook cries.

Yoongi freezes.

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut. They may die here. 

The militia pass, the danger doesn’t.



Yoongi spins on his heels, arm crossing his body to pull his gun. He points it, motions idle but fluid.

The cashier poises over the emergency button, skinny fingers quaking. Her eyes are wide. Goldfish-like. It’s a rat-race to the finish line, tape marked survival. Somebody has to die.

Yoongi spits some words, mangled Korean. Jungkook gets the gist of it.


"Try me bitch"

She pushes down, and the sirens scream to life. Yoongi steadies his hand, almost bored-looking.














Jungkook knows the drill. Head down. Shoulders hunched, walk fast but not too fast. Dress your face in apathy. Normalcy is your escape route.

They approach the truck as the screaming starts, the aftermath of terror unfurling like a wildfire in their wake. 

They drive away slowly to the discord of police sirens stifling the air. Yoongi taps a hand against the dashboard.

"I bought lamb skewers" he says.




They pull up a second time, thirty-five minutes later. Perched atop a steep hill, Jungkook swings his feet over the edge. He enjoys the nothingness enveloping his legs. The fear that swims his stomach.

He drinks his beer.

(A woman died for this)


Their target is in plain sight. A large white villa rises up, some unholy obtrusion amongst the emerald. The roofs are painted blue.




He’s grabbed suddenly by the nape and Jungkook chokes on his drink, gagging. Yoongi wastes no time in dragging him backwards, onto his stomach. With tufts of grass tickling his nose he flounders, sprawled across the ground.

“There he is” Yoongi whispers.

Sure enough, there’s a flicker of movement. The gentlest glimmer of colour paces the second-floor balcony. And then like a mirage, it vanishes.


“I say 670m, you?”

“Agreed, sunbae”

“For lords sake, stop with that shit.”


“Yes, Yoongi”

“Yes, Yoongi.”


Yoongi shuffles away, crouched low. He gets his gear down from the back seat and Jungkook sees they’re buckled in- like the children they’ll never have. Yoongi is a weapon enthusiast. These are more than chunks of metal to him.

This one is nice, new, taken from the corpse of some marine. A sniper who’d been caught from behind, he’d died with a perennially shocked look etched on his face. Rigor Mortis had set in and Yoongi had sliced through fingers to unlock the weapon. A finger can be cut through as easily as a carrot.

Now the thing is thoroughly cleaned down, glinting dull in the light as if brand new. Barrett sniper rifle, 50 caliber. Massive in size, though the recoil isn’t as fulsome as one might expect. It goes off like a cannon. Yoongi arranges the contraption as though making a bed, so swift and set in his ways it’s impossible to believe he wasn’t born with a gun in his hand, bullets in his teeth.


He lays down when he’s ready, snuggles the thing between his arms like a soft, dormant animal. Hardly.




And they wait. Patience is a virtue they once wrote, in old textbooks and American poems that fueled March bonfires when they first began to test the waters. Jungkook has none of it. His left foot turns in crooked circles as he attempts to keep the boredom at bay. Clock-wise, anti-clockwise, and vice versa, again, again. Irritation cloaks him like mist, suffocates him greedily. Can one die of boredom?

He chances a glance at Yoongi who is breathing invisible beside him. His finger rests on the trigger, eye pressed up against the scope. His expression is casual but pursed. Like he’s watching through the peephole of a hotel door, waiting for the doxy who never showed.

Jungkook fidgets. He cannot fucking help himself. The sun tilts pink in the sky. He sweats through his shirt, all nasty and wet onto the grass which has turned to stone beneath his body, all crawling nerves and hot blood.

Yoongi remains frozen.

“Hyung, I gotta pee” Jungkook eventually announces, in desperate hope that Yoongi will dismiss him like some petulant child asking a third time for the toilet pass.  


“Piss here” Yoongi replies curtly.

“It’s what I’d do. Roll sideways and piss away from yourself”


Fuck. Never.


He returns to his slug-like state, eyes trained on the villa. The bastard will eventually step out with his margarita to look out into the darkened forest, tendrils of black and dark green curling up beneath the crescent moon. He will look out, not knowing Yoongi is looking back, finger hard against the trigger. Yoongi will humor him. Allow a sip before splattering his organs against the pale white bannisters.

His neck aches alongisde his ribs, his entire back. He’s a little ball of pain playing hide-go-seek under the moonlight; a jittery mess.
How is Yoongi so tranquil?

The air turns wet, lukewarm with something humming in the undergrowth. It is still too grey to be summer but it lurks at the edges, pressing it’s fingers against the cracks.



“I see him”



His mind snaps back. Yoongi knocks out of his comatose state, now the tearing edge of a saber. He senses death and it excites him, cheeks tight with enrapture. Jungkook watches with an ear pressed against the grass, warm with his body.

Yoongi’s finger grapples the trigger, a movement which lasts one-third of a second. The gun fires with an ear-splitting bang, anywhere between a shriek and a clap of thunder. Jungkook imagines his ears may be bleeding, dark matter spilling like egg yolk onto his cheek bones. He feels hollow, flushed. He wishes Yoongi would look his way.

Yoongi picking himself up, unwinding his rusted joints painstakingly slow. He brushes his knees and rests his hand on his rifle, as if praising its deadly efforts.




They travel to the site which is unprecedented and strictly against protocol, but Yoongi has never been one for rules, anyhow. They drive through darkness, tree branches and low bushes batting against the side of the vehicle until the wilderness tapers to a tended pathway which lead to spindly iron gates. The house is magnificent close up, ivy climbing it’s walls and roses snaking around the columns, up through to the window panes. None of these plants are native, which speaks great lengths of how wealthy the target is. Was. He’s dead now on his balcony, half a drink spilt from his hand. Money means sweet shit-all on a dead man.

The front door is locked, tall and oaken, heavy to the touch. Yoongi returns to the truck, advising Jungkook to stand back. With a dull crunch he proceeds straight through the front doors, reversing out to park neatly on the manicured lawns a second time.

Nothing is safe from Min Yoongi.  




Stepping inside the mansion is like entering the pages of a picture book- bewildering and unfamiliar and so vibrant, Jungkook can feel his ears ring in an entirely different way to before. Golden chalices line the mantelpiece, exorbitant in both number and quality. Dull jewels glint in the orange lights and he recognizes a few; ruby, amethyst, emerald. Everything is overdone, gaudy, boasting rich but tasteless. A spiral staircase leads upwards from the foyer, away into the depths of the house. Their shoes squeak on the polished floorboards.

He follows Yoongi up the stairs, awed by how lavish every accessory, every ornament is. Yoongi walks with purpose to his step, as if navigating his own hallways. He twists and turns, leading them darker and deeper into the house which stretches endlessly- catacombs of treasures and luxury. “Here” he says eventually, pausing. The door is more modest, lacking any sort of decorative features. Yoongi throws his weight into pushing the door open.

It’s a library. And so grand at that, Jungkook can only stare. It has that certain beauty to it that renders you unmovable, like the perfect triangle of sunlight on a column of wood, or the empty echoes of an isolated church. It feels sacred, untouchable, as if he daren’t speak and fragment the serenity. Books; most forbidden, forgotten, this man had clearly been a collector. Many are in foreign languages, several heavy volumes stacked against one another to create skyscrapers of paper. Candles balance on several surfaces, heavy chronicles and photo albums basking in the copper glow.


Yoongi is staring at him through the towering shelves, hair mussed and neck bare. He’s small, tightly built, and his eyes slant beautifully in the dark. His lips curl downwards in a way which gives the impression of being constantly disgruntled.

Yoongi gifted this to Jungkook. He plucked him from his covert, low-lying life and let him touch the crystalline features of a better one.



“Yoongi hyung” Jungkook chokes. Tears throttle his words.

“This is beautiful.”


Yoongi motions at him, silver festooning his fingers. Jewellery on soldiers is traditionally frowned upon.

He shows Jungkook to a particular shelf, carding through thick binders with his hand. He pulls one out, the title on the spine indecipherable to Jungkook.

The pages are plastic sheaths featuring several colourful photographs. Jungkook handles them carefully, as if they could disintegrate at his touch. They picture houses, white and blue like this one, dark pink flowers slinking across the porch to cobalt blue pools.


“Where is this, hyung?” Jungkook asks.

Yoongi’s voice sounds from behind him, as Jungkook begins taking the images between his fingers, flipping them in the semi-darkness for closer inspection.


“It’s a place called Greece. Very, very far away. One day you might be able to go, I hope. When all this shit is over.”

Greece, Jungkook tries, but it feels foreign on his tongue like gibberish. The sunlight in the photographs seem synthetic, as if created for a stage play. It has become increasingly difficult for Jungkook to see this world as anything more than base, sites, capital, Korea. The epiphany that there is another life, another world is so jarring, it makes him weak at the knees.



A shadow falls across the ebony as Yoongi presses against him. Greece falls from his hands to spill over the floorboards. He doesn’t move. Merely feels, soaks up the sensation of Yoongi caressing his neck. Pinching lightly.


He turns.


Yoongi is on him, over him, pushing him into the floorboards. His back hits the bookshelf and he raises his head but dull pain still twinges his nerves, leaves him bruised. With Yoongi straddling him like this he feels disoriented, like he can’t quite figure out what’s about to happen. Something wet hot presses against his neck and he shivers, grabbing Yoongi clumsily by the waist. He’s thinner, more delicate, smaller than Jimin. It excites him. Of course it does, his erection pressed hard against the underside of Yoongi’s balls with Yoongi rutting down like that.

Yoongi groans. The sound is deep, a grumble of thunder, far darker than anything Jimin could give. Jimin does not sound like this. Jimin would sound mellow, like the throng of a harp. Jimin would come slow, in an almost picturesque manner. He would splay himself out like art for the viewing.


“No” he whimpers.

“Hyung, please, no”


Yoongi nibbles at his earlobe and Jungkook twitches, fingers squeezing down on his waist.

“Noone has to know” Yoongi says, all breathy. His cock is out, hard, smearing the front of Jungkook’s shirt. It would be so easy. Their hands are already midway there, skin on searing hot skin. They’d fuck like animals in a dead man’s house, Yoongi bouncing on his cock amidst all the words he can't read. Yoongi, the only thing he can understand here.


“Please” Yoongi pleads. He sounds downright miserable. Like they’re starving and he’d eat stones. Jungkook’s cock stirs at the helplessness, the stupid thing.

“It’s been so long”


And Jungkook lifts his upper half up, cradling Yoongi in his lap like a child. He smudges the tear tracks with his thumbs and places a light kiss on his chin. Half-hard, trousers pushed down his thighs Yoongi falls still like a broken doll. He gives himself to Jungkook, rings his arms around his shoulders and remains so for many more minutes.


“Am I not good enough?”

“I’m so sorry hyung”


As they leave he stoops for the postcards of some alien place, the Greece. He steals a bottle of liquor from the dining hall, uncaring which one. He knows Jimin to have a penchant for anything that can get him a little fucked up and numbs his tongue.

He only wants to share with Jimin. All this redundant shit from a past era, marble countertops and Cuban cigars hold no meaning to him. But he wants to share with Jimin just to check, chasing that sliver of chance that Jimin’s will light up with something like gratitude or wonder for what Jungkook has provided.





They drive back in silence, Yoongi eyes averted. Jungkook worries he’s crying but as they cruise past the city they’re swamped in silver searchlights- and he sees that Yoongi is dry. He can explode and reassemble like a magic trick, and he doesn’t need Jungkook to ask if he’s okay.


Once in the moon plunged barracks Jungkook slips the postcards and liquor beneath Jimin’s bed covers as quietly as possible.
So as not to wake him.


Chapter Text



The curtain fall of June sees an inexplicable uptick in careless blunders. Taehyung is spotted wrangling a guard by the East tower. Hoseok’s phone calls are bugged. Their anonymity flakes like dried paint.

By night they lay in bunkers and hammocks, silenced breathing, seven pumping hearts. The shelling nears, the burnouts will follow. Dust sprinkles from the roof, the thudding almost gentle.







“A bus departs Gim-hae hourly, breaching the city approximately six minutes past every hour. Two of us board the bus at this point, masquerading as regular civilians. No dramas, no commotion, you infiltrate the very heart of the capital. This is important to our overall organization because-“

Jungkook is momentarily distracted by Jimin resting his weight on his left hand, leaning up against their dinner table. His forefinger itches at the map; outdated, still bearing place names that have long been obliterated by the regime.



Six pairs of eyes fix on him, and he flushes.


“You and Jimin will carry out the mission. Seokjin has appropriate disguises organized for the both of you.”






The disguise turns out to be that of a whore.

Jungkook pretends not to be totally, utterly humiliated. Manhood stripped down, he shoves himself into fishnet stockings which pinch his balls.

Taehyung pats makeup onto his face, fingers confused and stupidly unskilled. No doubt he’s made him look like a court jester. Taehyung can hardly hold his chopsticks straight.


“No” Hoseok critiques from the corner.

“Taehyung, stop this destruction immediately”


While Taehyung steps outside to laugh Hoseok falls between Jungkook’s knees, reaching up to dab blush across his cheekbones. He runds his hand against the rough knit of the tights, pressing a thumb lightly into a hole. A finger scrapes absentmindedly at the hem of the booty shorts which end just shy of the juncture between Jungkook’s thighs and his crotch. He feels uncouth, disgustingly kinky, dressed in baby blue women’s clothing under the kerosene glow.

Namjoon is watching him from the corner, Seokjin leant up against his right side. Seokjin seems offended, as if spectating a dogfight or something equally unpalatable.

Namjoon is very still, eyes hooded and glistening with lust. He licks Jungkook up and down with his gaze, from the mesh pattern digging into his thighs to the cropped sweater, the tight golden belt. Jungkook shifts uneasily, pushing his body towards Hoseok who grips him and steadies him in place.


Namjoon flicks a finger over his lighter, gracing the striker wheel repetitively.

He has no cigarettes. The lighter is a vestige of fuller times, where they had tobacco, sugar, and love. When they could pick and choose, be greedy. When they had freedom.


Hoseok has Jungkook’s chin between his hand now, pulling sharply down. They lock eyes as Hoseok smears lipstick onto him, dabbing at the edges and working magic with a small paintbrush. He pushes away. His eyes droop, a memory of sadness.

Jungkook can imagine the aftermath of Hoseok’s handiwork. Bright and shimmery, entirely fake. There’s a collective sigh from the onlookers, a gust of lust which makes Jungkook shrink in his place.


The door clicks, and Jimin enters.

It all falls away and Jungkook forgets the audience, can only concentrate on fucking Jimin with his eyes, lapping up each insignificant detail.

Jimin is dressed sleek, a raven personified. His black hair is slicked up off his pale forehead. His button down is tucked sloppily into tight jeans, leather shoes polished and shining even in the shadows. It makes Jungkook physically ache, no word of a lie.


“Jungkook” Jimin says, voice like the wet rim of a glass. Tense.

“Ready to go?”






Jungkook has never been in these parts before. Squatting beneath an orange post marked with a little caricature of a bus, he stares up at Jimin. He feels sweaty, like ants are crawling his skin. The area is open, mercilessly sunny. The trees are sparse here, spaced out and squat. Tamer. The road is gravelly, a slobby attempt at drawing a centerline leaving it looking permanently unfinished. Jungkook fidgets, maddened by the way the fabric hugs his every curve, squeezing his bottom half tight.


“Why couldn’t Taehyung do this” he grumbles.

“Taehyung hot-headed” Jimin replies, still looking his way.

“You’re stronger. Far more common sense. Plus, you can keep your mouth shut when it’s needed.”


He wonders if Jimin is just acting the part. Merchant and personal whore. Personal whore and merchant- maybe the tension before was practice and Jungkook is a silly child and Jimin doesn’t ever see him like that and, and-

The bus pulls up.



He stands behind Jimin as they board, and attempts something he hopes is meek or diminutive at the very least. Small, he chants in his head. Small, used, helpless. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

The inside is archaic, decked out with handrails and leather seats they used decades ago when buses were first coming into fashion. The regime rearranged everything though, from public transport to language to housing, and this vehicle is no exception. Most seats have been hacked from the walls, metal substitutes bolted to the floor instead. The seats are arranged to imitate a virtual congregation. All the passengers sit facing one another, no funny business. They are all informants watching every movement, judging every unassuming citizen.

There aren’t many on the bus which comes as a relief. A mother and child sit in the corner with an armful of peaches. The daughter’s cheeks are fat and red, her hair in pigtails. She is so unspoiled by war, so unchanged that Jungkook feels like he’s slipped and fallen in time. Like he is an intruder. He tries to pull his shorts down, ashamed in front of the toddler. It only serves to expose a large patch of his stomach, and he blushes.



Further towards the back of the bus are five capital soldiers. Decked out in khaki and several ordnances Jungkook and Jimin have none of, he feels his blood run cold. He almost stops moving. Each blinks lazily at Jungkook, a fluttering of heat. One smirks. Jimin stiffens but bows deep, displaying his respect. Jungkook follows suit, trembling.


They’re well and truly fucked.




In an ideal scenario Jungkook would sit quietly by Jimin, legs crossed, and they would arrive at the capital as planned. They’d crawl through the underground weaving through brothels and illegal night pubs, touching base with other rebel forces, map out the transport system. They would return triumphant, basking in their glory. They’d be off washing duty for months.

But life enjoys fucking them unexpectedly, and hard at that.

Jungkook sweats profusely. They’re watching him, the men with guns. Five triggers. They’d die in their seats, torn to shreds. From this distance the bullets would permeate skin, flesh, bone, as if they were Papier mâché.

He’s afraid.

Why did they leave their weaponry at base?

Here they’re naked. Flesh and clothes and an ideology that could end them dead.


Jimin’s hand is on his knee. They don’t usually touch, it seems so scandalously intimate and loaded, but Jimin is practically gripping him now. It’s a symbol of possessiveness which he’s almost grateful for. He stares at his knees, the bone white of Jimin’s knuckles. Wishes he were anywhere but here.


A pair of boots shuffle into his vision.

Oh god.


Sharp pain causes him to bite down on his tongue, suppress a shallow cry. Yanked up by the hair he’s faced by one of the soldier at the back, the one with his leg up on the seat before him. He looks cock-hungry for sure. Jungkook only registers as prey.

His eyes never leave Jungkook, but he addresses Jimin. Jungkook catches bits and pieces, an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.


djnjnjnafioroaitwifs  yours? mkmalksmflms;daf  when? Jjnksnfdjnj  old?”


He’s afraid, afraid, afraid. The vice-like grip in his hair, the way the man is inching closer, pushing a leg between his thighs, leaning Jungkook up against his backrest. Rolling his right eye he can see the young mother in the summer frock dropping her hand to cover her child’s face. (Don’t look, darling) Jungkook is beyond saving.

He closes his eyes. The swell of early July fills his nostrils the smell dense and tangy, the taste of sweat on skin. Soon the sunflowers will bloom, windmills of gold standing proudly in green fields. And Jimin will take him by the hand and together they’ll escape the world. Between marches and drills and crawling through foliage they will find one another, the rough sparks of youth that send them running through fields at night.

Summer has never been brighter than Jimin.


He focuses very intensely on that image. He wishes away this dusty bus full of people who will watch them do this to him, clattering past the green, entirely uncaring. He hears the zipper pull down, a click of what might be a pistol pulled over and rearranged to the side. Jimin is still talking calmly, quietly, no doubt haggling with the soldier. This is mine, he may be saying. I paid good money for this.



The hand gripping Jungkook regathers, clenching tighter to force him forwards.

Blankness. Calm resolution.







When the bullet shatters the air, he immediately assumes he’s died. His heart is still beating thrunk, thrunk, thrunk, but his head is perhaps rolling away gushing, like a sad ugly balloon down the length of the bus.

He opens his heavy eyelids.

The soldier topples forwards onto Jungkook, and Jimin thrusts his boot into his soft underbelly, sending him spinning. There is blood on him, dying his fingertips, his hair. It sticks like honey. Gloppy and painfully bright. Jimin seems to glitter, even as the world falls monochrome.

Maybe none of this is real.

Jimin steps over the body. The bullets rattle off and Jungkook cowers forwards, falls flat to the ground. The side of his face splatters in dead blood. Death laughs at him, pounds on his ribcage. There is a deafening exchange of bullets, and bodies fall like raindrops to the filthy ground.

(Is Jimin one of them?)




After a very long time, Jungkook realizes he’s lying in complete silence. His heart is still beating. This is not his blood. There’s no earthly reason he should be nestled amongst the dead. Imposter indeed.

He looks up.


Jimin is standing amongst the corpses. He always wields the scythe. These men were dead before they began- never stood a chance. He is looking at the child and the mother, their toes curled up into their bodies. There is blood flecking her sundress, dotting the peaches. They look at Jimin, pale but determined.


“How old?” Jimin asks. He wipes his cheek, smearing crimson across his jawbone. Handsome, once more.

“Four” the woman hushes, her accent matching Jimin’s.

“Yah” he sighs, as he shoves his pistols back into his waistband.

“Same as mine.”


His feet make pattering noises as he splashes back, as though traversing a shallow puddle.


“Jungkookie” he says, and his face is so awfully blank.

“We have to go”


They pass the bus driver, hunched over the wheel. Her hands are wrinkled like tree bark and she cries in fear as they walk by.




When they arrive back at the barracks they find them empty. The others must have gone in hunt for food or supplies. Jimin heads to wash-up where he dumps water onto his forearms, splashes his collarbones to rid the stench of blood. Jungkook watches in silence. They haven’t exchanged a word.

Jimin turns towards him, still so devastatingly attractive. He moves forwards, the upset finally reaching his eyes. He tugs at Jungkook’s choker, pulling it off, away. It falls to the ground with a rough clank, the leather strap landing in a S-shape. They both stare at it. Jungkook undresses hurriedly, desperate to look himself again, not some plastic image for purpose. He stands naked, dick hanging limp under the dirty light.

Jimin is trembling. He opens his mouth, as if to speak.


Jungkook explodes.


He had almost thrown up in the blood-splattered vehicle, eight parts the pungent odour of guts and urine and stale blood, but two parts how disgustingly inhumane Jimin presented with smudges of black and maroon clinging to his eyelashes.

That Jimin, may have been a monster.


“What’s wrong with you?” Jimin says coolly.

“What are you getting so worked up for? You’ve seen dead before.”


Jungkook can hardly tell himself. There’s an inherent desire to pull something into tiny pieces or grab Jimin roughly, sink his cheek to the ground. Because they’d made mistakes before. But not Jimin. Jimin had been exemplary, unrivalled in his field. Built to succeed, lived to succeed, he’d kept a perfect track record and he- no, Jungkook had ruined it all.


“Why” he says, voice rising in pitch. He can’t think of much else to say so he shuts up, truly some illiterate dumbass with a narrow vocabulary.

“I wasn’t going to stand by and let a brother be treated like that.”



Was that what this was?

Shit, no.

He wanted Jimin dirty and bare, covered in cum and begging for release. He wanted to watch the way Jimin teared up with cock stuffed down his throat, the way he might look after spilling all over himself, flawless features marred by arousal.

He moves forward then, unable, anymore. Jimin still looks like death, terrible frightening but filling him with a wild sense of ecstasy, a midnight bonfire. He blinks at the proximity, irritated, brows pulled together.

And Jungkook pulls the offensive. One of Jimin’s own teachings.

He pushes into his space. Infiltrating the cracked anger, making sure to smell the tinge of blood icing Jimin’s collarbones.


"Jungkook" Jimin murmurs. His voice hazy in the dark, barely concealed lust and confusion. His eyes finally flicker down, up, watching Jungkook. Looking, really looking.

"Kook-ah, what-"


"For the record" Jungkook states, fingers tracing Jimin's jawline finally- finally.

"I never saw you as a brother. Not ever. From the first moment I ever laid eyes on you- I've wanted you, Jiminie."

He then grasps Jimin by the hips, pulling their bodies together. With the doors locked, without fear and without war, Jimin reaches out easily to swipe a coarse hand over Jungkook's left cheek. He thumbs at the rough stubble. 


"Oh" he sighs, a gentle sound one could almost mistake for relief.

And he grasps Jungkook roughly by the chin, pulling him down to press their lips firmly together. He tastes tangy but sweet, wild and filthy and so good, Jungkook feels lightheaded. 


“Jungkookie” Jimin whispers, licking at the insides of his mouth, a real cockslut in the way he rolls his hips. The strain shows through his composure, arousal peering through the pretense.

“Fuck me then?”




Jungkook slams him up against the wall, trying not to be rough but it’s hard, his hands tremble so violently, his heart erupting through his throat. It seems he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment- all those quick jerks in the shower and lusting over Jimin’s ass have led to this moment and he feels totally unhinged. Now the moment has arrived he’s hopeless, clueless, doesn’t know where to place his lips but knows he wants them anywhere on Jimin.

Jimin has his hands on his shoulders, not pushing away or pulling in, just holding him in place. Those fingers- those damn fingers that distract him in the morning and madden him by night- they’re on him.

He loses control.

Jungkook pulls forward to kiss Jimin, and Jimin relents quickly and easily. It’s a rushed kiss, indelicate and wince-inducing in its’ sloppiness. Jungkook takes it anyway. He needs to feel Jimin alive, wet and raw and pulsing under his touch. He pulls Jimin against him, running a hand under the hem of his shirt to splay across his toned stomach. Jimin shivers at the touch, a small sound escaping the back of his throat. He’s desperately pliant. In life he’s the epitome of power but now- he’s reduced to muffled whimpers and watery eyes. The shift has Jungkook weak, dick hardening instantaneously.


He grabs Jimin by the shoulders, pushing roughly down. Jimin buckles, eyes filled with lazy curiosity.


“Down” Jungkook commands.

“Clothes off, and suck it”


(Where is all this false bravado coming from? Jimin could tear him apart blind.)

But Jimin obeys languidly, eyelashes batting too provocatively. He hesitates only a second before slowly slipping his hand through the sleeves of his dress shirt, lifting it over and off his body. He glows faintly in the fading light, all lean limbs and taut muscle. A single rivulet of blood traces his torso, forming a dark mark by his waistband.


“trousers too” Jungkook whispers, calmer now.


Jimin’s hand wavers over his zipper for a second before slowly pulling it down, rocking back on his heels to pull them off past his ankles. He’s bare now, a mere meter from the front door of their bunker, naked and kneeling at Jungkook’s feet. His boxers pull tightly across his cock, and his hand moves to cover himself. Jungkook stops him.


“Show me” he whispers.


And he does so, excruciatingly slow. Hooking his thumb beneath his boxers Jimin drags down a fraction and his cock bounces free, heavy and dripping with arousal.

Jungkook almost dies. The same dick he’d lusted over, dreamt of, wanted in his mouth, in his hand, inside of him- lying naked for his viewing. He clears his throat. Shaky.


“Jiminie” he croons.

“You’re beautiful- god, so beautiful I, I’ve wanted this for so long I can’t even tell you-”


Jimin trembles, eyes wetting with appreciation. He’s getting off on the attention, on how achingly hard Jungkook is, just from watching the show. He glances up at Jungkook, a touch of shock still lingering in his mannerisms. Jungkook reaches out to cradle a hand around his jaw, relishing in the way Jimin gives himself to the touch, rubbing his cheek against Jungkook’s palm and turning to press a quick kiss. His hand makes way to his throbbing member to give it a few quick strokes.


“Jungkookie please- I’m ready if you like-I-”


He looks up at Jungkook while touching himself lazily, eyes pleading. He won’t beg for it- will never beg for it, but his body is already dripping tense and tight for Jungkook. A drop of pre-cum slides down his length, onto the patchy floor. Hand against the ground to center himself Jimin doesn’t notice, breath quickening as he clutches at himself, confused and so aroused he’s burning hot to the touch.


“Kookie” he whispers again, desperate at the lack of progress, of anything.

“Baby, please please want it-“



And he opens his mouth slowly, his beautiful lips stretched out and tongue cherry red in his mouth- a gaping hole. He really looks like a fucktoy now, dick drooling and mouth open and ready, presenting himself for oral like it’s nothing.

And Jungkook can’t draw it out much longer, can’t resist an invitation like that. He rests his hand on his cock, hard as it has been the last ten minutes. He groans at the sudden contact, hips jerking back and he blushes again, Jimin watching in wonderment as Jungkook touches himself. His tongue comes out to trace his bottom lip, thick and fat- fuck, made for dick. He wastes no time in grabbing the back of Jimin’s head, tugging the strands through his calloused fingers. His hair is nothing short of delightful- thin and soft and probably perfect for yanking while barebacking.

His imagination runs rampant.


He teases his cock against Jimin’s upper lip, smearing it with precum. Congratulates himself for his self-control when Jimin whimpers again, tongue chasing his member to lick at the underside. He steadies the base of his cock with his right hand, left firmly entangled in Jimin’s hair. And without any forewarning or hesitation he rams his cock inside Jimin’s mouth, a little too fast for comfort. Jimin chokes, face tightening with discomfort, tears springing to his eyes. He slackens, relaxing his throat. Swallows, and hastens to work his jaw around Jungkook’s length.



“Good boy” Jungkook whispers, smoothing out the tear tracks on his bulging cheeks. Jimin makes a gargled noise of affirmation, perhaps.

“Can’t hear” Jungkook smirks.

“Your mouth is full, hyung”


And he crams his dick just that little bit further, until Jimin’s nose is pressed into his pubic hair, breathing hot and heavy in a way that tickles, but it’s also kinda nice. He holds himself there, feeling the way Jimin constricts neatly around the tip of his dick where it’s hitting the back of his throat. It takes a little while until Jimin begins to flail, breathing choppy, tears dropping from his eyes and onto his cheekbones.

He puts a foot forward, pressing softly onto Jimin’s naked erection and Jimin jerks back, teeth coming down clumsily on Jungkook’s length but the scrape is something pleasant. He continues to knead at Jimin with the soul of his foot, getting off on his hyung beneath his feet, hopelessly aroused and at his mercy. The entire time he keeps pushing further and further in, chasing the wetness, the unbelievable goodness of it all.

Eventually he draws back. He lets Jimin catch his breath for a second. Jimin whines at the emptiness, lifting his hands up to clasp at the back of Jungkook’s thighs, pulling him forward again. He cradles Jungkook’s balls in his mouth, sucking at the underside. His finger presses just behind it, the soft skin that sends shivers up Jungkook’s spine. He feels his eyes rolls up, Jimin’s fingering and pinching at every part of him.


Looking down he sees Jimin’s dick bobbing free, harder than before and twitching visibly. Jungkook laughs, all breathless.


“You really want it, don’t you? You fuckin- you’re just a bitch for my cock, hyung”

He’s enjoying this far too fucking much. Asserting dominance with his words, causing Jimin to blush with the crassness of it.



And he grabs a little carelessly this time, grabs Jimin by the neck, shoving himself back into his mouth. The tightness renders him speechless and he thrusts desperately into Jimin’s mouth, feeling his tongue flat against the underside of his dick. He tries to stave off the orgasm, gripping at the base of his dick and throwing his head back. He bites back a moan as Jimin’s tongue does something marvelous around him, nails digging tightly into his thighs.


“Jiminie” he sighs, voice trembling with the effort of holding himself together.


He makes the grave mistake of looking down. Jimin- fucking hell- the way he looks with Jungkook’s cock pushed down his throat, wet and teary and so aroused, his own dick neglected and unabashedly erect against his stomach. He’s on his hands and knees like some bitch in heat, panting and drooling and fuck tightening-

When he cums it feels like a blow to the stomach, so punchy and hard he grits his teeth, putting his weight on Jimin so he doesn’t fall. He reels away but Jimin chases with his mouth and Jungkook is reduced to not much at all, gasping things like hyung fuck and That’s enough- that’s enough, oh fucking god.


Jimin sucks him dry. And grins, opening his mouth to proudly display the excess of cum pooling in his mouth, coating his tongue, his teeth. He’s sweaty and messy but sharply focused.

It dawns on Jungkook that he was never playing- he’s wrapped around Jimin’s pinky and Jimin can pine and fawn and act out all he wants, but in essence, he holds the reins. Even on his knees, he’s still king.


Jungkook hisses, drained by the impact of his release and furious at the smug look on Jimin’s face.

He’s exasperated by how Jimin operates sly and smooth, always dancing two steps before him.


Like now- as he swirls his tongue around Jungkook’s cum, glistening silver. Looks up at Jungkook all sloppy and disgustingly crude- waiting, waiting for the next move.

Jungkook obliges. He places two digits inside Jimin’s mouth, scooping his cum out, letting it drip to the ground. He feels like he’s floating, focused only on the glossiness of  Jimin’s hair, how mussed he looks, and his own dick, already semi-hard and twitching with interest.


“Stand up hyung” he rasps.

“Turn around, hands against the wall”





It’s fucking ridiculous. Obscene and terribly inappropriate- fingering Jimin over rough dirt on a Tuesday afternoon, semen dripping from his clenching asshole. Jimin lets out a string of moans, mellow and high-pitched against his forearm while his muscles flex to support his weight as Jungkook stretches him out. Every part of him is sex-appeal. The curve of his ass, the same muscled back which draws his eyes in the river water- even the nape of his neck, sweat-slicked and unbelievably erotic.

He wishes he knew better. He knows how to finger fast and hard, angry like they’d wanted it. Fuck with the same vigour too. But he doesn’t know this. Trying to elicit real pleasure, make it like it’s real. He doesn’t know how to make love.


“Jimin” he gasps into his shoulder blade, pressing a kiss against it as he closes in.

“Ready? You ready, because I’m fucking ready and-“


Jimin is back full force, laughs, all breathy and controlled, and Jungkook can almost sense the roll of his eyes.

“So you ain’t a virgin?” he drawls, and Jungkook swallows dry.

“Because you sure fucking-“


He brings his hand down with a smack, Jimin yelping and jumping away only to be met by the wall, and he cries out as Jungkook presses into him, presses his dick against his ass crack to whisper into his ear. He’s marginally calmer now, knowing Jimin isn’t afraid.


“Hyung I really need your help- I can’t, I really don’t know what to do right now.”

And Jimin silences for a second, just the sound of their heaving in the dark. He rubs his erection; leaking and hot up into Jimin’s ass crack, the tip catching briefly on his rim. It clenches and unclenches and Jungkook dreams of plunging inside, fucking in with no restraint.

But he fucking cares. So he doesn’t.


“It’s okay Kookie” Jimin starts finally, voice weak.

“I can take most shit, just do whatever feels good for you-“


The words unbridle him entirely and he pushes in, all the way in and Jimin screams soundlessly, head falling back onto Jungkook’s shoulder. He pushes Jimin up against the wall, pulling up his thighs to support his weight as Jimin slumps back, quaking, filled with cock.


“Oh Kookie that’s so good” he gasps, pushing back onto Jungkook, the swell of his ass pressed up against his happy trail. He’s awful casual in his speech. With all that pretense washed away, he’s not a soldier anymore. He’s just Jimin- aroused and wet and shaking with Jungkook filling his behind.


Jungkook struggles for a second, trying to jostle them into a more comfortable position. The angle is tricky since he’s far taller than Jimin, forcing him to pull Jimin up a little, arching his back and poised on his toes. It’s tight- not like his fist, Jimin’s mouth, or anything he’s ever experienced- this is so much more constricting, the heat is binding. Sweat drips from his fringe onto the harsh curve of Jimin’s back. They stand heaving for a second, Jimin pressing back subtly, sinking his weight onto Jungkook.


“Kookie-ah,” Jimin sighs, clipping his sentences. As usual. They’re cool. Normal.

“Move, baby”


And Jungkook presses forwards, boneless, hardly believing that he can go in further, Jimin makes a weak noise, keening at the fullness.

The air has turned dusty gold, many minutes having passed since they began. What are they doing? The rest could come home any moment, open the door to find Jimin pegged against the wall by Jungkook’s dick. He wouldn’t even mind. They’d see Jimin fucked out for him, uttering soft cries and slipping out his name.  

The heady heat of Jimin’s body against his own makes his stupid. It makes him want to whisper “I love you” into the shell of Jimin’s ear. He wants to hold his hand and give him the finer things in life, talk about anything and everything. He wants more, much more than his body but he doesn’t know how. He was never taught how so he opts for grabbing Jimin softly by the back of the neck, resting his other hand on his hip and pulling out, pushing back in quick and fast.


Jimin makes a noise, trembles.
Jungkook takes this as encouragement, shifting his weight, planting his feet and pushing back in. He sets a steady rhythm, trying his hardest to lift Jimin and support his weight. He angles for the prostate which he had pressed down on before, the tight little bundle of nerves that had made Jimin cry out, muffling his ecstasy in his palms.

He does it again now, pushing the slit of his dick hard against it, the pleasure numbing his brain. His legs quake and he is unable to suppress his own moan, grating in the stagnant air. Jimin’s reaction is immediate.


“Baby-ah, Kookie, please that’s so good, so so good-“


The rest is lost in his rambling, head bowed against the wall as he braces himself heavily. Jungkook reaches under to fondle Jimin’s balls, stroke up the underside of his throbbing cock. It earns a sob from the elder.

But Jungkook’s mind is a straggler, revolving around the image of Jimin’s worn wallet, imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. And out of spite, but also out of desperation he hisses into Jimin’s ear, hoping for a reaction, any reaction.

“You’re so lewd Minnie- you fucked your wife with a body like this? Baby, you’re practically made for my cock.”


He expects Jimin to reprimand him, slap him away or square up- he’s clearly overstepped a line. But Jimin surprises him by making a muted sound, a soft umph of embarrassment, reaching up to pull Jungkook forward by the nape of his neck so his lips collide clumsily with Jimin’s left shoulder blade, chest pressed flush against his back.



“For you-“ Jimin starts, vowels rolling between pants.

“Dirty for you- anything for you, Jungkook I love you, I really-“


And again Jungkook can’t, can only pull out and push back in, relishing the way Jimin seems to suck him back in to the wetness, his hole stretched out tight around the base of his cock. He pounds in hard, uncaring. He hits so hard against Jimin’s ass he’s sure it’s going to bruise, and he doesn’t half mind the idea.

Jimin finishes first, eyes rolling back and throwing his head back while swearing breathlessly, letting out a happy sigh and face slackening. Semen streaks over the wall, dripping to the ground. He falls suddenly, totally sated and Jungkook has to pull him up again, whispering encouragements and rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Jimin cries out, mewls, kicks back at the overstimulation.

He’s so gorgeous. So flawless, scratched up but alive, beating and breathing and shuddering like this. Jungkook’s second orgasm is more drawn out, quiet, and he bites sharply into Jimin’s shoulder. A statement. The mark will last, and he wishes the moment would too, feeling so totally complete, as one with Jimin.


“Baby” Jimin whispers, a light hiss in the air. He’s still on his toes. Jungkook slackens inside of him, and eventually pulls out with a wet plop, watching the way Jimin’s hole remains fucked open momentarily, muted red in the darkness.



And then he begins to cry. He cries like some little bitch, as his semen drips out from Jimin, down his perfect thighs. He falls forward like a felled tree and rests his weight on Jimin’s back, smudging tears against it.

Jimin turns slowly, stark naked and splattered in semen. Jungkook imagines that this will be the first and certainly the last, surely Jimin can’t handle this weird post-orgasm teary shit, but the words don’t come. Just a soft hand to his cheek, and then another, until Jimin pillows him within his hands like a fresh bloom.



“Hey” he whispers, his tone different to a moment ago- soothing. The arousal pressed out, replaced by steady reassurance.

“What’s wrong. What’s wrong? You’re here. You’re safe. I’m sorry yeah?”


And Jimin holds him, as Jungkook sobs deep into his naked collarbone. Jimin doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t prod or pry, ever. He just holds Jungkook, their heartbeats aligning and bodies crossed on the filthy floor.

Jungkook eventually closes his eyes to the gentle pressure of Jimin thumbing at his undercut. He drifts asleep that way and is only vaguely aware of Jimin lifting him, cleaning him, caressing his cheek while tucking him into bed.




Somewhere in the distance he hears him speak, voice laden with grief.


“You think I wanted this? You think I enjoy this?”


“I wish it were a different life. Wish we didn’t have to do these things and wish I could just- Fuck- Baby I’m sorry I’m sorry, it’s all a big fucking mess-”


A dream, surely. Jimin never cries.