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It's cruel.

That's the point, really.

Maybe that should have been predictable, with how it had all ended, with Jungkook's words, harsh and spitting.

We can still live together.

Whose dumb fucking idea was that?

Didn't want to put Jungkook out, not when he was already so busy at work—angling for a promotion.


He could say that as much as he wanted, and it would almost, almost sound convincing. Like it wasn't another reason, deeper and more pathetic, crawling and turning in his belly. Not that he wanted to see Jungkook every day, figure out if it was salvageable, somehow.

You're the one who broke up with me . Could hear it already, in his voice.

He hadn't had much of a choice. Already fraying at the edges, the torn remnants of the relationship. Jungkook hadn't seen it in the same way, and of course he hadn't—Seokjin was his first boyfriend, first real one, anyway. He hadn't lived through the slow poison of seeing a relationship fall apart.

He didn't recognize the signs the same way Seokjin did:  the way Jungkook wanted to go out, stay out late, slamming back shots, able to shake  it off the next morning, while Seokjin always woke up with a shitty hangover. Jungkook's knees didn't hurt when it rained; Jungkook's back didn't ache when they slept on the futon. Jungkook didn't realize that they needed a new bed, because it didn't hurt him—didn't bother him at all.

What's the point of spending all this money, anyway, then?


Too young for him.

Yoongi had always said so, said it with a raised eyebrow and a little smile, “Really, really, are you sure about this?”

Not to mention the fucking stares by his co-workers whenever he mentioned his boyfriend was still in college—wasn't it such a fucking stereotype? Exactly what they expected of him, the handsome, too-pretty gay man with the younger boyfriend.

Junior year of college when they first started dating, ( that was fucking awful), going back to gross frat parties to meet his boyfriend's friends and trying not to roll his eyes as they complained about things he knew wouldn't matter in a few weeks: the annoying TA, the low grade on the problem set.

He gave advice, drunk too quick on cheap beer and that horrible, 120-proof vodka. Swore he'd never have it again after he graduated, and here he was, sinking into a couch probably hauled out of the street, five years past its prime and two years past any usability.

Their eyes glazed over. Nodded politely at him, took jello shots, nuclear-green.

Of course they did. Who wanted to hear advice that they didn't ask for? He'd heard it himself, their age, ignored it himself, too.

He was right, of course.

Had to carry Jungkook out himself, slurring and too, too drunk. Whenever he lifted his shoes off the ground, they stuck, for a second, floor covered in—god, he didn't even want to know.

It was fine.

Jungkook was annoyed at him, a little, the next day, drinking the soup Seokjin made for him. Asked him why he was so weird around his friends and so normal around him.

Seokjin wanted to laugh.

Because I don't like them as much as I like you.

Some of them were okay. Two of them were great, but the mass of random acquaintances that Jungkook called “friends” who were really just drinking buddies—no. Not his favorite.

Sucked Jungkook off until he stopped pouting, kept his mouth shut about what he really thought about some of his friends.

The ones he thought would last, did: two he actually really liked, Jimin and Taehyung, who sort of listened to his advice and doubled over at his jokes and tried to include him and didn't pour drinks of 90% vodka and 10% soda. 

He'd thought Jungkook was going to move in with them after college.

He brought a suitcase to Seokjin's doorstep instead.

And then they ended up here, sharing a room with a shitty, too-thin divider between them, someone (okay, he caught his name, he just liked to ignore it) fucking Jungkook into the mattress. Jungkook whimpering and thrashing and fucking screaming, extra loud, just so Seokjin could hear.

They didn't have enough room, Seokjin said.

No one should have to sleep in the living room, Seokjin said.

Seokjin should probably shut the fuck up.

Or Jungkook should, because that scream is so, so fucking fake, an exaggeration of an orgasm.

Jungkook didn't come like that.

Maybe he should tell the guy, as he wipes his cum out of Jungkook's ass.

Jungkook comes quietly, crying, if you did a good job. Whimpering and fisting into the sheets, going boneless and weak after. Needed Seokjin to carry him, sink him into the bathtub and rub his skin clean.

The screams, the eyebrow piercing, the tattoos, all of it—it's a fucking show. And isn't he lucky to be in the audience.

The tattoos started seven months ago, when they first broke up. When Jungkook started wearing his hair long, came back with his arm covered in gauze and two extra piercings.

Stopped wearing shirts in the house, too, claiming it was too hot for them.

It was fucking October.

The murmuring, after. The man asking for Jungkook's number. They always did.

Jungkook gave it to him.

That was new.

Maybe the orgasm wasn't as fucking fake as he pretended, maybe he just made it louder for Seokjin.

The smacking sound of kissing always sounded worse than the fucking, somehow.

Maybe this one would stay the night.

Maybe Seokjin would have to face him the next morning.

He talked to a couple of them.

Sort of.

He heard the belt buckle jingling, the soft brushing of fabric against fabric. No sleepover, then.

He closed his eyes as the man left, pretended to be asleep, mouth open.

Clicked the lights off as he left. How fucking considerate.

"Jungkook-ah," he said, after the door closed.

"Yeah?" Jungkook asked. Raw.

"Do you always have to fuck so loud?"

Jungkook giggled.

"Yeah." He paused. 

"Don't you like it?"

Fucked up, how hard he got, hearing Jungkook’s fake pleasure, stuttering through it. Rock-hard in his grey boxers. Wondered if the man had seen that, too, on his way out.

"What, hearing you fake an orgasm?" Seokjin asked. "No, if I wanted to listen to a twink fake come I'd just pull up your porn history."

Jungkook laughed. A real one. "Nice."

He slipped his hand in his briefs, fingers trailing over the base of his cock. It's dry, too dry. Grabs the lube off his nightstand, makes a horrible squelching noise as he squeezes it out, and Jungkook laughs, again.

"You can just fuck me."


Could probably just slide in without fucking prepping him.

Better than fucking into his hand, at least.

He pushed himself off the sheets, pushing his boxers down his legs, flicked the lights back on as he crossed that useless fucking divider. 

Jungkook looked wrecked. Dark skin fucking covered in bites, the trailing darkness of his tattoo melding with the scratches down his arms, propped up on the bed with his long, dark hair against the bedframe, smirking up at Seokjin. Cum covered his chest, his cock still hard and heavy between his legs, spread open.

Red marks all down his neck, and oh, that did make Jungkook scream for real, hard bruising bites.

Maybe the man wasn't that bad.

Smelled of sex. The whole room always did, like Jungkook made a point of it.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. "You just going to stand there?"

He snorted. "Condom?" he asked.


Jungkook leaned over, tossing the cardboard box to Seokjin.

The condoms scattered on the bed. Sheets half torn off the bed anyway, mattress nearly bare.

Seokjin grabbed one, opened it with his teeth, rolled it down his hard cock.

"What, no foreplay?" he asked, lifting his legs up anyway.

Seokjin slipped a finger inside Jungkook. Easy.

Gaping, his dark brown, dusky hole and little wispy dark hairs. "You don't need it."

"Like it," Jungkook countered, gasping as Seokjin pressed in.

Swallowed him whole.

"Okay," Seokjin said, leaning down, almost as if to kiss him. They didn't do that. They'd done everything else since they broke up, fucked Jungkook senseless til he cried on every fucking surface of their home—punishment for not doing the dishes, for being too loud, whatever, it didn't matter. Pathetic excuses.

Flicked Jungkook's nipple, instead, Jungkook tightening around him.

Jungkook whimpered.

God, he's already so fucking loose.

"Did he have a big dick?" Seokjin asked, grinding in hard, slamming against Jungkook's prostate.

Jungkook whined, tears already welling in his eyes.

"Must have."

Jungkook nodded. "Not as good ."


That's why he always ended up back here, split on Seokjin's cock, no matter how many people he'd fucked before.

Didn't bother to answer that, just hit against his prostate again until Jungkook whined, cock twitching pathetically on his stomach, already dripping precum.

It must hurt.

Jungkook always preferred that.

That was something they’d learned together: Jungkook finally feeling comfortable enough to experiment, now that he was with someone stable , and fuck, if he thought about that too much he’d go soft. The tears that constantly felt just below the surface of his skin breaking through.

Jungkook’s nails dragged down his arms, red welts following his movements, and that, that was enough to bring him back, focus.

Jungkook babbling nothingness—praise, probably. He’d learned to tune it out after the first time, tasted too sour.

Focused on the way Jungkook’s back arched instead, the way his cock leaked and twitched when Seokjin got the angle just right, pretty petal lips hanging open, desperate, keening sounds escaping his throat.

He’d gotten it down to an art form, making Jungkook come.

Especially untouched.

A shame to waste the talent.

He could see it, building in Jungkook’s body, thighs and abs coiled tight, eyes squeezed shut, Jungkook fucking squeezing around him, tight, tight, and he just needed to—hold on, keep fucking focused, for a little bit longer, until Jungkook falls apart around him and then he can—

And then Jungkook’s whimpering, nails drawing fucking blood, that’s droplets of blood on his fucking skin , tears falling from Jungkook’s eyes and that’s real , that’s actually real, the way he comes dry, sobbing. 

Seokjin never remembers when he comes. Blacks out, it feels like everything goes white and quiet and soft for a second and then he’s collapsing on Jungkook, water being forced to his lips, Jungkook sweaty and panting underneath him.

Jungkook never pushes him off.

He always wondered about that. He used to. 

It came back to him, slowly, the stinging in his arms first, the raised red skin. He’d need to...go back, cross that divider again, at some point, pretend that the line mattered. 

Little ceremonies: not sharing a bed, not kissing, keeping some sort of line—useless as that thin fucking divider splitting a too small bedroom. Pretending it was a wall instead of cheap, fake wood. 

"We have to stop doing this," Seokjin said, stroking the skin on Jungkook's arm, the way his little dark hairs stood up.

"Yeah," Jungkook said. Nuzzled into Seokjin's shoulder, leg hooked over his waist. "Probably should."

Seokjin turned his head. Meant to say something. Didn't know what, exactly.

Cool, and soft, and sweet, the feeling of Jungkook's lips pressed against his. 

Seokjin kissed back.