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Jimin’s suit is the same color as the Merlot in his glass, and it makes eyes catch on him the same way light catches the wine.

He preens at the attention, at the gazes that people snap away as soon as they see him looking back. He knows he looks good. He didn’t spend two hours getting ready not to look good, to look better than the women in slinky champagne dresses hanging off the arms of their cheating husbands.

His eyeshadow is smokey; his lipstick matches his suit; the blush on his cheeks makes him look almost innocent. The neckline of the suit is low, lower than it should be but still high enough to be appropriate for the party (as if anything about him is appropriate, he thinks to himself). One dangly earring swoops low, nearly brushes against his shoulder when he tilts his head just right with a coy expression on his face. His soft blond curls, recently redyed, are artfully tousled.

Jimin feels powerful, and eyes catch on him when he stands and walks across the room to have his glass refilled at the bar. He feels like he should be the subject of the question in that game he used to play as a scrawny middle schooler with people who weren’t quite his friends: would you fuck, would you become, would you kill?

Answer: all of the above. And that’s just how he likes it.

The party is fancy, invitation only, and the invitations are embossed in gold on thick, creamy paper. He’d gotten around that by showing up to the hotel a few hours early, pretending to be part of the crew setting up in the ballroom before slipping away to the bathroom adjacent to the 24 hour gym.

It had been all too easy to tape a sign he’d printed at the public library to the door: “This facility is out of order. We apologize for the inconvenience and are working to fix it as soon as possible.” And then he transformed himself into what he is now with the stolen makeup he kept in his duffel bag.

For a hotel this fancy, this expensive, they really needed to upgrade their security.

The party is some industry thing for—God, he doesn’t even know what. Entertainment, definitely, but not the public side of it. He thinks maybe music. The people who sit on the other side of the recording booth are just as fond of opulence as the puppets they’ve created.

What that means is that there’s an open bar, waitstaff wandering around with trays covered in hors d'oeuvres, fancy tables covered in white table cloths that reach the floor clustered off to one side. Most people are milling about in the middle of the room. Some are sitting on strategically placed couches, faking smiles for their fake friends. It’s all very high-class. The suits are expensive and tailored, the dresses are designer. Jimin cannot think of any expense that has been spared.

He hasn’t spotted anybody who piques his interest yet, even though plenty of those poor trophy wives are looking at him with lust in their eyes. Too bad for them he’s more into balls than breasts. It’s only a matter of time, though. He can be patient.

Jimin finds a couch that isn’t occupied yet, a little removed from the main action of the room. He sips at his wine and waits.

A young woman—more girl than woman, if he’s being honest—is the first to approach him, smiling nervously. She’s gutsy, he’ll give her that. He makes small talk until she excuses herself after his eyes linger on the diamond on her ring finger for a moment too long. If he plays it right, it doesn’t take long before the guilt usually gets to the wives. It shouldn’t; their husbands are doing far worse.

As he looks across the room, scanning the group of people clustered near the bar, he sees a man with a brightly patterned tie who’s holding hands with an even taller man. Jimin watches him excuse himself and head directly towards the couch where he’s. Interesting. Curious to see what his reaction will be, he makes eye contact, almost stares him down. The man continues walking towards him, steps never wavering.

“Hello,” Jimin breathes when the man arrives and sits right down, making himself at home next to Jimin on the couch. “And who would you be, hmm?”

“Does it matter? I’m much more curious about you. Saw you from all the way across the room and couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” the man says. He carelessly brushes his hair back from his forehead, a silver wedding band glinting in the light as he does. Jimin swallows down the bile he feels rising in his throat. He’s forward, he’ll give him that, even if he’s flirting using a line befitting a college frat boy. He doesn’t look much older than one, and certainly too young to be married. Jimin can cut him some slack. He’s not in a position to be judging anybody in this room, he reminds himself. It’s just... hard, sometimes, to remember not to.

“Oh, you did?” Jimin asks. The man nods. “Well, if you’re that curious… does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” the man grins. “I’ll be straight to the point, then: are you here with anyone?”

“Oh, you’re bold,” Jimin says. “It’s less important if you arrive with somebody than if you leave with somebody, I think.”

The man laughs, throws his head back. It seems fake. Better than uninterested boredom, at least. “I think so too.”

“And what about you? Are you here with anybody?” Jimin asks.

“Me? Oh, no, I’m here with my, um,” he hesitates, the first time he’s been anything less than obnoxiously confident. Jimin looks pointedly at his left hand, the first time he’s looked at it all conversation. There’s no way this boy doesn’t know exactly where Jimin is looking. “... My husband. He’s the producer, the one with all of the connections. I’m here because he asked me to be here. I’d rather be somewhere else, though.” He lets his lips part a little bit after he says that, widens his eyes until he resembles a doe. Jimin’s got to give it him, he’s good at flirting.

“You know, if you want this you should talk to your husband first.”

The man looks over his shoulder at the group he left a few minutes ago, spots his husband, turns back to Jimin. He doesn’t notice that the husband is beginning to head towards them. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

He’s definitely the right type: reeks of Daddy’s money, probably hasn’t worked a day in his life, definitely stays home and does nothing but exercise all day if the muscles Jimin can see shifting under his suit are any indication. But Jimin won’t do this unless the boy confirms that he’s the type of person Jimin thinks he is.

“Are you sure? Because I think you’ll have a chance to talk with him right now,” Jimin says.

“What do you mea—oh!” The man startles a little bit when his husband slips an arm around his shoulder and softly kisses his cheek. It looks real, unlike most of the forced affection Jimin sees at these things. Interesting. “Hi, darling,” the man says sweetly as he stares daggers at Jimin before turning to kiss his husband back.

“I see you’ve already met my husband, I’m so sorry to interrupt your conversation but I was sick of listening to my business partner talk about his latest fling.” The new arrival grins, flashing deep, deep dimples. “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jimin says, smiling placidly. “Jimin.”

“What have you two been talking about, baby?” Namjoon asks the man who approached Jimin.

“Oh, you know,” he replies. “Just the weather and such. Jimin here is attending as a plus one as well.”

“Ah! I hope it hasn’t been too boring for you. I know how these things must seem.”

“Oh, no, it hasn’t been too bad. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, but if you’ll excuse me,” Jimin flashes a smile, “I’ll leave you and your husband to enjoy the atmosphere; I’m afraid I’m feeling rather hungry and need to hunt down one of those waiters.” He tilts his head, ignores Namjoon’s husband. The man schools his features quickly, but Jimin catches a split second of jealousy out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course!” Namjoon says. He seems nice. If he was capable of it, Jimin would feel bad about what’s going to happen. “Have a nice evening, Jimin.”

Jimin leaves his glass of wine where it is, carefully balanced on the edge of the couch next to Namjoon and his husband. There’s a lipstick mark on the edge of the glass. He crosses the room without looking back, trusting that Namjoon has absorbed his husband in conversation so he’s not watching Jimin as he circles back around. He takes a seat at one of the unoccupied dining tables at the edge of the room, ignoring the name tag carefully positioned at the place setting in front of him.

He watches from as Namjoon kisses his husband again, stands up and leaves him sitting alone on the couch just like Jimin was not even 15 minutes ago. And: showtime.

Jimin pulls his phone out of his pocket, swipes into the camera, zooms in and trains it on the man as he rummages around in his pocket. He pulls out some sort of container, glances around furtively, and shakes something into his hand. Then he drops it into Jimin’s wine glass, disguising the motion as a stretch of his arm. But the distance of his hand from the glass means that Jimin can see three tiny tablets leave his hand, hitting the Merlot one after another. Plink, plink, plink.

Bingo.

Jimin taps the button to turn the camera off. He has it all on film now. Tucking his phone back into the pocket of his suit, he walks back over to the couch, approaching it from the back.

“I realized I forgot my wine,” he says, brushing his hand against the man’s as he angles forward to grab it, giving him a view down the front of his suit. He watches the man’s eyes widen for a moment.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice!” The man says, looking over his shoulder at Jimin. Idiot. Of course he noticed, he just laced it. But Jimin can play dumb. He’s very good at it, if he does say so himself.

So he fakes taking a sip: brings the glass up to his lips, draws some into his mouth, raises his tongue to the roof of it so that none of it will go down when he swallows. Then he fakes another sip, but spits the wine back into the glass. It looks flawless; he hasn’t practiced it in the mirror a hundred times for nothing.

“I’ll see you around,” Jimin says, lowering his voice to make it a little more sultry. He turns, walks away, swinging his hips just a little. He raises the glass to his mouth again without opening it this time. It’s not like the man will be able to tell the difference from this angle. He’ll just see him raising it and think he’s already had three sips of the drugged wine.

Jimin walks off around the corner, ostensibly towards the bathroom, and dumps the glass out into a potted plant in the hallway.

A few minutes later, he returns to the ballroom where the party is being held, sits himself down on a different couch, and waits. Half an hour passes before the man approaches him again.

“You don’t look too good,” he says. If Jimin didn’t know better, he’d think that the concern on his face was real.

“Mmm,” he replies, letting his head loll a little bit, acting much more out of it than he currently is. “I feel good. I feel great.”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna feel even better, baby. Can I call you that? Baby?”

“Yeah,” the man breathes, eyes a little wide. He’s buying the act, thank god.

“You wanna make me feel even better?”

“Please,” the man says. “I can do that. I can make you feel even better. Come upstairs with me?”

Jimin offers his hand, lets the man pull him to his feet. He pretends to stumble, leans into the man’s side. “Whaddabout your husband?” He slurs.

“Oh, Joonie? He’s networking. He gets really into it. He won’t notice while we have our fun.” The man’s gaze on Jimin is lecherous.

“Good,” Jimin giggles. “Wanna have fun with you.”

It’s not until they’re in the elevator that Jimin gives himself away.

“Come here,” he croons, pressed up against the corner right under the camera. They’re out of view; there will be no evidence, and the thought gives him a little bit of a thrill.

The man steps forward, cages him in, and Jimin lets his breath catch in his throat, makes himself into what the man wants him to be for one more moment. Takes the opportunity to reach out and deftly press the STOP button as the man captures him in a sloppy kiss, too much tongue. Hotels this fancy aren’t stupid; they never leave the alarms on in these things. Too many people leave parties held here and have elevator sex to call the fire department every time a couple gets frisky and stops the elevator. He’d even bet that the camera is only there for show (although he’d rather not risk it). And then—

“You know,” he says, dropping the slurring as he slips his hand into the patch pocket of the man’s suit and lets his fingers catch around the edges of the container, “I saw what you did to my drink.”

The man pulls back, his eyes glinting and his mouth open to deny everything, but it’s already too late. As he takes a step back, Jimin deftly palms the container. He grins up at him, a real smile that makes his eyes crinkle instead of one meant to be alluring.

He lets it settle in his palm, glances down at it for a moment. “Airpods case. Smart, wouldn’t set off any alarms. Who’d think somebody so clean cut like you would have a stash of date rape drugs? You already have a husband, good at faking being in love, got that wedding band to prove it. Who’d even bother to check you, right?”

The man gulps.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” Jimin whispers, letting his fingers drag down the edge of his left lapel. He feels sharp, dangerous, powerful. He’s addicted.

The man juts his chin out, and Jimin doesn’t bother to stop a derisive laugh. It’s cute, almost, how defensive they get. “Didn’t tell you before, why would I tell you now?”

“Well,” Jimin breathes, “’Cause the way I see it, you have two options. I call the police, tell them what you tried to do to me. Bet that rich husband of yours—Namjoon, right?—wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

“Who’d believe you?” The man jeers, but his eyes are scared. They give him away. “You have no proof.”

“Really? That’s news to me, honey.” Jimin pointedly glances down at his own pocket, at the phone camera peeking out above the silky fabric. The man follows his gaze. “I have you on video slipping three of whatever these are into my drink. And,” he smiles, “I have the case itself. It’s cute that you decided to get it customized. I’m sure your husband could ID it in a heartbeat.”

Jimin’s not against actually calling the police if he needs to in order to get himself out of this situation, but he’d rather not, even if they’d believe his word over the man’s as long as he cried hard enough. It’s worked before. But he hopes he doesn’t need to and he can just delete the video from his phone. He hopes the man will cooperate.

The man wrenches himself from Jimin’s grasp and slams his palm down on the DOOR OPEN button. Stupid move. He obviously doesn’t know that the only way to start a stopped elevator is to use a key to undo it—or, in an elevator that’s been jury-rigged by a hotel like this one, to press the STOP button again.

Jimin doesn’t move from his corner under the camera, waits patiently. He’ll realize soon enough and when he does, Jimin doesn’t want there to be a record of what comes next.

It takes a moment, but finally the man realizes that the doors aren’t going to open. “What the fuck did you do?” He hisses, turning on his heel.

“Nothing worse than you,” Jimin says. “Curious about that second option now?”

The man doesn’t answer, but that doesn’t matter. He’s listening and they both know it.

“What do you say we keep going up to that hotel room I know you’ve booked?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“There’s a catch. You’re not gonna let me off easy, not when you have proof. You want something. Is it money? I’ve got money. We can pretend nothing ever happened. We can both just leave.”

It takes everything in Jimin to keep his lips from curving into a smile. This one is smart. It won’t mean anything, in the end, but. It’s nice to know that he’s not as stupid as some of them.

“Not quite. And it’s not your money, it’s your husband’s. But I digress. We go up to that hotel room and you can fuck me. I’ll still let you, even after what you tried to do. But... first you have to take one of these pills you were going to give me.” He gives the container a little shake for emphasis, hears the capsules rattle around.

The man meets his gaze with a disgusted sneer. “No fucking way.”

Jimin purses his lips. “I’m going to let you rethink that one, but think fast. Your other option is the police.” He shrugs, leans back against the wall, projecting the perfect veneer of nonchalance.

“I’ll tell them you blackmailed me in this fucking elevator. And my husband will fucking end you.”

“Evidence,” Jimin murmurs, looking up at camera attached directly above him. “Evidence. The camera can’t get me from this angle. And I don’t think your husband would be too fond of learning about your… hobby. I’ll be nice: you only have to take one of these, not the three you were going to give me. You’ll still be aware, even if you won’t be entirely... lucid. I don’t like playing with unresponsive food.”

The man is trapped. Jimin has backed him into a corner, and if he’s being honest, this might be his favorite part: watching the internal struggle, the debate, the moment of acquiesce. He feels like he’s the most powerful person in the entire world, and that power floods his veins, spreading with every beat of his marble heart.

“Fine,” the man finally says, tone sharp. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Jimin squeezes his fingers around the container. “Your name, first,” he says. “I want to know what I should be moaning later tonight if you’re any good.”

“... Jungkook,” he says. “My name’s Jungkook.”

Jimin hits the STOP button again, and the elevator begins to move.

He doesn’t let go of Jungkook’s wrist until he’s swiped them into the hotel room. He flips open the top of the Airpods case, shakes one of the little pills into his palm, sets the container on the counter.

“Sit,” he tells Jungkook, pointing at the bed as he opens the mini fridge and pulls out one of the tiny complimentary bottles of water. He opens it and drops the capsule in, then screws the cap back on and shakes it to dissolve it.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asks. “I’m capable of taking it myself, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t trust you,” Jimin says. “You’ll spit it out.”

“I—” Jungkook protests, but then he seems to rethink it. Smart move on his part; he’s at Jimin’s mercy, after all. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“Drink, and no funny games,” Jimin says as he hands him the bottle, “Or I’ll make you take more than one.”

He takes it without protest, stares at the wall for a moment before he uncaps it and chugs it. “There. I drank your stupid pill, okay?”

“Ah-ah,” Jimin shakes his head. “Your pill. You tried to drug me. And I’m still giving you what you want, aren’t I? Just on slightly different terms. How long is this supposed to take to kick in?”

“Like 15 minutes, probably,” Jungkook mumbles.

“Okay,” Jimin says, agreeable. “What do you want to do in the meantime?”

“I want to fucking leave,” he says, pouting.

Jimin throws his head back and laughs harshly. “That’s rich, Jungkook. Kook. Can I call you Kook? Here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter what you want.”

Jungkook glances away, his bottom lip trembling. And Jimin—Jimin softens, just a little.

“Look at it this way. You still get to fuck me, yeah? That’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, it was. It is.”

“So why not try to make the best of a bad situation then, sweetie?” Jimin runs his tongue across his bottom lip, runs his hand through his hair, lets his eyelids flutter just a little bit. He’s lust epitomized. And:

“Alright,” Jungkook says in a tiny voice. “Yeah, okay.”

“How about I put on a show for you, mm? Strip for you?” Jimin asks. Jungkook just nods.

Jimin is very, very good at what he does.

He unbuttons the suit jacket, no shirt to worry about underneath, and pulls it slowly off. He flexes when he turns around and watches Jungkook rake his eyes over his body appreciatively, stopping at the tattoo at the side of his ribcage.

“Nevermind?”

“Personal,” Jimin replies shortly. “Not for you to know.” He reaches up to fix his hair before tracing his hand down the center of his abs, landing on the belt of his suit. He unbuckles it slowly, sets it down on the bed by Jungkook’s side, then undoes the button on his pants and struggles out of them. That’s always the most awkward part. He lets them crumple on the floor on top of his suit jacket; he’ll deal with ironing the wrinkles out of them later.

Something warm sparks inside him when he hears Jungkook honest-to-god gasp when he sees the lacy panties he’s wearing, his cock trapped under the edge of the fabric. He knows he looks good already but lingerie makes his ass look even better, and that’s something he’s always willing to get behind. He pulls them off and tosses them in some corner, he doesn’t really know where.

“Take your shirt off,” he tells Jungkook, who hurries to comply. “But leave the wedding band on. And then lie down—yeah, like that, on your stomach. Put your hands behind your back.”

Jungkook does what he says, and Jimin grabs the belt. “You have to cross your wrists.” He pulls the belt tight around them, cinches it tightly enough to bite into Jungkook’s skin and leave his wrists ringed with bruises in the morning.

Jimin has had a lot of practice doing this.

As he steps back towards the foot of the bed and reaches across Jungkook’s torso to unbutton his pants and pull them down with his underwear, Jungkook’s expression morphs into one of fear. “You’re not gonna—you’re not gonna fuck me, right? I don’t bottom.”

Jimin resists the urge to roll his eyes. “No, I’m not gonna fuck you. I already told you that you’re gonna fuck me. Except on my terms. That’s how this whole thing is going to work, remember?”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just—that’s something I’m not comfortable with. Like at all.”

It takes everything in Jimin not to say that he’s not comfortable with being fucking roofied so this rapist can have sex with him, but. Semantics. And he doesn’t seem to realize that in making his dislike of bottoming explicitly clear, he’s just given Jimin a weapon.

“On your knees,” Jimin says shortly, manhandling him off the bed and onto the floor. His eyes catch appreciatively on Jungkook’s cock; even soft, at least that isn’t as pathetic as his nonexistent morals. He’ll have his fun with that later, though. “You’re going to suck me off now, and if you bite or try anything funny, I won’t be the one bottoming.”

Fear spreads across Jungkook’s features like a rainstorm rolling in, and Jimin takes a moment to appreciate the fact that under different circumstances, he’d be handsome enough that maybe Jimin would have approached him the right way.

It takes Jungkook a moment to figure out his balance without his hands to help him, but he gets the hang of it soon enough, and leans forward to lave his tongue across the crown of Jimin’s dick. He goes slow, a little unsteady, drool already pooling at the corner of his mouth. Every few passes he dips his tongue cautiously into Jimin’s slit. It isn’t enough, though. It’s nowhere near enough.

“You can do better than that,” Jimin huffs. “Do better, or I’ll make you do better.” That makes Jungkook put a little more effort in, at least, and he sinks a little farther down.

“Slut,” Jimin comments as he tangles his fingers in the boy’s tousled hair. “Didn’t expect this, did you?”

Jungkook tries to gargle a response, but it comes out as a jumble of sounds that makes no sense. Jimin sighs. “Didn’t say you could talk, Kookie baby.” He winces at the nickname, which makes something inside of Jimin turn white-hot with the need to make this absolute—this criminal hurt not just emotionally, but physically as well.

The solution, of course, is to yank him down towards his pelvis until he can feel Jungkook choking on his dick, throat fluttering around him as he gags.

“Do—better—” Jimin says, punctuating each word with a shallow thrust. If he were to reach down right now, he’d be able to feel the outline of his dick through Jungkook’s throat as the boy on his knees beneath him, hands tied tight behind his back, turns red.

Jimin yanks his hair, tugging him forward one more time so his nose presses into the skin of the stomach before he lets him go. Jungkook’s eyes immediately tear up as he chokes and gasps for air, turning his head to the side as he desperately tries to breathe.

“No. No more,” Jungkook tries to rasp after a moment, and Jimin reaches out a deft hand and slaps him so his head turns to the other side.

“Yes, more,” he says sweetly. “You’re going to choke on my cock and you’re going to like it.” A glance downward tells Jimin that he’s already hard. “Aww, baby already does like it, huh?”

Jungkook begins to cry in earnest as Jimin nudges his balls with the heel of his foot, then moves his foot so it’s hovering over his dick. “You’re going to deepthroat me now, and if you do it wrong, I’m going to step all over your pretty little excuse of a dick until you realize your place.”

He reaches forward and thumbs the snot that’s collected under Jungkook’s nose away, wiping it on his collarbone. Then he guides Jungkook back towards his dick. He doesn’t need any more prompting to take it into his mouth and sink down as quickly as he can, taking one last deep, gasping breath before he tries to swallow around the head and trace his tongue along the vein on the underside.

Jimin tosses his head back with a groan and tightens his grip on Jungkook’s curls as he feels him choke once, twice, three times. He pulls back for a breath, and sinks down again. Jimin takes this as his cue to begin thrusting up once more, holding Jungkook in place. It’s so fucking—so fucking hot to just be using him like this, to be teaching him a lesson.

Jungkook obviously thinks it’s hot, too, or he wouldn’t be trying to grind against the sole of Jimin’s foot with little kicks of his hips. Jungkook’s eyes are closed, but it’s definitely been fifteen minutes, and when he opens them Jimin knows his pupils will be blown unnaturally wide by the drug in his system.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” Jimin says, voice like still as he pulls Jungkook off of him once more. “Didn’t say you could hump my foot, trying to get off like a fucking dog does. You don’t deserve to.”

“’m, ’m sorry,” Jungkook wheezes. His cheeks are wet and a handprint is blooming across his left cheek where Jimin hit him earlier, a slightly darker shade of red than the rosy flush covering the rest of his face.

“Get back on the bed,” Jimin orders. Jungkook is quick to comply, and Jimin bends over to rifle through the bedside door for the condom he’s sure Jungkook stowed there. People like Jungkook usually don’t like to risk STDs; how would they explain it to their partners?

He hears Jungkook gasp when he turns away, and it takes him a moment to remember that Jungkook hasn’t yet seen the crimson jewel of the plug nestled between the cheeks of Jimin’s ass yet.

Jimin turns around triumphant, and finds Jungkook hazy-eyed, lying on the bed with his hands still bound behind his back and his dick standing at attention. “Lube,” Jimin says with a snap of his fingers. “Where did you put the lube?” “Huh?” Jungkook says with a slow blink. He’s obviously incredibly out of it, and Jimin is terrified to think about what three of those pills would have done to him.

“The lube, idiot, where did you put the lube?”

“Didn’t, uh, didn’t. There’s none.”

Jimin feels the anger that’s been thrumming through his veins since Jungkook tried to drug him boil over. “Let me get this fucking straight,” he says. “Not only did you plan here coming to roofie somebody, you were going to stick your dick inside of them with absolutely zero lube and zero prep?”

“Spit,” Jungkook says weakly, trying to defend himself.

“This isn’t fucking Brokeback Mountain, you absolute shitstain of a human,” Jimin replies. “God, I don’t even want to look at you.”

“’s fine, though,” Jungkook mumbles, “You’ve already. Already prepped yourself.”

“I have half a mind to leave you here tied up and naked and go find your incredibly unfortunate husband to explain to him exactly what kind of person you are,” Jimin hisses.

Jungkook doesn’t respond for a moment, just blinks hazily. Then: “Jus’. Already here. Jus’ put it in you.”

It’s no use trying to reason with them. They never learn from that. Jimin knows this all too well. So he breathes deeply. Composes himself. Reaches forward, rolls the condom down onto Jungkook’s dick, and straddles him in one smooth movement. He reaches behind him to pull the plug out, feeling cold air on his hole as it leaves his body. Then without warning, Jimin sinks down all the way to the hilt, sighing a little inside at the way it fills him.

Jungkook moans brokenly, his throat still wrecked from earlier. It will probably be hard for him to talk for the next few days. “God, god, yes.”

Jimin reaches out and slaps his face again. Jungkook’s eyes close and he just lies there and takes it. “This isn’t supposed to be good for you. It’s not about you. It’s about me.” He rises up, thighs flexing with the effort of it as he steadies himself by pressing his hands against Jungkook’s chest. His pinky finger brushes against the dusky edge of Jungkook’s areola, which pebbles immediately. Jungkook shudders.

“Holy shit, you’re sensitive, aren’t you,” Jimin says, sinking down again. He pauses for a moment to roll the bud of his nipple between his fingers, and Jungkook whines, high pitched and pained.

“Jimin,” he says, voice breaking on the second syllable. “Fuck, yes, touch me. Touch me there.”

Jimin yanks his hand back like he’s been burned.

This is not about you,” he hisses. He refuses to give Jungkook any more pleasure than he has to. He rises up and sinks down again, shifting his hips around to find the right angle so that Jungkook’s dick rubs against his prostate with each movement. It takes him a moment to find it, but once he does, he almost moans himself.

Jimin grinds slowly for a moment, letting the heat begin to build in his stomach, and then picks up the pace again. His thigh muscles are going to ache in the morning, but at least unlike Jungkook, for him it will be a pleasant reminder of another lesson taught. He tries so hard to keep people like Jungkook from doing the things they do to the person Jimin once was, the person who was so shattered after that one night at a college party that was supposed to be a celebration of finishing final exams that he ended up losing his scholarship and dropping out. He’s better now, stronger. And he tries hard, so hard, to protect the people who are like he once was. And if that makes him a bad person, so be it. It all cancels out in the end.

Jungkook has begun to meet him, planting his feet on the bed and thrusting up as best he can with his hands still bound and his eyes completely clouded over. “You don’t deserve this,” says Jimin, voice harsh. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve anybody, not me, not your poor husband, not all of the other people I’m sure you’ve done this to. You deserve to die.”

Jimin feels Jungkook’s dick twitch inside of him. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “You’re suck a fucking whore. You know that you deserve none of this, don’t you. That’s why you do this. Because nobody, nobody wants you otherwise, not once they realize what a monster, an absolute monster, you are.”

With no warning other than a heady, deep groan, Jungkook comes inside of Jimin, who clenches down and picks up his pace. “Jesus, that’s really what gets you off? Being reminded that you’re not even worthy of the air you breathe? You’re even more fucked up than I thought.”

Jungkook whimpers. “Stop,” he says. “Stop, hurts.”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re oversensitive,” Jimin says. “I’m not going to remind you again that this isn’t about you. I haven’t come yet and I’m not stopping until I do.” He feels the heat in his stomach growing slowly, like a fire being stoked, but his orgasm is still a ways off. Jungkook will just have to deal with it.

Except it turns out that Jungkook can’t deal with it, because after a minute of mewled objections, his face goes lax and he breathes out a gentle sigh. It takes a moment for Jimin to realize that he’s pissed himself.

Jimin pulls off as quickly as he possibly can. Yellow spreads across the bedsheets under Jungkook, who looks completely relaxed.

“What the fuck?!” Jimin shrieks. “What the actual fuck, oh my god, you’re—oh my god, you’re disgusting.”

“Can’t help,” Jungkook says, head lolling, “can’t help it.”

“What the hell do you mean, you couldn’t help it?!”

“Drug. ’s, uh, sort of like Viagra,” he says. Pauses for a moment to think. “Makes you come. Fast. Makes you drowsy. Yeah. Everything just feels. Good. You lose control of your, um, muscles. So. Piss.”

“Say it,” Jimin says. “Say it: I’m a filthy fucking pig who pissed himself because I couldn’t handle being used like the whore I am.”

“Don’t wanna,” Jungkook whines.

Say it, or I will finger you open without any lube like you would have done to me. You need to learn your place in this world and that what you tried to do isn’t okay, or I will make sure you fucking hurt.”

Jungkook opens his eyes to look at Jimin, and something about him must convince him that Jimin is deadly serious.

“I’m. I’m a filthy,” Jungkook manages, and then he starts to sob. “I can’t, I can’t. I can’t do it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I won’t try to roofie anybody again, I’ll be faithful to my husband, I just. I can’t do it.”

Jimin feels all of the remaining blood in his body rush to his dick at the power trip he feels, at this handsome young man lying under him completely at his mercy, just like Jimin was at somebody else’s mercy so long ago. It makes him feel charitable.

“Fine,” Jimin says shortly. “Fine, just finish getting me off before I change my mind.”

Jungkook struggles to sit up, and Jimin doesn’t try to help him. He looks absolutely disgusting, sitting there in his own piss, his face a mess of snot and tears and his dick now flagging sadly, the spent condom hanging off of it. He sticks out his tongue, and Jimin realizes that he intends to suck him off again.

Well, fine by him.

It doesn’t take long for Jimin to come now, the power of breaking the other man coursing through his veins. He pulls out and comes all over Jungkook’s face, streaks of white across his cheeks and nose.

As he finishes, Jungkook tilts sideways, completely sapped of energy. His eyes close as his head hits the hotel pillow. Jimin reaches out and plucks the wedding band from Jungkook’s left hand, then picks up his clothing off the floor of the room and gets dressed in the en suite bathroom.

He leaves him there. He’s sure housekeeping will find Jungkook in the morning, sleeping off the roofie completely naked and bound in sheets covered in his own pee, and he supposes the husband will get involved.

It’s a shame he had to do this; Namjoon seems like a very nice person, and Jimin is sure he’ll be quite concerned about Jungkook and his well-being. But that’s not his problem. If Jungkook is smart, he’ll spin the story into some sort of BDSM deal gone wrong, too bored with the vanilla sex life he and Namjoon must have, which. Isn’t actually that far from the truth, Jimin supposes. Just a little less than consent from both parties. But it had to be done.

Jimin’s suit, now crumpled from the time it spent on the floor, is the same color as long-gone Merlot, and Jungkook’s wedding ring glints silver on his finger as he leaves the hotel room and steps into the dark night without so much as a glance behind him. He has to hurry if he wants to pawn the ring and catch a train to the next city to start all over again.