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Lilacs & Cognac

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Jungkook can smell the overpowering scent of lilac before he even closes the front door. It envelopes every sense he has – his eyes water, his nose burns; he can even taste its bitterness on his tongue. He can almost see the haze of fog it leaves in its wake in the living room. He knows something is wrong. He knows because this cologne isn’t Jimin’s. He knows because Jimin stopped wearing it specifically because it makes Jungkook sick.

He fucking hates the smell of lilac.

Jungkook slips off his shoes with no hands, and practically throws his keys on to the table by the door. They skitter off and land on the floor with a clatter made louder by the pressing silence.

For any other person, this might be concerning. Someone he doesn’t know is in his house, obviously uninvited, and with free reign to do whatever he wants to Jimin – who he knows is home. He had texted Jungkook not an hour earlier saying he was, but didn’t mention any guests.

Someone else would be worried, but they don’t know Jimin. Jungkook does.

As Jungkook closes in on the bedroom, he can hear soft chatter creeping out from the crack in the door. It sounds pleasant. There’s a laugh, and Jungkook recognizes it as Jimin’s without hesitation. His footsteps are muffled by his socks, and he makes no sound to alert the intruder of his approach.

The smell of lilac is overbearing at this point, and Jungkook can feel it seeping into his pores. It’s already in his clothes, and probably in all his furniture, too. He’s going to smell of this shit for days, no matter how much he scrubs his skin until its red and bruised.

Jungkook stops at the slightly ajar door, listening. He can hear the high pitch of Jimin’s voice – Jungkook knows it. It’s the voice he uses when he wants something. It doesn’t work on Jungkook anymore, so he never hears it these days. It’s sweet and melodic; now all Jungkook hears from Jimin is either his gravelly, irritated growling or nothing at all.

“—be here any minute. I texted him.”

“Can’t wait.”

The intruder’s voice is low and gruff, like Jungkook’s. There’s a rustle of fabric, like sheets, and a gasp. It sounds over-exaggerated. It sounds like Jimin.

Jungkook pushes the door open, but it’s so silent that the two occupants of the room don’t hear it.

Jimin is on his back on the bed – Jungkook’s bed – settled atop the black satin sheets. There’s a man nestled in between his legs, one large hand gripping Jimin’s milky thigh while the other supports his weight where he’s hunched over. He’s planting large, wet kisses up and down Jimin’s jawbone, but Jimin is silent. His eyes are fluttered closed, his blond hair covering falling over his forehead, and he looks like dead weight in the man’s arms, both his hands at his side. Jungkook spots a tattoo of a spider on the man’s neck. He doesn’t even need to see the man’s face for Jungkook to know that tattoo is the only thing that stands out about this guy.

Jungkook knocks on the door with his knuckles softly. Jimin’s eyes snap open, and one of his free hands immediately wind into the dark hair on the back of the man’s head as if they’ve been there all along. He locks eyes with Jungkook, his mouth splitting into a grin.

“Oh, hello.”

The nameless man lifts his head up, rounding on Jungkook who stands in the doorway. “Hey, man.”

“What’s going on here?” Jungkook asks, nodding at the man. It sounds more like a statement than a question.

“What does it look like?” Jimin replies. His grip in the man’s hair lowers to his back. “It’s a threesome.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches; he’s almost smiling. And it’s not a kind smile, either. “Those usually require three people, not two.”

The guy looks down at Jimin, pulling away an inch. “You didn’t tell him?”

Jimin keeps his gaze locked on Jungkook, and Jungkook is sure he’s looking for a reaction of some kind. “He likes surprises,” Jimin coos.

Jungkook blinks at him. He makes his way towards the best, pulling up his cuffs, never taking his eyes off of Jimin. Jimin does the same, his smirk getting bolder as Jungkook draws closer.

“It’s true, I do,” he says coolly. He unclasps his watch and sets it on the nightstand, and Jimin follows it. It’s only then that he notices the hand that’s offered to him out of the corner of his vision.

“It’s good to meet you,” the guy says, nudging his hand forward a bit more when Jungkook turns to face him.

Jungkook can feel Jimin’s eyes on him – watching and waiting and looking for the reaction that he wants. His eyes are burning holes into the man’s extended hand, waiting. A wave of lilac assaults Jungkook’s nose, and it takes everything for him not to gag on it.

Jungkook hasn’t given into anything Jimin wants in a long while – what’s the use in starting now?

“Likewise,” Jungkook says warmly, too warmly, as he shakes the hand with a firm grip. His smile isn’t genuine, but the man wouldn’t know that.

Jimin’s brows furrow in what seems to be confusion at the amicable display. He stares at their intertwined hands like they might have spontaneously combusted. Jungkook throws him a smirk that he doesn’t notice.

“We started without you,” Jimin interjects, as he pushes himself between Jungkook and the man, grabbing on to the stranger’s shoulders and turning his back on Jungkook. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. You two go ahead,” Jungkook says. He circumvents the bed, instead making his way to the dresser where a small assortment of fine liquors sits. Jungkook always has a glass at the end of his long days, and today is no different. “I like to just watch at first.”

“No you don’t,” Jimin bites out, challenging.

“Well, today I do,” Jungkook replies simply as he opens the bottle of brandy, his favorite. He gestures it at the intruder. “Care for a glass?”

“N-no, thank you,” comes the reply.

“Ah, come on,” Jungkook insists, shaking the bottle a little. “It’ll be great for calming those nerves of yours.”

“I’m good, I don’t drink.”

“It’s the most expensive bottle in my collection.  I don’t offer it to just anyone.”

“He said he doesn’t want the fucking drink, Jungkook,” Jimin snaps.

Jungkook stops mid-pour, glancing up at Jimin from where he sits on the bed. His eyes are dark with agitation. He smirks, finishes his work, and sets the bottle down with no gentleness at all. He holds the glass to his lips.

“Suit yourself,” he laughs, and takes a large sip. He saunters to the well-cushioned, large armchair sitting completely unused for ages and sinks into it as if he always belonged there. He leans back into it, relaxed, with his ankle crossed over his knee. He swirls the golden liquid in his hand as he watches the two performers, the corner of his mouth twitches in a smile.

“Please, continue.”

Jimin doesn’t need his permission; he yanks the stranger by the shoulders, pushing him down on to the mattress, towards the foot of the bed. He immediately swings one leg over the man, straddling him unceremoniously, making sure he faces Jungkook. Jimin pulls the hem of his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and head without a word, tossing it off to some lonely corner of the room.

The man seems confused by the tone of the room, not sure if Jungkook’s vibes are genuine or if there is something more sinister going on – these two don’t seem to be even remotely friendly with each other; but that could be them role playing. Who knows? He’s only human, and Jimin is pretty. He’s pretty, and he’s shedding clothes left and right – and as long as no one is going to start throwing punches, why not get his rocks off a bit?

He grabs a hold of Jimin’s waist and hips, enjoying the display above him.

But Jimin isn’t returning the favor – he’s got his eyes fixed directly on Jungkook. And it doesn’t look inviting. If the guy didn’t know any better, he’d say it almost looks downright challenging. Daring the other to do something, maybe – and not in a playful way.

This is definitely the weirdest threesome he’s ever been in. Are these two normally this wound up? Different strokes, he tells himself.

Jimin’s hands are pressing on his chest as he wastes no time in grinding his hips down on to the man’s crotch. Jimin moans appreciatively, his eyes fluttering closed and his lips falling open. His small nails dig into the fabric of the guy’s shirt, and the man silently wonders why Jimin hasn’t taken his shirt off, too.

The man is vaguely aware of the gaze trained on him from behind, and the silence – save for Jimin’s high-pitched moans – is starting to freak him out a bit. Like Jungkook said – aren’t threesomes supposed to involve three people? Why does this feel like it was never meant to be a threesome at all?

Jimin grinds harder, his moans getting louder and more desperate with each movement. The man wonders: is he really this enthusiastic during something this benign?

His thoughts are interrupted by a voice from behind him:

“No one likes an over-achiever, Jimin.”

Jimin ignores him, moves faster, moaning louder.

“Hey man,” Jungkook calls to the stranger, jovially. “You know what Jimin really likes in a guy?”

Jimin opens his eyes and halts his hips, glaring from under his eyelashes at Jungkook.

“No comments from the peanut gallery,” he spits.

“This one, he likes it rough,” Jungkook continues, ignoring Jimin’s crystal clear command. He downs the last of his glass, setting it down gingerly on the ground, never breaking eye contact with Jimin. “He likes for you to take control, you know? Put him in his place.”

The man looks up at Jimin, as if questioning this claim’s validity.

“He’ll act like he wants to be in control, sure. He’ll stare you down, insult you, challenge your authority. It’s all a front,” Jungkook continues. There’s a bite to his tone, one Jimin can easily pick up, but it’s lost on the rest of the room. “He won’t admit it. You have to draw it out of him. Never take ‘no’ for an answer with this one.”

The man hisses as the fingernails on his chest dig in sharply. Jimin’s mouth tightens.

“He might even try to incite you into a rage. It could be any number of ways with this one. He may blatantly disobey you. He might break your things, rip your clothes, pour all your expensive wine down the sink. He may even try in vain to make you jealous.” Jungkook makes a tsk tsk sound. “Don’t worry, that’s just Jimin’s way of getting attention.”

“Is… is that so?” the man asks, his voice faltering when he sees the purely livid expression now forming on Jimin’s features.

“Yeah,” Jungkook replies. “It’s his way of saying he wants to be broken – wants you to put him in his place like the little bitch he is.”

There’s a long, drawn out, pressing silence. Jimin’s fists are practically balled into fists into the man’s shirt now. His thighs are trembling slightly.

“Isn’t that right, Jimin?”

Jimin’s head twitches slightly.

“You like it like that. No – love it. Need it like that. Isn’t that right?”

The intruder glances between them, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. His grip on Jimin’s hips tightens.

“Well?”

“Yes,” Jimin responds. It’s so quiet the man can barely hear it even from where he is. It’s harsh, and unkind.

“What was that?” Jungkook says innocently.

“I said yes.”

“Yes what?”

Yes, I fucking like it.”

Jungkook smirks.

“I mean, I can dig it,” the stranger offers from beneath Jimin, his hands travelling up Jimin’s waist. “I could be into that. Done it a bit in the past.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jimin hisses, smacking the man’s hands away. “No one asked for your fucking opinion.” He slides off from where he’s straddling the guy, making his way off the bed.

“Whoa now,” Jungkook says from the other side of the room, feigning a scandalized tone. “Are you going to just let him talk to you like that? Remember what I said.”

Jimin, lost in his own rage storming inside him, doesn’t seem to hear. The stranger looks at Jungkook, then to Jimin, and then back to Jungkook again, questioning.

Asking permission.

And Jungkook gives it. He nods once.

Jimin cries out when he feels the iron grip on his ankle and the yank of his leg, knocking him off balance and sending him falling face first on to the mattress. The grip pulls him back to the middle of the bed, and he’s immediately flipped harshly on to his back by a pair of rough, calloused hands.

Jimin panics – his hands wildly fighting off the grip hold him down, taking him by surprise because it’s not Jungkook doing it, and the backs of his knuckles make a solid connection with the stranger’s jaw. A harsh crack resonates around the room.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jimin spits, and tries to worm his way out from underneath the man again.

The stranger recovers quickly, grabbing Jimin’s wrists with a crushing force, and looking back at Jungkook, obviously for direction. For guidance.

“Tit for tat, I always say,” Jungkook says, nonchalant.

A nervously half-hearted, but definitely still startling, slap lands directly across Jimin’s cheek.

Jungkook briefly considers getting up for another drink. He eyes the table with the liquor on it across the room. Seems pretty far away.

“Get off of me, you piece of shit!”

“Jimin, don’t call our guest names.”

Jimin is pinned to the bed, his wrists level with his head on either side of him where the man is holding them down. He does the only thing he can do with his upper body rendered immobile – his knee shoots up and makes direct contact with the stranger’s groin with all the force he can muster.

He misses his target, but only barely. It’s still enough to make the guy double over in pain, loosening his grip on Jimin’s wrists. Jimin takes the opportunity, managing to worm one of them out of the vice-like grip and digging his nails into the fist surrounding his other hand, attempting to pry the fingers off of him.

He’s interrupted by the stranger’s free fingers immediately coming to wind around his neck – the thumb pressing with a great, brute force into the soft, sensitive spot right before his jaw bone, effectively throttling him. Jimin grabs at the appendage with his one liberated hand. He scratches, scrapes, gouges at it with his fingernails, but the grip remains steadfast.

“Jungkook,” he chokes out through gritted teeth.

It’s not how Jungkook wants to hear it.

“Man, he really likes that,” Jungkook encourages, tilting his head at the man assaulting Jimin in front of him. “He likes being made vulnerable. Isn’t that right, Jimin?”

“Yeah,” the stranger says breathlessly, his nervousness seeping away with every word that falls out of Jungkook’s mouth. He’s drunk on the power Jungkook is lending him. “You like that don’t you?”

Jimin’s eyes screw shut. The pressure in his eye sockets from the restriction of air builds until his vision is blurry in the edges and bursts of light are dancing behind his eyelids.

He kicks his legs again, but the man now has his knees digging into Jimin’s shins, rendering them useless.

“Flip him over.” The command is distant, and matter of fact. It’s not harsh, and yet not playful either. It sounds… detached.

The stranger does as he’s told, and Jimin has no doubts who is actuallybeing controlled and who is really in charge in this situation. The man uses his grip still on one of Jimin’s wrists to yank him over onto his stomach, allowing Jimin to breathe. He doesn’t cry out, just growls and tries to push himself up with his free arm until it is also being seized, and both hands are pulled and pinned viciously behind his back. A hand presses hard into the back of his neck, keeping him in place.

Jungkook hums appreciatively. “That’s his favorite position. From behind – face down on the bed, presented to be used.”

“Like a true slut,” the man parrots back to Jungkook. He’s smiling now, excited and high on his own adrenaline. Jimin can feel his erection pressing into the back of his thighs.

Jungkook,” Jimin hisses again.

It’s still not how Jungkook wants to hear it.

“Do you want to fuck him?” Jungkook asks, sounding bored.

Jungkook!”

“He’s right there for you. You could, if you wanted to.”

The man’s breath hitches. “I do. I want to.”

“It’s what you came here to do, isn’t it?” Jungkook locks eyes with Jimin, who is staring at him wildly. Jungkook would almost feel bad – but he can still smell the fucking lilacs. “Came here to fuck what’s mine?”

“He told me to,” the man says, voice airy and deep. He moves to situate himself in between Jimin’s thighs. He’s gazing down upon Jimin like a prized piece of meat, ripe and ready to be thrown on to the fire.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Jungkook, stop it!

Jimin is startled by his own voice, how broken it sounds with it comes out as a wracked sob. Something far more desperate than he was wanting. The room falls silent – even the man’s heavy breathing comes to a screeching halt above him at the sudden cry.

It sounded too real – not playful in the slightest. The man’s grip loosens a fraction of an inch.

“Stop what?” Jungkook wonders from where he’s sitting, watching this nameless stranger in his own bed. “You don’t want this man to fuck you in front of me?”

No, of course I fucking don’t!”

“Didn’t you bring him here?”

“Not for that!” Jimin bites out, immediately sliding his hands out of the grip that has now loosened to barely a touch on his wrists. The man above him has grown soft in under thirty seconds flat.

Jimin lets out a long sigh through his nose, not able to even look Jungkook in the eye. “It wasn’t ever supposed to go that far.”

“Then what was it for, Jimin?”

Jimin doesn’t respond. Jungkook already knows the answer.

“Was it to make me jealous? Entice me into a violent rage watching some nobody touching you?”

What,” the stranger exclaims, leaping off the bed, obviously panicked. He had just as good as assaulted someone on another’s orders. He’s stares down incredulously at Jimin, who continues to lay still and stare at the floor.

“Was it for attention, Jimin?”

Jimin closes his eyes.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Jimin’s cheeks are burning hot and stained red – only half of it is from the slap from earlier. He opens his eyes again, curls his fists into the sheets below him.

“I did it to make you jealous.”

Jungkook laughs.

It’s a sudden, loud belt of laughter – and it sounds utterly amused. Jimin seems to sink further into the mattress the longer it lasts.

“I think—” The man starts to say something, stops, then opens his mouth again, unsure of how to even proceed. “I think I need to go.”

“Why?” Jungkook asks him, his tone sinister. “And miss this special time Jimin has set aside to publicly humiliate himself?”

“Dude,” the man breathes in awestruck disbelief at the event unfolding before him. “You two obviously have some issues you need to work through. I’m leaving.”

The stranger takes double-steps across the room to the door, not sparing Jimin a second glance on the bed.

Jungkook, however, continues to let his gaze bore into him – his dark eyes alight with amusement and the thrill of victory.

“I’ll walk you out,” Jungkook says.

He follows the scent of lilacs – the fucking lilacs – into the living room, keeping his distance from the now obviously freaked out and skittish man whose name he still doesn’t even know.

He’d be surprised if Jimin even knew it, too.

The man grabs his jacket from where it was thrown over the couch by the door, something Jungkook was surprised he hadn’t noticed before on his way in. The smell was at its worst on the jacket. It permeated Jungkook’s skin all the way into his blood.

The man gave Jungkook one last look – one that Jungkook had no idea what it was trying to convey – before wrenching open the door and scurrying away like a bat out of hell.

The corner of Jungkook’s lips twitched upwards as he watched the guy leave his house, taking a majority of the disgusting stench with him. But a small part of it still lingered. On his things, on him… and most importantly, Jimin reeked of it.

He gingerly closed the door, taking time to bolt every lock, and turned on his heel to make his way back to the bedroom.

There, standing right behind him, and looking as though he was simultaneously about to die of shame and commit heinous murder, was Jimin. The red mark on his jaw and cheek were flaming red. He opened his mouth,

“Jimi—”

Crack.

The sound of Jimin’s hand making contact with Jungkook’s face was probably heard by the next door neighbors – and their next door neighbors too.

Jungkook barely budges.

Jimin is electrified by his rage. His breathing is heavy and labored, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes are alight with a fury and disbelief at what Jungkook had just done – at what he had just done. How royally they had both just fucked up. Again.

“What is the matter with you?” Jimin growls. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

Jungkook works his jaw, reveling in the sting on his cheek. Jimin may not hit hard by Jungkook’s standards, but it’s enough to be amusing at the very least. An ominous grin spreads across his face.

Jimin sees it, and his eyes goes wide. He takes a half a step back.

“You’re a psychopath,” he breathes.

“Me?” Jungkook’s growl is deep and rumbling, and Jimin can feel it reverberating in his ears. Jungkook flicks his eyes up at him, his stare piercing. “I’m the psychopath?”

He takes one step towards Jimin, who in turn takes a hesitant step back. Jimin looks like he’s fighting the fear making him do it – yet he does it anyway.

“I’m not the one who brought a stranger into this house for the sole purpose of making a supposed psychopath angry, knowing that at best he’d leave in a body bag – and worst, you would.”

Jimin’s jaw twitches at the thought.

“I’m not the masochist.” Jungkook takes another step. “Being a sadist – that’s expected. Everyone has a little bit of a sadist in them. That’s human nature. But you? You can’t pretend that wanting me to hurt you is normal.”

“Shut up.” It’s not a request – it’s more pleading than that.

“Hit me again, Jimin,” Jungkook commands.

Another step. Jimin’s eyes drop to the floor. He’s so close to Jimin now, the only thing he can smell, taste, see is lilac.

Hit me again.”

Their faces are centimeters apart; they’re breathing the same air, and Jimin refuses to look him in the eye. But he also refuses to back down. Just the way Jungkook likes it.

“I know you want to – and do you know how I know? Because if you do, you know what’s going to happen to you, right? You know what I’ll do if you strike me one more time. It’s the same song and dance as the last time. You wanted it then – you’ll want it this time, too.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“You wanted attention; I’m giving it to you. Jimin needs all eyes – and hands – on him,” Jungkook says, and his voice is barely air brushing against Jimin’s red cheek. He still refuses to look Jungkook in the eye – but he’s stopped backing away. “You could walk away, but you don’t want to.”

“Hit. Me.”

Jimin’s hand trembles.

“Come on, little lion. Where’s all that bravado from earlier?” Jungkook smiles again, and it makes Jimin shiver. “Why don’t you run back home to mother?”

Silence.

It lasts for what seems like an hour at least, but with Jungkook everything always feels dragged out and stretched to its limit. It’s barely thirty seconds of Jungkook relentlessly staring Jimin down, challengingly, daringly, before he’s huffs out a small laugh. It’s a breathy release of air, but it carries all the smugness and haughtiness Jungkook is known for.

He pats Jimin’s cheek – gently.

“That’s what I thought,” he says, and he walks past him, back towards the bedroom. He has to rid the entirety of it of the scent of lilacs.

Smash.

The sound of glass shattering from behind him is, unfortunately, a familiar one to him as far as Jimin is concerned. It’s almost become their theme song – the sound of everything shattering and breaking down as they do as well.

He turns, one eyebrow raised.

Jimin stands there, breathing heavy and strenuous. Now that Jungkook is a safe distance away – enough to give Jimin a head start – he looks him dead in the eye. There’s a splash of water and wilting flowers adhered to the wall where the vase shattered at Jimin’s force, and sharps shards of glass litter the floor at his feet. Jungkook looks at his bare feet surrounded by the mess with heavily lidded eyes.

He glances up at Jimin. “This again?”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, Jimin. You can destroy everything in this house five times over, and you’ll still be nothing but a child throwing a temper tantrum.”

“Yeah?” Jimin hisses. “Then so be it.”

“What is it that you want, exactly?” Jungkook asks, tone dripping with boredom as he watches Jimin stalk past him towards the bedroom. He steps right through the glass on the ground beneath him, and Jungkook knows that must hurt. “What does destroying all of my things accomplish?”

Our things.”

Jungkook follows, curious. “You’re joking right? You know I paid for everything in this house.”

“Even better!” Another shattering of glass, and Jungkook knows Jimin has found the stash of alcohol again. Now the bedroom will reek of lilacs and fine aged cognac.

He rounds on the room, watching Jimin smash one bottle after another in his unbridled rage. He leans against the door frame. “One of these days you’re going to break something more valuable than you’re worth.”

Jimin turns to him, seething. The last bottle in Jungkook’s collection is gripped tightly in his hand. He seems to become distracted, glancing wildly around the room until finding his target. He drops the bottle unceremoniously – too low to the ground for it to shatter. It rolls away unnoticed.

Jungkook intercepts him on his way to the closet – he’s all for letting Jimin make a fool of himself, but he’s got very few nice clothes left at this point. He’d appreciate it if Jimin found something else to destroy until he could replenish his wardrobe.

“That’s enough,” Jungkook warns, his vice-like grip on Jimin’s forearm.

Jimin wrenches out of it easily, momentum on his side. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll touch you if I want,” Jungkook responds icily, grabbing Jimin again and yanking him away from the closet with brute force. Jimin is drunk on blind ferocity and stumbles into Jungkook – he flinches away as if his body is on fire. Before Jungkook can realize what Jimin is even doing, he feels Jimin’s teeth sink into his hand that’s holding the other in place – with a pressure Jungkook didn’t know he was capable of.

Jungkook hisses in pain, instinct propelling him to shove Jimin away as quickly and harshly as he is able, to quickly alleviate the daggers shooting through his nerves at an alarming rate. Jimin falls into the side of the bed where he’s thrown, catching himself and eyeing Jungkook’s reaction with morbid curiosity. He smiles as he wipes a bead of saliva from his lips with the back of his hand.

 Jungkook brings his hand level to his gaze, assessing the damage: deep puncture marks in the shape of Jimin’s molars – even his slightly crooked tooth is noticeable on the imprint – line the thumb of his hand. A few areas have even broken skin. He has to hand it to Jimin – he did manage to startle him; that was definitely not what Jungkook was expecting.

“Biting?” Jungkook breathes, his tone livid. He looks to where Jimin is watching him silently from the edge of the bed. “Seriously? Are you five?”

A smile smirk creeps up on Jimin’s face. He jumps on the opportunity, not realizing he’s being baited. As usual.

“Most guys enjoy a little biting.”

Jungkook huffs, he rubs his wounded hand, sauntering off to the bathroom to run it under some cooling water. “You’re embarrassing yourself again.”

“You would know about embarrassing.”

Jungkook stops mid-step. He can practically feel Jimin’s smirk boring into the back of his head. He shouldn’t even give Jimin the time of day at this point – especially not after such a lame and uninspired attempt to provoke him – but Jungkook would argue his greatest weakness has always been morbid curiosity.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, turning on his heel. His voice is low, a warning.

“I think you know what it means.”

Jimin leans back on his hands against the bed, his ankles crossed in a lounging, relaxed manner. He tilts his head at Jungkook and smiles wide. “I saw you when that guy was here. You couldn’t even get it up once – believe me, I was looking for it.”

Jungkook’s stare hardens, turns icy. His sore hand is forgotten at his side.

“You saw some other guy about to fuck what you claim is yours. And then, because you couldn’t even get hard enough to do it yourself, had to make some other guy do it just to prove a point. But you couldn’t even go through with that…”

Jungkook shouldn’t take the bait. He’s better than this, better than Jimin in that regard. In every regard.

He shouldn’t take the bait.

“You want to know what embarrassing is?” Jimin licks his lips. “Turns out it’s cuckolding yourself, because you can’t even get it up to fuck me like a man.”

Fuck it. He takes the bait.

He struts, determined, towards Jimin. “Is that so?”

“Yeah—”

Crack.

Jimin barely manages to catch himself on his hands before hitting the ground, his face on fire. His vision is a blur and there’s stars swimming all around him; he holds his cheek and glares up at where Jungkook is standing over him.

“What the fuck—”

“Do you want to know why I don’t fuck you?” Jungkook spits, grabbing and yanking Jimin down to the floor by the delicate hairs on his head. Jimin gasps, the pain in his cheek and the pain in his scalp compounding on top of one another. There’s tears stinging his eyes from the pain, and he screws them shut to prevent Jungkook seeing them run.

Jimin’s jaw is wrenched upwards towards where Jungkook stares him down from above. He opens his eyes, tears be damned, to glare at Jungkook defiantly.

“Well? Do you?”

Jimin remains silent.

Jungkook crowds his space again for the second time that evening, bending down to be eye level with Jimin. Except this time, he isn’t smiling. There’s fire in his dark eyes. Jimin can smell the faint scent of the brandy from earlier on his breath, but he’s more sober than he ever has been in this moment.

“It’s because I don’t fuck sloppy seconds.”

Jimin tries to take a swing at Jungkook again – but his attempt is thwarted by a hand pushing him back into the edge of the mattress by the juncture of his jaw and neck, effectively putting Jungkook out of reach of his blows.

“However,” Jungkook adds, almost as an afterthought, as he stands up and looms over Jimin, whom he still has tightly by the hair so he can’t move. “I do think your over-active mouth can be put to better use.”

Jimin pulls against the hand holding him by the hair, not as desperately as he probably should be, as Jungkook casually and indifferently begins pulling his belt open, followed by the fly of his pants. Jimin doesn’t look up until he hears the zipper, so close to his eardrums it sounds like a cacophony of metal.

Well, so this is how it’s going to be. The same as last time and every time before it. If he’s going to be going down – might as well drag Jungkook along with him.

“So this is how you have get it up, huh?” Jimin coos, blowing a small puff of cool air on to the exposed head of Jungkook’s cock, now rock hard and mere centimeters from his face where it’s been freed from its confines.

Jungkook jerks Jimin’s head in warning, and the boy on the floor gasps in surprise.

“How much harder on yourself do you want to make this experience?” he asks Jimin, his eyes now glazed over with a thick layer of lust as he stares him down. His voice is husky and deep, laced with some form of dark desire at what he’s about to do. One Jimin feeds off of – any way he can get it.

“You know me, as hard as possible.”

“You think you’re so clever,” Jungkook spits, and he grabs the base of his cock with his free hand and touches it to Jimin’s lips. “Thinking you can win your stupid game of chicken with me.”

Jimin smirks, rubs his mouth against the head of the cock offered to him a bit. “I already have. Hook, line, and sinker.”

“Open your mouth,” Jungkook commands, hearing none of it.

Jimin does as he’s told.

Jungkook wastes no time in settling into the hot crevice of Jimin’s mouth, burying himself to the hilt immediately, causing Jimin to splutter and choke around the intruding mass. He brings up his hands in attempted defense, trying to push at Jungkook’s thighs for a bit of relief, but Jungkook immediately releases his hold on Jimin’s hair and grabs his wrists instead – pinning them to the mattress behind Jimin’s head. This gives Jungkook full reign to fuck Jimin’s throat with no mercy, relishing the sounds coming from below him – excessive and vulgar slippery wet noises as his cock slides in and out of his throat, and the occasional gag or choked sob when Jungkook goes too deep too quickly.

He pistons in and out at a brutal, unforgiving pace. It’s supposed to be some sort of punishment, or so he tells himself; and even though Jimin’s bruised and swollen lips, tear-struck red eyes, and clenched fists tell him he’s succeeding in that department – Jimin’s flushed cheeks, lidded eyes, and obvious bulge in his loose pants say otherwise.

Jungkook fucks his throat harder, for good measure.

“The only part left of you worth fucking,” Jungkook grumbles between labored breaths, “and you still give the worst head I’ve ever gotten.”

Jimin’s eyes flicker up at Jungkook, his brows furrowed together. His hands pull against Jungkook’s bonds.

“I mean it, Jimin. You’d think with all the dicks you’ve had down your throat, you would be halfway decent at it by now.”

There’s a choking sound as Jungkook hits the back of Jimin’s throat with added vigor, and Jimin tries to jerk his head away. But Jungkook has him pinned – from all sides.

“There was a guy a few weeks ago. In the alley behind a bar – can’t even remember which one. I was tipsy and you were at home. Waiting for me. I remember, because I read your text as this boy was on his knees going to town,” Jungkook continues, drowning out Jimin’s muffled protests. The corner of his lip turns up into a snarl. “I need you, it said. I remember, because I deleted it.”

Jimin attempts to scrape his teeth, rake them along Jungkook’s shaft in protest, but Jungkook halts him with a firm, unyielding grip on his throat. He can feel the bulge from his cock on Jimin’s neck, and it excites him.

“Do it again, and you’re dead. I’m not even kidding.”

From the floor, Jimin falters, unable to fight back – knowing Jungkook never makes threats, only promises. Jungkook resumes his brutal pace. He lets go of Jimin’s milky neck and grabs hold of his wrist again, where it lay unmoving from where it had been pinned.

“So why keep you around then? You’re not worth fucking, you’re barely mediocre at head, and you break all my shit, constantly. No one else would put up with you, so why do I?” Jungkook’s hips snap forward at an erratic pace until he’s shoved himself so far down Jimin’s throat he’s sure Jimin will feel it when he talks for days. He hopes so, anyways.

The drunken power he feels, the tight, wet heat of Jimin’s mouth, and the way Jimin is glaring up at him with a perfect mix of defiance, hatred, and longing, makes Jungkook come so hard and fast he sees stars burst in his vision. They dance around Jimin’s cheeks and eyes and sweat-slicked hair like a little firework show.

Jungkook stays there for a long moment, his cock twitching excitedly as he comes straight down Jimin’s throat with a grunt. He slowly pulls out inch by inch, appreciating the sensitivity.

“Mind the teeth, sweetheart,” Jungkook coos, exhausted, as a bead of sweat trickles down his temple. He combs his fingers through Jimin’s hair, almost affectionately, and hums as he finally tucks himself back in. It’s not until he’s redoing his belt that he speaks – surprised Jimin has managed to keep himself quiet since it ended.

“That’s why I keep you around,” Jungkook says softly, tapping the apple of Jimin’s cheek with his fingertips. “The other boys never swallow.”

Jimin blinks up at Jungkook once, twice, the malice in his gaze all too apparent. Jungkook smirks.

But his smile falters when Jimin suddenly doubles over, quiet and determined. He watches Jimin tuck a strand of blond, damp hair behind his ear daintily and there’s a sudden noise – like the sound of someone gagging.

Jungkook learns what the sound is almost immediately, hearing the tell-tale melody of Jimin’s spitting, and the sudden wetness seeping into his black sock.

When Jimin sits upright again, he’s wiping away strings of spit hanging from his mouth. Jungkook looks down and sees the remnants of his come that was planted in Jimin’s mouth mixed in a puddle of saliva where it had landed half on the floor, half on his foot.

“Son of a bitch,” Jungkook whispers, and he’s not sure if it’s an angry or impressed one.

“Guess you have no reason to keep me around anymore.”

Jungkook laughs. Dry and airy at first, then a full chuckle. He has to hand it to Jimin – he always did have to have the last word. At any cost.

He turns on his heel and leaves without another word – leaves Jimin on the ground surrounded by the shattered glass and rivers of cognac encircling their small little kingdom of dirt.

When he slams the front door behind him as he disappears into the warm, suffocating night, the scent of lilacs follows him.

***

Jungkook leaves the seedy bar, not even barely tipsy. He always did have a high tolerance, but he was throwing them back like the best of them at the bar across town. He wasn’t even ordering drinks – he had a bottle put in front of him and he poured his own. He didn’t want to talk to the bartender, or socialize at all. It wasn’t what he was there for.

At some point he realized it was futile, and he gave up and sauntered home, reeking of alcohol but getting none of the fun effects from it. That has to be, Jungkook decides, one of the most shameful experiences. At least if he was drunk he would have an excuse for his behavior. But he doesn’t. He rarely, if ever, does.

But who is keeping track, anyways.

His feet are already carrying him the familiar path back home without him even realizing it. He could go elsewhere, perhaps to a different bar for another attempt, or to a hotel for the night. There’s no real reason for him to go back home and fight some more. Or to find everything he owns shredded or shattered. There’s absolutely nothing appealing about going back tonight, so why is his autopilot set to home? Why can’t he stop his feet from carrying him back into the lion’s den?

Something pink neon flashes in his peripheral. He stops on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, looking up at the blinking sign.

It’s that late-night donut shop and bakery catering to insomniacs and students neck-deep in exam studies. Jimin would come here every night when he first met him; he’d be carrying so many bags of goodies and two black coffees that when he came through the front door he’d have to close it strategically with his foot. Jungkook would try to explain to him that he can’t drink coffee at one in the morning, or else he’d be up all night. Again. Jimin would just shrug, never offering up an excuse.

Jungkook steps closer to the display window, curious. One of the shop workers is stacking fresh, hot donuts onto a plate in the display window. Pink frosted with sprinkles. Those were always Jimin’s favorite – Jungkook thought they were too sweet.

“More for me,” Jimin would say. Jungkook always scoffed at how Jimin would intentionally buy a dozen of them time after time, knowing Jungkook wouldn’t eat any. In theory, Jungkook guesses, that means there was always more for Jimin.

Two young girls come stumbling out of the shop, laughing amongst themselves, not even noticing Jungkook as they pass. The inside of the shop is crowded with tired looking sugar addicts, standing room only; outside there is more room to breathe. The girls have a donut in each hand – one of them Jimin’s favorite, hot out of the oven.

Jungkook watches the girl with the pink frosted take a bite – and she regrets it almost immediately. She sputters and coughs, doubling over, and her friend bursts out laughing at her.

“Those are hot,” her friend offers, patting her on the back. “They literally just came out of the oven.”

“I noticed—” the girl chokes. She fans her mouth with her hand.

“Why did you have to get the one that would burn the first layer of skin off?”

“Would you rather have a stale, cold one? The fresh ones are so much better.”

The girl shakes her head. “At least the cold ones aren’t trying to kill you.”

“Worth.” The girl takes another, cautious bite. Still much too hot – she whines and her friend laughs harder.

“Let it cool off, idiot!” her friend wrenches the donut from her hand. “You do this every time, you always get the ones that are too hot to eat and you still try to eat it anyways, like you expect a different result each time. If you insist on being a masochist and getting the hot ones, at least have the patience to let it cool a bit. It’ll still be there when it’s ready, it’s not going anywhere.”

The girl nods, fanning her mouth still. Jungkook watches them from the window, and he knows he’s been staring. It’s especially apparent when one of the girls looks over and notices him watching them – she gives him a weird look, and whispers something to her friend. Jungkook immediately averts his gaze, but he knows he was still caught. He looks up again to see the girls running off into the night, giggling to themselves and throwing a weird look at Jungkook over their shoulders as they leave.

One of the bulbs in the neon sign flickers, and Jungkook looks up at it. This tiny kitschy shop – sandwiched between an old dry cleaners and a long out of business pharmacy – with its gaudy, blinking sign always annoyed Jungkook. It served no purpose but to pump unhealthy sugar into the sleepless youth. It’s flashy signage could be seen from a mile away whether you wanted to see it or not. It was loud, demanded attention, and promised something sweet – but inside it was crowded and chaotic and, in Jungkook’s opinion, over-priced. It never seemed like an establishment you went to, but rather one you ended up at.

Maybe Jungkook can see why Jimin likes it so much.

He looks back at the window display. The shop worker finishes stacking the hot, fresh donuts and smiles at him.

***

There’s no need to announce his return when he walks through the door, because no one else is expected. Jungkook takes off his shoes, careful to avoid the glass still scattered on the floor. He knows he should clean it up – but maybe later.

First he checks the kitchen: nothing in there seems to be broken. Nothing new, anyways. He flicks the light off. Jimin isn’t there, so he moves on. He isn’t in the living room or dining room either.

When he looks at the hall going deeper into the house, he notices the bathroom light on. It’s dim, and Jungkook thinks he definitely needs to replace it soon. He calls Jimin’s name, but there’s no answer.

Rounding the corner of the doorway, the first thing he notices is the medicine cabinet is wide open, and various pill bottles are scattered in the sink, around the sink, and some have even fallen to the floor. There’s one that’s when opened, and it’s been emptied – save for four or five little white pills that have scattered from it being wrenched open violently.

Where are the rest of them?

The blood rushes from Jungkook’s face, and he turns on his heel, almost running into the door frame as he sprints towards the bedroom where he had left Jimin.

He bursts through the door, looking wildly around for any sign of Jimin – hoping perhaps it was the stranger who had gone rifling through the medicine cabinet; he looked like he might be an addict of some sort – when he spots him. Or rather, his feet. He can see Jimin’s small feet splayed out limply on the ground, the rest of his body hidden behind the bed.

Jungkook shouts his name, but it only comes out as a choked whisper, and he tears across the room to where Jimin lay on the opposite side of the bed. Jimin is leaned up against the mattress – one of his hands lifelessly clutching the forgotten bottle of cognac that had escaped his wrath and rolled away earlier in the evening, almost completely empty. His eyes are closed and he looks peaceful, like he could be sleeping.

Jungkook drops to the floor immediately, grabbing Jimin’s face and yanking it to face him. He shouts his name again.

“Jimin!” he exclaims, shaking the boy’s shoulders with his other hand. He doesn’t even realize how hard he is breathing until he feels how warm Jimin is, like he might have some kind of fever. Jungkook doesn’t spot any puddles of vomit or bile, like Jimin might have thrown up whatever he swallowed – and his first thought is to drag him into the bathroom and induce Jimin into doing it there. Or right here – he doesn’t know, his panic is overwhelming, and he’s not sure which would be faster. An ambulance or Jungkook getting Jimin to throw it up himself?

He shakes Jimin again, violently. He shouts his name again, pleads – no, commands – him to wake up. He rears back his hand to slap Jimin awake, the only thing he knows to do at this exact second, when he hears it –

“Boo.”

It’s so quiet, Jungkook isn’t sure he heard it at first. He stops dead in his tracks, breathing heavy, eyes wide and face flushed. He looks down at Jimin, alarmed.

There’s a small smile on Jimin’s lips. His eyes flutter open, his gaze looks glassy and unfocused, but he blinks a few times and finally fixes it on Jungkook.

“Did I scare you?” he says simply.

There’s a million and one thoughts running through Jungkook’s head, six million more words he wants to say, but they all get clogged in his throat and the only one that manages to escape his lips is a quiet, “What?”

Jimin grins. And giggles.

“I did, I scared you,” he whispers, and he moves to sit up, Jungkook’s hands still on him.

Jungkook sits there, on his knees, thoroughly in a state of shock. His cold sweat still drenches him, and his hands are shaking where they are on Jimin – he has half the mind to strangle him right here and now.

“That’s not—” he breathes, stunned, as all the information begins to fall into place. Jimin is okay, he’s not dead. But he might be soon, now.

“That’s not fucking funny, Jimin.”

Jimin chuckles. “It’s a little funny.”

“The pills—”

Jimin’s brows furrow in confusion, and he finally looks at Jungkook full-on. “The what?”

“The pills, Jimin. The piles of pills scattered around the bathroom. I thought you had – I thought you took them.”

All Jungkook gets in response is a long stare, as Jimin’s inebriated mind tries to piece together the picture Jungkook has painted. Eventually he seems to realize what the fuck Jungkook is talking about, and he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, those,” he says finally. “It’s just fucking Tylenol, Jungkook. I had a headache. I took like, two.”

“Then why the fucking mess?”

Jimin shrugs. “I just spilled them. I didn’t clean it up because I thought it vibed with our current decor.” He gestures tiredly at the shattered glass near them. He grabs the bottle in his hand and brings it close to his lips to take a swig.

Jungkook immediately grabs it and yanks it out of his hand. “You’re drunk.”

Jimin hums in agreement. “You were right about that cognac. It is quite good. I don’t have much of a taste for the finer things in life, as you have constantly told me, but it did taste expensive.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jungkook hisses, not allowing Jimin to change the subject.

“Why?” Jimin looks at him, doing the math in his head. “You think I tried to off myself?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I just saw the bathroom and panicked—”

“Over me?”

Jungkook stares incredulously at him. Jimin has a small, soft smile, but he’s not even looking at him. “You’re so fucked up,” Jungkook says.

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

There’s a long silence that passes between them, both of them staring at the ground like they might dissolve into it if they stare long enough, dissolve away from this situation.

“I didn’t do it on purpose. Make you worry, that is,” Jimin offers up after a minute. It sounds strangely apologetic, coming from him.

Jungkook rubs a hand through his hair. “I know.”

“I don’t do any of it on purpose. Any of it.”

“I know.”

Jungkook knows. He knows what Jimin means. He knows.

After a few more seconds of dead silence, he looks up to see Jimin watching him intently, seemingly looking for something. He knows Jimin wants him to say something, perhaps something encouraging. But that’s not Jungkook – that’s not who he is.

Perhaps he wants Jungkook to say something baiting, entice a fight. Shift blame.

A sudden weight falls on him, hands wind around his broad shoulders, and he’s almost knocked back from the unexpected force – he shifts back into a sitting position, off of his knees, to accommodate the new heaviness. Jimin has practically planted himself on top of Jungkook, wordlessly. He must know that if he asked permission, Jungkook would tell him no. So he does it. Do first, ask permission later.

Jungkook doesn’t push him away.

Jimin’s chin is digging into his shoulder, in his drunkeness his self-awareness is nigh zero, and he doesn’t realize how cumbersome his entire weight is on Jungkook. Jungkook doesn’t move to embrace him, but he lets him stay. Jimin is straddling his lap, his hands clinging around Jungkook’s neck like he’s drowning, and the water is the floor. Jungkook can smell the cognac on him – and a faint hint of lilac.

“You smell disgusting,” Jungkook says.

“Thanks,” Jimin giggles in response. “You do, too.”

Jimin’s small nails drag down his back, and it feels nice. He feels Jimin’s hot lips press into the junction of his neck and his shoulder where they rest – and it feels nice too.

He doesn’t say anything, because he isn’t sure what to say. He knows neither of them will say sorry – sorry implies guilt. Remorse. And neither Jungkook nor Jimin exactly feel bad about what they have done tonight. Jimin probably won’t feel bad for baiting Jungkook into one of his rages after being ignored for weeks, and Jungkook won’t feel bad for putting him in his place for doing so.

So why does he feel so shitty?

With Jimin here like this, small in his arms, he feels harmless. He looks harmless. He seems harmless. But Jimin is far from harmless – he can cut in the deepest ways, knows where to find a weakness, knows what to say to make sure it stays with you and seeps into your pores. Exploit your insecurities. Looking at Jimin and thinking he was innocent or naive would be the biggest mistake anyone could ever make.

So why does he feel so sorry?

“I hope you never regret me.”

It’s muffled and so quiet Jungkook can barely hear it. His head twitches, wondering if he had really just heard what he had. He doesn’t have time to respond – not that he would anyway – before Jimin is leaning back against the bed again, sinking down until only his head is propped up against it, his legs still swung over Jungkook’s thighs. His small hands are extended out to Jungkook’s belt, undoing it with fumbling, clumsy fingers. Jungkook doesn’t even think to stop him.

Jimin is smiling warmly, lost in his drunken haze. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and Jungkook can see the hint of a red flush from his chest too, peeking from underneath his shirt.

“Why did you do it,” Jungkook asks – no, demands – quietly as he continues to stare at Jimin’s sweat-slicked neck.

Jimin doesn’t have to ask what he means.

“The only reason you’re ever here is to fight,” he says simply, managing to finally open Jungkook’s belt. “If you’re fighting with me, at least you’re here and not elsewhere.”

Jungkook grimaces. “What I said earlier – about the other boys. Getting sucked off behind a bar, it wasn’t true.”

“I know.”

The small fingers open his fly, but before they can reach in, Jungkook grabs the thin wrists and halts them.

Jimin looks up at Jungkook expectantly. Imploringly.

“Please,” he whispers.

Jungkook could let the vicious circle continue. Could fuck Jimin like he wants, like last time, and the time before that. Could refuse to apologize and let the feelings get bottled and buried.

He could do all of those things. It would be easy. It would be familiar.

He throws Jimin’s hands aside, and the boy looks like he might protest, but Jungkook ignores him. He grabs a hold of Jimin’s narrow hips and pulls him forward, causing Jimin’s head to drop to the floor with a thud as it’s pulled from the bed frame. Jimin hisses in pain, looking up at Jungkook with a confused eye.

“Jungkook—”

“God, just shut up for once,” Jungkook demands. One of his hands immediately snakes underneath Jimin’s shirt, the warm and tender skin there ripe for the taking. The other hand holds Jimin’s hips in place on his lap, and he bends over to cover Jimin entirely, envelop him in his own essence. His teeth scrape Jimin’s soft neck, and he can hear the boy gasp beneath him.

Small hands come in between them, once again fumbling with Jungkook’s pants.

“Stop,” Jungkook commands shortly, and his own hands disappear from Jimin’s body, grabbing the wrists once more and throwing them above Jimin’s head. He presses them further into the floor for emphasis.

He looks Jimin directly in the eye as a warning, and the other one shudders.

Jungkook returns to his task, undoing Jimin’s own pants, and pulling them down an inch or two before bending over him again. Jimin’s feet sway in the air, his toes curling as Jungkook licks his neck to his collarbone and bites none-too-gently. His body is on fire and heavy as brick, and his head is swimming. He quickly forgets about his hands, and tries to bring them back to Jungkook again before he hears a growl above him and they’re immediately forced back down.

If this is the only apology Jimin is going to get, he better enjoy it as much as he can.

Jungkook’s large, long fingers easily surround his entire cock, which warm and pressing persistently against Jungkook’s stomach. He gasps at Jungkook’s cold fingers and jerks away, but under Jungkook he can’t flee very far. The touch warms quickly, and soon his breathing hastens at Jungkook’s hurried, desperate pace. Jimin half wishes Jungkook would slow down so he could savor it, but also wants this to be as frantic and fleeting as possible. He isn’t sure which one he will remember more after he’s sober.

He always did like the impulsive, reckless Jungkook more anyways.

He’s boring otherwise. And so is Jimin.

Jimin sighs happily as Jungkook’s hand works him, his other hand gripped harshly on Jimin’s waist. His grasp gets tighter the more noises Jimin makes – so Jimin strives to be louder.

Looking up at him through his long, dark eyelashes, Jimin admires Jungkook’s furrowed brows and stern mouth as he focuses on his work. He’s staring intently down at Jimin’s hips, his hand, the glistening red tip of Jimin’s shaft, silent. Jimin giggles.

Bless him, he’s trying so hard.

“Why do you let me do these things to you?” Jungkook wonders out loud, quiet and gruff and voice gravelly like he’s swallowed rocks. Jimin hears it, and he wishes he could move his hands. Let him? And is this really the appropriate time? He opens his mouth to say something, insult him, praise him, he’s not sure what. But the words get lost in his throat. It comes out as a high-pitched, jovial giggle instead.

Jungkook coughs and quickens his pace. Jimin wriggles in his grip, the touch and pressure a little too much, and he tries to shy away. Jungkook holds him in place with one firm hand.

“Jungkook—” he protests, but is quickly silenced by Jungkook’s mouth on his, sealing his lips. Jimin opens his teeth obligingly, granting Jungkook access and wondering just how long it had been since Jungkook had done this. Not this whole thing, but kissed him. They had had sex, they had fucked. They had been physical. But kissing? This was almost foreign to Jimin now.

He revels in it, and comes alive.

His small hands fist in the shirt bunched at Jungkook’s shoulders, and Jungkook doesn’t force them back immediately. Jimin would lie – say it was because it felt so good, Jungkook’s hands – but that’s not true. It’s not even partially true.

No, he holds on because he’s afraid if he lets go, Jungkook will pull away. So he’s holds steadfast, his fingers would break before they’d be pried open.

Maybe it’s the drunken fool in him, maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in him – maybe it’s the sociopath in him, he’s doesn’t even fucking know at this point – but being here on his back on the cold, hard floor, drunk off his ass and legs in the air like a good, respectable whore he always is told he is… covered and protected by Jungkook hovering over him, focused solely on him and forgetting about the world and himself for a bit; it’s more intoxicating than the cognac. He sucks Jungkook’s warm tongue into his own mouth, enjoying the sweet taste of beer and whiskey on it, and he laughs inwardly at Jungkook’s futile attempt at getting drunk to forget. Forget Jimin.

But no one forgets Jimin. No one ever has, nor will. They may regret him, look back on their time with him with a bitter taste in their mouth and a scowl, may call him psychotic or insane or manipulative – but no one ever forgets him. Even when they try by finding the bottom of a bottle.

In this way, somehow, Jimin won this round of chicken. And it’s an empty victory that turns to ash in his mouth.

“Tell me you love me,” Jimin chokes out against Jungkook’s mouth, close to his release and so heated he’s got a thin sheen of sweat across his entire body. He sucks in every breath Jungkook lets out, and he’s clawing at Jungkook’s shoulders like an animal.

“Just come already,” is the response.

So, Jimin does.

And he’s a fool for sure, because until the day he dies he will swear he hears Jungkook say it as soon as his head falls back against the hard flooring and he cries out through gritted teeth, releasing everything into Jungkook’s now warm fist, and coming undone completely. His hands slip from Jungkook’s shoulders and fall to his side limp and lifeless, and he’s got black dots dancing in his eyeballs. It all feels like fire is licking at his skin in this drunken state, his speech is slurred and every nerve ending is white-hot. His hips twitch and he says something he can’t even make out, and he turns into putty in Jungkook’s lap.

“Fuck,” he breathes eventually as Jungkook busies himself with wiping his soiled hand on Jimin’s pants silently. It comes out intelligible. He feels so heavy and satiated that all the alcohol and Tylenol is threatening to come back up, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jungkook sits back on his heels, his forehead slicked with sweat from his efforts. He watches Jimin coming back down to Earth with heavily-lidded eyes. Slowly, carefully, he pulls Jimin’s legs off of him and sets them aside. He leans back against the bed frame, alongside where Jimin was when Jungkook first found him.

Jimin somehow finds the strength to sit up as well, joining him. He fights the feeling of nausea as he rests his head against the bed, admiring how his and Jungkook’s rapid breaths and hearts beat in tandem. He can hear them both, and for all the times he’s called Jungkook a heartless piece of shit, he can tell that in this moment it’s at least not true.

“One of these days you’re going to be far more trouble than you’re worth,” Jungkook mutters.

Jimin laughs, breathless. “You’ll have to find way more expensive liquor for me to destroy.”

“Somewhere out there there’s a bottle with your name on it.”

Jimin grabs at the forgotten cognac and brings it to his lips, down the very last of the bottle. “I don’t doubt it,” he hiccups.

They both stare out of the window at the dark, starless sky. Beams of moonlight connect the two of them where they sit. Jimin inches closer, tossing the bottle and letting it roll away again.

When he rests his head on Jungkook’s sweaty shoulder, Jungkook doesn’t shrug him off. When Jungkook grips Jimin’s thigh possessively, Jimin doesn’t shoo it away.

“Was it on purpose? The lilac cologne?”

Jimin raises his eyebrows at the question, clicking his tongue in thought.

“Believe it or not, that was a coincidence,” he answers.

“I don’t believe it.”

Jimin hums.

There’s a rustling beside him of cloth and skin, and he looks down without moving his head from Jungkook’s shoulder.

“Here.” Jungkook mumbles. He holds out a small, white paper box in front of Jimin.

The boy recognizes the green logo and ribbon on it immediately – and he inhales through his teeth.

“It’s your favorite kind, right?” Jungkook asks, nudging the box towards Jimin.

“Is this – was this a peace offering?” Jimin laughs, but he takes it regardless when Jungkook doesn’t answer. The box is piping hot, Jungkook must have picked it up fresh, right as the kind old baker was putting them out. Jimin would always make sure to be there when she was doing so.

He curses happily, undoing the ribbon with haste and practically tearing open the box. The donut is hot to the touch, the frosting has melted down the sides, and really he feels like this is about the least appropriate time to ever consume his favorite confectionery nightmare.

He looks up at Jungkook, who keeps his gaze trained forward, attempting to look as uninterested in Jimin’s reaction as possible. Jimin smiles.

When he bites into the pastry, he immediately reels back, his hand to his mouth, wincing and crying out in shock. His sensitive teeth ache from the scorching heat of the dough he had just sunk them into.

“It’s hot,” Jungkook says unhelpfully. His grip on Jimin’s thigh tightens. “If you eat it now, you’ll burn yourself.”

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees.

He eats it anyways.