Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tokyo.
It was snowing.
Not much, just thin flakes tangled in the rain, vanishing before they could ever touch the earth.
The sky wept quietly, and the city seemed to listen.

Jimin stood before the open window, his fingers resting on the cold wooden frame. The breeze slipped in, cool against his skin, brushing over his cheeks like a stranger’s hand. The scent of damp stone and rusted metal filled his lungs. Somewhere far below, water gurgled through gutters, mixing with the faint hum of distant traffic.

He was not watching the snow. He could not. He had never seen it. Blindness had been his only constant since birth.

Still, he knew it was raining.
He could hear the gentle tapping of droplets against the roof, soft song that did not belong to him. He could feel the breeze shift, carrying the dampness against his bare arms. The air was heavy, swollen with the scent of wet earth and the faint sweetness of street vendors’ roasted chestnuts drifting from a corner he could not see.

But none of it reached him.
His body was too sore to feel beauty. The ache in his muscles pulsed with every breath, a dull reminder of the night before. His skin still held the ghost of hands that had touched him without care.

If he could, he would have run far from here.
But where would he go?
There was no safe place waiting, no one calling his name.
There was only the skin that kept him alive, a fragile shield traded to strangers for survival. And even then, he did not know who he was surviving for.

Somewhere behind him, a door groaned open, the sound slow and heavy, as if the hinges themselves hesitated. Jimin’s spine straightened, instinct tightening every muscle.

A mild scent of alcohol slid into the room, wrapping around him like smoke curling through the dark. It was not sharp or overwhelming, but warm and slow, carrying the memory of lips pressed to a glass.

The floor creaked beneath a step.
And another.
Deliberate, unhurried.

Jimin turned toward the sound, his head tilting slightly, listening to the rhythm of the stranger’s approach. The rain’s song faded in the background. All that remained was the quiet echo of footsteps and the soft breath of someone who had just entered his world.

And the stranger looked at Jimin.

Jungkook.

His gaze lifted slowly, drawn as if the room itself had guided his eyes. His lips parted the moment he saw him.

Jimin stood in the pale spill of moonlight, his head slightly bowed, lashes casting faint shadows across his cheeks. There were freckles scattered high on his skin, soft like constellations only the night could see. His small, delicate nose caught the light for a moment, and below it, lips full and impossibly tempting, curved in a natural pout that seemed almost unreal.

His body appeared fragile, the kind of beauty that made one want to touch and break in equal measure. A loose tank top hung from his frame, one size too large, the fabric slipping against his collarbones. His shorts ended high, revealing the delicate line of his thighs, pale against the shadowed room.

Jungkook stood there, watching, drinking in every detail as though committing them to memory. A quiet hum stirred in his chest, the sound of desire building without permission.

So this was who he would be fucking tonight.
The thought curled through his mind, dark and certain.

Before Jungkook could take another step, there was a knock on the door.

The sound was soft but sharp in the quiet, like a pebble dropped into still water. Jimin’s chin lifted, just a fraction, toward it. The movement was small, but it drew Jungkook’s eyes the way a flame pulls at darkness.

Jungkook seemed not to care who was on the other side, not until Jimin spoke.

"Could you please open the door?"

Damn.
His voice was the sweetest song Jungkook had ever heard, low and soft yet ringing in his head like it had been carved there for him alone. The voice that would be moaning under him tonight.

The thought came with heat, curling deep in his stomach, and he moved toward the door with a lazy, deliberate pace. Even then, his eyes never left Jimin, the pale skin kissed by moonlight, the loose shirt that seemed to slide over his frame like water, the stillness in his stance that made Jungkook ache to disturb it.

He opened the door.

A girl stood there, framed in the hall’s dim light. Her perfume was cheap, her smile polite.

"I'm sorry, sir… you took the wrong room. Yours is the next one," she said sweetly.

Jungkook did not even blink.

"I want him," he said, his voice flat and certain, gesturing toward Jimin, who was still standing near the window, head slightly tilted as though he could hear the tension in the air.

"I'm sor—"

He did not let her finish. The door shut hard, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch.

"Fuck off," she muttered as she turned away, her heels clicking against the hallway floor before the sound faded.

When Jungkook turned back to Jimin, the space between them had changed.

Jimin was closer now, his footsteps so light they barely kissed the floor. His bare feet made no sound. And then his face was nearer, his body a breath away, and Jungkook stood utterly still, watching.

Up close, Jimin was even more beautiful. The moonlight traced the curve of his cheek, brushed along his jaw, and slipped over the bow of his lips. Jungkook could see him clearly now, every delicate line, every soft shadow.

"You might get payment problems if you changed the room," Jimin said, his voice softer than before, the kind of softness that could undo a man. It made Jungkook swallow hard, his throat suddenly dry.

His breathing was already uneven, pulled apart by the simple fact that Jimin was closer.

"I’m ready to pay millions for you," Jungkook replied without hesitation.

Jimin almost shook his head, a tiny movement, and then… he laughed. The sound was light, almost careless, as though Jungkook’s words were nothing but an absurd joke.

That was when Jungkook noticed it, the crooked teeth peeking through, the curve of his smile. Damn. Yes. He would pay millions just to see that smile again.

"You must be someone who spends money more than earning, right?" Jimin said, tilting his head slightly. But his eyes did not catch Jungkook’s. They darted elsewhere… nowhere.

Jungkook noticed.

He stepped forward, his hand coming up to grip Jimin’s jaw. Not tight, but firm. Possessive.

"Look at me," Jungkook said, his brows furrowed, his voice dropping into a growl. He wanted those eyes; wanted Jimin to meet him.

Jimin blinked once, slowly.

"I… I can’t. I’m blind." His voice was calm, simple, as though stating the truth stripped it of any weight.

Something in Jungkook’s brow loosened for the briefest heartbeat.

And then he moved.

Faster.

With a hunger that left no space for hesitation, he closed the distance and pressed his lips to Jimin’s.

Raw hunger filled the space between them.
His lips pressed fiercely against those full lips, devouring every inch with a desperate need. It was as if he was tasting the very air, savoring the softness and warmth that only Jimin could give. Every breath trembling from Jimin’s mouth became a fragile gift, one Jungkook drank in without hesitation.

His hand slid down from Jimin’s jaw, fingers weaving deep into the tangled dark strands of his hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, thick and wild beneath his grasp. The other hand traced a slow path along Jimin’s slender waist, sliding lower, pulling him closer until the heat of their bodies became a quiet blaze in the still room.

And the most intoxicating truth? Jimin was kissing him back.
Jimin was not supposed to care if he liked it or not. He was meant to obey, to move as commanded. But there he was, moving with a hesitant grace, shifting to the same rhythm that Jungkook set, the gentle rise and fall of breath syncing in perfect harmony.

Jungkook’s grip on Jimin’s waist tightened, fingers digging in just enough to mark him, to claim the fragile skin that burned beneath the touch. A soft, almost reluctant moan escaped from between Jimin’s lips, warm and wet, pressing urgently against Jungkook’s mouth like a secret finally spoken.

Then Jungkook’s tongue slipped inside; raw, relentless, a poison that sank deep and burned sweet. It tasted of fire and hunger, impossible to resist.

He tightened his hold on Jimin’s hair, pulling him closer still, until their faces were pressed together with a fierce intimacy.

His other hand roamed lower, tracing the curve of Jimin’s bare skin beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. His fingers brushed over the delicate flesh, igniting a trail of heat that blossomed into a slow, aching fire.

God, Jungkook was losing himself to this moment.

And that was when Jungkook felt Jimin’s hands on his shoulders.
Small fingers clutching at the fabric of Jungkook’s jacket, as if holding on was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the moment.

Jungkook couldn’t stop pressing his lips against those soft, swollen lips.
Only when Jimin gently pushed away, just enough to catch a breath, did Jungkook finally pause.

Jimin’s lips were flushed and full,
the freckles scattered beneath his eyes blooming red like scattered petals,
making him look more breathtaking than ever.

But Jungkook’s desire did not waver.

His eyes drifted down slowly, to the exposed curve of Jimin’s neck, the delicate rise and fall of his collarbones, the loose sleeve of the tank top hanging off his bare arm.

Before Jimin could even process what was happening, Jungkook’s lips were trailing hot, wet kisses along the soft skin of his neck.

Open-mouthed, lingering, each kiss a shiver of heat left behind, until Jungkook found his favorite spot, a place on Jimin’s neck that made the fragile boy shiver and lean into him without hesitation.

Jimin shifted just enough, offering every inch of his neck to Jungkook’s hungry mouth.

His skin grew slick with the wetness of kisses, warm and urgent, but then came the sharp press of teeth, sucking, biting, again and again, fierce and unrelenting.

Jimin’s breath hitched, releasing soft, open moans that trembled through the charged air, a fragile surrender to the force of Jungkook’s hunger.

“Say Jungkook,” he murmured, lips still pressed to the same bruised spot on Jimin’s neck, now kissing the skin that had turned a dark, reddish purple.

Jungkook’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of Jimin’s bare arms, tracing small, hungry patterns that made the boy shiver beneath his touch.

“Say it,” he growled low in the crook of Jimin’s neck, his voice rough and demanding.

“J-Jungkook,” Jimin whispered, breath trembling with the effort.

Hearing his name fall from Jimin’s lips made it feel new; more beautiful than anything Jungkook had ever known.

His lips drifted upward to Jimin’s collarbone. He had thought the spot on the neck was his favorite, but the scent that clung there drove him wilder than before, raw and intoxicating.

Jimin’s fingers tangled softly in Jungkook’s dark locks, tentative and tender, a quiet surrender in the midst of the storm.

But Jungkook’s lips pressed harder against Jimin’s skin, worshipping every inch with a fierce, unrelenting hunger.

Jungkook looked up at Jimin, breath uneven and heavy.
His eyes darkened with desire, aching to rip that tank top away.
But seeing it half clinging, half slipping from Jimin’s delicate frame, Jungkook wasted no time.

With a swift movement, he pulled the thin fabric over Jimin’s head, tossing it aside carelessly.

Jimin understood without hesitation.
His fingers found the hem of Jungkook’s jacket, sliding it off slowly when Jungkook gave the silent permission.
If Jimin wanted to do it, Jungkook would let him.

Now Jimin was bare-chested beneath the dim light, and Jungkook's hands sought Jimin’s skin again, tracing the tender curves of his ribs.

When Jungkook lifted Jimin off the ground, the boy felt weightless in his arms; like he was made of nothing but air and fire.

Jimin’s legs wrapped instinctively around Jungkook’s torso, his arms gripping tight to Jungkook’s shoulders as if holding on was the only way to stay anchored.

Jungkook needed only one arm to hold him secure.
With the other, he cupped the nape of Jimin’s neck, pulling him down until their lips met again; fierce, demanding, impossibly hungry.

He kissed Jimin like he wanted those lips to swell, to burn with the memory of him.

Like he wanted Jimin to feel the weight of his kiss long after the dawn.

Jungkook’s legs moved toward the bed with a restless urgency, the ache to feel Jimin beneath him burning like wildfire through his veins. But instead of taking him immediately, he lowered himself down onto the edge of the mattress, heavy and deliberate.

His lips never left Jimin’s, clinging like the newest addiction; more potent than the joint he’d smoked earlier, more intoxicating than anything else that had ever touched his senses.

Each kiss was a slow burn.

Jimin’s hand curled into Jungkook’s hair again, fingers threading softly through the dark strands like a delicate caress, grounding him in the moment.

When Jungkook cracked his eyes open, he found Jimin’s eyelids fluttered closed, the soft tilt and gentle turn of his head, an unspoken offering.
It was an invitation painted with tenderness and aching vulnerability, beckoning Jungkook to taste him again and again.

Jimin was giving himself over with a fragile grace, and Jungkook drank in every drop; no hesitation, no pause.

When Jungkook pulled back just enough to see Jimin’s face, his breath caught on the fragile curve of lips swollen from their kiss.

But Jimin leaned in, lips tracing a wet path down Jungkook’s throat and settling at the pulse pounding in his neck.

The kiss was featherlight but searing, the soft suction of swollen lips pulling at the tender skin like a lover’s signature.

Jungkook’s eyes slipped closed, his breath hitching, caught in a storm of sensation he never knew could exist.

Jimin’s mouth left trails of fire that danced along his skin, making his head spin and his heart race in maddening circles.

Jungkook could no longer restrain the wildfire consuming him.
With a fluid, almost effortless motion, he spun Jimin toward the bed, the world narrowing to the space between their bodies, the soft rustle of fabric, the sharp intake of breath.

He hovered there, weightless yet heavy, kneeling between Jimin’s parted legs.
The heat radiating from him was electric.

Without a second thought, Jungkook pulled the t-shirt over his head, the fabric sliding off like a whisper against bare skin before it was tossed carelessly aside.

Jimin’s body responded before his mind could catch up; he felt the undeniable press of Jungkook’s growing hardness against the fabric of his pants, a fierce, urgent hunger that pressed insistently between them.

But then, Jungkook’s lips found him again; this time descending to the dark peak of his nipple, delicate and swollen under the kiss.

A soft moan, breathless, slipped from Jimin’s lips, melting into the quiet air.
Jungkook’s tongue flicked and traced, worshipping that tender skin with a reverence that sparked heat beneath the surface, an exquisite contrast to the raw desire burning in his eyes.

His fingers moved with gentle precision to the waistband of Jimin’s boxers, sliding them down with an ease that left no room for hesitation.

Jimin’s eyes stayed closed, surrendering fully to the moment.

Jungkook’s own jeans became the next barrier to fall, peeled away swiftly and carelessly, the sound of denim hitting the floor.

He wanted them both bare, stripped of every layer that separated skin from skin.

Jungkook was already grown, heavy and alive, a burning ember ready to ignite.

His fingers reached out without hesitation, tracing the delicate skin of Jimin’s hand, pulling the small fingers into his grasp like holding something precious and fragile.

Jimin’s eyes fluttered open, the world still wrapped in endless darkness, yet in that moment, the unseen space between them seemed charged with a new kind of light.

Jungkook’s gaze was fierce yet gentle, searching the hidden depths behind Jimin’s eyes, as if trying to map the unseen contours of his soul.

With slow reverence, Jungkook guided Jimin’s trembling fingers down the length pressed against them; warm, insistent, alive. Jimin’s fingers curled instinctively, wrapping around Jungkook with a tenderness.

His thumb moved in soft, deliberate circles, sending sparks of sensation that raced beneath Jungkook’s skin like lightning chasing the night sky.

A low, guttural groan escaped Jungkook’s throat, a sound heavy with need, surprise, and aching delight.

He threw his head back, muscles taut with the flood of feeling, then snapped it forward, craving the sight of Jimin’s face again.

Jimin’s lips were swollen, parted slightly, glistening with the wet heat of shared breath; innocent and raw, a fragile invitation wrapped in vulnerability.

That simple sight seared into Jungkook’s heart, igniting a hunger that roared louder than anything he’d ever known.

He wanted those lips; soft, trembling, aching, to press against his length, to taste and hold and claim in a moment that would burn forever in memory.

Taking Jimin’s fingers away gently, Jungkook’s hand slid up to the nape of Jimin’s neck, fingers threading into the soft dark hair at the back of his head.

Before Jungkook could say anything, before he could even breathe out a command or a plea, Jimin was already moving, pushing himself forward with a quiet determination.

His lips wrapped around Jungkook’s length, warm and eager, and the world tilted.

Jungkook threw his head back again, muscles taut, breath catching in his throat as waves of sensation crashed through him.

He swore in that moment he would never forget this; never forget the way Jimin’s mouth felt, soft and unyielding. Jimin’s strokes began gentle, tentative, learning the contours and the rhythm. But Jungkook needed more; more urgency, more fire.

“Faster,” he growled, voice low and ragged with want.

Jimin obeyed without hesitation, quickening his pace with a steady, sure rhythm that sent Jungkook spiraling deeper into madness.

His hands tangled in Jimin’s hair, pulling with a soft strength that claimed and protected.

Jimin’s one hand stayed on Jungkook’s length, stroking with patience, while the other traced a path down to Jungkook’s exposed abs, fingers gliding over the taut planes of muscle with a touch that set every nerve alight.

Jungkook’s groan was a low rumble that vibrated through the room, raw and unfiltered, a symphony of need and dominance breaking free.

He yanked himself back just enough to capture Jimin’s waist, then pushed him down onto the bed with a powerful, commanding motion.

Jimin’s body responded, bouncing softly on the mattress, his skin flushed and glowing under the dim light that filtered through the curtains.

With deliberate urgency, Jungkook spread Jimin’s legs wide, revealing the vulnerable, warm depths waiting for him.

Without warning, he thrust himself into Jimin’s waiting hole; fast and ruthless, each movement sharp and fierce like thunder rolling across a stormy sky.

Jimin’s moans filled the air, raw and desperate, cascading from his lips like a sacred melody that wrapped around Jungkook’s soul.

His fingers gripped the edges of the bed, knuckles whitening. Jungkook leaned down, capturing Jimin’s nipple with his mouth once more, the soft, swollen bud responding instantly to the wet heat and gentle suckling.

His fingers traced lazy, possessive lines across Jimin’s waist, memorizing every curve and plane with tactile reverence.

Jimin’s arms circled Jungkook’s shoulders, clinging to him with a mixture of need and fragile, their bodies moving in a violent yet tender dance.

“J-Jungkook,” Jimin whispered, voice trembling with raw emotion. That single utterance was all Jungkook needed.

He deepened his thrusts, driving harder and faster, his rhythm relentless, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

Jimin’s body bounced beneath him, every rise and fall echoing their shared hunger, the bed groaning in protest under the unyielding cadence.

Jungkook’s lips never left the hardened nipple, sucking and nipping with fierce tenderness, igniting sparks of pleasure that radiated through Jimin’s entire being.

And only when Jimin’s thighs were slick with Jungkook’s wetness did Jungkook slow his movements. His forehead came to rest gently against Jimin’s chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath the skin. Every breath they took matched perfectly, soft and even, as if their bodies had woven themselves into one seamless rhythm.

Jungkook lifted his gaze, eyes tracing the delicate curve of Jimin’s closed lids, the soft parting of lips swollen from their shared heat. His tongue flicked slowly across his teeth, restless and alive with desire. The warmth of Jimin’s chest spread beneath him like a sanctuary, and Jungkook buried his face against the smooth skin of Jimin’s stomach, breathing in the quiet scent of him.

After a long, lingering moment, Jungkook rose slowly. “Could you please pass me the tissues over there?” Jimin's voice was low, a tender murmur, but his eyes never left Jimin’s face.

Jimin’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Please.” Jungkook held his gaze, silent and steady.

With measured grace, Jungkook moved to the nightstand, fingers curling around the tissues. Jimin’s length remained hard, a silent testament to the fire still burning between them. Jungkook’s hunger sparked anew, longing to taste and touch it. Jimin leaned back on the headboard and gently wiped himself.

“Thank you,” Jimin whispered, dropping the tissues with a faint, nervous smile that lit his flushed cheeks.

Jungkook’s need to leave soon hovered like a shadow, but Jimin’s eyes shone with an unspoken question. “Are you staying or leaving?” His voice trembled, raw with uncertainty.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat, the weight of the moment pressing deep. “I will stay tonight,” he said quietly, resolve steady in his tone.

Jimin blinked, a small smile flickering across his lips; soft, tentative, not quite reaching the depths of his eyes. “Want to do it again?” Jimin’s question was barely a whisper, his vulnerability hanging between them.

“Not yet,” Jungkook replied, voice calm but fierce with promise.

Relief unfurled in Jimin’s breath. He smiled again, softer this time, and tried to stand up to reach for his boxers.

“Where are you going?” Jungkook’s voice held a possessive edge, a quiet demand.

“Ah, no… just trying to find my boxers,” Jimin said, cheeks warm with embarrassment and something tender.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked down and then back up as his foot nudged Jimin’s boxers. He picked them up, hands steady, and handed them over. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Jimin said, sliding into the fabric, his movements shy.

Jungkook moved to the other side of the bed, searching for his jeans. He paused, heart catching as he saw Jimin sitting there, small and fragile in the quiet light, fingers curled softly around his knees, lost in a world only he could see.

Once dressed, Jungkook came back to Jimin’s side. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled close. Jimin turned, eyes soft and trusting.

“Sleep now,” Jungkook whispered. Jimin’s smile blossomed; brighter this time, full and real. “Yes,” he nodded softly, curling into the blanket.

Jungkook slid in beside him, their bodies close beneath the cover, warmth mingling in the stillness.

Jimin turned his back to Jungkook, but the space between them felt vast and empty. Jungkook hated it.

Jungkook’s palm moved to Jimin’s stomach, pulling him back against his chest. Jimin twitched beneath the weight, a shiver of sensation rippling through him.

And then, as if the world itself held its breath, Jungkook drifted into sleep in seconds; his breath steady and calm, afterglow, alcohol, and the intoxicating scent of Jimin's skin mingling under his nose.

---

When the sun rose, spilling pale gold through the curtains, Jungkook’s nose scrunched at the sudden brightness.

His head felt heavy, thick with the fog of last night’s haze, every movement sluggish but alive with memory.

With a quick, sharp blink, his eyes opened, adjusting slowly to the morning light.

The other side of the bed was empty; bare, untouched, holding no trace of the pretty boy he had claimed, kissed, and fucked.

Chapter Text

Jungkook didn’t leave the area at all. He kept wandering through the fading light, restless, as if some invisible thread kept pulling him back. It felt like hunger, like thirst, like an ache in his chest that refused to quiet. He wanted to see him again. The boy whose name he hadn’t even asked for, the boy who already lived in his veins like a secret drug.

A few yards from the building, Jungkook leaned against the wall, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. The smoke curled upward, gray ribbons dissolving into the bruised colors of sunset, but his mind wasn’t there. It was still tangled in last night. Jimin beneath him. Jimin’s lips parted. His mouth trembling. His skin hot and fragile under his touch. And those eyes, the eyes that could not see him, eyes that made him feel both invisible and consumed. The memory played over and over, cruel and intoxicating, until it was the only thing that existed.

This time, Jungkook swore he would not drink. He had no need for alcohol. Jimin was his intoxication. Jimin was the burning glass pressed to his lips, the bitter sweetness he longed to drown in. The street stretched quiet and deserted, painted in liquid gold and soft purple. The wall at his back was rough and cold, but inside his body the heat was unbearable. Just the thought of Jimin, the curve of his face, the echo of his voice, was enough to make desire harden low in his stomach.

He had spent countless nights with strangers, their faces forgettable, their names erased before dawn. Bodies he touched, but never remembered. Voices that faded before they even finished speaking. But this boy… this delicate, untouchable boy… he haunted him. He carved himself into Jungkook’s memory, leaving sharp edges, leaving wounds. Every inch of Jimin’s face lingered behind his closed eyes, etched deeper than sin, more permanent than scars.

And he waited for some time, the same hour when he had entered the building last night. The minutes dragged slow and heavy, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Jungkook wasn’t in Tokyo for this reason. He had business meetings, he had official signups, obligations that should have filled his schedule. Yet here he was, not in some glass office tower but in the shadow of a cheap building soaked in red and purple light, the kind of place that reeked of sin and secrecy.

Jungkook shouldn’t have been here today. His life, his world, belonged elsewhere. But his feet betrayed him, his veins betrayed him. He stood with a cigarette between his fingers, burning it down until it singed his skin, then tossed it into the trash bin, sparks scattering. His mind carried only one memory, one obsession. Jimin. With no thoughts but him, Jungkook walked toward the building, his body moving as if dragged by gravity itself.

The inside smelled the same, chemical sweetness of air freshener sprayed too thick, the stench of perfume trying to cover sweat and lust. The reception was exactly as he remembered, dim and glittering with naked statues, marble bodies frozen in desire. His eyes didn’t waver. He didn’t allow himself to look around. He walked straight toward the same girl he had seen last night, her painted smile already waiting.

“Yes, sir,” she greeted. Her lips curved, but the smile never reached her eyes. It was mechanical, tired, soulless.

“I need the same boy,” Jungkook said, his voice low.

Her eyebrows knit together for a second before recognition sparked across her face. She blinked, then tilted her head with an almost careless cruelty.

“Oh, the blind one?” she asked, her tone flat, devoid of remorse, as if she were mentioning an object and not a human being.

Jungkook’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. For a moment, the urge to react burned in his chest, but he crushed it down. He wasn’t here for her. He was here for Jimin. He simply nodded, swallowing his rage, every nerve screaming with impatience.

“I’m not sure he is available at the moment,” she said, her tongue clicking against her teeth. A faint smirk pulled at her lips as her fingers danced across the keyboard. She didn’t even look at him at first, just let the silence build before she lifted her eyes, mocking. “Yes, he isn’t available.”

Her voice carried a taunt, as if she wanted him to feel powerless.

“I need him,” Jungkook replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that vibrated low in his chest.

“Yes, I’m sorry—” she began, but her words broke apart at the sudden slam of his hand.

The sound cracked through the lobby like thunder. His palm landed heavy on the desk, making the pens rattle, making her flinch backward. His shadow fell over her now, sharp and unforgiving.

“Which part of ‘I need him’ do you not understand?” he asked, his voice like steel, his eyes sharp enough to slice through her.

The smirk disappeared. The false smile had already died. What was left was silence, brittle and trembling.

“I–I get it, sir. But he isn’t available for another two hours,” she said, blinking between the glowing computer screen and his shadow.

“I will wait,” Jungkook answered simply, his voice heavy with finality.

She blinked again, a nervous flicker, and nodded quickly. “You can wait here. We will let you know once he’s free.”

Jungkook didn’t bother to acknowledge her. He turned away, his footsteps echoing against the polished floor as he walked straight toward an empty chair tucked against the wall. He sat down, but patience had already abandoned him.

His body betrayed the hunger inside. His leg bounced, restless. His knees trembled. His hands curled into fists, unclenched, then curled again. His eyes refused to stay still, wandering everywhere and nowhere at once, haunted by the thought of Jimin behind some door.

Ten minutes. That was all it took before the restraint broke.

With a sharp tug, he unfastened the leather strap of his watch and held the timepiece in his palm. A breath later, it landed with a hard thud on the desk in front of the reception girl. The metallic sound echoed like a warning.

“I need him now,” Jungkook said. His voice was low, but every syllable cut through the air like a blade.

The girl froze, her eyes darting from the watch to him. And she understood. He would not leave. He would not be delayed.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the landline, pressing the receiver to her ear. She dialed, mumbling into the phone, her voice thin and hurried.

“Please wait in this room,” she said finally, sliding a key across the desk toward him.

Jungkook grabbed it without hesitation. The cold metal bit into his palm, and he walked toward the hallway with measured steps, his silhouette stretching long under the dim crimson lights. His body moved with purpose, with inevitability, as though every part of him knew; he wasn’t here for nothing.

---

When he entered the room, a different one this time, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside and sat heavily on the bed, his movements sharp, restless, hungry. He kicked off his shoes, the sound dull against the carpet. His jacket slid from his shoulders and crumpled onto the floor. Then his tshirt, then his pants. Piece by piece, he stripped himself bare as if waiting was unbearable, as if his skin itself was burning until he could push himself inside Jimin.

The thought of Jimin being with someone else, even for a moment, tore through him like fire. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was something darker, sharper, a rage that twisted itself around his ribs until he could barely breathe.

Five minutes passed. No Jimin. Ten minutes. Still no sign. His jaw tightened, his fists restless at his sides. And then, finally, only after the fourteenth minute, the door opened.

Jimin stepped inside. His hand clutched at the doorframe for balance, his breathing uneven. Jungkook’s eyes devoured the sight; the nervous swallow of Jimin’s throat, the way his small figure seemed to fold in on itself as he turned to close the door.

But that was it. Jungkook didn’t wait another heartbeat.

He was already behind Jimin, pressing his body hard against the door. Jimin gasped at the sudden force, his breath caught sharp in his chest. Jungkook’s hand seized his wrists, pinning them flat to the door, his grip bare and rough. His other hand slid low, clamping over Jimin’s stomach, nails digging cruelly into his ribs.

Jimin’s gasp cracked into a sound softer, broken, trembling and then it spilled into a moan. His body shivered as Jungkook’s lips dragged over the back of his shoulder. Kisses turned to bites, bites turned to teeth sinking in, his mouth branding skin with fire. He sucked, he marked, he devoured, like the animal he had always been beneath the surface.

Jimin felt Jungkook’s hard dick pressing against his ass, the sharp evidence of his impatience. Jimin was already hard himself, his body betraying him before a single word was spoken.

Jungkook’s hunger grew unbearable. He wanted to rip the velvet dress from Jimin’s body. The fabric clung to him in lazy folds, smooth as his skin, draping over him like it had been made only to be destroyed. The sight of it, soft, rich, and fragile, only made Jungkook’s desire more violent.

Making a final mark on Jimin’s shoulder, his teeth sinking until the skin burned, Jungkook turned him around sharply. Jimin’s wrists were still bound in his grip, fragile bones trapped in the strength of his hand. His other palm stayed on Jimin’s delicate waist for a moment, fingers bruising against him, before sliding lower.

It went beneath him, under his ass, and in one movement Jungkook lifted him against the door. The impact thudded low and heavy, rattling through the quiet room. Jimin’s breath stuttered, his body arching as if surrendering completely.

Only then did Jungkook release his wrists. His freed hand tangled immediately into Jimin’s hair, pulling, commanding. Jimin reacted without hesitation, his arms wrapping tight around Jungkook’s shoulders, his legs around Jungkook's torso, clutching him as if falling would mean death.

The velvet dress slipped lower, draping off his shoulder, baring skin pale and trembling in the dim light. Jungkook saw it as an invitation, a sign, a surrender. His mouth crashed against Jimin’s upper chest, teeth scraping, lips bruising, leaving a mark raw and harsh. There was no softness in it, only punishment, only fire; for making him wait fifteen long hours to taste his skin again.

Jimin’s dress slipped further, the thin straps sliding off his shoulders until the fabric barely clung to his hips. It covered only the lower part of him now, and the sight made Jungkook’s breath catch in his throat. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. His eyes devoured the pale expanse of Jimin’s chest, trembling, vulnerable.

But then Jungkook froze. His gaze darkened as he traced the scattered marks across that skin. Some of them were his; yes, his, the ones he had branded last night. But not all. There were more. Fresh bruises, unfamiliar. Not carved by his teeth. Not his art. Someone else had dared to touch what belonged to him.

A rage more violent than hunger surged through Jungkook. Whoever had left those marks, Jungkook would have a talk with him. Their last talk in this life.

His lips moved toward the foreign bruises as if pulled by fury itself. He sucked them hard, bit them open, his mouth punishing Jimin for carrying another man’s imprint. Jimin’s body arched, his back scraping against the door as a broken moan escaped him. The pain layered itself over the older bruises, unbearable now, his body trembling under every savage kiss.

“Your name?” Jungkook’s voice rasped against his skin, his mouth dragging down to Jimin’s neck.

“Park Jimin…” he whispered, his voice fragile, breathless, spilling into the air like a confession.

Jungkook stilled. Park Jimin. The syllables lingered on his tongue, tasting like possession. It was perfect. Too perfect.

“Any other names?” Jungkook asked again, his teeth grazing Jimin’s pulse, his voice dangerous. He wondered if Jimin carried an alias, a mask, some false title for this profession.

Jimin almost cursed himself for blurting out the truth, for giving him his real name. His mind was breaking apart beneath the countless ragebites searing his skin, the pain stealing his reason. He couldn’t think, couldn’t lie, couldn’t escape. Only moan. Only submit.

“Moon Iris,” Jimin whispered, the name spilling out like a broken confession, his moan trembling as Jungkook’s mouth dragged down to his collarbone. The sound caught between pain and desire as teeth sank into tender skin.

Jungkook almost scoffed at the name. His lips twisted into a cruel halfsmile, his palm tightening around Jimin’s ass until his nails bit through the velvet fabric. His other hand tangled into Jimin’s hair, pulling harshly, claiming every strand.

“Missed me?” Jungkook breathed against him, his voice low, almost mocking. His lips brushed Jimin’s earlobe before catching it between his teeth, sucking hard, leaving it wet and raw with open kisses.

Jimin shivered. He didn’t know what to say. His body screamed, his mind drowned, silence trembling on his lips.

“Say it,” Jungkook demanded, his tone sharp as a command. “Say I missed you, Jungkook.”

His mouth traced a path lower, down to Jimin’s jaw, where he pressed soft butterfly kisses; gentle, fleeting until his teeth snapped lightly into the skin, making Jimin gasp.

“I–I missed you, Jungkook,” Jimin stammered, the words dragged out of him like a wound opening.

A smirk curved Jungkook’s mouth, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. To him, it was truth. He wanted to believe it. He did believe it.

“My dick missed you too,” Jungkook whispered against his lips, the words dripping with hunger. And before Jimin could catch his breath, Jungkook’s mouth crashed onto his, hard and unforgiving. He kissed him rough, lips bruising, teeth clashing, his tongue invading, twisting, tangling, tasting, until Jimin couldn’t breathe, until oxygen itself seemed unnecessary.

When Jimin pulled himself back, his body sank into the soft mattress. His spine hit the bed, breath catching in his throat, and he felt the dress sliding off completely. The fabric slipped away like water, leaving him naked beneath the crushing weight of Jungkook.

Jungkook’s eyes roamed, and what he saw ignited something darker than lust. The bruises. New ones. Marks he hadn’t left. Purple blooms staining Jimin’s thighs. Faint rings, stain marks. Indentations on his legs. Harsh chain etched bruises at his waist. Red imprints circling his delicate ankles. Each one a violation, each one a brand not his.

Jungkook dropped to his knees between Jimin’s parted legs. His breath came heavy, uneven, but he didn’t speak. Words were useless.

Before Jimin could hear a sound, he felt it. Jungkook’s lips pressed against his inner thigh. A kiss. A suck. His mouth left trails of fire across trembling skin. Fingers traced slowly, lazily, over Jimin’s thighs, drawing invisible lines as though mapping him. Jungkook kissed down lower, his mouth worshiping every inch; his knees, his calves, the delicate bones of his ankles. His lips closed over each spot, sucking, biting, burning marks into him until Jungkook himself grew breathless.

And Jimin, Jimin only moaned. His lips parted, soft cries spilling with every bite, every bruise carved fresh into him. His body trembled as though every nerve had been set ablaze.

Then Jungkook stopped. His eyes glimmered with something feral, something unholy.

He lifted Jimin’s foot; his small, fragile foot and pressed it against his face. The skin covered half his features, brushing his cheek, his lips, his eyes. And Jungkook closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

Breathing him in. Breathing his feet. Breathing every inch of Jimin, as if the act alone was holy, as if this boy’s body was the only scripture he would ever bow to.

Jimin wondered, waited, his foot trembling against Jungkook’s face, his toes curling against the curve of Jungkook’s forehead. Jungkook slightly turned his head and pressed a kiss to Jimin’s foot, a reverent gesture that made Jimin’s breath shatter in his chest. And before Jimin could even process what was happening, warmth engulfed him. He felt Jungkook’s lips at his tip, soft and teasing, kissing, sucking, gentle at first, and his thighs tightened as a sudden rush of heat coiled inside his stomach.

Jungkook’s tongue traced slow circles, licking over sensitive skin until patience dissolved, until restraint broke. Impatience surged through him as he closed his lips fully, taking Jimin into his mouth, sucking him in. Jimin moaned, his back arching, head thrown back against the pillow, his voice spilling raw and trembling into the darkened air. His hands found Jungkook’s hair, fisting strands tight, not harsh but desperate, grounding himself against the overwhelming sensation.

Jungkook had been waiting for this moment since the night before, craving the taste, the weight, the heat of Jimin. He wanted to swallow him whole, to take every inch, to lose himself in the shape of Jimin’s length pressed into his mouth. And Jimin was giving, surrendering, trembling, while Jungkook was taking, savoring, consuming until nothing else remained. Jimin’s thighs pressed against the sides of Jungkook’s face, trembling as his free hand held Jimin’s leg steady, his touch both anchor and claim.

“J-Jungkook,” Jimin whispered, his voice cracked, his body already betraying him with how it shivered at the sound of his own surrender. Jungkook’s name on Jimin’s tongue was fire, was ruin, was a prayer that unraveled him. He fastened his pace, lost in it, and Jimin clenched harder, pressing Jungkook’s ears between the tightening grip of his thighs. Jungkook let himself drown in it, no idea what kind of heaven he had just entered, but knowing he would never crawl out again.

Jungkook swallowed greedily, every drop sliding down his throat like molten honey disguised as wine, burning and sweet all at once. Above him, Jimin trembled, his chest rising in uneven bursts, his breath catching as though the air itself refused to steady him. His lashes fluttered like fragile wings against the flushed glow of his cheeks, thighs quaking as they finally parted from Jungkook’s face.

The sight was ruinous in its beauty. Jimin undone, glistening with sweat that shimmered like fractured starlight. Jungkook wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, yet his hunger only sharpened, a knife pressed deeper into him. He was not finished. He would never be finished.

With a suddenness that was both harsh and reverent, Jungkook turned Jimin over, positioning him on his hands and knees. Jimin clutched the headboard desperately, his knuckles whitening as though the wood might splinter under the force of his grip, his knees trembling, shaking beneath the weight of desire and exhaustion.

Then the thought struck Jungkook, like venom, like fire, that another’s hands had been here first. That Jimin had bent under someone else’s shadow. That someone else had dared to touch him. A fury lit through Jungkook, scorching him from the inside out, until tenderness drowned in a tide of rage. His pace abandoned all softness. It became violent, consuming, the storm breaking through the night.

He thrust into Jimin in a single, merciless stroke. The sound that tore from Jimin’s lips was music bent into agony, the cry of a hymn unravelled, face twisting in pain and surrender, mouth falling open like a wound too beautiful to look away from.

Jungkook’s gaze devoured him. The elegant line of his back. The pale stretch of his throat. The arch of his body, fragile and defenseless, begging for the cruelty of lips, teeth, marks that would never fade. The faint bruises already scattered on his skin were nothing. Insufficient. Jungkook’s hunger demanded more.

He bent low, pressing his mouth against the hollow of Jimin’s spine, tasting him, branding him. His lips carved worship into his skin, his tongue tracing devotion, his teeth sinking until the flesh bloomed red and violet like wild roses crushed beneath violent hands.

Jimin shuddered violently, the tremor running through him like the earth splitting open, his cheek pressed against the headboard as though he could bury himself in it, as though hiding might protect him from the relentless claim consuming him.

But Jungkook would not stop. He pulled Jimin upright, dragging him back against his chest until they were one trembling shape, their breaths colliding, harsh and uneven. Jungkook pressed his lips against the slope of Jimin’s neck, tasting salt and sweat, feeling the fragile pulse hammering beneath the skin. His teeth clamped down hard, leaving crescents of possession, marking the back of Jimin’s neck until it was his, until nothing else existed.

Each thrust drove deeper, darker, like confessions written in bruises. Every sound Jimin gave him became sacred; a hymn torn open, a prayer broken in half. Rage and hunger blurred into worship, and in that blur Jungkook found his truth: not love, not tenderness, but possession. A ruin dressed in poetry. A hymn dressed in sin.

And Jimin trembled, broke, yielded; all in his arms.

Once the storm had ebbed, Jungkook lingered, chest pressed tight against Jimin’s trembling back, his breath still uneven, his fingers curved loosely at Jimin’s throat as if reluctant to let go. For a long moment, silence reigned, save for their ragged breaths, colliding and spilling into the dimlit room. Jungkook finally pulled away, only slightly, enough to reach for tissues with quick, deliberate hands, as though caring for Jimin was a sacred duty he could not abandon to anyone else. He cleaned him gently, before Jimin could even move, before he could think of lifting his own hand.

Jimin lay motionless, dazed, his chest rising and falling as though he were learning to breathe anew. He did not, could not, react. Not until he felt the ghost of Jungkook’s lips press against his shoulder. This time, the kiss was different. Soft. Reverent. Less a hunger, more a benediction, a thank you carved into skin, gratitude for the delirious heaven they had both stepped into and returned from.

The shrill buzz of Jungkook’s phone broke the stillness, but he ignored it, refusing to let the outside world seep into this fragile, glowing aftermath. Instead, he guided Jimin gently forward, easing him down until his cheek met the sheets, until he was sprawled on his stomach, small and fragile against the vastness of the mattress.

Then Jimin felt it, the weight of Jungkook pressing onto him again. His entire frame sinking onto Jimin’s delicate body, heavy, overwhelming. Jimin didn’t understand how he could carry it, how he wasn’t crushed beneath him.

A moment later, Jungkook rolled away, falling onto his back beside him with a muted thud, his presence still stretching over the room like a shadow. Jimin turned his face away, gasping softly, desperate for air that wasn’t laced with Jungkook’s scent. His arms rose above his head, eyes falling shut, trying to find solitude in a breath or two.

But solitude never lasted.

Warmth returned, slowly, insistently. Jungkook’s face nuzzled into his back, his lips brushing skin as though unwilling to let the silence turn cold. One arm curved around Jimin’s body, sliding down to his hip with unhurried possession, while one strong leg wound tightly around Jimin’s own. Bound again. Caged again. Kept again.

Jimin sighed, a surrender, a quiet exhale that belonged to no one but him. And before he could gather the fragments of his thoughts, Jungkook’s breathing evened out, his body growing heavy and slack, soft snores spilling into the night. He had fallen asleep like that, with Jimin beneath him, with Jimin locked against him, as though the only place Jungkook could ever rest was in the keeping of Jimin’s body.

A single tear slid from Jimin’s lashes, sinking into the sheets, a fragile jewel no one would ever see, no one would ever understand. It held within it the storm he could not voice, the ache that no touch could soothe. His breath trembled, uneven, until exhaustion dragged him under, pulling his restless body into reluctant sleep. Yet even then, he was not alone, because Jungkook, heavy in his slumber, shifted closer. His fingers brushed Jimin’s waist in a thoughtless caress, his leg tightening around him as though to bind him to the moment, to the night, to himself. And as the world outside drowned in silence, Jimin lay caged in the warmth of another man’s dreams, his tear the only witness to what his heart could never say.

Chapter Text

Seoul, 1995

Jimin was blind since birth. The world had never offered him the gift of light. He did not know the shape of his mother’s face, the color of the sky, or the warmth of dawn breaking through a window. But he knew the tone of her silence. He knew the way her arms never curved around him, how her voice never softened. And when she discovered the darkness in his eyes, the endless fog that would never lift, she abandoned him as though he were nothing more than a stain on her life.

She was a prostitute. Nights claimed her body and soul, and she had no patience for anything that slowed her survival. Her world was a blur of rough hands, smoke curling in dim rooms, and laughter that always sounded too sharp. Motherhood had never been part of her identity, and when Jimin arrived, broken in her eyes, his blindness gave her permission to reject him. To her, he was not a child. He was an inconvenience. A defect. A mistake. And so she let him slip away, as carelessly as one drops a cigarette into the gutter.

Daisy was different. Daisy, her co-worker, saw something worth keeping in the baby’s fragile body. She was roughened by the same world, but her heart had a small pocket of softness left. She pressed Jimin close to her chest, whispered comfort into ears too small to understand, and for a fleeting moment, he was wanted. Yet Daisy was no free woman, her life belonged to the company. They decided everything. So it was not Daisy’s choice to keep him, but theirs. They paid for him. They kept him. He grew up among painted faces and tired women who laughed too loudly, who smelled of cigarettes and loneliness.

At first, Jimin tried to make a life outside their grip. He worked for a perfume company. It was a job of fleeting days, yet in it, he found a strange form of vision. Scents became his universe; jasmine, rose, amber, musk. Each fragrance painted a world he could not see: fields of flowers, whispers of lovers, shadows of grief. He memorized them the way others memorized faces, creating his own dictionary of beauty.

And then there was the dance school. The studio floor was smooth beneath his feet, the air alive with the echo of music. Jimin moved with a grace that defied his blindness, shaping space with his body the way others shaped canvas with paint. Students gathered around him, their voices a mixture of awe and envy. His movements were precise, his rhythm instinctive, as if the universe whispered the beat directly into his skin. His voice, when he sang, was velvet stretched over wounds; aching, raw, unforgettable. People praised him. And their praise turned into demands. They wanted him to sing, to dance, to bend himself into whatever form pleased them most. Sometimes clothed, sometimes bare, a spectacle for eyes that stripped him of humanity.

But Jimin had dreams. He loved the abacus. The clicking beads soothed him, each movement predictable, each number honest. Unlike people, numbers did not lie. Unlike his world, they did not demand pieces of him. He wanted to teach it, to live in the clarity of logic, where everything had order and meaning. It was a dream small enough to be possible, yet fragile enough to be stolen.

When Daisy died, a year ago, that dream cracked. The one person who had ever looked at him and seen more than his body was gone. Her absence was a wound he carried like a phantom limb; always aching, always there. Without her, there was no shield, no one to soften the cruelty of the company. Tokyo called with its new contract, a leash disguised as opportunity. Jimin signed because there was nothing else left. No Daisy. No choice. Only obedience.

He had to obey.
They said.

And Jimin listened, because what else could he do?

When Jimin reached Tokyo, he carried a fragile hope tucked beneath his ribs. Perhaps here, in this sprawling city of neon skies and sleepless streets, he could start over. Perhaps he could meet new people, build something that belonged to him, make friends who would see past the darkness in his eyes. But Tokyo was no different from Seoul.

The first thing people gave him was pity. Their voices softened unnaturally, dripping with sympathy as if speaking to a child. He felt the weight of their stares; the way they lingered too long, as though his blindness was a spectacle, an exhibition. Some masked their discomfort with humor, sharp little jokes about his sight, and he laughed along, though every sound of his laughter scraped his throat raw. Because he could not not laugh. Laughter was his shield, the only way to make their cruelty pass quicker.

Some tried conversation, brief and hollow, their words meant only to skim the surface. Others did not bother with words at all. They reached for him only in the dark, hands rough and unfeeling, eager to fuck and go.

To them, he was just anybody. Nobody. A body to ease their hunger, discarded once the appetite faded.

The girls avoided him. They whispered that he was too much; too much effort, too much fragility, too much weight to carry even in friendship. The boys dismissed him differently. To them, he was less. Less of a man, less of a partner, less than someone worth claiming.

But still, one truth spread about him, spoken in shadows and between clenched teeth: he gave a good fuck. That was all they cared for. That was the only part of him that was ever worth remembering.

And Jimin knew it. He felt it in the way hands touched him without care, in the way lips pressed against him without tenderness. His worth reduced to skin, to sensation, to a moment’s release. Nothing more.

And then he heard it.

“I want him.”

The words tore through the smoke-hazed room like a command. A voice hoarse, low, unyielding. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a request. It was ownership declared in three syllables.

Jimin’s brows furrowed faintly at the sound, his heart sinking. He didn’t need to see the man to know what would follow. He had heard it too many times before, spoken in different voices, from different mouths, always meaning the same thing. Another man. Another night. Another fuck and go type who would take from him and leave him hollow.

So Jimin obeyed.

He always obeyed.

The stranger moved closer, carrying the suffocating scent of alcohol. It wrapped around Jimin like a chokehold, sharp and burning in his nostrils. He hated it. He hated the way it clung to skin, to breath, to memory. The man’s hands were rough, unforgiving, groping as though his body was territory to conquer. Every touch was possessive, claiming him like property already paid for.

When Jungkook finally learned that Jimin was blind, a small hope flickered in Jimin’s chest. He had grown used to the way people reacted; some softened their voices, some cracked awkward jokes, some tried to coat their discomfort with sweetness or laughter. It was predictable. He thought this man would be the same. A gentle word. A teasing remark. Some small acknowledgement that made the silence easier to swallow.

But no.

There was no sweetness.
No lighthearted joke.
No attempt at comfort.

Instead, without warning, his lips were harshly captured by Jungkook.

The kiss wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a greeting. It was a collision, forceful and searing, claiming him like territory. Jungkook’s mouth tasted of smoke and iron, pressing with the urgency of someone who took instead of asked. It startled Jimin, not because he was unused to being taken, but because of the silence that came with it; the deliberate refusal to speak, to acknowledge, to treat him as more than lips to devour.

And in that silence, Jimin understood.

To Jungkook, his blindness wasn’t something to pity or mock. It wasn’t something to laugh about, or soften against. It was something to consume. Something to own.

So Jimin obeyed, letting the kiss scorch across his mouth, letting himself be held captive in that dark and unfamiliar hunger.

Inside, Jimin whispered the same truth he always carried: He must be thinking of someone else. I’m never the one they want. I’m just the body underneath them.

Nothing about Jungkook was gentle. His pace was harsh, unrelenting, shoving Jimin further into the role he had been forced to wear. Until suddenly; everything shifted.

The rhythm slowed.

His lips found Jimin’s cheeks, pressing kisses that lingered. His mouth trailed along ribs, mapping the fragile rise and fall of breath. The same hands that had gripped too tightly moments ago hesitated, then steadied, softening into something dangerously close to care. And when it ended, he did the unthinkable. He helped clean Jimin, careful, as though tending to someone he valued.

Jimin remembers. He remembers because it unsettled him. Cruelty was familiar; tenderness was not.

The next day, there was silence. No show. No order. No call. Silence was a language he knew well; it meant it had been nothing. A one-time show. A forgettable encounter. He buried the memory like all the others.

But then, in the middle of his boss’s office, while contracts and clauses pressed heavy on his mind, the phone rang. A pause. A shift in his boss’s expression. And then the words that carved themselves into Jimin’s chest:

“Jungkook wants Jimin again.”

The name echoed through him. Jungkook. The name he remembered from the night before. The name he had been ordered to moan, to choke out between gasps. The name he had tried to forget but could not.

When Jimin was taken to him again, Jungkook devoured him with a hunger that felt unholy. He was everywhere at once; mouth, hands, breath, like a storm crashing through a fragile house. He was relentless, unrestrained, almost a possessed animal. Pain tore through Jimin’s thighs, searing, undeniable, and yet, amidst the violence, came softness. Slow, scattered kisses against his skin. The contradiction carved confusion into Jimin’s bones.

This man was different.
And yet, for Jimin, he was no different at all.

Because at the end of it, he was still the one beneath.
Still the body.
Still the caged thing.

And as Jungkook’s arms closed around him, heavy and unyielding, Jimin lay silent. He felt the steel of possession tighten, felt his own breath caught against a chest that smelled of smoke and liquor.

A caged bird, trembling in the dark, wings pressed flat.
Trapped beneath a man he could not escape.
Trapped beneath a man he did not understand.

---

When Jimin woke the next morning, the room was still, drenched in the pale hush of early light. His body had shifted in his sleep, turned so that his back pressed against the mattress, but even in slumber, Jungkook’s grip had not loosened. An arm was draped heavy across Jimin’s stomach, and when he opened his eyes to the blurred world of darkness, he felt it; the weight, the warmth, the unfamiliar presence holding him still.

The sound of Jungkook’s breathing filled the silence. Light snores, uneven, but steady enough to remind him the man was still asleep. Carefully, Jimin began to move, slipping his fingers beneath the heavy arm, easing it away from his body. Then the leg. Each motion cautious, as though escaping a cage without rattling its bars. At last, free, he sat up. His hands trembled as he gathered his scattered clothes, slipping them back onto his body, one piece after another, the shame of nakedness lingering on his skin.

He walked to the door, his steps quiet, measured. His hand reached for the knob.

“Where are you going?”

The voice froze him. Deep. Hoarse. Awake.

Jimin halted, his back stiffening. He did not turn around, did not dare. His throat worked, and the words stammered out broken:
“T-to my room.”

He heard it then; the sound of Jungkook’s footsteps, slow and heavy against the floor. He didn’t need sight to feel the shift in the air, the warmth pressing closer, the danger drawing near. And then, the bare weight of him was behind him, Jungkook’s body pressing flush against his back, arms sliding around his frame like steel bands.

“Do you have something like day offs?” Jungkook’s voice brushed against his ear, low and deliberate.

Jimin swallowed hard, his pulse loud in his ears. “I shouldn’t say that… that’s against the rules.” His words tried for steadiness, but his voice betrayed him, soft and trembling at the edges.

A sound followed; soft, hushed. A chuckle. Warm breath ghosting over the fragile skin of his neck. Jimin felt it. Felt the heat of laughter curling into his veins.

“You know that I don’t care… so are you telling me now? I don’t like to question again.” His tone shifted; firmer, edged, carrying the weight of command. And with it came something else. Jimin felt Jungkook’s hard boner pressing against him from behind.

“F-Friday,” Jimin whispered, his voice cracking under the pressure.

Jungkook drew in a deep breath against the hollow of his neck, the sound of it slow and deliberate. “Four days for Friday.” The words were half a calculation, half a promise. Jimin didn’t know why Jungkook wanted to know, didn’t dare to ask.

“I will be busy anyway,” Jungkook murmured, voice tilting toward something unreadable, before turning him around, hands firm, spinning him to face him.

And then; yes. His lips crashed down onto Jimin’s. Hard. Consuming. Inevitable.

It wasn’t a kiss, not in the way people dreamed of kisses. It was impact, sudden and consuming, a collision of hunger against surrender. The force stole Jimin’s breath, pressing his back against the cold wood of the door. He stiffened, his hands frozen awkwardly at his sides, not knowing where to place them, not knowing if he even should.

The taste was the same; smoke, something bitter curling against his tongue, but beneath it was heat, unbearable heat, pouring into him through parted lips. Jungkook kissed as though taking air, as though ownership could be sealed in a single press of mouths. His hand rose, cupping the side of Jimin’s jaw, fingers splaying against his skin with a grip that was both grounding and suffocating.

Jimin trembled. His heart pounded against his ribs, frantic, lost between fear and something he couldn’t name. He had kissed countless mouths before, lips that demanded, lips that devoured but none lingered. None pressed harder when he tried to pull away, none slowed with an intensity that felt almost… searching.

The kiss shifted. From harsh to slower. From consuming to coaxing. Jungkook’s mouth dragged over his, insistent but measured, tasting him like he was something worth memorizing. The press softened, then deepened, then softened again, a rhythm that disoriented Jimin more than force ever could.

A part of him wanted to push away. A part of him didn’t move at all. His lips stayed parted, yielding under the pressure. And when Jungkook pulled back just an inch, his breath hit Jimin’s damp lips, hot, ragged, too close. For a second, Jimin realized something terrifying, this man wasn’t just using him.

He was claiming him.

Jungkook pulled back at last, lips flushed, breath ragged. He tilted his head, letting his gaze climb the delicate lines of Jimin’s face; the curve of his cheek, the soft lashes trembling against his skin, the parted lips still wet from the kiss.

For a moment, Jungkook didn’t breathe. His chest ached with something he couldn’t name, something too close to yearning. Then, like a cruel twist, his mouth curled; half smirk, half grimace, as though mocking the fragility he saw in front of him.

He had no time.

“Wait for me,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with restraint.

Jimin’s eyes fluttered open at the sound. Darkness greeted him, endless and unchanged. He turned toward the voice, toward the warmth still ghosting his lips.

“Wait outside this building,” Jungkook continued, words clipped, each one carrying weight. “Ten a.m. Friday.”

The air seemed to stretch between them, charged and heavy. And Jimin… he nodded. Quiet, unquestioning, obedient. His throat ached with the silence he carried, but his body moved anyway; turning, reaching for the door with hesitant hands.

The click of the handle echoed too loud in the small room. Light bled in from the hall as the door opened, spilling across the blind boy’s figure. He stepped into it, swallowed by it, the darkness within his eyes unchanged.

And Jungkook stood still. Watching. His jaw clenched, frustration burning through his veins. He hated the sight of Jimin walking away, hated the way it felt like something was being taken from him, something he hadn’t even decided to claim yet.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. The quiet gnawed at him, made him restless. He turned to his discarded clothes, each movement harsh, impatient. Fabric rasped against skin as he dressed, tugging his shirt down, fastening buttons with clipped motions.

When the last piece was in place, he didn’t look back at the door. He couldn’t. Instead, he pushed past it, stepping into the same hallway Jimin had just vanished through. His stride was brisk, but his chest felt weighted, like something vital had been left behind in that room.

---

Friday.

Jungkook was in his hotel room. A sprawling suite, far too big for one man. The walls gleamed with polished wood, the carpet swallowed every footstep, and the scent of wealth clung to everything; clean, expensive, almost suffocating. Silence lived here, not peace.

His clothes were already laid out on the bed. A pair of black jeans, his favorite t-shirt, the leather jacket he trusted most when the nights grew cold. They waited, folded neatly, as though the fabric itself knew what today meant.

But Jungkook lingered. He had waited four days for this. Four days without Jimin. Four nights staring at the ceiling, replaying the feel of Jimin’s parted lips beneath his own, the way the blind boy hadn’t pulled back, the way he had only nodded at Jungkook’s command to wait.

Ninety-six hours. He had counted them all. The silence had been maddening, like carrying a weight in his chest that only grew heavier. He tried to bury himself in business calls, in the endless luxury around him, but nothing quieted that restless pull.

So now, he took his time in the shower, letting hot water strike him until the room filled with steam thick as smoke. He scrubbed harder than necessary, as though washing away the frustration that clung to him. He wanted to feel raw, to smell too good.

When he stepped out, a towel was knotted loosely at his waist, another dragged across damp strands of hair. Water trailed down the sharp lines of his body, soaking into the carpet. His reflection caught him then.

He paused, lips curving into a slow, satisfied smirk. Not vanity; it was hunger, sharpened into patience. His eyes carried the ache of the last four days, but they gleamed like someone who had already decided he would get what he wanted.

He turned to the clothes. The t-shirt slipped over his shoulders, the leather jacket settling across him like armor. The jeans hugged him tight, familiar. He sprayed his perfume sparingly, letting it sink into his collar, the kind of scent that clung, the kind that would linger on someone else’s skin long after he was gone.

Before leaving, he brushed his hair once more, carefully this time. His reflection smirked back, restless, unrelenting.

The hotel door clicked shut behind him, sealing away four days of silence.

Today, there would be no more waiting.

And Jungkook walked toward the road that narrowed into a street he didn’t belong to. Morning light pooled between the crooked buildings, but it did nothing to soften their gloom.

It had been a mistake, that night he wandered here drunk, a stranger stumbling into shadows. A mistake to push open the door of that cursed building where people moved like ghosts, faceless and hollow. But he was grateful for that mistake now. That mistake had led him to Jimin.

His shoes clicked against the uneven pavement, the sound carrying too clearly in the thin morning air. The street was nearly deserted at this hour. Only a few smokers lingered despite the daylight, exhaling smoke that curled upwards, vanishing like secrets. A dog nosed through an overturned can, its ribs faint beneath its fur.

It was strange to walk here under the sun. This place was not meant for daylight; it looked raw, naked, caught in its shame. Yet Jungkook’s chest beat with a quiet storm. Four days. More than ninety-six hours since he last saw Jimin. He’d counted each one, restless, hollow, pacing in his hotel until the walls seemed to close in.

And now he was here. His hands flexed at his sides, restless, as though even his body knew what he was waiting for.

He waited. Minutes stretched like hours. His eyes darted to the entrance every time the door creaked, but it was never Jimin. The smoke outside burned his patience thinner, and his pacing grew restless; steps forward, steps back, like a caged animal. His jaw clenched tighter with each passing second.

Until finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Jungkook stormed forward, shoving the door open. The building swallowed him whole with its heavy air. The smell of damp walls and cheap disinfectant clawed at his senses, but he ignored it. His eyes swept the lobby, and instead of the familiar face, a new receptionist sat behind the desk.

“Jimin.” His voice was low, almost calm, but it landed like a demand.

The woman blinked up at him, then tilted her head, lips curling into a smirk that made his blood stir. “What?” she asked, mockery dripping from her tone.

“Ask him to come down. Now.” Jungkook’s glare was enough to cut, but the woman only leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest like she was entertained.

“Jimin?” she repeated slowly, savoring the name as though testing it, daring him.

He didn’t nod. He didn’t need to. The fire in his eyes spoke louder than words ever could.

Her smirk widened. “Well, he ain’t coming with you.” A shrug followed, casual, dismissive.

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

His hand shot forward, fingers clamping around her throat before she could react. The chair scraped back against the floor with the force of her body jerking under his grip. Her eyes went wide as she choked, clawing at his wrist, but Jungkook’s hold only tightened.

“Call him. Now.” His voice wasn’t raised, but each word was carved sharp and unshakable, the weight of it pressing down heavier than his grip.

Two men rushed from the side, trying to drag him off her, hands yanking at his arms and shoulders. But Jungkook was immovable, a storm rooted to the ground. The receptionist’s breath hitched, her face reddening, until finally, with trembling hands, she lifted them in surrender.

Only then did Jungkook release her. She collapsed forward, coughing violently, her body folding over the desk as if her lungs were clawing their way back into her chest. The air seemed to split with the sound, but Jungkook’s expression never shifted; his glare still locked on her, unwavering, waiting.

Finally, the woman straightened, one hand clutching her throat as she dragged in air, her breaths shallow and ragged. Her eyes lifted to meet Jungkook’s, no longer mocking but sharp, almost cold. A crease formed between her brows, and when she spoke, her words came slow, deliberate, heavy.

“Jimin ran away.”

Chapter Text

“What?” Jungkook’s voice growled, ragged and feral, just as the lady’s hoarse whisper split the silence: “Jimin ran away.”

The air collapsed around him.

“Yes, he ran away 2 days ago… i bet he planned this already..” she continued, her voice a trembling blade. Her fingers pressed harder into the hollow of her throat, as if trying to hold the pain inside. Her eyes lifted to him, wide and wet, reflecting the storm unraveling across his face.

Jungkook staggered back a step. The ground beneath him tilted into nothingness. No, this was not what he had dressed for, meticulously pulling his armor over his body. No, this was not what he had starved his heart for, counting down four long days like a prisoner to a single promise.

jimin ran away.

The words did not echo, they detonated. They burned through him, leaving ash in their wake. Those four days he had not come here had been Jimin’s chance to carve an escape, to disappear into the veins of the world.

His eyes darted, ravenous, tearing across every corner and every shadow, desperate for proof the lie was a lie. No, it could not be true. Jimin was here. He had to be. The woman’s tongue was poison, her words smoke.

He did not wait. He could not.

The hallway swallowed him as he lunged forward, his boots striking the ground like war drums. His body was no longer his own, but a storm breaking loose.

“Oh god, someone stop him!” the lady’s cry tore after him, shrill and useless, drowned by the thunder of his steps. Men surged from the shadows, chasing him, but he was already possessed.

Jungkook’s fists slammed against door after door, knuckles bruising, each impact a demand, a plea, a curse. He tore rooms open, strangers’ faces flashing before him like broken mirrors, and then he was gone, racing to the next.

“He isn’t here,” the lady gasped, her voice echoing down the corridor.

“Where is his room?” Jungkook roared back, breath ragged, eyes ablaze.

The woman faltered, her feet stuttering to a stop. Fear choked her.

“Call the cops, he is doing too much-” she rasped, but her voice withered when Jungkook’s gaze fell on her.

That glare was not human. It was a blade honed in darkness, a curse carved into flesh. It cut her where she stood, turned her throat dry, her pulse frantic.

“We cannot let you see his room too… you ain’t even allowed here,” she stammered, each word trembling.

“Where the fuck is his room?” His voice sank low, venomous, thick with shadows, a growl that crawled beneath her skin and rooted there.

Her chest heaved. She looked up at the men, searching for rescue, finding none. Her lips cracked open in surrender.

“Upstairs, 3rd room to the right..”

He was gone before her last syllable fell, tearing up the staircase like a phantom in blood-soaked cloth. The building seemed to groan as he moved, wood creaking, air warping around his fury.

Behind him, the woman collapsed against the wall, exhaling a broken sigh. She staggered toward the reception, fingers fumbling like fractured wings, reaching for the phone, for salvation, though deep down she knew no call, no voice, no uniform could cage what had just been unleashed.

And Jimin’s room was not even locked when Jungkook pushed it open, the door groaning as though it too mourned what it had lost.

The air inside clung to his lungs, heavy, intoxicating. His room smelled just like him, a fragrance that lived between shadow and memory. It was emptiness wrapped in familiarity. The space felt frozen, untouched, as if time itself had stopped the moment Jimin walked out.

The bed crouched in the corner, a small, lonely frame, the sheets smooth, unrumpled, holding nothing but silence. Dust lay like a thin veil across the wooden floor, every mote glowing faintly in the slant of pale light.

Jungkook’s eyes roamed, frantic and reverent. Most of the clothes still hung in their place, faint outlines of Jimin’s body still lingering in the folds. Even his stick rested against the wall, silent and abandoned, as if it had been betrayed. He must have left everything before he ran away.

The belongings waited in sorrowful stillness. Books stacked across the desk, spines cracked, pages raised with the scars of Braille. They seemed to ache for fingertips that would never return. The abacus sat in the corner, its beads unmoving, a lifeless echo of touch.

And then Jungkook saw it.

His eyes locked onto the velvet dress. The one Jimin had worn the last time he saw him. It hung like a ghost, dripping with memory, cruel in its stillness.

He did not think. He could not. His body moved, dragged forward like prey to flame. His hands closed around the dress, trembling with hunger and grief.

The fabric was soft, decadent, heavy in his grip, like stolen skin. He lifted it to his face and inhaled, deeper, deeper, until the scent invaded him whole. His eyes shut tight, his chest caving, as if the perfume itself had shackled his breath.

It smelled like himself and Jimin.

A mixture of both of their colognes, blended into something intimate and unholy, as if their bodies still pressed together, as if they still existed here in the air. It was too much. It drove him to the edge of madness, his veins singing with ache, his heart splitting open under the weight of it.

His fists clenched, crushing the velvet, wringing it until it screamed between his knuckles. He hurled it away, the fabric collapsing against the floor like a body falling.

And then the sound tore out of him.

A yell, raw and unrestrained, burst from his chest. It warped into a growl, harsh, animal, guttural, echoing against the walls until the room itself seemed to flinch.

The sound was grief sharpened into violence. It was rage stripped to the bone.

And Jungkook finally understood.

Jimin was no longer here.

---

Jungkook walked straight into a bar, his shadow dragging behind him like a chain. He came to drink everything out, to pour and forget everything in the liquor, to drown the heartache gnawing through his ribs until nothing remained but silence.

The bar was luxury dressed in sin. It pulsed in the middle of Tokyo, bathed in neon bleeding through the tall glass windows, the city’s heartbeat flashing red and blue across the walls. Crystal chandeliers dripped with fractured light, and every bottle behind the counter shimmered like jewels waiting to be shattered.

He moved to a corner table, sinking into the velvet seat like a man lowering himself into a grave. An old whiskey waited on the glass surface, the liquid catching the light in shades of burning amber. He poured. He drank.

Peg after peg.
Glass after glass.
Sip after sip.

The fire seared down his throat, spread through his veins, curled black smoke into his lungs. He welcomed the sting, the way each swallow felt like a punishment. Yes, this is right. Yes, this is how you forget.

Jimin? He told himself he would forget him. Easy. Two fucks, that was all they shared, two brief collisions of skin and shadow. Nothing more. Nothing worth bleeding for.

Yet the thought twisted sharp in his chest, even as he drowned it in amber.

And Jimin dared to run away.

And he did. From everyone. From Jungkook.

The words pulsed in his head like a curse, but Jungkook ground his teeth and poured again. The glass trembled faintly in his hand, though he forced it still, as if his fury alone could anchor it. The liquor clung to the rim like liquid fire, and he tilted it back without mercy.

He would forget Jimin even before he returned. Or if he never returned, Jungkook would not care. That was the promise. That was the lie.

He thought to himself as he drank, over and over, each repetition swallowed with whiskey. But the more he drank, the more Jimin lingered. In the smoke rising from the glass. In the mirrored sheen of the bottle. In the taste of salt that was not from the liquor but from his own mouth.

And an elegant lady walked over to him, her heels clicking like gunshots against the polished floor, her perfume blooming into the air before her body arrived. She moved like a shadow dressed in silk, every step deliberate, every glance practiced, the chandeliers above catching on the velvet of her gown until it shimmered like spilled night.

She sat next to him, her presence brushing against his drunken solitude.

“Jungkook, isn’t it?”

Jungkook did not even look up. His nod was slow, mechanical, his eyes still fixed on the whiskey bleeding gold inside his glass.

“Ah, it was really you..” she said, her voice smooth as satin, curling through the air like smoke.

Jungkook finally lifted his head. His gaze fell first upon her dress, velvet, elegant, too beautiful. The fabric draped her like temptation itself, glistening with shadows. His eyes climbed, reluctant, until they met her face.

And all Jungkook could see was Jimin.

Jimin staring at him through her eyes.
Jimin’s lips shaping her words.
Jimin’s ghost superimposed over her beauty.

For a breathless second, the world bent. The bar around him blurred, light stretching into ribbons, and the woman’s face was gone. It was Jimin’s. Only Jimin’s.

He blinked, and the illusion shattered. The lady was in front of him again, poised, elegant, smiling faintly as if nothing had fractured.

“We met at the meeting, don’t you remember me?” she asked, her tone lilting.

But Jungkook’s ears betrayed him. All he could hear was Jimin’s voice lacing her words, every syllable brushing against old scars. The whiskey in his veins twisted the sound into something unbearable. He was fucked up. Completely gone.

“I will forget you,” Jungkook muttered, his voice raw, a promise or a curse, he could not tell.

The lady blinked, misunderstanding blooming in her eyes.

“So you do remember me, huh?” she teased, tilting her head, lips curling into a smile.

Her hand moved then, slow and deliberate, slipping inside the space of his thigh. Her fingers pressed lightly against him, her invitation painted in heat and daring.

Jungkook’s eyes dropped to her hand. The dim light turned it pale, slender, familiar. For a moment, it was not her touch. It was Jimin’s. It had always been Jimin’s. His mind clawed at the illusion, begging it to stay even as his stomach twisted with ache.

A chuckle slipped from his lips, low and bitter, unraveling into a smirk. He lifted his gaze to the woman. She looked at him with wide, imploring eyes, eyes crafted to melt resistance. Puppy eyes, soft and pleading, the kind of gaze no one could deny.

But Jungkook did not see her. He could not.

Those were Jimin’s eyes staring back at him.

Velvet eyes that had haunted his nights. Eyes that burned through the smoke, the liquor, the noise. Eyes that reminded him of everything he wanted to bury.

And still, even here, even now, Jimin was all he could see.

The woman’s words still echoed, silk-wrapped and poisonous, when Jungkook’s patience finally snapped.

“Shall we go somewhere?”

The question was soft, coy, but it was gasoline to the fire already raging in his veins. His jaw locked, muscles twitching, and the veins in his neck strained like they might tear open. His hand clamped over hers where it dared rest on his thigh, the grip brutal, bone-deep. She flinched, just barely, but he didn’t release her. His eyes were nothing but glassy storms as he dragged her out of the bar, through the sliding doors, into the suffocating shadows of the parking lot.

The echo of their footsteps was sharp, hollow, like gunshots ricocheting between concrete pillars. Her laughter broke the silence; high, giddy, dripping with expectation. “Calm down, Jungkook-ssi,” she teased, her voice dipped in velvet. But he wasn’t listening. His ears were ringing. The blood in his head was thunder. He was deaf to everything but the ghost of another voice, another name.

He shoved her into the back seat, the slam of the door like a shot through the night. Her dress spilled open like dark wine, pooling up her thighs. She looked at him with wide, glittering eyes, thinking she had him. Thinking she owned the hunger written across his face.

But Jungkook wasn’t there for her. He was never there for her.

He crawled over her, urgency snapping his body like a whip, tearing at his belt with fingers that shook with rage, not desire. Metal clinked, leather whipped free. She helped him, laughing still, her breath hot against his jaw, her nails scraping at his shirt. Her underwear slid off, discarded, meaningless, and in the next second, he was inside her.

The car filled with the violent rhythm of his thrusts, the windows trembling, the leather seats groaning beneath their bodies. But this wasn’t pleasure. This wasn’t passion. This was war. This was punishment. This was Jungkook trying to claw out the ache gnawing at his ribs. He wanted to fill her, break her, drown himself in her body like she was liquor, like she was poison he could drink until Jimin’s name bled out of his throat.

And then it came; her voice.

“J-Jungkook… slow down…”

Soft. Delicate. Almost pleading.

It shattered him.

His palm flew to her mouth, crushing down, smothering the sound. He hated it. He hated the way she shaped his name, hated how it didn’t sound like Jimin. His hand pressed harder, and she clawed at him, nails digging, chest heaving as her breaths came ragged under his grip. Her eyes widened, panic flashing where seduction once lived.

But Jungkook was elsewhere.

“Jimin,” he rasped, the name spilling from his lips like a wound torn open. Again. Louder. A growl, a prayer, a curse.

Her eyes widened further, disbelief cutting her like glass. She shoved against him, nails breaking skin, desperation painted across her face. He pulled away, unfinished, growling from the pit of his stomach, fury rolling off him in waves.

She sat up, yanking her dress back over trembling thighs, her cheeks flushed not from pleasure but humiliation. “Go after Jimin, you bastard,” she spat, venom finally replacing her velvet.

Her words hung heavy, slicing into the night like blades. She slipped out of the car, slamming the door, her heels clicking away until she dissolved into the Tokyo neon beyond.

Jungkook didn’t chase her. He didn’t even look.

His head slammed back against the seat, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temple. His fists clenched, his knuckles raw against the leather. His eyes roamed wildly, scanning the shadows, the windows, the empty seat beside him; searching for Jimin, as if he might emerge from the smoke, from the echoes, from the broken silence.

But Jimin wasn’t there.
He had never been there.
And that was the cruelty Jungkook couldn’t escape.

“Where the fuck are you, Jimin?” Jungkook’s voice cracked, raw, half-growl, half-prayer. “I’ll find you. No matter what.”

The words dripped from his tongue like blood.
He was a storm, unchained.

---

Two nights ago, when Jimin finally found out that the managers were gone, when the boss had vanished into his own midnight pleasures, when the house was rotting in silence except for the muffled moans behind locked doors, he knew. It was the perfect time. A night when others hid in shadows and buried themselves in bodies, when no one cared if a single boy slipped into the dark.

He did not hesitate. His feet carried him toward the stairwell with a deliberate rhythm, each step heavy and careful as though the sound itself might betray him. The red light of the CCTV cameras followed him like bloodshot eyes, blinking, recording, but Jimin couldn't acknowledge them. He was a ghost tonight, and ghosts did not bleed for lenses.

One step. Two steps. Twenty. Twenty-five. The count became his prayer. His breath was shallow, breaking against the silence like a fragile bird trapped in a cage. When the final door creaked open, the rooftop welcomed him with a blast of cold air that licked his skin raw. The drizzle fell, thin and sharp, like silver needles pricking his cheeks. He paused, the hairs on his neck rising, bracing himself for the sudden grip of hands around his shoulders, for the familiar cruelty of being dragged back.

But nothing came. Only the wind. Only the rain.

He forced himself forward, his soles scraping the damp concrete, carrying him toward the far left corner where his hope lived. The compound wall stood at his hip, slick with rain, waiting. His fingers, trembling, searched along the surface. Was it still here, or had it been torn away, his last thread of salvation severed?

Then he felt it. Cold metal. The ladder.

His lips parted in a silent sob. He had overheard whispers weeks ago, men talking carelessly about the ladder they used while fixing the pipeline that led to the ground behind the building. He had carried that knowledge like a hidden flame, feeding it every night, keeping it alive inside the dark cage of his ribs. Now it was here. Real.

He pressed his forehead against the wet concrete, gathering courage, his lashes heavy with rain and tears. His legs quivered as he swung one over the compound wall, his body straddling freedom and death. A single thunderclap split the night, savage and violent, rattling the sky into shards of light.

The sound jolted him back. His leg recoiled instinctively, pulling against the pull of freedom. His chest heaved, breath shattering, and brimming with terror.

He was risking his life. But he had always been risking his life here, every day, every moment, every breath stolen inside this cursed house. The difference was tonight he had a choice. Tonight he could decide if his lungs would burn with rain and fear or with the clean air of freedom.

And so Jimin stood trembling in the rain, a boy drenched in stormlight, heart cracking open beneath the roar of the thunder, deciding if he would die trying or die staying.

He swallowed hard, throat burning with rain and fear, before swinging one trembling leg over the wall. The compound’s stone edge scraped against his palms, wet and cold, yet he clung to it like it was the last anchor to the living world. His foot fumbled in the void until it brushed against something slick and hard. The rung of the ladder. The soundless gasp that escaped him was a prayer, half-breathed, half-swallowed by the storm.

He nodded once, a fragile affirmation in the blackness, before shifting his weight. His body swayed, unsteady, as his other foot searched desperately for the next rung. Slow. Deliberate. Every movement carried the weight of his life. His fingers curled around the metal, skin slipping against the rain-slick iron, knuckles straining white. His breath was uneven, ragged, every exhale fogging in the night before being ripped away by the wind.

Darkness. Only darkness below. A depth so endless it seemed to breathe. It opened its throat for him, a beast of shadows waiting to swallow. The ladder shook beneath him with each gust, and when lightning shattered the sky, for a heartbeat the world was revealed: the skeletal outline of the fence, the skeletal boy gripping it, the wet shimmer of iron stretching down into nothing. Then black again, thicker than before, as though the light had only made the dark more cruel.

Another thunder cracked across the heavens, booming through his chest like a war drum. His grip snapped tighter, desperate, almost frantic, his body pressed against the ladder as if he could disappear into it. The metal was freezing, numbing his palms, yet he held on as though letting go meant death.

One foot lowered, shaky. There it was. A rung. Another step, his lungs clenching with every inch. Slowly. Slowly. His descent was no longer just motion but ritual, every step down an act of defiance against the night. The rain poured in merciless torrents, plastering his hair to his skin, soaking his clothes until they clung heavy, dragging, suffocating. He shivered violently, but his mind was chained to the rungs. One step. One breath. One heartbeat.

Then his foot struck something that wasn’t iron. A brittle scrape. His whole body jerked, muscles locking, his breath shattering into panic. He scrambled back, toes searching, clutching the ladder so tightly his nails tore at the skin of his palms.

The object dangled against the ladder, rattling faintly in the storm. His hands shook as he reached down the steps, touching metal wires bent and broken, cold and rusted. A nest. Small. Fragile. Empty. His heart cracked for the absence inside it; for the bird that had once fought, once sung, once died unseen.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words breaking against his teeth, lost instantly in the downpour. He didn’t even know who he was apologizing to. The bird. Himself. The night. Tears bled into the rain, indistinguishable, but his chest convulsed with every sob.

Yet he moved again. His hands slid lower, trembling but unrelenting. His body shook with cold and terror, but still he descended, rung by rung. The ladder moaned with him, the storm raged around him, the silence yawned beneath him. He was a boy clawing his way down into darkness he could not see, but which pressed against him all the same, waiting.

His foot groped for the next rung, trembling, toes dragging through empty space. Nothing. He lowered again, slower, praying, reaching but found only air. His stomach knotted. His nails scraped the slick iron, clinging tighter as if the ladder might vanish beneath him.

This was it. The last rung.

His chest heaved. Rain coursed down his face, stinging his cracked lips, mingling with the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. How far was the earth? A step, a flight, a cliff? The black unknown yawned beneath him, a void without measure. For the sightless, distance was cruelty itself; it could be inches or eternity, and the only way to know was to surrender.

His breath came ragged, a trapped animal sound. He pressed his forehead against his shaking fists, sobbing into the metal, his voice drowned by the storm. His tears fell heavy, swallowed by the abyss, and he hated himself, hated this weakness, this trembling body that had risked so much only to falter now. His chest burned with every inhale, breaking into desperate hiccups. He thought of all the times he had been told he was nothing, a burden, unworthy of light. Maybe this was the proof. Maybe this was where his story ended, dangling above an abyss, unable to let go.

But then something cracked inside him. A defiance. A surrender to fate. His body coiled, breath shuddering through clenched teeth. If this was death, then let it take him quickly.

He released the ladder.

The drop swallowed him. For a heartbeat, time split apart; wind tore past his ears, stomach lurching, heart hammering against his ribs like a drum of war until the world struck back.

The impact slammed through him, bone to bone, a brutal thud that rattled every nerve. Pain roared white-hot, searing his ribs, his knees, his spine. He gasped, rolling, mud soaking into his clothes, clinging to his skin. The earth was cold, merciless, yet it had caught him. The ground was here.

Alive. He was alive.

He clawed forward, nails dragging wet earth, dragging his body like it was nothing but bruises strung together. His arms screamed, his back ached, but still he crawled until his shoulder struck a wall. A shelter, narrow and jagged, but enough to break the rain’s fury. He collapsed there, folding in on himself, arms wrapped tight as if to keep his soul from spilling out.

His mouth pressed hard against his palm, smothering his sobs. No sound. No trace. He couldn’t be found. Not now, not when freedom was only a breath away. His body convulsed with silent cries, his ribs quaking with every held-back scream. Tears bled hot, carving trails through the grime on his face.

He had escaped.
He had survived.
He had taken back the right to live.

It was real. It was raw. It was his.

Chapter Text

Seoul

Jungkook cannot sleep. No. He cannot sleep at all.

The hours drag like knives against stone, and every time he closes his eyes, the silence inside his skull erupts into storms. A week has already slipped through his fingers, yet he still couldn’t find Jimin. The world keeps moving, neon lights flickering, trains screaming through tunnels, but for Jungkook, time has stopped, arrested at the moment of Jimin’s disappearance.

Where would he have gone? What plans did he hide? The questions bloom like poison inside him, restless and multiplying. Jungkook has searched every corner of Tokyo, from the gilded skyscrapers that pulse with luxury to the backstreets that stink of rust and spilled beer. He scoured the important places where power lingers, and the non important places where no one dares to look. Each search ended the same, his hands empty, his chest hollow.

Alone. Jimin had escaped all alone. The thought was a knife turning in Jungkook’s ribs. No one. He had no one. And still, where could he have gone?

The CCTV screen glowed in the dark, painting Jungkook’s face in a sickly light as he replayed the footage again and again. The hallways, the rooftop, the ladder. Every frame carved itself into him like scripture. He saw it all. He saw Jimin crouching, knees pulled to his chest, hugging himself desperately against the wall after he jumped down from the ladder. His body was trembling, his breath hitching, and then, like a wound torn open, he broke. He cried in the rain, his shoulders shaking violently, the downpour swallowing his sobs until even the night seemed to ache with him.

The storm raged, drowning out everything but his fragility. And then, as though the heavens themselves tired of watching, the rain stopped. Silence fell, heavy and almost reverent. Jimin lifted his head, water streaming down his face, his expression carved with something raw, something defiant. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. Every step forward was weak, faltering, yet there was fire in it. A determination. He walked away, not like someone fleeing, but like someone who had decided finally to leave the chains of his past behind.

Jungkook’s blood boiled at the memory. Rage burst inside him, violent and uncontrollable. He had struck the security guard so brutally that the man collapsed to the ground, punished for his carelessness, for letting Jimin slip through his hands like smoke.

And still Jungkook chased him. He followed the same path Jimin had taken, every alley thick with shadows, every silence holding its breath. His boots echoed against the pavement as though he was walking through a mausoleum, chasing not just a boy, but a ghost.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.
No.
This isn’t something he wanted. This isn’t something it would be happening.

He lost his focus. He felt like he lost everything in him. No body, no one can give him a good fuck, no one can give him the arousal in his pants. His body had become a stranger to itself, cold and unresponsive, as though his veins carried nothing but dust. Pleasure felt like a language he no longer understood, every attempt collapsing into failure. When he tried, he simply failed, every single time. His skin ached for fire, but it remained numb, barren. Something inside him murmured the truth he refused to face, that only finding Jimin would ignite him again. Only Jimin.

And so he did. He searched. He scoured every street, every station, every broken alleyway of Japan as though clawing through the bones of the city itself. The neon signs flickered above him, cruel in their brightness, and every passing face mocked him with absence. Jungkook haunted the corners where the forgotten whispered their secrets, he sifted through smoke-filled bars, train terminals drowning in echoes, the underbelly of Japan where shadows breathe. Yet his hands always came back empty, and the emptiness became a hunger that gnawed him alive.

Still, Jungkook wasn’t convinced. Doubt crept into him like rot, quiet and merciless. His Japanese was flawless, sharpened by business, each syllable precise and practiced. But Jimin’s Japanese… no. His words had been broken, hesitant, stitched together with the bare minimum he needed to survive. He spoke like someone who had studied only to endure, not to belong.

The memory slashed through him in the quiet hours of the night. Jungkook’s eyes snapped open, his chest drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted and damp beneath his restless body. What if Jimin was based in Korea? But not from Japan?

The thought burrowed into him, sharp as glass. For so long, Jungkook had imagined Jimin as half Korean, half Japanese. It explained the fragments, the hesitations, the way his accent tripped on vowels. But now, the more he remembered, the less it convinced him. The puzzle refused to fit.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching under the weight of his fury. He wanted to learn about him, to peel him open, to discover every secret that boy had hidden in the dark. That was why he called him out on that damn Friday, desperate for answers. But Jimin, fragile and burning with a courage Jungkook never expected, chose that exact moment to slip away. He escaped, leaving Jungkook behind with nothing but silence, leaving him caged in his own hunger, abandoned in the suffocating dark.

And no longer stayed in Tokyo. He has to go. He has business to take care of in Seoul. And he went back to Seoul. Yet even when the city swallowed him whole, when neon signs blurred into the midnight haze and skyscrapers towered like silent judges above him, he didn’t stop searching. The hunger to find Jimin pulsed inside him like a second heartbeat, refusing to let him breathe.

His first instinct was Busan, his native place, the city where salt clung to the wind and childhood shadows still lingered. Jungkook returned there, his chest a storm of hope and fury. He searched in churches where the light of trembling candles painted sorrow on stone walls, where hymns rose soft and fragile as if pleading for mercy. He wandered into homes where kindness might have taken in a lost boy, hands weathered yet gentle enough to guide him. He moved through charity places, where the air smelled of stale rice, damp blankets, and faint prayers. He searched in every corner, his voice cutting the silence, his eyes devouring strangers as if they might crumble into Jimin’s ghost.

But then the thought crept into him like poison. What if Jimin has someone who was now taking care of him? What if gentle hands steadied him, hands softer than Jungkook’s, hands that led him through crowded streets, that whispered comfort into the darkness? The thought burned in Jungkook’s chest, not with relief, but with a savage jealousy, an unbearable ache. Perhaps all this time he had been searching in the wrong places, guided not by truth but by obsession.

And Jungkook went mad when he couldn’t find him in Busan too. Madness rose in him like fire, unrelenting and consuming. His fists struck walls until his knuckles bled, his throat tore itself raw with curses that vanished into the ocean wind. The familiar streets mocked him with their silence, every corner of Busan echoing back his failure. What once was his home became unbearable, transformed into a graveyard of absence. The city’s lights blurred, the salt air choked him, and every crashing wave against the shore whispered the same cruel truth: Jimin was not here.

---

Jungkook looked out the window, his cigarette ash drifting down onto the empty road, tiny gray specks vanishing into the night. His arm hung loosely against the glass, fingertips brushing the cold metal. The night air was sharp and biting, but he barely noticed. His eyes were heavy, tired, yet restless, burning with a hunger that would not be soothed.

The driver kept glancing at the signal, waiting for it to turn green. Jungkook took another long puff, the smoke curling like wisps of shadow before spilling out into the darkness. A few pedestrians turned their heads, their curiosity fading when they met the cold intensity of his gaze. The black Bentley Flying Spur sat silently, a predator waiting to spring, its polished surface reflecting the neon lights that flickered like stars trapped in the city.

And then his blurry eyes locked onto a figure, impossibly vivid against the night. A hallucination, a dream, a cruel trick. Jimin.

He walked down the pavement, a stick in his hand, and a lady guiding his other. Jimin’s smile lit the darkness, a fragile, fleeting thing, his laughter spilling like pearls falling across marble floors, soft, contagious, impossible to ignore. He laughed not at Jungkook, not for him, but for the warmth of the lady beside him, and the sound tore through Jungkook’s chest, leaving it raw and aching.

Jimin moved with a rhythm that was almost impossible to describe, steps measured, deliberate, graceful even in his blindness. Jungkook’s eyes followed every motion, every flicker of expression, memorizing him in fragments of light and shadow. His cigarette burned through his fingers, hot and sharp, and he hissed before throwing it to the asphalt. Sparks vanished into the night like tiny dying stars, unnoticed, meaningless compared to the presence of Jimin.

And then the truth hit him like a blade.

Fuck.

He screamed it into the cold, the sound jagged and desperate, ripping the stillness of the night. The driver turned, startled, confusion painted across his face, but Jungkook barely registered it. His body moved on its own, driven by a force that made thought useless. He opened the car door, nearly tumbling out, and ran.

The pavement blurred beneath his feet, the city lights melting into streaks of gold and white, every sound amplified, the distant honk of a horn, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the faint echo of Jimin’s laughter lingering in the air. Jungkook ran with a fury that shook him to his bones, his heart hammering, lungs burning, every step screaming with need, obsession, relief, and fear.

And there he was, the boy who had haunted his mind for days, moving through the night as if he belonged to another world, one Jungkook could barely reach. Every fiber of him reached out, aching, desperate, craving the impossible. And he ran, driven by something older than himself, something raw and unyielding, knowing that if he lost him again, he might never forgive the world or himself.

Jungkook went and held Jimin's arm, his grip firm and unyielding, startling him and the lady by his side. Jimin froze, a tremor running through him, confusion and fear entwined as his body tensed instinctively. He did not know who this was, whether he had been caught, or if this was some cruel trick of fate.

"Excuse me?" the lady said, turning to Jungkook, her voice careful and measured, her hands tightening briefly around Jimin’s for reassurance. Jungkook did not look at her. His eyes were fixed entirely on Jimin, dark, intense, almost burning. Every movement, every detail of him was etched into Jungkook’s mind.

"Jimin," Jungkook said, his voice low, deliberate, and charged with a kind of heat that made the night itself shiver. The moment the sound reached him, recognition exploded in Jimin’s chest. His throat tightened, his body frozen in disbelief. His eyes searched the ground, though he could see nothing, trying to process the impossible reality. His lips parted, a fragile breath slipping past, carrying a whisper of hope he had not allowed himself to feel. Could happiness exist for him now, after everything he had endured?

"J-Jungkook?" Jimin asked, even though deep inside he knew. The recognition trembled in his voice, soft, unsure, but undeniable. And it broke into a smile on Jungkook’s face, sharp and dark, a predator’s curve of satisfaction that said, yes, I know you still remember me.

"Jimin, do you know this person?" the lady asked gently, her voice a calm ripple in the tension surrounding them. Jimin instinctively turned to her side, hesitant, still cautious, even as Jungkook’s gaze remained locked on him, unwavering, possessive. Jungkook’s hand did not leave him, anchoring him, claiming him without a word.

"Y-yes… I’m sorry," Jimin said softly, voice small and hesitant, threaded with guilt and relief. The lady nodded, understanding clear in her eyes, and stepped back, releasing him into the space between Jungkook and himself. The world around them faded, leaving only the heat of recognition, the pull of obsession, the charged weight of long-denied need.

"Let’s go," Jungkook said, his voice low, deep, and commanding, carrying the unyielding force of desire and desperation. The words cut through the night, a claim, a promise, a threat.

Jimin furrowed his brow, disbelief and fire rising in his tone. "Go where, motherfucker?"

Jungkook froze for a heartbeat, stunned. No. He had not expected this. He had imagined Jimin delicate, fragile, a trembling flower who would moan his name, who would surrender without a fight. But this was different. Jimin’s defiance, his fire, his refusal to bend, struck Jungkook in the chest with a weight that left him raw.

---

When Jimin walked away, he wanted to reach the main road where cars and bikes flew past like streaks of light, each one a pulse of life he could barely sense. He waited on the side of the road, listening to the rhythm of engines, feeling the vibrations beneath his feet, trying to time his steps with the flow of traffic.

But as he stepped forward, a car screeched sharply in front of him, the sound splitting the night like glass. He kneeled instinctively on the wet asphalt, the car’s bonnet almost grazing his face. The world seemed to tilt, the rain washing over him in sheets, soaking through his clothes, chilling him to the bone.

The man behind the wheel jumped out, fury written in every line of his face. "Son of a bitch," he growled, his voice cutting through the storm. When he saw Jimin crying, drenched and trembling, the anger in his eyes faltered. "You really want to die, don’t you?" he snapped, yanking on Jimin’s dress to make him stand.

"I'm sorry, I'm blind," Jimin cried, his voice trembling, raw with fear and vulnerability.

The man gulped, his anger tempered by concern. He studied Jimin, drenched in rain, shivering, a small, fragile figure in the chaos of the street. "Where are you going? Alone?" he asked, his tone softening, his eyes searching the boy before him.

"I have to go Seoul," Jimin said, voice steady but heavy with exhaustion.

The man furrowed his brow, clearly weighing the situation. "Please, sir," Jimin whispered, hope threading through the plea.

The man nodded and carefully guided him to the car, hands gentle yet firm, steadying him as he helped him into the seat. Jimin sank into the warmth of the vehicle, relief flooding through him in a way that made his chest ache. Only if this man hadn’t helped, Jimin didn’t know what he would have done.

The man dropped Jimin at the bus stop, the city lights reflecting off the rain-soaked pavement, casting distorted shadows around him. The cold clung to his clothes and seeped into his bones, feeling the weight of his own trembling hands. The world seemed impossibly large, and he felt impossibly small.

The man disappeared briefly, returning with a bus ticket held carefully in his hand. "You have to go to Fukuoka," he said, his voice steady but carrying an unspoken urgency, a lifeline thrown into the chaos of Jimin’s night. The ticket felt like a fragile piece of hope, something delicate yet vital in the storm surrounding him.

"And from Fukuoka, you have to take a ferry to Busan." Jimin’s gut twisted in fear. No, he cannot go to Busan. The thought of the open sea, of the faces waiting for him, made his chest tighten and his hands clench around the ticket.

"And you can take a bus or train from Busan to Seoul," the man added, calm and patient, his eyes watching Jimin carefully.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you so much," Jimin whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks, mingling with the rain that had soaked him through. The man reached into his pocket and pressed a few bills into Jimin’s hand. "Use this money for tickets," he said, his voice firm but gentle.

Jimin could barely hold it, the paper damp and trembling in his grasp. Tears flowed freely now, unbidden, carving lines across his face. "Be careful," the man said, before leaving him to board the bus. The words felt like a fragile shield, a small hope to hold onto in a world that had taken so much from him.

On the bus, Jimin curled himself into a blanket, feeling the weight of exhaustion, fear, and relief pressing down on him. The gentle rocking of the bus against the road was both comforting and unbearable, a reminder of how far he had come and how far he still had to go. Hours passed, the city fading behind him, until he reached Fukuoka, soaked in weariness and cold.

He spent the money on a ferry ticket to Busan, the waves beneath the boat rising and falling like the pulse of the ocean itself. The roar of water against the hull was deafening, yet in it, he found a strange rhythm, a reminder that he was still moving forward, that he was still alive.

When he arrived in Busan, strangers noticed him, small, shivering, lost. Jimin did not hide. His voice was soft, tentative, but he asked for help, navigating through the kindness of others like a fragile bird finding its way home. They guided him, offered directions, and helped him take the next bus and train to Seoul. Every step, every mile, was a battle of endurance and trust.

Jimin cried silently through the journey, each tear a release of the pain he had carried for years. Why did he have to go through all this? Why had the world demanded so much from him? Perhaps he would have died long ago when his mother abandoned him, when the first cracks of loneliness formed deep within his heart. And yet, he had survived.

By the time he reached Seoul, exhaustion weighed on him like chains, but beneath it, something fragile glimmered. He was alive, he had endured, and the world had not claimed him entirely.

Jimin arrived at one of the charity shelters, his clothes still damp from the rain and his body shivering from exhaustion and cold. The streetlights reflected off puddles on the pavement, casting long, wavering shadows, but the warmth of the building ahead felt like a promise, a beacon in the darkness of his recent life. He moved slowly, cautiously, his cane tapping softly against the ground, each step an echo of vulnerability and hope.

The shelter doors opened with a soft creak, and he was met with voices, gentle and welcoming. A woman with kind eyes guided him inside, and the warmth of the room washed over him, melting the chill of the night and the weight of the past week. The scent of simple cooking, of bread and soup, filled the air, grounding him in a world that felt strangely alive, kind, and safe. He exhaled slowly, feeling a tension he hadn’t realized he carried release from his chest.

He thought that they would help him, and they did. No questions were asked about his past, his blindness, or the small scars that traced his body and soul. He was offered a warm place to sleep, food that warmed him from the inside out, and a quiet corner where he could rest. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he allowed himself to relax, to breathe without fear.

Days passed in the shelter, each one a small step toward regaining a sense of life. Jimin began to speak with the people there, soft voices filled with care guiding him through the rhythm of their daily lives. He learned the sounds of the kitchen, the patterns of the hallways, the smell of laundry, and the cadence of footsteps on polished floors. Each detail grounded him, weaving him into the quiet tapestry of the shelter. He began to recognize faces not by sight but by tone, by the warmth in someone’s voice, the shift in energy when they approached.

He wanted more than shelter. He wanted to exist in a way that gave him purpose, a reason to continue beyond survival. Slowly, with careful words, he asked if he could get a job for himself, a way to contribute, to step into the world not as a victim but as someone who could offer, who could create, who could live. The staff listened, eyes soft with understanding, and promised him the opportunity he sought.

They introduced him to a program for visually impaired adults, a space where he could learn and unlearn simultaneously. It was a school unlike any he had ever known, one that spoke in the language of touch, sound, and intuition rather than sight. Here, he could navigate the world using his remaining senses fully, honing his perception and discovering strengths he had never been allowed to cultivate. The lessons were small at first: navigating a room, distinguishing sounds, reading Braille, understanding textures, the scents and vibrations that marked objects.

Jimin joined the blind school with a quiet nervousness, but each day built him up, layer by layer. For the first time, he felt a sense of belonging. No one questioned him, no one laughed at his disability, no one tried to diminish him or make him feel less than. The walls of the school did not echo with judgment; the floors did not whisper ridicule. Instead, every sound, every word, every touch was a tool of learning and encouragement.

He joined in music lessons, the vibrations of instruments under his fingers bringing a joy he had not known in years. The notes became a language, a bridge between him and the world he had been estranged from for so long.

Each night, when he returned to his small room in the shelter, he felt a quiet satisfaction. He could lie down and reflect on the day’s accomplishments, small victories that felt monumental in the context of his life. For the first time, he realized that he was not invisible, not worthless, not simply someone to be passed over by the cruelty of the world. He was alive, and he could shape the contours of his existence, step by step, sound by sound, touch by touch.

Jimin had been asked to teach children under ten, and he had gladly accepted the offer. The thought of guiding young minds, of shaping their understanding, filled him with a warmth he had not felt in years. He joined the school as a teacher, stepping into a world where laughter, learning, and curiosity blended into a rhythm he could finally call his own.

All in a few weeks, his talent became undeniable. They said Jimin was already exceptionally good at math, his Braille reading flawless and fluid. Pride swelled in him, a quiet, steady joy that radiated from his chest. He could not remember the last time he had felt this happy, this accomplished. His students’ laughter, the tapping of canes and pencils, the excited murmurs as they worked through lessons; all of it felt like life in its purest form.

Every day, Jimin immersed himself in the work, teaching with care, patience, and a gentle energy that seemed to lift the children’s spirits. He felt a sense of belonging that he had never imagined possible, a feeling of purpose that filled every corner of his being. And then, without warning, the world he had built around him shifted.

Jungkook’s hand clamped onto his arm, firm and unyielding. The children’s chatter faded into the background, the sounds of the classroom blurring into silence.

"Let’s go," Jungkook said, his voice low, deep, and commanding, carrying the unyielding force of desire and desperation. The words cut through the night, a claim, a promise, a threat.

Jimin furrowed his brow, disbelief and fire rising in his tone. "Go where, motherfucker?"

"I’m not someone you can pay for now. Get that shit in your head." Jimin's face dropped to the floor, a shield between him and Jungkook’s penetrating stare.

No. Jungkook could not take this as an answer. No way. Never. His mind sharpened, his patience thinning, his desire twisting into something darker, hungrier. A low, dark chuckle escaped his lips, vibrating through the space between them.

"Jimin… Jimin… Jimin…" Jungkook murmured, "You have no idea," voice a dangerous melody, his words hanging like smoke in the air. Jimin’s brows furrowed, uncertainty and instinctive caution warring within him.

The lady on the road remained observant, watching the interaction, but when Jungkook’s dark gaze snapped toward her, she turned away quickly, as if acknowledging that she could not interfere. And Jungkook leaned closer, his warm breath falling over Jimin’s ear, sending shivers racing down his spine.

"You took so long to fall into my eyes again," Jungkook whispered, his voice low and velvety, "and I swore I will never let you go."

Jimin’s chest constricted. The closeness, the heat, the soft, deliberate words pressed against his nerves, making his skin tingle and his breath hitch. Jungkook sensed the lady still looking away and leaned further, his teeth grazing Jimin’s earlobe, a controlled yet fiery touch that made Jimin’s lips part and caught the sigh threatening to escape his throat.

Jungkook sucked lightly at the earlobe, teasing, savoring, before letting go, his lips hovering near Jimin’s ear, lingering just enough to ignite a blush along his cheeks. "Look at you," he murmured, "all going pink with my touch."

Jimin swallowed hard, heat pooling in his chest, the freckles across his face catching the dim light, delicate and beautiful. Jungkook’s satisfaction was evident, the curve of his lips dark and pleased at the sight.

"You will come to me yourself," he said, leaning back just enough to tower over Jimin, his presence heavy, commanding, magnetic. Then, his gaze flicked upward toward the lady. "Come get my little prince," he said, voice edged with possessive authority.

The lady approached Jimin again, taking his arm, her hands careful but insistent. "Good night, beautiful," Jungkook whispered to Jimin, a dangerous softness in his tone that made the words linger, like a promise and a warning entwined.

Chapter Text

Jungkook cannot sleep. No. He cannot sleep at all.

Not after knowing where Jimin is now. That blind school lies only a few miles away, hidden behind crooked alleys and walls that seem to breathe in silence. Five miles. For all these endless nights of hunger, of thirst, of maddening ache, Jimin was only five miles away. A distance so small it feels like a crime, like the world itself mocked him by keeping them apart for so long.

No. Not after knowing this. He cannot sleep at all.

The mattress beneath him, the pillow beneath his face, feels like a coffin, suffocating, as if the darkness itself is pressing into his chest. Every time his eyes flutter closed, he does not see peace. He sees Jimin’s mouth wrapped around his girth, wet heat sliding, the kind of sin that unravels him bone by bone. His body arches in torment, his own imagination consuming him more brutally than any nightmare.

A strangled groan slips into the pillow, muffled, desperate. His breath fogs the fabric like a confession of lust.

“Jimin.” The name drips from his lips like molten honey, slow and dangerous, a mantra whispered at the altar of obsession.

He still feels the phantom sting. Jimin’s ear between his teeth, soft flesh yielding to his bite. He still drowns in the ghost of Jimin’s intoxicating scent, thick and dizzying, threading through the air even in his absence. It clings to Jungkook’s senses like smoke, like incense from a forbidden temple.

“Jimin.” Again, softer now, trembling, almost reverent, as if the very sound might summon him from the night.

The sheets are ruined beneath his fists, twisted tight, torn by restless fingers. His body is a cage, and inside it his sins pace like starving beasts, clawing at the ribs that restrain them. He tries to shackle himself with reason, but the hunger is iron, unbreakable.

Sleep has abandoned him. Perhaps forever.

Already, he has sent his men to orbit around Jimin, ghosts in the shadows, keeping watch. Every thread of his life has been pulled into Jungkook’s hands: the place he lives, the place he works, every routine, every unguarded moment. His mind is a shrine, and Jimin’s details are the scripture carved into its walls.

He will not lose him again.
Not when his shadows stalk every breath Jimin takes.
Not when the moon itself seems to conspire, casting silver light over Jungkook’s sin.

This time, he swears, with a devotion that borders madness, Jimin will never slip away.

When he wakes up, no wait, he realizes he never truly slept at all. The hours of the night were spent writhing in restless silence, his body tense, his mind circling one name like a beast locked in its own cage. His bones ache with exhaustion, but there is no softness in him. No surrender.

He drags himself into the bathroom, flicking the light on, and the mirror greets him with a cruel honesty. His reflection stares back: eyes swollen from sleeplessness, veins etched faintly beneath pale skin, the sharp jaw made even sharper by shadows. And there, unmistakable, the bulge pressing against his night pants, shameless, demanding, taunting. He lets out a low, humorless chuckle that fogs the glass before spitting the froth of toothpaste into the porcelain basin. The white stain against the pale ceramic feels almost like blood against snow.

Steam gathers as he steps into the shower. The water is scalding, rushing over him in relentless waves, tracing the muscles of his chest, sliding down his stomach, wrapping around him like liquid fire. He tilts his head back, eyes closing for a moment, pretending it could wash him clean, but the heat only feeds the flames already devouring him from within. Every drop whispers of Jimin, every hiss of water is a reminder that nothing, not even boiling heat can burn this hunger away.

It feels as though something waits for him outside the door, a shadow crouched, breathless, listening. That thought makes him finish quickly, urgency pounding through his veins. He drags a towel across his damp skin, throws on clothes with impatient hands, and lets the fabric cling to his body while his hair still drips.

His phone vibrates, its shrill tone cutting through the air. A call. He doesn’t bother to look. His thumb moves with sharp finality, silencing it. His eyes do not flicker, his mouth does not soften. Today, he belongs to no one. No one except the one name that consumes him, Jimin.

The echo of his footsteps fills the staircase, resonant, hollow, like the sound of fate approaching. He moves through the vast emptiness of his house, every step filled with purpose, every breath heavy with desire. The car is already waiting at the gates, black and gleaming, a beast ready to carry its master. He slides inside, his presence filling the space like smoke.

Without words, he signals the driver. The man bows his head, obedient, his fingers already moving across the controls. The infotainment screen glows cold and precise, every route, every possible detail already mapped. It feels less like a drive and more like a mission for royalty, as though they are heading to meet not just a person but a destiny.

When the car slows and stops in front of Jimin’s school, the air changes. It thickens, charged, as though the world itself recognizes the gravity of this moment. Jungkook’s hand moves to his shades, sliding them onto his face. The black glass swallows his gaze, making him unreadable, untouchable, a shadow given flesh.

He steps out of the car. The ground seems to bow under his boots, the morning sun casting him in a ruthless light. Students pass in silence, the faint shuffle of their steps echoing through the stillness of the campus. The walls of the school rise in pale stone, austere and innocent, but against Jungkook’s dark presence they look like a backdrop painted for a storm.

His eyes, hidden but restless, move everywhere. Searching, scanning, devouring the space with hungry patience. He feels it, as if the very air is guiding him toward what he seeks.

His phone vibrates, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. The screen glows, pale blue in the shadowed light, a message stark against the glass: “Mr Park Jimin is in his room.”

A smirk unfurls across Jungkook’s face, slow, deliberate, as though the words themselves carved it into his skin. It is not joy, nor relief, but something far more dangerous, the satisfaction of a predator when the hunt draws to its inevitable close. His heart hammers with urgency, but his steps remain unhurried, each one dripping with control. He does not wait, not for a second, not after knowing that Jimin is waiting for him.

The hallway stretches before him, whitewashed walls gleaming faintly beneath the dim glow of ceiling lights. His footsteps echo with purpose, sharp and steady, like a clock counting down toward ruin. He walks as if he knows this place intimately, as if the corners themselves bow to his memory, as if destiny had long ago etched a map into his bones.

But then; interference.

Something brushes against his path. A slender white stick, tapping timidly against the floor, cuts across his stride. A boy in uniform shuffles forward, head lowered, his sightless eyes hidden behind lashes that do not lift. The collision is nearly instant. Jungkook’s boot catches the stick, jolting the boy off balance.

The student’s body tips, fragile, weightless, seconds away from falling. Jungkook’s hand shoots out, steadying him with a grip that is far too forceful for rescue. For a heartbeat, it could almost be mistaken for protection. His shadow looms over the child, eclipsing him entirely.

But then Jungkook’s lips curl, his voice follows, low and brutal, tearing the silence apart. "Are you fucking blind?”

The words lash like a whip, cruel and deliberate, echoing in the sterile corridor until even the walls seem to recoil. His hand shoves the cane back into trembling fingers with disdain, a gesture colder than abandonment.

Without pause, Jungkook turns away. His strides resume, unbroken, each step a declaration that nothing and no one matters but the name glowing like fire in his veins. Jimin. His smirk lingers, sharp and gleaming, hunger shimmering beneath the shield of his dark glasses.

Behind him, the boy remains frozen, his chest rising in small, jagged breaths. The sting of humiliation tightens his throat, his knuckles white around the stick Jungkook forced back into his hands. For one fragile moment, he stands in silence. Then the tears come, slow, reluctant, slipping over his cheeks in shimmering trails. They fall onto the polished floor, unnoticed, as the corridor swallows him whole.

But Jungkook does not look back. He does not hear the muffled sobs, does not feel the tremor of innocence cracked by cruelty. His world narrows to a single point, a single door at the end of the hall.

Jimin.
The room is waiting.
And Jungkook is coming.

When Jungkook finally reached the room that was whispered to be Jimin’s, his hand curled around the knob with an impatience that trembled like fire caught in glass. He pushed the door open, and his breath found a brief reprieve. There he was. Park Jimin, standing in the center of the small world that seemed to revolve around him. Jungkook removes his shades.

Two women, with faces soft and voices like faded chalk on a board, lingered nearby. A girl sat at the edge of a chair, fruit in her hands, its sweet scent faint but present in the air. They were speaking of something ordinary, something small, but Jungkook could not hear. His chest drowned in the simple fact that Jimin was there. Breathing. Existing.

“Jimin,” Jungkook’s voice fractured the air, sharper than the crack of ice splitting. Jimin stilled, his words unfinished, his palm pressed firm against the wooden desk as though steadying himself against an invisible quake.

“Can I have a talk with you?” Jungkook asked, his tone neither request nor command but something unplaceable, dangerous in its certainty. The women seemed to understand. Or perhaps they did not at all. Either way, they gathered themselves slowly, blindness shadowing their steps, and left.

But the girl remained. She was small, fragile in her stillness, and her hands clutched the fruit Jimin had given her minutes before. The peel trembled against her fingers as though even it knew the storm had entered the room.

“Why are you here?” Jimin asked. His voice was quieter now, careful. No sharp edge, no raised volume. Not in these walls. Not in this place that was supposed to be safe.

“You know why I am here,” Jungkook replied, his gaze drifting across the tiny room as though it were a cage holding more than five bodies. “Is this your staff room?” He clasped his hands together, rubbing them as if to keep from unraveling, his dark eyes moving like predators across every corner.

“C-Carrie,” Jimin stammered, his lips shaping the name like a plea.

“Yes, Mr. Park,” the girl answered in her quiet voice, turning slightly as if already sensing the weight pressing down on the room.

“Can you go to class, please?” Jimin asked, softer now, almost coaxing. She nodded to herself, gathering the fruit and its peels in her tiny hands. Her stick was latched to her arm, a silent anchor as she walked away.

Jungkook’s eyes followed her slight frame until she slipped through the doorway, the world swallowing her small presence. Then, without hesitation, he pushed the door shut with a finality that made the air shiver.

“Do not shut the door,” Jimin’s voice rose, breaking its restraint, but Jungkook only chuckled. A sound too low, too knowing. A sound that told Jimin everything he feared: Jungkook would never listen to him.

“Oh, give me a break, Jimin,” Jungkook’s voice was velvet stretched thin over steel, cutting through the room like a blade. “I just saw you after one hundred and thirty-seven days and…” His wrist flicked, the Rolex flashing as he glanced down. “Correction. One hundred and thirty-six days and twenty-three hours. Because you ditched me on that fucking Friday, ten in the morning.”

His palms slammed down upon the desk with a sharp crack, the sound rolling through the air like thunder in a storm’s beginning. His face hovered dangerously close, the heat of his breath brushing Jimin’s lips. Jimin shrank back instinctively, the chair creaking like a frightened creature beneath him.

That slight retreat drew a flicker across Jungkook’s features. For a moment, silence reigned, taut and trembling. Then his lips curled into a smile that was not kindness, not comfort, but a dark amusement that held Jimin in its chokehold. He chuckled, low and smooth, like smoke escaping from firewood.

“I searched the whole of Japan for you,” Jungkook whispered, each syllable dripping with venom and hunger, his gaze devouring. “And you were right under my dick. You think I would let you go? Give me a break, Jimin.”

The weight of his words pressed against Jimin’s chest until every breath felt borrowed. Sweat slicked his brow, rolling down to the edge of his jaw. His body betrayed him, trembling in ways he could not disguise.

“Look at you,” Jungkook said, his voice shifting softer, but sharper than before. He moved around the desk, his footsteps deliberate, a wolf circling the stag it already claimed. The chair shrieked against the floor as he pushed it away, removing the last shield between them.

Jimin’s lungs burned as though the air had thickened. He braced for force, for the sudden violence Jungkook carried so easily in his veins. But instead of collision came a whisper of softness: the touch of a folded handkerchief upon his forehead.

Fabric cool against overheated skin.

Jimin froze. The scent of Jungkook enveloped him, clean cologne sharpened with the spice of his sweat, something rich and dark beneath that made memory churn to the surface. Nights that should have been buried. Touches that should have been forgotten.

Jungkook dabbed with slow patience, almost reverent. The gesture was not tender, but it was deliberate, and in its deliberation there was cruelty. He was not comforting Jimin. He was reminding him of the way his body responded, no matter how much his mind resisted.

The handkerchief slipped down, tracing over Jimin’s temple, grazing the edge of his cheekbone, sliding away a bead of sweat that clung to him like fear. Then Jungkook’s fingers followed, warm and unyielding, brushing down his arm.

Jimin shivered. His heart raced. His throat locked tight.

The smallest touch burned like flame.

He hated it. He hated the way his body remembered Jungkook even when his mind screamed against him. He hated the scent, the closeness, the way his heart betrayed him with every thud. Yet deep within the pit of him, in that secret hollow where shadows breathe, something twisted and alive stirred, rising to meet Jungkook’s presence.

Jungkook slid the kerchief back into his pocket like it was a holy relic, as though the faint trace of Jimin’s sweat upon it were proof of possession. His fingers lingered over the fabric, stroking once before releasing it, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“How brave of you,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low, almost silken, but dipped in venom. “To ditch hundreds of eyes in that building and escape.”

Jimin swallowed. The sound was audible in the quiet of the room, fragile, a crack in glass. That night, the night of his escape, lived inside him like a shadow he could never banish. He had run for his life, body trembling, lungs choking on rain. He had wanted to forget. But Jungkook remembered. Jungkook would always remember.

“You were sexy in the rain,” Jungkook said, and the words slithered into Jimin’s ears like poison.

Jimin spat onto the floor. But his fury was nothing against the chill that swept over him. He had been terrified that night, clinging to death as though it were the only hand that could guide him. And Jungkook...Jungkook had watched him drown in fear and seen only beauty.

The smirk on Jungkook’s lips vanished. His body moved like a storm breaking. His hand struck, shoving Jimin’s face down against the desk. The wood was cold and unyielding against his cheek, the scent of polished oak and dust mixing with the heat of his breath. A sharp gasp broke from him before he could contain it, a sound torn raw and unwilling.

“You do not know,” Jungkook whispered, his voice dropping, burning, his chest pressing harder into Jimin’s back, “how much I was waiting for you.”

Jimin’s hands fumbled desperately, sweeping across the table, searching for something, anything. But Jungkook’s hand swept everything away. A pen clattered, a book thudded, the fruit knife rang once against the floor before silence reclaimed it. Nothing remained. Nothing but Jungkook’s shadow swallowing him whole.

“Jimin.” His name was breathed like a confession, like a hymn. Jungkook’s lips brushed his ear, a ghost of warmth against trembling flesh. “Jimin.” Again, softer, like an incantation. “Jimin.” Once more, with hunger so sharp it cut through the air.

“Let me go,” Jimin whispered, voice trembling, the words cracking like glass beneath weight. But the plea dissolved the moment it touched Jungkook’s skin.

Jungkook’s mouth was already at his nape, fever-hot lips pressing, sliding, consuming. Kissing, licking, sucking with dangerous reverence, each mark a claim, each touch an iron brand. Jimin’s body betrayed him, a groan breaking loose before his mind could strangle it. Jungkook’s hand was on him instantly, clamping his mouth, silencing him, controlling even the air that left him.

“I love to hear your voice,” Jungkook murmured, words curling like smoke into the shell of his ear, intimate and cruel. “But not here, darling. Tomorrow, we will be on a digital platform.” His teeth closed around Jimin’s cheek, biting deep enough to sting, shallow enough to taunt.

Jimin whimpered, the sound muffled beneath Jungkook’s palm. His fingers, blind and frantic, reached up and tangled in Jungkook’s hair. He tugged hard, pulling as if he could rip him away. But the resistance only fed the beast. Jungkook groaned low, the sound reverberating against Jimin’s skin, lust swelling darker, heavier.

With one swift motion, Jungkook stripped him. Jimin’s trousers fell in a muted collapse around his ankles, pooling on the floor like a surrender.

The sight froze Jungkook. His breath hitched, chest tightening with hunger so sharp it was almost pain. Jimin, vulnerable, clad in nothing but thin white fabric that clung to him like a second skin, fragile and breakable and devastatingly beautiful.

Jungkook’s cock twitched violently at the sight, straining, throbbing, begging for release. His eyes devoured Jimin as though he were both prey and altar.

His hand moved lower with deliberate slowness, curving over the swell of jimin’s ass cheek, pressing into the flesh once, twice, as if memorizing the give of him. He rubbed, he stroked, every touch reverent and greedy at the same time, his palm mapping the perfect roundness of it. The curve was so beautiful one would think it was bought but natural, sculpted like art itself, but no, jimin is natural. And jungkook loved it, loved how reality outshone any fantasy.

A shiver crawled through Jungkook’s spine as one finger slipped down, teasing the delicate waistband of jimin’s panties, tracking the line first as though savoring the tension of anticipation. Only then did he slide them down in one fluid motion, baring what he longed for. Jimin muffled hard against jungkook’s palm now, his gasps caught like fragile secrets, and the sound alone made Jungkook’s breath falter.

His chest tightened. His vision blurred with hunger. And then he allowed himself indulgence, a quick lick now wouldn’t ruin anything, he thought, lowering his mouth until his face buried on jimin’s asscheek, tongue sweeping across warm skin. He licked, he sucked his ass, his teeth scraping gently as he bit them enough to leave blossoming marks. Jimin writhed, started wiggling off, but Jungkook was faster, his arms like iron as he anchored him.

“Can’t wait to feel me inside huh?” Jungkook murmured against the trembling curve. His voice was dark velvet, but the moment shattered when he felt it, jimin’s hot tears on his palm. He froze, staring, the salt of sorrow soaking into his skin.

“Why the fuck are you crying now? You didn’t cry the other day,” he demanded, the words sharp but his chest aching with confusion. Jimin only sobbed harder, pressing his face deeper into the cradle of Jungkook’s hand, hiding, clinging, trembling as though he might break.

Something in Jungkook softened. He bent closer, his lips brushing the shell of jimin’s ear, breath flooding it with warmth. “I will show you how much I need you... I will give you what you ask for...” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous devotion.

Then the sharp sound cut through the room, jungkook’s belt goes off, the buckle clattering open, leather hissing free. His movements grew quicker now, desperate. His pants down, his undies down right away, as though the distance between them was unbearable. His body leaned forward, caging Jimin in, promising, threatening, trembling with need.

"Jimin... I waited all these days for this," Jungkook breathed, his voice a velvet growl that seemed to vibrate through the small room. His tip pressed insistently against Jimin’s hole, and the air itself seemed to hold its breath. Jimin’s palms flattened on the desk, the wood biting into his skin, grounding him, yet also imprisoning him. He could not move, not with Jungkook’s presence caging him in. He relaxed, if only to stop himself from breaking. Escape felt like a dream he once had, blurred and impossible now.

Slowly, mercilessly, Jungkook started throbbing himself inside Jimin. One push. Two. Five. Eight. He stopped counting, lost in the consuming rhythm of bodies colliding, the desk creaking beneath the strain as if it, too, bore witness to their dangerous reunion.

Jungkook paused only when his eyes caught something glinting in the corner of the room. A bottle of baby lotion, left forgotten. With a hunger that bordered on desperation, he snatched it, tearing the lid open with his teeth. He poured it into his palm and smeared it down his length, slicking himself, the scent sharp and out of place in the heat of their entanglement. Then he resumed, deeper, harder, filling the silence with ragged breaths and the muffled sound of Jimin’s restraint.

Jungkook’s gaze softened for a fleeting second as he looked at Jimin. His eyes were shut tight, wet trails of dry tears etched across his cheeks, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Jungkook loosened his grip from Jimin’s mouth, testing him. But Jimin did not move, did not fight. His stillness gave Jungkook a dark kind of relief, a permission he craved and twisted into possession.

Unable to stop himself, Jungkook turned Jimin to face him, aching to see him more clearly. His chest heaved as he leaned down, lips crashing onto Jimin’s with a hunger that had been starved for too many nights. The kiss was wild, devouring, a storm that consumed the very air between them. "Hold me, Jimin," he demanded, but Jimin’s arms hung lifeless. Frustration seared through him, and his voice deepened into a growl. "Hold me." He seized Jimin’s hands and placed them on his own body, forcing the contact he longed for.

Jungkook’s mouth trailed lower, to the hollow of Jimin’s neck, where his tongue flicked against tender skin. A faint whimper escaped Jimin’s lips, and Jungkook’s smirk curved in satisfaction at the sound. He sucked harshly at the spot, marking it with intention, as if to write himself onto Jimin’s body.

As Jimin’s arms reluctantly tightened around his neck, Jungkook’s hands slid beneath his shirt, fingers toying with sensitive nipples, pinching, rolling, playing until Jimin’s breath came in unsteady gasps. Jungkook used that very moment, thrusting deeper, harder, until the wooden table shuddered beneath them. The air filled with the mingled symphony of gasps, creaks, and the pounding of Jungkook’s desire.

Outside, footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor. People slowed, curious, but none dared knock. None dared interfere.

And then it happened. Jungkook already filled Jimin’s hole, claiming him entirely. The pressure, the heat, the relentless rhythm drove Jimin over the edge, and he came with a shudder that left his whole body trembling against the desk. Jungkook bit back a curse, his head falling forward, lips crashing onto Jimin’s swollen ones once more, stealing whatever fragments of breath remained between them.

When he pulled back, his eyes caught it again. Jimin’s tears. Fresh, unstoppable, running down pale skin like fragile rivers. Jungkook’s smirk returned, though softer, tinged with something darker. "If you did not like it, why are you looking like a whole meal now?" he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. Jimin’s lips parted, but no words came.

"You will come to me, Jimin," Jungkook promised, each word laced with obsession, "by yourself."

And finally, Jimin’s voice, small, fractured, yet unyielding, broke through the haze. "I reborn here," he whispered, his chest rising unevenly. Jungkook stilled, his eyes narrowing, listening.

"I found my life," Jimin said, breath trembling, "and I am not ruining it for your pleasure."

A sharp click of Jungkook’s tongue cut the silence. "I will give you a better life," he countered, his tone fierce, like a promise carved in stone.

Jimin scoffed, the sound shaky but edged with defiance.

"You think I cannot?" Jungkook challenged, rising from him, his presence no less suffocating. Jimin’s thighs trembled as Jungkook, with startling gentleness, cleaned him, erasing traces but never the memory.

"Your desk is filled with us," Jungkook whispered, his smirk curling once more, as if this small room had just become their battlefield and shrine all at once.

"Now fuck off," Jimin said, his voice a fragile shield against the storm inside him. He stood up quickly, hands trembling as he tugged his clothes back into place, covering himself as though fabric could erase what had just burned into his skin.

"Gentler..." Jungkook murmured, but his tone was not regretful. It was like a tease, a whisper laced with longing. Jimin’s chest tightened. He refused to hear it, refused to let those words dig into him. If Jungkook had found him once, then others could too, and the thought itself made his world shatter into shards.

Jimin darted across the dim space, searching desperately. His book. His anchor. His escape. Jungkook’s gaze followed him, steady and unreadable, the sound of a zipper closing only heightening the silence between them.

"What are you searching for?" Jungkook asked, his tone curious, almost casual, as though nothing had happened. Jimin ignored him, lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, his fingers closed around the book and the smooth length of a new stick. Relief was fleeting. He tugged on a cardigan, hiding the bruise that bloomed across his skin, fresh and burning like a secret branded into him. Without another word, he walked out, his steps brisk.

But he knew. He could feel Jungkook’s presence clinging to him like shadow. The weight of eyes on his back. The certainty that he was being followed.

The corridor stretched long and full of echoes. When Jimin entered the classroom, the sound of students’ chatter filled the air, light and careless. But as soon as he tapped the stick twice on the floor, a sharp note of command, silence fell instantly.

"Sorry I’m late today," Jimin said, placing his book carefully on the desk as though laying down a part of himself. His voice carried calm, but beneath it was a storm only he knew. He already knew the poem for today, the one that weighed heavy on his tongue.

And Jungkook, oh, he did not leave. He leaned against the doorframe at first, body relaxed but eyes locked on Jimin like a predator studying its prey. Then he slipped inside, closing the door with deliberate softness. The sound of the latch clicking was louder in Jimin’s ears than the entire room. Jungkook stayed near the wall, arms crossed, his gaze unrelenting, almost indulgent, drinking in every flicker of Jimin’s being.

Jimin spoke, it was not words written by another. It was his own voice, his own wound carved into verse:

A bird once soared, its chain undone,
But shadows rose to block the sun.
Its wings still bled where freedom lied,
For hunger’s claw had claimed its sky.

His voice was steady, but each syllable carried weight, a truth veiled as poetry. The class heard a lesson. Jungkook heard a confession.

Jungkook’s lips curved into a slow smirk. He understood every line, every fracture of meaning hidden between the words. For him, it was not a warning but a song meant only for him, proof that he was inescapable. With a final glance; hungry, claiming, endless, he turned and left the room. But his eyes lingered even in absence, like fire that refused to burn out.

Chapter Text

Jimin was sleeping on his bed now.

The room was too quiet, and the moon was rising up high, and his face glowed with the light through the window as he adjusted himself on the bed. Sleep was too far away for him now. The quiet moment was too noisy. The silence was horrible. He was fine since last night. He had a nice dinner with his colleague, until he met Jungkook again. Until he met his cursed life again.

Out of everyone, out of people he has worked with for years, Jungkook? Jimin hadn't expected him at all. Jungkook remembers Jimin after all these months? Jungkook was searching for him? And Jungkook fucked him like he didn't care anything in the world but Jimin. He didn't care about his consent. He didn't care if he was crying under him. He was an animal. No, Jimin doesn't even want to compare him with an animal.

His pillow drenched slowly with Jimin's hot and silent tears. Not even the person next to his room can hear him. No one should hear him cry. He almost forgot how it would feel to be sad, he almost forgot he had a life he buried deep in the waters of Busan. He almost forgot Jungkook. He almost forgot what he was doing in the past. But now Jungkook reminding him again everything. Reminding him that Jimin was nothing but a doll, a fancy puppet who can strip whenever they want him to. Who can spread his legs whenever they like him to. Who can kiss back like Jimin has no emotions. A fancy puppet, what Jimin calls himself.

Only if his mother was there, not the biological mother, but the one who raised him, who pampered him like he was someone precious, like he was worth living for, like he was worth dying for. Jimin turns around when he felt the pillow drenched completely on a side and he shifts to the other side, his eyes still closed.

Jimin was asked who those people were when he was eating food in their cafeteria. Jimin had no idea what his colleagues were talking about. There were men around his building. Subtle but not so subtle in everyone's eyes. They were watching Jimin from far, but not so far. They were checking everyone before letting them inside the building they lived. Jimin was confused. Did Jungkook send them? To lurk on Jimin? To not let Jimin escape from him again? What does Jungkook even want other than fuck him? Sometimes bad decisions worth it, right? Just a strike of knife on the wrist to end all these. Jungkook will not follow him then.

Since then Jimin was not feeling alone. He felt a few pairs of eyes always on him. Like he was being watched by the predator himself. Like he was a fucking mere prey he can play with until his lust goes down.

Jimin tried to take a walk outside the building but those people were still following him. Wherever Jimin goes.

Jimin wanted to scream. If only Jimin had eyes, he would fight them, or at least he would give a try. He would be happy dying in a fight rather than just walk away, doing nothing like a fucking coward. Coward with blindness. Coward with no support. Coward with a burning past.

Jimin receives a call as he was walking. He clicked on the green button on the keypad and kept it on his ear. Half expecting his voice already.

"Looking great in shorts," Jungkook says on the other end.

Jimin stops dead on his track.

"Don't worry, I'm not there, but watching you," he says with a smirk and Jimin gulps. His men was taking a video call of Jimin walking to Jungkook.

"If you are not letting me go, I will kill myself and you cannot even fuck my dead body," Jimin says, and the smirk fading from Jungkook's face.

"I will not let you," Jungkook says, the confidence evident in his voice. No, Jimin cannot kill himself, especially not over Jungkook.

"You know me better then," Jimin says before declining the call and pocketing the phone carefully as he walked away.

Jimin gulps. Why there is no peace in his life? He quickly wipes his tears but they were only slipping freely at the mere thought of people from his past following him now.

---

Jimin was in the staff room as he picked up his books. Lunch was great. But it tasted nothing for him. He felt nothing in his tongue. He’s slightly feverish from crying all night, but not too tired to skip work.

As Jimin was about to get his stick, there was a knock on the door.

"Yes," Jimin calls, and a lady walked in.

"Jimin-ssi," she says, and Jimin smiles. "Yes, Maria," he says, walking up to her.

"Chairman wants to see you," Maria says, and Jimin smiles before speaking. "Thank you, Maria… I will go see her," Jimin says and kept the books on the table before walking towards the chairman’s office.

It was on the front of the building, not a big office but neat and compact for the chairman. Jimin knocks on the door before opening the door carefully as he entered.

"Good afternoon, ma’am," Jimin says, and he hears the door shut.

The room was still for a moment, no response was back, and Jimin almost reckoned when he felt a pair of arms around him suddenly, his stick falling on the ground, Jimin's back hit the door with fierce force and his lips captured right away.

Jimin knows it, he can feel those cursed lips again. Jungkook was savoring Jimin's lips like he would die if he didn't. Jungkook held the sides of his ironed shirt, pulling him close, their faces pressed together. Jimin was pushing him away, his hands fighting against Jungkook's chest, but slowly, Jimin loses himself in the heat of the kiss, he reacted almost the way Jungkook wanted, Jimin's fingers grabbing Jungkook's dark suit now.

Jimin moaned when Jungkook bit his lower lip, later sucking it, now gentler. His lips trailed to the jaw, open-mouthed kisses left on Jimin's skin. Jimin's lips parted at the way the kisses seemed surreal for the monster who was giving them. Jimin felt Jungkook's fingers grabbing his ass cheeks like the time was cruel when they were apart.

He squeezed them, once, twice, harder, as his lips sucked the helix of Jimin's ear, and Jimin threw his head back, moaned again, feeling Jungkook's bulge against him. Jungkook smirked before lowering to his neck, kissing, as if no one was outside this room, he cared no one except Jimin.

"Don't you like it?" Jungkook asks, his lips were still glued to Jimin's sweet spot of the neck.

Jimin instantly shakes his head a no. Seeing the response, Jungkook bit the spot he was kissing, and Jimin instantly gave a low moan, clutching the suit tight, and before he knew, there was a bruise on Jimin's neck, fresh and alluring for Jungkook's eyes.

And only then Jungkook noticed, Jimin was slightly burning. Jungkook looked up at Jimin whose eyes were still closed and saw him gulping down hard.

"Why do you have to work when you are not feeling well?" Jungkook asks, and Jimin finally got the voice to speak.

"As if you are paying me," Jimin says, and he hears Jungkook's dark chuckle.

And Jimin realized. He was in the chairman's room but she wasn't there. Jungkook was there.

"You," Jimin asked, already guessing what Jungkook was about to say.

"You almost forgot it was your chairman's room, don't you, little Jimin?" Jungkook asks, and Jimin blinked, his heartbeat thundered loud, his breath ragged.

"Yes, I will be fucking pay you from now… meet your new and only chairman of this building," Jungkook says, and Jimin felt like his soul was taken away.

"Its… its not a time to joke," Jimin says, even though he knew Jungkook wouldn't be joking. Not standing under the chairman's roof.

"I wish I was," Jungkook says, his chest brushed against Jimin's as he closed the distance once again.

"You know what…" Jungkook says, walking away, and he sat on the glass table behind him as he looks up at Jimin.

Jimin was still on the door, not having any idea where his stick was now.

"I thought bringing you out of brothel," Jungkook says, and Jimin felt himself pushing back to the door.

"Buying you out of money and make me mine, only mine," Jungkook says, and Jimin gulps, not interrupting him.

"Bad for you… you had to do all the stunt to escape," Jungkook says, and Jimin was shaking his head.

"Y-you could never," Jimin says, and Jungkook tilted his head like Jimin was saying something stupid.

"Never what?" he questions.

"You could not buy me from them," Jimin says, and Jungkook chuckles.

"You think I don't have money to get you out of there?" he asks.

"I didn't mean that…" Jimin gritted, mouthing scoundrel, he wants to cuss him but now him on the chairman's seat, Jimin was holding all his anger to himself.

"I'm not someone anyone can buy," Jimin answers, and Jungkook squinted his eyebrows.

"Why?" Jungkook asks, now jumping to the floor, walking towards him.

"Only a few days before I escaped, I signed a contract…" Jimin says, and Jungkook just stood in front of him, closing the distance, just inches away from Jimin's face.

"A contract with Mr. Keith," Jimin says, and Jungkook's eyebrows squinted.

Having no response from Jungkook now, Jimin understood Jungkook knew who Keith is.

"I belong to Keith," Jimin says, and with harsh grip, Jungkook grabbed Jimin's jaw, his head threw back and Jungkook moved more close.

"You fucking belong to me," Jungkook says, and Jimin winced in the pain.

"You wish," Jimin says, his fingers grabbing Jungkook's hand, trying to free him.

"Keith bought me already, that's why I had to run," Jimin says, and Jungkook's possessive peaked there again as he leaned, pressing his lips to Jimin's, now in ugly possessiveness, ugly jealousy, ugly thoughts of Jimin slipping his hands away again.

"You fucking know me, Jimin. If you don't, let me fucking tell you again," Jungkook says, his lips opened to capture Jimin's in his, his tongue slipping inside, dominating every inch of Jimin's mouth.

"You are mine, fucking mine, only mine."

Jungkook bites Jimin's tongue in savage possessiveness, like he wants to mark every part of Jimin's body with his teeth. Jimin pushes him away, but he whimpers when he felt Jungkook's lips on his, now kissing, softer, like he didn’t just rage-kiss Jimin a few seconds ago. Jimin always wonders how he changes from giving psycho kisses to soft ones in seconds.

And when Jungkook looks up, Jimin was a mess, his lips were bleeding, his hair was tangled, his already feverish body was sweating badly under Jungkook's touch. For now, Jungkook was satisfied, but his mind wasn't letting go of one name. Keith.

Jungkook had no business with him. Keith deals with drugs and women, men, sometimes children. And Jungkook was just a corporate mafia. He deals with money, properties, a few years back he was a medical mafia too. But Jungkook always underplays it, like he didn’t just make a deal he made, he didn’t just destroy a company he destroyed. Like Jungkook was mere a businessman for the outside world.

Keith and Jungkook never crossed paths, but he heard a lot about Keith. Keith killed his own family to be with his mistress. Keith betrayed his father and brought all their assets and made it his own. Keith slept with his stepmom, to get information about underworld as an underboss. Yes, he was just an underboss. But now, he rules half of the world, or more. Government needs Keith. Government loves Keith. Government hates Keith. If he wants, he makes sure everyone knew he gets it. And now he needed Jimin. He got Jimin. He bought Jimin.

No. Not until Jungkook breathes, not until Jimin was under Jungkook. Jungkook was ready to hide Jimin from the world if he wants, Jungkook was ready to do anything to make sure Jimin sucks his dick every night.

"You can't."

Jungkook's dark eyes turned to Jimin's in a split second. The air itself tells him to shut up, but Jimin keeps going.

"Keith would've found me before you, but he was just letting me play as long as I could," Jimin says, and Jungkook's breath was ragged under every syllable Jimin was spitting.

"Keith bought me for his mistress, for both of them. Keith swore he gets what she wants," Jimin breathes, now he feels Jungkook's warm breath on Jimin's lips.

"You can be a monster, but he is a demon," Jimin says and gasped when Jungkook held Jimin's throat.

"Shut fucking up… I don't fucking care who fucking he is or what fucking ever he does," Jungkook says, and Jimin couldn't hold himself anymore. Jimin touches Jungkook's face, softly, his palm touching Jungkook's cheek, to make sure it was there, before slapping the fuck out of Jungkook.

And Jungkook snapped his head to the side right away. But his grip on Jimin's throat didn't stop. He turned back to Jimin, but his head turned around when Jimin slapped him once more, harder this time. Jungkook spit on the floor before turning to Jimin, a smirk blooming on his face.

"Fight me…" Jungkook breathes near Jimin.

"Fight me all you want," Jungkook whispers.

"But you will come to me yourself," he says before letting Jimin go, and Jimin coughed on his face.

Jungkook pressed Jimin to the door as he combed Jimin's hair with his fingers, softer, tender… and gently fixed Jimin's shirt, his eyes not leaving Jimin's.

"Forget about me," Jimin says, breathing heavier.

"Don't die before you get me," Jimin says, and Jungkook only smirked more. The rage to make Jimin his own only multiplied now. The obsession grew more with the way Jimin was challenging him.

Jungkook leans in, kissing Jimin's lips once before crouching down as he gets Jimin's stick, giving it to him.

"Your students are waiting, Jimin. Go to them," Jungkook says, and Jimin gulps, breathing in and out, steadying his heart.

"Fuck off, Chairman," Jimin says before turning the knob and walking out.

And once Jimin was out, Jungkook's smirk faded. He has to think. He has to think, think and think.

---

Jimin was in his class, teaching them. He goes to the first row and talks to the kids, laughs with them, as he teaches them.

"That's right. Your answer is right," Jimin says with his soft voice, excitement in his tone as he taught them.

Jungkook was sprawled on the last row, his legs on the desk, his eyes on Jimin as he watches every inch of movement Jimin makes, but his mind elsewhere, everywhere, sometimes on Jimin, sometimes somewhere else.

Jimin crouched down to the kids, pinching their cheeks tenderly as he moved to the other row, slow and steady, teaching abacus to them now. He got permission to have a one-hour session for kids every week, one Jimin loves to teach.

Jimin held the kids’ hands, telling them how to move, instructing them softly, and the kids laughed when they made mistakes. Jimin scrunched his nose, ruffling their hair.

Jimin’s laughter echoed the room. His soft voice, children’s chatter, everything felt soft, caring, gentle.

"Yes, repeat it," Jimin instructs, moving to the next row, teaching them with the patience of the earth under him.

Jungkook was staring at Jimin. Even though he was far away, Jungkook could breathe Jimin’s scent in him, the intoxication, a blend of cinnamon and vanilla. Jungkook could breathe him all in him.

When Jimin moved to the last row, his smile faded. He already knew Jungkook was there, and Jimin instantly turned around but only to be pulled by Jungkook right away.

He fell on Jungkook’s lap, the stick falling to the ground, but he didn’t hear it fall. Jungkook caught the stick quickly, quietly placing it away, not letting the kids know he was there.

Jungkook’s arms instinctively wrapped Jimin’s. Jimin’s side profile was facing Jungkook now.

"Let go of me," Jimin whispers, enough for Jungkook to hear.

But Jungkook heard nothing as his face buried in the curve of Jimin’s neck, sniffing him, before kissing there, softer, one at a time. His lips moved over every inch, the hollow of Jimin’s throat, the nape of his neck, everywhere he could.

The kisses ignited Jimin in seconds. His eyes closed, his head threw back, lips parted, a moan about to escape his throat but Jungkook instantly put his two long fingers into Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin’s hands rested on his thighs, fists tight against his own bulge growing in his pants. Jungkook’s fingers squeezed Jimin’s waist, while he thrusted his other fingers into Jimin’s mouth harder.

Jimin’s chest was rising high and low, fast pace. Jungkook’s own heart beating fast against Jimin’s arm, and he couldn’t stop kissing Jimin.

"Come with me," Jungkook whispers in his ear, kissing gently under it.

"I will take better care of you, Jimin," he says again, his fingers reaching Jimin’s throat and Jimin’s eyes rolled in every fucking pleasure he was getting.

"I will treat you good," Jungkook says, kissing the jawline, and taking his fingers out of Jimin’s mouth, only to lick his own fingers, eyeing Jimin’s flushed face.

Jimin was breathing hard, catching the mere air around him. And finally, when he could catch the voice to speak, he does.

"Keith said the same thing."

Jimin got off Jungkook’s lap, his fingers catching the stick nearby. Jungkook’s eyes were not leaving Jimin’s as he stood up, walking behind Jimin until he turned Jimin around to face him.

"I'm not fucking Keith," Jungkook whispers back at his face, the kids oblivious to anything happening around them.

"And I'm not fucking yours," Jimin whispers back.

"Go the fuck out of here... please," Jimin says before turning around, and Jungkook was losing his mind. His rage was implacable, he grits his teeth, jaws clenches as he walks towards Jimin. His shoes kicks the walking stick Jimin was holding before ripping the door open and storming away.

Jimin almost lost his balance but caught the desk, steadying himself. He grunts under his breath before crouching down, fingertips clawing the edge of the desk and tugging the stick back into his hands.

Jimin knew.

Jimin knew what was coming after him.
Jimin knew what he would be dealing with.

And he hated it.
He hated whatever is going on around him.

---

Jimin walks into the quiet shower room with his towel and clothes on his shoulders. He doesn't turn on the lights, he doesn't need it. His fingers search for the handle as he puts the clothes on them gently.

He searches for his phone in his pocket and slips it out before putting it on the stand with his careful hands. He takes off his clothes, piece by piece, throwing them into the basket for the laundry. He looks for the shower knob and turns it, checking the temperature of the water and adjusting it.

He sighs when it is at the right temperature before walking under the stream of water, letting himself soak his head, his skin, his entire being. He faces the shower head and stands there, letting his face soak again and again, like he wants to get rid of all the evidences Jungkook has left on him.

Stop.

Stop thinking about Jungkook.
Stop thinking about Jeon fucking Jungkook.

You should not think about him. Not now. Not ever.

And Jimin receives a call. He tilts his head out of the water and caresses the stand as he searches for the ringing device. When his fingers catch it, he presses the green button and puts it to his ear.

"Hello," Jimin answers, rubbing his eyes. For a moment, it is quiet before he hears...

"Turn on the lights, Jimin," Jungkook, on the other side, says. Jimin freezes on the spot. The sound of the water running fades into the background when he hears Jungkook's voice.

"I can't see you," Jungkook says, and Jimin gulps. How did he know?

Jimin doesn't even realize he is lowering the phone until he hears Jungkook's voice again. He keeps the phone back to his ear.

"Turn on the fucking lights, I wanna see you now," Jungkook purrs, and Jimin grunts, his jaw clenches at every word he hears.

"Fuck yourself," Jimin says before declining the call and putting the phone back on the stand.

But Jimin can't process what just happened. He lowers his head in the shower, trying to cool himself down, but he can't.

All he can feel is the camera blinking on the ceiling, on top of his head, capturing Jimin in the dark.

Fuck.
Fuck you.
Fuck you, Jeon Jungkook.

Chapter Text

Jimin was back in his room, drying his body with his towel, another towel carefully wrapped around his waist. Never thought his own room wouldn't feel safer. But who was he even kidding? His own life was at stake. He had people chasing him. Since forever.

He turned on the hair dryer, handling it with careful hands. He dried his hair. But then he felt it. Another camera. Blinking on the ceiling. Capturing him. Frame by frame.

And that was when he flinched. A phone call.

"Fucker," Jimin whispered to himself before searching for the phone and picking it up.

"I don’t care what you want," Jimin said, already knowing who was on the other end.

And then, the chuckle.

Jungkook.

"Jimin… from up here, you look even more… how do I say it?… fuckable?" Jungkook said.

Jimin gritted his teeth.

"Don't make those lips," Jungkook said.

Jimin stilled. Turned his head slightly. He couldn’t see, but he knew. The cameras. The lenses fixed on him. Jungkook’s eyes, everywhere.

"I would bite those lips away. Right now. If you let me. Even if you don't." Jungkook’s tone, low. Playing. Cruel.

Jimin pressed the towel harder against his skin. He dried his body slow, deliberate. Shoulder. Arm. Chest. Mapping himself with touch. Not for himself. For Jungkook. For the one watching.

The clothes were waiting on the bed. He didn’t need to see them. His hands knew where they were.

Piece by piece, he dressed. The underwear sliding beneath the towel. The sound of fabric pulling tight.

The phone stayed hot in his hand. Jungkook’s chuckle bleeding through the line.

"I feel like… everything you do… is for me."

Jimin sighed. Sharp. Tired. Jungkook’s nonsense. Again. Always. He wanted to shut him up. To slice the words away.

Still; his lips curved up. A smile. Sharp, deliberate. For the cameras.

"You know what," Jimin said.

And Jungkook listened. Quiet. Waiting. Watching. Jimin’s fingers tugging the waistband up, dragging slow over his skin.

"Keith once gifted me an apartment in Pyeongchang-dong…" Jimin’s voice steady, biting. "Wow… I remember touching the apartment with my bare hands… He fucked me there. Told me he wanted to fuck me there every night. But I refused the gift. He wasn’t okay with that. Not at all. But I still refused. And he made sure… I would somehow accept it later."

Jimin knew what silence meant. He didn’t need sight to hear Jungkook stop breathing.

And Jimin smiled. Satisfied. Knowing Jungkook was grinding his teeth. Watching. Helpless.

And Jungkook's voice was heard over the phone...

"Say his name again, Jimin..." he growled on the other end...

"And I will paint the walls with his blood just to hear you choke on mine instead..." he adds, and Jimin blinks, listening quietly...

"You think you can push me away with stories of him?" he asks, his tone mocking, like he wasn’t affected by Jimin’s words at all...

"You can’t... you belong to me..."

Jungkook’s lips hovering more on the phone... like he wants to kiss Jimin away right now...

"Even blind, you see me... even silent, you hear me... even broken, you fucking breathe me, Jimin. Every second you exist, it’s for me, only fucking me."

Jungkook says, and Jimin gulps down his dry throat. His lips parted and he felt the power Jungkook held even through the phone, even when Jungkook wasn’t there in front of him.

Jimin gulps before speaking.

"Keep dreaming."

He declines the call.

But Jungkook’s words don’t leave him.

They cling. Stick. Curl around the edges of his mind like smoke, thick and choking. Every syllable, every whisper, every cruel, obsessive tone replaying in the quiet of his room. He can’t escape it. Even in the silence, it follows. Heavy. Pressing.

Jungkook cannot be Keith. Not even close.

The obsession… the way it radiates, even through a phone line, even unseen… Jimin feels it deep in his chest, cold and sharp. He knows it with every nerve in his body. Every pulse. Every breath. Every beat of his heart is marked, tracked, claimed.

He should be able to hold out. He should be able to resist. He should be able to tell himself this is just words. Just obsession. Just… Jungkook.

But there should be a time. A limit. A line.

A time when Jungkook will finally, finally let him go.

Right?

Right?

He repeats it in his mind, over and over, almost like a prayer. Almost like a challenge to himself. Almost like he’s testing the world, testing Jungkook, testing… his own resolve.

He bites his lip, tasting the bitterness of it, tasting the pull that refuses to let go.

The room feels smaller. Closer. The air thick. The shadows pressing in from the corners. Every heartbeat reminds him he is alive, and yet, every heartbeat also reminds him he is not free. Not really.

Jimin closes his eyes, trying to will the echoes away. Trying to ground himself. Trying to tell himself that this obsession, this hunger, this possession… it is not his life. Not his fault.

And yet, he can feel it.

He can feel Jungkook everywhere. Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

And for now… all he can do is breathe, gulp, and think.

--

Jimin takes his stick. Steps out of the building. Alone.

He just wants to shop. A couple of shirts. Something simple. Something his.

But before he even realizes, Jungkook’s guards are there. Shadows lurking. Far enough to seem invisible, close enough to make him aware. Quiet footsteps echo faintly against the pavement. They trail him. Always.

Jimin knows it. Feels it. Ignores it. Keeps moving.

The moon hangs high. Cold and distant. Casting thin, pale light across the empty street.

He sighs. Foot catches. Almost skips on a stone. Almost falls. He steadies himself. Keeps walking.

The pavement stretches ahead. A park nearby. Trees rustle in the night breeze. Leaves scrape across concrete. The air thick, heavy.

"Isn’t it boring to walk alone?"

Jimin flinches. The voice. Of course. It is Jungkook. Always. Every step. Every sound.

"It is boring with you," Jimin says, low. Sharp. He forces the words out. "So better to be alone."

Jungkook scoffs. A sound dragging through the night.

"No, Jimin…"

And then his hand. Closing on Jimin’s arm. Firm. Stopping him. Preventing him from moving further away. Possessive. Claiming.

"I will be the best in entertaining you… and you will remember everything I do to you. This lifetime."

His voice is deep. Dark. Promising. Heavy. Wrapping around Jimin like smoke.

Jimin scoffs back. Twists. Struggles. Trying to free himself.

"Get off me," he says, lazy. Defiant.

But Jungkook leans in. Whispering close. "Jimin… you don’t know what your body does when I touch you. I will be happy to hear you masturbating. Moaning my name."

Jimin shoves him instantly. Hard. Sharp.

Jungkook doesn’t release him. Holds him tight. Steering. Guiding. Toward the car parked nearby. Into shadows. Away from eyes. Into the dark.

"I’m just waiting for the day you get rid of me," Jimin says.

Jungkook smirks. Lips brushing Jimin’s ear. Hot, close. "Maybe when you die," he says. Pauses. Dark. "But I will never let you."

The back door of the Mercedes swings open. Jimin shoved inside. Jungkook follows immediately, shutting the door, locking it. Metal clicks heavy. Final.

"I’m not interested in car sex right now," Jimin says, voice steady despite the tension pressing down.

The air inside the car thickens. Silent. Heavy. Waiting. Charged.

Jungkook was already taking off his shirt. Buttons undone. One by one.

His shirt slid down his shoulders, warm skin brushing against the fabric of Jimin’s hoodie.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. His hands were already on Jimin’s hoodie, peeling it away before Jimin could even register the movement.

Jimin’s arms wrapped around himself instinctively. Tight. Protective. He could feel the cold air from the car windows crawling over his skin, sharp against his bare chest.

"Motherfucker… pull the windows up," Jimin muttered, teeth clenched, voice low.

Jungkook laughed. Low. Mocking. Heavy. But the windows stayed open. The wind cut across Jimin’s skin, making him shiver.

"Jimin," Jungkook whispered, savoring the name like it was honey on his tongue. "You’ll heat up now."

His fingers hooked into the fabric. Tugging. Pulling. Pants sliding down slow. Jimin felt it all. Every tug. Every shift.

Instinctively, his leg shot up, foot striking Jungkook’s jaw.

For a second, silence.

But Jungkook didn’t release him.

One brutal pull later, Jimin’s body lurched forward.

He ended up on Jungkook’s lap.

Thighs spread, resisting. Unwilling.

Jungkook trapped him, chest pressing against Jimin’s.

Nowhere to move. Nowhere to run.

"Stop coming to my classes," Jimin said.

Flat tone. Sharp. Heavy. Spoken more to steady himself than to warn Jungkook.

Jungkook listened.

Eyebrow arched. Lips twitching. Almost a smile. He waited. Wanted more.

"And to my staffroom as well," Jimin added, voice harder now, tense. "My colleagues… they think I have a fling with you."

A low sound escaped Jungkook. A chuckle.

Not amused. Not surprised.

"Fling?" he repeated, the word sharp, tasting bitter. "Bullshit."

His hand moved before Jimin could push him back. Fingers pressed, squeezing tight into the curve of Jimin’s ass. Possessive. Claiming.

Jimin’s palm hit Jungkook’s cheek, cracking against it in reflex.

The sting hit sharp, cruel.

Jungkook didn’t stop. He did it again. Harder. Crueler.

Another slap. Louder this time. Echoing in the small, tense space of the car.

Jungkook’s head snaps back to Jimin with sudden force.

Eyes dark. Unshaken. Like nothing could touch him.

He grabs the back of Jimin’s neck, fingers pressing just enough to anchor him, to claim him.

And then…

His mouth crashes down.

A kiss that hits every nerve at once.

Harsh.
Soft.
Tender.
Brutal.

Like he wants to destroy Jimin and worship him in the same motion.

Jimin’s arms tighten around himself. Instinctive. Protective.

But it doesn’t stop Jungkook.

His other hand is still on Jimin’s ass. Pressing. Cruel. Unrelenting.

Jimin’s chest rises unevenly. Trembling. Shaking.

Breath spilling hot, ragged, hard against Jungkook’s lips.

He wants to pull away, to shove, to escape. But he can’t. Every part of him is trapped. Claimed.

Then, just to let him breathe—

Jungkook’s mouth pulls back slightly.

Crashing softer now against Jimin’s cheek.

A kiss. Gentle. Almost tender.

For a fleeting second, Jimin imagines he could move, slip away. But it dies immediately.

Teeth sink into the curve of his cheek.

Sharp. Possessive. Claiming.

Jimin breaks open with sound.

A moaning mess. Trembling under weight he cannot fight.

Jungkook’s grip on his nape tightens.

Iron. Merciless.

He tilts Jimin’s head the way he wants.

Guides him like he owns every inch of him.

His mouth slides higher. Tongue tracing along the edge of Jimin’s ear.

Hot. Slow. Obscene.

He sucks at the lobe. Wet. Dragging. Pulling.

Then his teeth clamp down. Holding. Claiming. Marking.

Jimin’s hands finally move.

Fingers resting on Jungkook’s shoulders. Clinging.

Nails digging into bare skin. Leaving jagged lines in their wake.

Jungkook groans at the pain.

Like it fuels him.

Like it feeds his hunger.

His mouth trails lower, inch by inch, to Jimin’s throat.

And there… he cannot stop himself.

Biting. Again. And again.

Mark after mark.

Each one sharper. Hungrier.

Jimin’s nails dig deeper.

Scratching harder.

Clinging. Fighting. Not knowing whether to resist or surrender.

The car air grows thick. Heavy. Hot. Almost suffocating.

Every moan. Every gasp. Every shallow, ragged breath fills the space between them.

Jimin can’t see it, but he feels it.

Every inch of him claimed. Every weight, every motion, every claim Jungkook makes.

Jungkook moves his hands, letting one trail up to Jimin’s back, tracing circles, lines, teasing the nerves under his skin.

Jimin shivers. The feeling crawls over him. Sharp. Electric. Torturing.

He presses his hands harder into Jungkook’s shoulders, trying to ground himself, to resist, to control, but he can’t. His body betrays him. Reacts before he can think.

Jungkook’s mouth moves down again, brushing over Jimin’s collarbone, dragging kisses along the hollow, nipping at the tender skin.

Jimin’s head tilts back, chest rising unevenly.

He can feel the heat building, skin burning under every touch, every bite.

Jungkook doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

Hands tightening. Lips crushing. Teeth sinking. Claiming. Owning.

Jimin moans despite himself. Breath hitching. Shallow. Hard.

Every movement calculated, deliberate. Every touch meant to break him down, to claim him, to make him tremble.

Jimin’s nails dig in deeper. Fighting. Surrendering.

He doesn’t know which he wants.

He doesn’t care.

Every second stretches, slow, heavy, oppressive.

And Jimin is trapped.

Blind. Helpless. Obsessed-over.

And yet… he can’t stop feeling it.

Jungkook’s heat. His weight. His hands. His teeth. His lips.

And Jimin… he is everything Jungkook wants.

Everything Jungkook needs.

And he knows it.

He can feel it in every pulse. Every press. Every bite. Every whispered name that hangs in the air.

Jimin’s body reacts. Against his will. Against every thought.

And Jungkook… he watches. Feeds. Possesses.

There is no mercy.

No escape.

Only heat. Only hunger. Only obsession.

“Jimin,” Jungkook murmurs, low and dark, a growl vibrating through his words.

His teeth sink into the side of Jimin’s neck.

Another bite.

Sharp. Claiming. Possessive.

Jimin shivers, chest tightening, instinctively leaning into the touch.

Jungkook doesn’t relent. Not yet.

Then, soft. Gentle. A kiss pressed right after the sting.

Contrast. Control. Ownership.

Like he owns it all. The bite. The kiss. The surrender.

He pulls back just enough to look.

Jimin’s face.

Flushed. Breathless.

Eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, a quiet shiver racing across his body.

Satisfied, yet trembling. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Jungkook lowers himself.

Mouth finding Jimin’s chest.

Pressing kisses against heated skin, slow, lingering, tasting.

Every brush of his lips intentional. Measured. Obsessed.

Then his lips close over a nipple.

Tongue flicks. Teeth tease. Claim. Mark.

Jimin arches back, instinctively, body bending toward him, surrendering.

He should stop it. He has to.

But he can’t.

Every nerve feels the pressure, the heat, the obsession pressing down on him.

Jimin’s hands twitch, clawing at Jungkook’s shoulders, searching, gripping, unsure whether to push or hold.

His chest rises fast, ribs straining, every exhale shallow and ragged.

Jungkook doesn’t move away.

He lingers. Savors. Watches. Feeds off every shiver, every gasp, every broken moan spilling from Jimin’s lips.

Slowly, deliberately, he teases, drags his tongue across the taut bud, teeth grazing, lips brushing, marking him.

Jimin’s body arches more, hips tilting without thought, caught in the rhythm of need he doesn’t want, but cannot resist.

The world narrows. Just the two of them.

And Jungkook… Jungkook only leans closer.

Every breath, every pulse, every shiver belongs to Jungkook.

And Jimin knows it.

Knows it and hates it.

Because he cannot escape.

Not now. Not ever.

His nails drag down across Jungkook’s chest.

Scratching. Red trails.

And still, Jungkook’s grip is firm. Protective. Unyielding.

He won’t let Jimin slip away.

The suction grows harsher.

Jungkook’s tongue licks over the bud.

Once. Twice.

More. Until Jimin loses count.

Then his head turns.

Without pause, he gives the other nipple the same brutal attention.

“J-Jungkook—”

Jimin’s voice cracks. A moan, raw and unguarded. Bare. Vulnerable.

And Jungkook bites harder.

Right there. Sharp. Claiming. The pain laced with pleasure, the sting making Jimin gasp, making his body tense, shiver. His cry spills into the dark, loud, ragged, echoing against the interior of the car.

The cold air that had brushed against Jimin earlier is gone. Vanished. Nothing left but heat. His body burns under Jungkook’s mouth, every inch of skin alive, fevered, aching with need and tension. Every nerve ending screaming for more even as his mind screams to stop.

Jungkook shifts. Slowly. Methodically. Angling his body closer to Jimin. Closer until Jimin can feel every hard line of him, the press of muscle, the weight, the heat. His presence everywhere at once. Overwhelming. Possessive.

One foot lifts. The heel presses against the center console. Dominance etched into the small space. Jimin feels it, not just the physical weight, but the ownership in every move, in every subtle shift of muscle and breath.

Jimin’s chest rises and falls fast. Heart hammering. Breath hitching. His hands claw at the leather, searching for something to hold, something to ground himself. But there’s nothing to stop what Jungkook is doing. Nothing to escape.

And then he pushes Jimin back.

Forcing him down, unrelenting.

Until Jimin’s head rests against the sole of his shoe.

Pinned. Trapped.

Before Jimin can even draw a breath, Jungkook’s mouth closes over his girth.

Hot. Wet. Cruel.

Jimin gasps.

His hands fly up, grabbing at Jungkook’s shoe, clutching it hard like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

His legs tighten, locking around Jungkook’s torso.

Holding him there. Needing him there.

Jungkook’s grip is merciless.

One hand wrapped firm around Jimin’s throat, keeping him still.

The other stroking his cock in time with his mouth, sucking, licking, kissing.

Greedy. Unstoppable.

Jimin’s chest heaves.

His throat strangles sound.

But the moans slip free anyway. Loud. Shaken.

And he has no idea how to stop them.

No idea how to stop himself.

Jungkook lowers his head.

Slow. Deliberate.

His mouth drags kisses down the length.

One by one.

Tracing. Claiming.

Until his lips close at the base, pressed hard against his throat.

His hand is still there.

Wrapped firm around Jimin’s neck.

Holding. Owning.

And Jungkook looks up, eyes fixed on Jimin’s face.

Jimin is undone.

Every sound spilling out against the air between them.

And then it breaks, Jimin cums.

Hot and sudden, spilling over Jungkook’s throat.

But Jungkook doesn’t let go.

Not for a second.

His mouth seals tighter.

Sucking. Drinking.

Taking it all in.

Not a single drop escapes.

Not one.

It’s like he was made for this.

Born to swallow Jimin whole.

To leave him emptied.

To leave nothing behind.

Jimin’s head collapses against the console.

Breath ragged. Chest rising and falling too fast.

The small space of the car presses around him, walls closing in. Every sound amplified; his heartbeat, his ragged breathing, Jungkook’s low groans and yet he can’t move. He can’t escape.

Jungkook doesn’t take his eyes off him. Not for a single moment.

Without warning, his strong hands lift Jimin in one smooth motion. Effortless. Dominant.

Back onto his lap.

The impact drives Jimin forward. Pressed. Trapped. His body instinctively arches, clinging to Jungkook without thinking.

Their lips crash together again.

More possessive this time.

Hunger layered over obsession.

Every kiss claiming, consuming.

Wrapping instinctively around Jungkook.

The world narrows down to heat and breath, teeth grazing, the smell of skin and desire mingling in the air.

When he finally parts, Jungkook leans close, whispering into his ear.

“I will never stop coming to your classes… Or to your staff room… Better you come to my room before anyone sees you.”

Jimin can’t speak.

Words stuck somewhere deep in his chest, tangled in heat and fear and want.

All he can feel are Jungkook’s fingertips gliding across his back.

Soft. Cruel.

Drawing circles, tracing lines.

Each brush of his fingers sends shivers down Jimin’s spine, tingling across nerves he didn’t even know existed.

“F-fuck off…” Jimin breathes, low, hoarse.

Jungkook chuckles.

Dark. Slow. Deliberate.

Leaning in, his lips find Jimin’s again, crushing against him, claiming him without restraint.

“You were going somewhere?” Jungkook murmurs, eyes glinting in the dim light of the car.

Without waiting for an answer, he lifts Jimin’s hoodie in his hands. Fingers grazing over fabric, brushing against skin beneath.

"Shopping," Jimin shivers.

Blind or not, he feels everything. Feels Jungkook’s obsession pressing down, thick, heavy, suffocating, inescapable.

And yet… he can’t look away.

Can’t push him off.

Can’t stop the pull.

"Shopping? Want me to pick the best pair of lingerie?" Jungkook teases, voice low, dark.

Jimin doesn’t answer. Fingers brushing the car door handle. Testing. Feeling. Slow. Deliberate. Unlocking it. Throwing the door open. Impulse. Reflex. No thought.

A bike roars past. Screeching tires. Close. Too close. The sound cuts the night, sudden and loud.

"Jimin!" Jungkook shouts. Sharp. Panic edges his voice. Eyes wide. Heart quick.

He moves faster than Jimin expects. Grabs him. Pulls him back. Hard. Instant. The car door slams shut behind them. Lock clicks. Heavy. Final. The world outside disappears.

"You love to die, don’t you?" His hand digs into Jimin’s arm. The skin reddens. Pain presses sharp. Hot. Stinging. A warning. A claim.

"I-I didn’t expect…" Jimin mutters. Breath catches in his chest. Relief, grateful he’s safe. But the sting of Jungkook’s grip lingers. Hot. Sharp. Real.

"Well… I can’t even ask if you have eyes now, can I?" Jungkook yanks his arm again. Sudden. Hard. He leans back, pissed.

Jimin freezes. Still. Silent. Breathing slow. In. Out. Lips pouted, unconscious. Vulnerable. Confused. Relief? Fear? Conflicted. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. His stick is gone. Nothing left to protect him.

He opens the door anyway. Shoe hits the cold pavement. Fingers slide along the car for support, grounding. Heart racing. Breath catching.

"Fuck…" Jungkook mutters behind him. Low. Sharp. Dangerous. Hands grab his shirt, buttons half undone. Keys tight in one hand.

He jumps out. Silent fury in motion. Step by step. Closing the distance.

Two buttons flapping against his chest with each stride. Eyes fixed. Obsessed. Following. Tracking.

Nothing else exists. The street. The night. The cold. Fading. Only him. Only Jimin.

He grabs Jimin’s arm again, firm, unrelenting. Jimin tries to yank it free, twisting, pulling, but Jungkook’s grip is iron. He can’t break it.

"It’s dangerous to walk around without your stick," Jungkook says, low, controlled, the edge of a warning cutting through the quiet night. Jimin stops. Feels the sting. The heat. The pressure. Reminds him Jungkook is still there, still claiming him in small, silent ways.

"You should’ve thought about it before you threw it away," Jimin snaps, defensive, clipped, words spilling faster than his thoughts. Jungkook closes his eyes, taking a slow breath, forcing himself to calm, pushing the edge of his anger down. "Now what? I’m here… I can guide you… let’s go back to the car," he says, steady, commanding, patient but sharp.

"I’m not hopping on your car again," Jimin shakes his head, final, his voice crisp against the soft hum of the street. Jungkook tilts his head, nods slowly, like a predator marking territory. "Then I will follow you," he says, a promise. A warning.

Jimin shakes again, impatient, trying to pull away. But Jungkook doesn’t let go. Not now. Not easily. Not without knowing where Jimin is headed. He falls in step behind him, silent, heavy, breathing with him, almost syncing.

Jimin moves toward the bus stop, careful steps, deliberate. Pavement cold under his shoes. Night quiet. The world distant. Jungkook beside him, close enough that he can feel every movement, but silent, like he’s stalking the air around Jimin.

"Seriously? I can give you a ride—" Jungkook begins.

"Fucking stop talking or go away," Jimin cuts him off, voice sharp, biting, drawing a few heads around them. Curious eyes, whispers brushing like cold wind across his skin.

Jungkook flushes, momentarily thrown by the attention. Turns his head, eyes away. But his hand, still wrapped around Jimin’s arm. Possessive. Protecting. Claiming.

Minutes crawl. The bus stops in front of them, lights spilling harsh and sudden over the street. Jimin fumbles for his card, struggles with the first step. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. Lifts him effortlessly, precise, placing him inside. He taps the card for both of them, authority quiet, dominant, assured.

Jimin walks forward, finds a seat by the window, settling in, letting the cool interior press against him. Chest rising fast. Heat lingering. Every nerve alight with Jungkook pressed close. Jungkook slides in beside him, shoulder brushing his.

Heavy, close, warm, silent.

Watching. Waiting.

Chapter Text

Jimin and Jungkook are walking side by side into the store.

Jungkook has never been here before.

He never came to this side of Seoul. Never had a reason to.
Dongdaemun Market.
Endless alleys, flashing signs, stalls spilling with bargain clothes, racks crammed with wholesale fashion. The chaos of fabric and color pressing in on every side.

It isn’t his world.
It never was.

He only came here once. Searching.
For Jimin.

And now, again.
He is here.
For Jimin.

For his shopping.
For his clothes.
For the way Jimin moves through a store like he belongs to it.

Jungkook’s palm is already there. Always there.
Pressed into the small of Jimin’s back.
Guiding. Claiming. Holding.

And then, it drifts. Slides to the side.
Settles firmly at his waist.
Steady. Unshakable.
Keeping him upright against the pull of the night.

The store swallows them whole.
Fluorescent light hums above their heads.
Rows and rows of fabric breathing faintly in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes move over the racks.
Over the endless clothes.
Jimin tilts his head, listening.

“Shirts,” Jimin says.

The word is simple. Soft. A command more than a suggestion.

Jungkook leads him toward the section. And the moment they arrive, Jimin’s hands are already moving.
Fingers brushing over the sleeves, curling against fabric, testing it.
One shirt pushed away.
Feeling, not seeing.
Another dismissed.
Again and again, until the rhythm is steady, almost hypnotic.

And Jungkook just watches.
Silent.

Until his eyes land on a plain black shirt.

He reaches for it.
The fabric stretches out between his hands as he holds it up.
He lifts it against Jimin’s frame, measuring the size against his body.

“This would suit you,” Jungkook says.

Jimin tilts his head at the sound of Jungkook’s voice. His own hand still clutching another shirt. Fingers pressing deep into the weave.
“What’s this color?” he asks absently.

“Black,” Jungkook answers.

“I will take this one,” Jimin replies, hugging it to his chest. His decision is simple. Quiet. Final.

Jungkook lingers. Still holding up the black shirt.

“I chose the black one too,” he says, his voice rougher now. He waits. He expects Jimin to accept.

But Jimin shakes his head, stepping forward, careful in his movements.
“No thanks,” he murmers.

And that’s it.

Jungkook’s hand tightens around the fabric. His knuckles pale. His palm crushing it until the shirt is nothing but wrinkles and broken shape.
His jaw locks, the muscle ticking beneath his skin.

The sound of fabric tearing faintly against his grip as he throws the shirt to the floor.

“Why would you not accept something I chose for you?” Jungkook asks, his voice low. His hand hasn’t left Jimin’s waist. The grip only deepens.

“I didn’t even choose you myself,” Jimin mutters under his breath, still reaching out, still letting his hands find another shirt.
He smooths his palm along the fabric, almost tender, softer this time. “What’s this color?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.
He turns his head away. His silence heavier than any word.

But Jimin doesn’t mind. He never does.
As long as he likes the fabric. That’s enough.

“Let’s go to the counter,” Jimin says finally, voice steady.

And Jungkook takes him.
Guides him through the racks. His palm still firm at Jimin’s waist.
Always pressing. Always steady.

At the counter, Jimin doesn’t move to stop him.

Jungkook pays. Of course he does.

And Jimin lets him.
Because Jungkook would never listen anyway.

Jungkook’s car waits outside the market.

The engine hums quietly, already warm, already familiar.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom; sleek, black, impossibly large, sits like it owns the street.

“I will go home. You don’t have to drop me,” Jimin says.

The rear door opens; backward, elegant, inevitable.
And Jimin's pushed inside before he can argue.

Jungkook doesn’t wait for permission.
He guides Jimin firmly, hands steadying him, until the door clicks closed with the soft press of a button.

“I told you—” Jimin starts.

But Jungkook doesn’t let him finish.
Lips crash against his, shutting him up before the word leaves his mouth.

And suddenly, he realizes.

He’s sitting on Jungkook’s lap.
Legs folded to one side.
An arm braced against Jungkook’s chest.

Instinctively, he wraps both arms around him, steadying himself, feeling the solid warmth beneath his hands.

“I’m hungry. Let’s eat something…” Jungkook says.

Jimin doesn’t argue.
There’s no use arguing with people like Jungkook.
Not ever.

The car moves. Smooth. Silent but for the gentle hum of the engine.
Hannam-dong. Not far. But far enough to feel the world shrink inside the car.

Jimin stays silent, his arms tight around Jungkook.
Jungkook holds him as though he was born for it.
Every movement, every touch, precise and sure.

The soft ambient lighting inside the car falls across Jimin’s face.
It glows, pale and warm, outlining the edges of his features in shadow and gold.

Jungkook leans back slightly, opening the mini fridge built into the Phantom.
A can of drink slides out, cold and metallic.

“Do you want some?” he asks, still holding Jimin.

The can hisses as he twists it open. Foam bubbling. A soft fizz.

Jimin doesn’t answer.
Jungkook takes the silence as a no, tilting the can to his own lips.

The world outside passes quietly. Streetlights streak by. Neon signs blur.

Finally, they arrive in Hannam-dong.
The car stops.
And in front of them; one of the most luxurious restaurants Jimin has ever sensed.
Its presence radiates wealth and quiet power, almost humming in the night.

Inside, the doors will open, the night will stretch, and Jimin’s world will shrink again to just him and Jungkook.

Jungkook takes Jimin inside, his hand still firm around his waist, steadying him as though the world might slip away beneath his feet at any moment. Jimin feels it instantly, he is no longer outside in the night air but stepping into a space that smells expensive, rich, and luxurious, the faintest blend of polished marble, fresh flowers, and something warm that reminds him of sandalwood. The air shifts. He knows, even without seeing, that they are moving deeper, higher. And then, he hears it. The soft, muted ding of the elevator doors sliding shut behind them.

The sound is delicate, almost secretive, and before he can fully catch his breath, the elevator begins to rise. The movement is smooth, seamless, but Jimin still clutches the hoodie around himself as though grounding his body, steadying his chest. Seconds stretch. The quiet hum fills his ears until it fades into silence, and then the doors slide open again.

When Jimin steps outside, the first thing he feels is the air. A sudden shift; sharp, chill. Cold brushes across his face, a crisp breeze licking against his skin, seeping through fabric no matter how tightly he pulls the hoodie close. He exhales slowly, relief and discomfort tangled together. At least he had worn the hoodie, but even then the cold feels inevitable, unstoppable.

They are standing on the rooftop terrace, and though Jimin cannot see, he knows. He feels it in the way the air opens wide, carrying sound differently, brushing against him like it belongs to another world. The faint murmur of the city sprawls far below. Overhead, he can sense vast emptiness; the sky. Somewhere close by, water trickles softly, the sound like silver threads pouring into a pool, echoing, echoing… A waterfall. Small, controlled, but enough to make the terrace sound alive, alive with something serene.

Jungkook doesn’t guide him to a chair. Not this time. Instead, he leads him right up to the table, and before Jimin can even question, he feels himself being lifted. Effortless. As though he weighs nothing at all. Like a child.

“Really?” Jimin’s voice escapes in half a laugh, half disbelief. His fingers trail against the smooth surface beneath him, the cool table, not a chair. His brow furrows. “Am I actually sitting on the table?”

“Don’t worry. No one’s here,” Jungkook says, voice low, certain. He sits down in front of Jimin, directly facing him, as though daring him to relax in ways he never has before.

That is all Jimin needs. He exhales and lets go. He tugs his shoes off and tosses them aside without hesitation, folding his legs beneath him until he is cross-legged, grounded, settled. Comfort; small, selfish, necessary. If he is going to survive this evening, in this place he wasn’t even ready to be, he at least wants to be himself. And here, in the silence, with no one to watch, he can.

Jungkook studies him with quiet amusement, one brow raised, lips curving with something unreadable. Jimin doesn’t see it, but he feels it in the air, the way silence stretches between them, filled only by the waterfall’s endless trickle and the night wind brushing against his ear.

And in that moment, he smiles to himself. Small. Secret. Until Jungkook’s voice cuts through, low and certain again, but this time directed past him.

“Foie Gras with Yuzu Gelée for him,” Jungkook tells the chef, smooth and deliberate. “And Wagyu Beef Tenderloin with Truffle Jus for me.”

Jimin stills. The names roll over him like velvet and foreign stars. Expensive. Delicate. Distant from his world. He listens to the words but doesn’t speak. The chef’s footsteps fade quickly, leaving them alone again. Alone, with nothing but the breeze, the city far below, and the tension that now hums quietly between them.

Jungkook’s eyes fall back to Jimin again. As if they had ever left. As if he had ever been capable of tearing them away in the first place.

Jimin parts his lips, ready to speak, but before a single word can leave his mouth, something interrupts. A bottle of Romanée-Conti Grand Cru, 1999 is brought to the table, cradled like it’s holy, accompanied by two thin-stemmed glasses that gleam under the soft rooftop lights.

Jungkook rises smoothly to his feet. His hand comes down at Jimin’s waist, shifting him ever so slightly back against the table’s surface, protective yet possessive in the same motion. The waiter sets the bottle down in front of them, silent and precise, before fading back into the night, leaving only the wine, the glasses, and the tension that lingers between them.

“They think I am a kid,” Jimin murmurs, soft but sharp, a quiet edge in his tone. But Jungkook doesn’t even flinch. He isn’t listening. Or maybe he is, just choosing not to.

Instead, Jungkook lifts the bottle with steady hands, pours the deep red liquid into both glasses with the kind of composure that feels regal, absolute. He takes Jimin’s hand next, warm and grounding, guiding his fingers around the stem of the glass. He steadies it for him, holds it in place until it’s right.

“Drink it,” he orders, voice low, final. Then he sinks back into his seat with the elegance of a king, his gaze fixed, unmovable, on the boy across from him.

In the glass, the wine shimmers, deep, translucent ruby red, glowing faintly under the lights like liquid velvet. Jimin tilts it carefully, hesitant, and as soon as the rim nears his lips, the air blooms. An intoxicating perfume escapes. Layers of ripe cherries, wild strawberries, crushed violets, and roses. Beneath it, darkness. Whispers of truffle, damp forest floor, warm spices lingering just at the edges.

The first sip is almost nothing, silk against his tongue, weightless, deceptively delicate. Then it unfurls, slow, unstoppable. Depth upon depth. Dark berries, black cherries, subtle licorice, the bitterness of tobacco curling at the edges, minerality grounding it all like stone after rain.

Jimin’s eyebrows arched, just slightly. He can’t hide it. The wine is velvety smooth, melting across his tongue with a grace he’s never tasted before, its structure held together by tannins so fine, so restrained, they’re nearly invisible. It’s elegance turned liquid.

And Jungkook watches. Watches like he’s starving. Watches like this single second of Jimin’s existence is something he could consume for the rest of his life and still never get enough.

“Is it good?” Jungkook asks, finally lifting his own glass, his mouth curving faintly as he tastes the same velvet darkness.

Jimin doesn’t speak. He just nods, the tiniest motion, the simplest answer. Enough. Enough because words don’t exist for what lingers on his tongue.

Jungkook takes it in, how he looks now. Small. Soft. The way his shoulders curl slightly inward, hoodie loose around him, his lips still parted from the sip. He looks cuddly, almost unbearably so.

And Jungkook wants him. Wants him too badly. Wants to drag him into his lap, wants to fuck him until every sound in the night is drowned by Jimin’s voice. Wants to taste him deeper than wine, wants to feel his throat open, wants to brand him with heat until the cold rooftop is nothing but forgotten air.

He’s holding himself back so hard it feels violent.

And the food arrives. Slow. Quiet. Heavy.

On a sleek white porcelain plate, in front of Jimin, there’s Foie Gras. Golden brown on the outside. Buttery soft inside. It glistens faintly under the lights. Next to it, a square of Yuzu Gelée, translucent amber. Shining like glass. Bright. Sharp. Cutting through the richness. A few microgreens scattered. Fragile. Green. Soft against heavy.

For Jungkook, at the center of a larger plate, rests a thick cut of Wagyu Tenderloin. Edges charred. Smoky. Juicy. Soft. Around it, Truffle Jus, glossy. Dark. Steam rising. Curling. Filling the air with earth and warmth. On the side, Potato Purée, pale. Smooth. Cloud-like. Soft under the tongue. Baby vegetables placed neatly. Glazed carrots. Pearl onions. One spear of asparagus. Shaved black truffle curls on top. Dark. Indulgent. Tempting.

Jungkook picks up the fork and knife. Not his. Jimin’s. He lifts them halfway. Teasing. Jimin’s fingers rise too. Reaching. In the air. Waiting.

But it never comes.

Jungkook lowers it again. Deliberate. Cuts the foie gras himself. Knife slides through like silk. Lifts the piece to Jimin’s mouth. Small smile. Quiet. Dangerous.

“Here,” he says.

Jimin reaches. Finds him. Feels the warmth. Holds it careful. Lips part. Soft. Obedient. Lets him feed.

The foie gras melts instantly. Heavy. Rich. Butter-soft. Then brightness hits. The yuzu flashes sharp. Citrus. Sudden. Gone again. Jimin chews. Swallows. Says nothing. Hunger in every movement. Shoulders tense. Shifts against the table. Head tilts forward.

“Give it to me now.”

His voice sharper. Demanding. Hand snaps forward. Snatches the fork and knife. Impatient. Claiming.

Jungkook chuckles low. Deep. Slow. Dark. Leans back. Lets him. Watches Jimin eat on his own now. Leaning forward. Urgency in every bite. Hunger in every motion.

Only when Jimin is consumed, focused entirely on the plate, does Jungkook turn to his own food. Cuts into the wagyu. Slow. Deliberate. Knife slides through perfect pink. Juicy. Tender. Truffle jus clings. Steam rising. He eats slowly. Savoring. Eyes on Jimin the whole time. Never leaving him.

When they were done eating, the desserts arrived.

For Jimin, Gold-dusted chocolate soufflé with Grand Marnier sauce. The ramekin was glossy, white, delicate. The soufflé rose above the rim, heavy, soft, dark chocolate brown. The gold leaf on top caught the lights, shimmering like treasure. The Grand Marnier sauce came in a tiny silver pitcher. Bright amber-orange. Slowly poured over the soufflé. Pools forming around it. Glinting. Almost hypnotic.

For Jungkook, Raspberry mille-feuille with vanilla bean cream and gold dust. Tall, delicate stack of crispy puff pastry. Golden. Fragile. Between each layer, clouds of pale vanilla cream. Raspberries peeked through, red, soft, sweet. A sprinkle of powdered sugar. Tiny gold flecks along the edges. A jewel on the plate. Tempting. Perfect.

They ate slowly. Jimin’s fingers hovered. Tongue flicking at the chocolate. Eyes lifting as if he could see the gold. Every bite was heavy. Every bite pressing down. He tried to hide the little sparks of excitement curling inside him. Small shivers. Mouth full. Swallowing slow. Savoring.

When they were done, when the plates and cutlery were cleared from the table, Jimin tried to move off the table.

But before he could, Jungkook’s hands were on his thighs. Pulling him closer. Spreading them apart. Elbows resting easily against Jimin's thighs. Heavy. Firm. Blocking every escape. Jimin tried to shift back. Tried to twist away. Couldn’t. Hands fell on Jungkook’s shoulders.

“Let me go home now,” Jimin said, voice tense. Sharp.

Jungkook didn’t respond. Pretended he didn’t hear.

Jimin’s small fists hit Jungkook’s chest. One. Two. On the third, Jungkook caught his tiny fist in his hand.

“Let me go,” Jimin whined.

Jungkook leaned down. Kissed Jimin’s fist. Soft. Slow. Wet. Smooth. His lips brushing the delicate skin. Jimin’s Adam’s apple moved. Up. Down. Reacting to the touch. To the kiss.

“You are my whore, Jimin,” Jungkook said, voice deep, dark. Jimin swallowed hard. Gulped.

“Let me do you what I wanna do,” Jungkook said.

Jimin tried to pull his hand free. Push him away. Struggle. Couldn’t.

“I’m not yours,” Jimin said, small voice trembling. Breath shaky.

Jungkook ignored it. Kissed his fist again. Harder. Lingering. Then a light blow on Jungkook’s cheek from Jimin’s tiny hand.

It didn’t hurt. Not really. Not enough. Not like it mattered. Small peppers are spicy. Small fists can bruise. But Jungkook just smiled at it. Low. Slow.

He stood up then. Eyes sharp. Dark. Focused. On Jimin. Watching.

And then he pushed him back onto the table.

Jimin’s body hit the smooth surface. Cold. Hard. Breath catching. Heart racing.

Jungkook hovered above him. Heavy. Intent. Watching every reaction. Waiting. Smiling slightly. Dangerous.

Jimin’s hands fell, landing on Jungkook’s shoulders. Tiny fingers gripping, trembling. Searching. Fighting.

And he leans in. Teeth pressing against Jimin’s throat, harder this time. Sucking, biting, claiming. Then lips follow, kissing the spot. Jimin moans. Can’t stop it. Can’t control himself. Every nerve on fire. Every inch alive. He trembles. Breath hitching. Heart racing.

Jungkook pulls Jimin’s hoodie up, rough hands sliding inside. Closer. Closer. Nails digging softly into skin. Fingertips finding nipples again, teasing, playing, making Jimin shiver. Jimin can’t believe how much Jungkook can take, how he can keep going, how he can make him melt, moan, break. Jimin’s lips part. Sounds escape. Breathless. Moaning again and again. Small, desperate sounds.

Jungkook looks up. Takes in the rooftop. The lights. The CCTVs. Everywhere. No one can see Jimin like this. Naked. Vulnerable. Not like this. He won’t allow it. Never.

“Lucky you are here,” Jungkook breathes. Straightening. Standing. Eyes sharp on Jimin. Jimin, messy, hot, trembling on the table.

“You go crazy over my touches, ain’t you?” Jungkook asks.

Jimin tries to sit up, but legs are still on Jungkook’s sides.

“I-I don’t,” Jimin stammers. Lies. He hates it. But he can’t admit it.

“You don’t?” Jungkook’s voice raspy now.

“I fucking don’t,” Jimin swallows, tight throat. Can still feel Jungkook’s teeth on his skin. Sharp. Marking. Claiming.

Jungkook moves a finger. Index finger brushing Jimin’s forehead. Moves hair aside. But the breeze tangles it again. Messy strands sticking to skin. Jimin feels it. Lips brush his, just for a second. A second too long. Heart skips.

Then Jungkook leans in further, lifting him by the waist. Jimin wraps arms tight around him. Koala hold. Tight. Clinging. Body pressed close.

“Let everyone here know. Tell that Keith guy. Let him know who you’re with,” Jungkook murmurs.

Jimin freezes. Heart stops.

“W-what?” he breathes, sharp, panicked. Did he hear that right?

“We are standing on his restaurant, sweetheart,” Jungkook says. Calm. Deadly calm.

Jimin exhales into Jungkook’s face. Heart thumping. Breath short. Chest rising, falling too fast.

“J-Jungkook…” he whispers. Tears sting his eyes. Already forming. Can’t stop it. Doesn’t know why. Fear curling tight inside him. Fear of cages. Fear of being caught. Fear of losing everything. Fear of dying.

“If you fear… fear only me,” Jungkook says, voice soft, steady. Eyes watching the tears fall from Jimin’s cheeks.

“If those tears aren’t for me, Jimin… I won’t erase them with my kisses,” he adds, dark, watching.

Jimin can’t hear him. Can’t feel the words. Only feels the darkness. The tears. The cage of his own mind. He hides his face in Jungkook’s neck. Crook of the neck. Sobbing silently. Wants to disappear. To vanish. To not exist for anyone.

Jungkook sighs. Low. Slow. Heavy.

“Stop crying for him,” he mutters under his teeth. One hand throws the card to the waiter. The other still holds Jimin. Tight. Tighter.

And then he moves. Walks. Out of the restaurant. Past the terrace. Toward the car. Toward home. Jungkook's home. Jimin clinging, arms wrapped tight around him, trembling, lost in Jungkook. Heart still racing. Breath still short. The night pressing down. Dark. Heavy. Indulgent.

Jimin was still on Jungkook in the backseat. His cheek, dry from crying, pressed against Jungkook’s neck. His lips brushed against the skin, soft, ghostly touches. Eyes closed, breathing uneven. Sleep was creeping in, heavy and ragged, like it was pulled from the edges of his sobs.

Jungkook’s hands stayed on him. Never moving. Never leaving. Not when the car hummed along, tires gliding over the quiet streets. Not when he opened the door and felt Jimin cling even more tightly as the night air brushed past them. Not when his arms were clasped around the frail little body as he brought him into the home. Not on the stairs, not when the wood creaked beneath his weight. Not when he moved toward the room, toward the bed. Not when he finally laid himself down, Jimin still on top, still heavy with need, still trembling.

He could not let go. Could not. The weight of Jimin in his arms anchored him, sharp, burning. The crying Jimin. The trembling, desperate Jimin who had clung to him as though he might vanish if Jungkook ever let go. How could he? How could he leave this small, broken, soft creature who clinging him?

Jungkook’s chest tightened. Heart thudding. Fingers flexed against Jimin’s back, nails pressing, holding, claiming. He felt the tremors running through Jimin, small shivers, soft sighs, little moans of air slipping from his throat even in sleep. Every sound, every movement, pressed against him like fire. Every brush of skin against skin, every exhale, was heavy, intoxicating.

He closed his eyes, letting himself drift, just for a moment. But even then, he could feel the tension in himself; coiled, alive, aching. Every heartbeat, every small sigh, every soft, uneven breath from Jimin pressed against him, and he couldn’t release it. He didn’t want to. He wouldn’t.

The world outside stopped. It faded into nothing. There was only Jimin.

And Jungkook let himself feel it all. Let himself be suffocated by it, held under it, consumed by it.

He tightened his grip just a fraction, a reflex, a mark, a claim. Fingers tightening along the small curve of Jimin’s hips. He couldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

And Jimin slept, heavy against him, light snores brushing against skin, fragile, trusting, utterly unaware of how dangerously close Jungkook was to losing himself to desire, need, and the dark, consuming pull of holding him close.