Moscow’s cold as a motherfucker, but nothing does it justice quite like sitting stiffly at a wobbly table in a closed restaurant a little after midnight. It’s a gritty and cold space, clearly affordable only to below-average classes. No one went crazy with the cleaning either, and the yellow lights do nothing but betray dirt and dust all over.
It’s a dump.
Jimin’s not the one to bitch about circumstances, but he knows this particular Bratva is loaded enough to procure him and his men with decent heating at least. They’ve been welcomed only with Vodka, and that’s about the only expensive thing they were willing to offer. Which makes sense – Jimin supposes as he shifts unpleasantly in the chair digging into his already aching back – amongst other illegal trafficking, alcohol is what fattens their profit too.
But in short, the Russians are already showing a blatant disrespect towards Jimin and his group, and it’s only his well-bred manners that hold him back from putting a bullet through Vorobyov’s greasy mustache.
Vorobyov’s the glorified head of this particular branch of the Solntsevskaya mafia; a low one, if you ask Jimin, but one that holds a veritable deal at the moment.
“So it is like that, mal'chik,” Vorobyov drawls out in strangled English, a fat cigar dangling from his meaty lips. “You get all our cargo and we get 60% in return. Fair and clean, as you Koreans like it.”
Jimin’s lips curl minutely. “That was not the deal, Vorobyov.” He doesn’t offer follow-ups, nor explanations, because Vorobyov deserves none. The initial deal had been 50-50 and Jimin considers he’s already shown kindness with that offer. If they’re bringing the cargo back to Korea it goes without saying that transportation costs, fees, depository, bribery, and distribution was on them as it was. Vorobyov’s taking him for a fool and Jimin’s nice only to a point.
But he doesn’t feel like leading a debate tonight, and if Vorobyov wants to play dumb, then by all means, his men are known to lead the most violent of debates.
“I know,” Vorobyov says, thick fingers engulfing a glass full of Vodka before throwing it down his throat. He slams the glass back on the table because it’s the only way he can assert dominance apparently. “But I didn’t make deal with you. I made deal with – “
“Min Yoongi. Yes, I’m aware,” Jimin cuts in. “He’s my advisor. Pray explain how that makes the deal any different.”
Vorobyov’s eyes tighten. “Min Yoongi agreed to 60%.”
“I highly doubt he did,” Jimin retaliates calmly.
A choked silence follows.
Jimin can’t for the life of him comprehend why other mafia heads insist on stirring up unnecessary conflict during every single deal. They lie and steal for a living; there’s no need to treat each other with the same deceit.
Waste of time, if you ask Jimin. Waste of bodies too.
He takes note of their situation subtly.
Vorobyov has two men standing on each side of him, same as Jimin does. But unlike him, Vorobyov has more men scattered around the restaurant, hidden in dark dirty corners and posted in other rooms too, he’s sure. Vorobyov wouldn’t dare actually kill Jimin, same as Jimin wouldn’t bother with killing him. It would start yet another feud between their families and Jimin would rather not bore his father with his playdates going wrong.
Nonetheless, they’re all dogs, and dogs like to bare their teeth.
“60% or nothing, mal'chik.”
Jimin smiles at the poor attempt of a veiled threat. He plays with his own glass, swishing the alcohol around in faux contemplation. He didn’t take one sip from it. Not because he’s rude, but because he never drinks on a job.
He stills his glass. “60% and your Bratva pays for our expenses,” Jimin corrects with finality.
Vorobyov doesn’t like it, his bulged eyes narrowing. ““Smart mal'chik. But it’s not you who orders me.”
Jimin notices from his peripheral one of his bodyguards curling and uncurling his fists. “At ease,” Jimin says out loud, purposefully warning Vorobyov in the process. His patience is running out. “I’m not ordering you around, bratan.” Jimin leans forward on his forearms, finding great pleasure in Vorobyov’s offence in his disrespectful mocking. “I’m just being fair and clean, as we Koreans like it. You either do that or change the deal back to 50%. As it initially was,” he underlines pointedly.
It’s Jimin’s last offer and Vorobyov knows it.
“I do not like violence, mal'chik,” Vorobyov says, his words dragging with anticipation, and Jimin notices his men reaching inside their coats, “but you ask for it.”
Guns are being hastily drawn out, all pointed at Jimin.
Jimin’s men continue doing nothing, but Jimin feels both of them inching closer to his side.
He holds a hand up, confirming to them to not engage yet. “Are you truly willing to risk your ties to the Park mob for scraps, Vorobyov? I’m sure Mogilevich won’t like that.”
“If 10% is scraps, then don’t make fuss about it, Jimin Park.”
Jimin huffs under his breath, leaning back against his chair amused. “Yes, but I do not threaten you for scraps. I negotiate. Or are you unable to negotiate without your men putting a bullet through my head? Leadership takes more than hiding behind dead bodies, you know. Or did Mogilevich skip that lesson? Invested more in guns and hookers, perhaps?”
Vorobyov’s gone red in a face, an ugly shade of humiliated anger. “You take the deal or you leave. We have plenty buyers.”
Jimin’s smile vanishes, his face wiped clean of any humor. “But none of your buyers are the Park family, are they? None of your buyers can pay half of what I pay. None of your buyers have moles in the FSB, just waiting for a call to rat on your illegal trafficking.” Jimin stands up then, slowly and purposefully, his eyes finally unmasking the mercilessness they’re known for. The guns’ muzzles follow his movements, but Jimin’s cold stare doesn’t stir from Vorobyov’s alert eyes. “None of your buyers are me.”
As soon as he says that, the guns’ safeties echo loudly in the vacant restaurant, fingers pressing into the triggers. Jimin’s men lunge in practiced unison, rounding the table fast enough to cause the other men to falter in their stances.
Jimin’s men immediately take advantage of their confusion, each grabbing an elbow and disarming Vorobyov’s mules in one swift movement. The guns clatter to the floor, and their arms crack with a sickening sound, twisted at an odd angle in each of Jimin’s men hold.
But as Jimin expected, more men come out from the shadows, yellow lights catching on their guns’ barrels. It’s only then that Jimin’s men pull out their own handguns, pointing it directly at the back of Vorobyov’s creased nape. Passively, they wait.
“I really don’t want to kill you,” Jimin says. “I’ll be honest with you. I could have easily sent someone else here in my place, but I wanted to see the Red Square myself. Please don’t ruin my vacation.”
Vorobyov’s seething by now, wide chest heaving and sticky sweat dripping down his temples. “You won’t kill me,” he grits out. “The deal is not worth it.”
Jimin hums, nodding appreciatively. “You’re right,” he allows. And then he addresses his men. “Put your guns away.”
His men follow his command, lowering their guns without breaking their hold on the other men.
Before Vorobyov can even blink, Jimin yanks out the knife from his thigh garter and promptly impales it in Vorobyov’s hand, his cigar left rolling on the table. He gives a strangled shout, gurgling in pain, but his screams are completely drowned out by the gun shots that follow.
Bodies thump to the ground.
Jimin briefly scrutinizes the room, searching for any other movements, but it seems like his men got all of them. He smiles satisfied, finally allowing himself to take his full glass. He dawns his Vodka in one gulp and sets the glass back on the table quietly. Vorobyov’s awful moans are music to Jimin’s ears and he flicks the butt of the knife just because he can.
Vorobyov’s whimpers, “You cock sucker, I’ll have my men rip your – “
“Let me teach you something that your boss will never be fucked to do. This business doesn’t run on murders and empty threats. It’s run on being clever and showing respect where it’s due. You wanna play with the big boys, you gotta start by not lying to every head you make a deal with. Doesn’t matter how important or small the deal is, you gotta show transparency, bratan. It’s how connections and alliances are forged. You fail to realize we’re not the enemies here. Out here you gotta look out for dirty cops and moles, not other families. So no, I won’t kill you, but you know what your second mistake is? “Jimin comes to Vorobyov‘s side languidly, steps even and unrushed. And when’s he’s close enough, he takes Vorobyov by the sparse hair he has, pulling his head back, leaning in just shy of his ear and hissing, “Every deal is worth it.” He proceeds to take the knife out of his hand with no regard for his suffering, and then he shoves at him with a force that sends him crashing on his back.
Jimin takes a napkin from the table and gingerly cleans his knife. “Kill them. We’re done here.”
Twin gun shots follow and the remaining men find their end next to Vorobyov’s writhing body on the floor; trying to get back to his feet like a turtle stuck on its back.
Jeongguk digs his boot into his chest, making sure he keeps still.
Jimin crouches down to Vorobyov’s level, finding sadistic pleasure in his state as he trails the tip of his knife down his eye. “Call your boss. Tell him you lost six of your men because of your own greed. Call him or I will, and I’ll make sure to mention where that 10% would have went. You can go through your nails being pulled out one by one, or you can give me what’s mine. Fair and clean.”
Vorobyov can’t nod faster. “You have it. Take it. 50-50, Mr. Park.”
Jimin smiles. “Wonderful.”
Taehyung blows smoke into the cold air as soon as they’re back outside, hurrying to hug his coat tighter around himself. “Man, I fucking hate this country,” he mumbles from around his cigarette. “You’d think they’d be fucked to clear the streets out with this much shitload of snow.” He kicks at a mound of snow vengefully, shaking his boot in distaste. They’re new and worth more than a man’s kidneys, but he doubts they take well to dampness.
Jimin gives him a non-committal sound, too busy with checking his phone to indulge in Taehyung’s perpetual whining. “It’s late. We have our flight back tomorrow in the evening, but we should be up early regardless. We can’t afford to sleep in before we make sure the transaction is complete.”
Taehyung waves him off. “Sure thing, boss. Say, where’s the nearest casino?”
Jimin looks at him blankly. “I just insinuated we should all get some sleep.”
Taehyung scoffs, sucking at his cigarette like he expects it to heat up his insides. “I’ve ran jobs on more than 48 hours of no-sleep. And don’t give me that. We all know you two will be doing anything else besides actually sleeping,” he says with a lewd grin.
Jeongguk remains quiet behind Jimin, but his shoulders stiffen imperceptibly. Jimin on the other hand, rolls his eyes. “Do whatever you want, Taehyung. Just be back by morning. Sober.”
And with that he holds up an arm, hailing the incoming cab. The car stops in front of them, rumbling and spitting out black smoke in the crisp winter air. Jimin opens the door and allows Jeongguk to go in first. But before he follows him inside, Jimin turns once more towards Taehyung typing away rapidly at his phone to tell him, “Don’t use euros or dollars. Pay with rubles even if it’s for hookers, got it?”
Taehyung snorts, pinning Jimin with an offended look. “Do I look like I need to pay for sex?”
Jimin shrugs. “You never know around these parts. Just be careful.” And with that, he slips inside the cab himself, ignoring Taehyung’s indignant curses and welcoming the heat for the first time since they landed in this godforsaken country.
“Koreyskiy rayon,” he informs the driver.
Their destination is confirmed with a grunt, and Jimin finally allows himself to relax minimally, sinking into the scratchy seat of the car and letting his head thump softly against the chair rest as they drive off. He tilts his head towards Jeongguk subtly and he sees his bodyguard sitting stiffly upright, looking straight up ahead of him, his hands resting on his upper thighs, ready to pull out his gun at the smallest bump in the road.
Jimin smiles, shaking his head to himself. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look at him as his hand reaches for Jeongguk’s.
He didn’t have high hopes for it, so Jeongguk pulling away his hand and letting it sink between his thighs instead comes as no surprise to Jimin.
He lets him be, focusing instead on the Moscow beyond his window. It’s a pretty city when you’re warm enough.
The Korean district is far from being glamorous. It’s modest, but it’s clean and familiar, far safer than any expensive hotel.
Jimin takes the key to their room from the old lady gratefully, thanking her politely and wishing her a good night before leading Jeongguk up the stairs. It’s a beaten down building, once hosting poor families, but recently turned into a low version of a motel. The stairs creak under their weights, and it smells like mold, but Jimin finds it a whole lot more welcoming than Vorobyov’s money-laundering restaurant.
Their room is a mirror of the rest of the building, but the sheets are white so Jimin takes that as a sanitary sign.
Jeongguk still hasn’t said a word, and Jimin knows he’s gonna have to coax it out of him like he always does when they’re on foreign territory, Korea or not.
Jimin walks to the windows, closing the blinds after making sure there are no shiny cars parked in the area. They would stick out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood.
“We’re safe,” Jimin tells Jeongguk as he turns back to him expectantly. Jeongguk’s standing by the door, just as stiffly, and just as quiet as he was on the way here. “There’s no one following us, Gguk-ah,” Jimin insists as he inches closer to him.
Jeongguk flinches just so at the endearing name, his eyes darting around the room alert. Jimin knows he’s checking for invisible cameras, spots where they could be hidden, bugs underneath tables and chairs, anything that could give them away.
Jimin sighs as he stops at a decent distance in front of him.
Jeongguk’s always been like this.
Strict, stoic, overly-careful, dutiful, with a discipline that’s engraved down to his very bones. A true soldier at heart.
Jeongguk had already been deployed to South Sudan for two years by the time he caught Jimin’s father’s eye. His credentials were impeccable, his skills and capabilities were near inhumane, but most importantly, Jeongguk didn’t have any family left.
It didn’t take long, nor much, to persuade him to join their ranks. Jimin had been against having any bodyguards for a long time, because he was never just a pretty face sitting on the throne of his empire. He was a skilled fighter himself, outstanding enough that he personally trained some of their men. But he wasn’t allowed one say in it, and when he first laid eyes on a young twenty-one-year-old Jeongguk, Jimin didn’t find much arguments to latch onto anymore.
It had been shameless flirting at first, outrageous touching and coy remarks, but Jeongguk was never swayed by Jimin’s blatant advances. And Jimin didn’t care much for it. It had been nothing but a game at the time, a mere challenge for Jimin. It’s not like he needed someone to fuck him; he had plenty contenders. But there was something about Jeongguk, something magnetic, something that never made Jimin feel that way about anyone, even less about someone who didn’t give him any attention.
But Jimin was aware of what that was – the addiction of rejection. The fire that made Jimin burn more violent the more Jeongguk pushed him away.
But Jimin never gave up, because he knew there was something there. He knew Jeongguk wanted him just as much as Jimin did.
It was in the way his breathing quickened whenever Jimin would be just a tad too unnecessarily close to him. It was in the way Jeongguk’s eyes betrayed him whenever Jimin would wear something a bit too revealing or a bit too tight. It was in the way Jeongguk had gone mad with jealousy when Jimin purposefully fucked someone on his very bed, knowing full well when Jeongguk would retreat back to his quarters. It was in the way Jimin made sure he rode the body underneath him facing the door, moaning unabashedly when Jeongguk looked down his body with bright-red rage.
And yet still, Jeongguk never cracked under Jimin’s pressure.
Until one day he finally did.
It was one year by the time Jeongguk finally gave in. It had been at the stupidest thing too.
Jimin had fallen sick. Nothing serious, just a glorified cold. Certainly not enough to have him stuck to a bed in spite of his doctor’s advice and of Jeongguk’s quiet disapproval. They were running a job, Jimin remembers it like it was yesterday – an assassination guised as a pompous event. All the families under the Korean mafia gathered for the occasion, and it went without saying that Jimin had no excuse to not show up. Not that Jimin wanted to be anywhere else to begin with.
His fever was running high, Jimin could feel himself sweating unnaturally, the gun slippery in his hold and his eyes fuzzy around the edges. But Jimin barreled on, signaling to his men to start engaging.
Everything that happened that night remains a blur to Jimin to this day.
He just remembers the deafening whirling of one of their helicopters and himself shouting mindlessly at his men.
Jeongguk had been shot that night.
There was so much blood that Jimin felt queasy with it, a feeling he never experienced before. But that wasn’t just blood; that was Jeongguk’s unconscious body soaking with it.
Jimin had been ruthless during the period Jeongguk was put under. He tracked down all the men connected to the assassination and even personally tortured one of their closer ties, not getting any rest until he found the man behind the bullet in Jeongguk’s chest.
In the end, the woman had a slow and painful death.
And when Jeongguk finally came back to, the first thing he asked, in his morphine-induced daze, had been, “Jiminie hyung, did you take your cold medicine?”
Jimin felt a lot of things that day.
He felt relief. He felt incredulity. He felt fear. He felt happiness. He laughed.
But Jimin also cried.
He’d barked at his men to leave the room before he could finally face Jeongguk again. He was twenty-two at the time, and he looked his age for once.
“I did, Jeonggukie,” Jimin lied indulgently. “How are you feeling?”.
Jeongguk’s brow was furrowed, eyeing Jimin confused. “Why are you crying?” he slurred. “Who upset you? Was it Taehyung? Do you want me to beat him up?”
Jimin cracked a laugh. He’s never seen Jeongguk like that before. That vulnerable, that honest, that…human.
Jimin’s closer to monster than man himself, but it wasn’t until that moment that he realized there were sides to him that Jimin thought were long dead. Jeongguk brought them out one by one, but there was one side that Jimin rejected violently at first.
He’s been falling for Jeongguk for a while, and he had no more escape.
That’s why Jimin’s eyes were wet. Because he was furious.
In that moment, he hated Jeongguk for making him feel that way. Hated feeling so exposed. So weak, so –
Jimin hated how good it felt.
Jeongguk wasn’t having any of his silence. “Why are you sad, hyung? You know I don’t like it when you’re upset.”
Jimin nodded, keeping his lips shut tightly, because he didn’t want any overly-emotional confessions betraying him. He looked at Jeongguk instead, smiling widely. “I’m glad you’re safe, Jeongguk. Please be more careful next time. I don’t feel like investing time and money in another bodyguard.”
It fell deaf to Jeongguk’s ears because the boy was only watching him with the dopiest smile on his face. “There it is. That smile I love the most. You’re so beautiful, Jimin. The most beautifulest.”
Jimin ignored his drug-filled grammatical errors, no matter how much they made him want to laugh and coo, focusing instead on extinguishing the foreign heat that stung his cheeks. He shook it off, blabbered something else, and left Jeongguk to rest before he could confess anything else.
Because damn him.
Jimin didn’t want Jeongguk to fuck him anymore.
Jimin wanted Jeongguk to hold his hand and cuddle him to sleep.
And no mafia head should feel weaknesses of the kind.
Jimin had spared Jeongguk the humiliation of reminding him of his words. And it wasn’t only for his sake, it was for his own sanity too. Jimin had long given up on hitting on Jeongguk at that point as it was. But after his confession, Jimin let it die out like never before, any excitement of seeing Jeongguk squirm completely vanishing in the wake of their confused feelings.
It was forgotten, which is why Jimin had been completely taken by surprise when out of nowhere, one sunny afternoon shortly after the incident, Jeongguk took his hand, led them to his room, slammed it close with Jimin’s body, and had their lips crashing together no sooner than the lock fell into place.
Jeongguk didn’t use his words, because he seldom did unless absolutely necessary. Jeongguk didn’t offer him any explanations, didn’t ask a question, didn’t wait for one answer.
Instead, Jeongguk showed Jimin everything that had been lost on them for the past year.
He showed Jimin desperation through the ripped clothes scattered on the floor. He showed Jimin pain through the bruises bitten into his inner thighs. He showed Jimin guilt through the lips fitted between his legs. He showed Jimin fear through his mindless thrusts. He showed Jimin care through his soothing caresses. He showed Jimin love through the kiss that swallowed both of their releases.
Jeongguk’s always been like that.
Strict, stoic, overly-careful, dutiful, with a discipline that’s engraved down to his very bones.
But even more so since they got together four years ago.
Nowadays, Jeongguk doesn’t do as much as speak to Jimin in public. As good of a soldier he is, Jeongguk is well-aware of the only weakness he could never rid himself of. He could never mask his feelings for Jimin. He could never control his voice and tone enough to not give himself away. He doesn’t take risks of the kind. He doesn’t want anyone knowing of their relationship, all too aware of the amount of people just waiting to sink their teeth into it. Jeongguk would become a walking weakness, and there were plenty enemies thirsty for blood, ready to use him to Jimin’s detriment.
No one knows about them, except for Taehyung and his father. Jimin is worried about neither. His father for obvious reasons, and Taehyung because Jimin knows his loyalty is carved in blood.
Jimin was the one to pick Taehyung off of the streets one year prior to Jeongguk joining them. He’d been homeless, starving, but he had a fire and ambition in his veins that impressed Jimin. He’d had anger and murder coursing through him too. Jimin took him in and gave him the wings he needed to let out all that hatred. And Taehyung is grateful to Jimin for that with his dying breath.
Regardless, Jeongguk’s careful even with them.
And when they’re out, Jeongguk doesn’t even look at Jimin. He only listens to Jimin’s orders and only does his job, nothing less, nothing more.
Jimin is not against it. He’s responsible enough to know Jeongguk’s right to be that careful.
But he can’t help but think Jeongguk overdoes it a lot of the times too.
Jimin pulls his scarf off and sheds his coat, letting them fall to the floor without breaking eye contact with Jeongguk. He twists his fingers around his cufflinks, freeing his sleeves before moving on to the buttons of his shirt. Jeongguk’s gaze doesn’t stir below Jimin’s eyes, watching him almost defiantly.
Jimin leaves his shirt opened, eyeing Jeongguk’s jacket with discontent.
Jeongguk doesn’t stop Jimin from unzipping it and pushing it off his shoulders, falling right next to the other garments. Jeongguk doesn’t react when Jimin’s hands slide down his chest, his eyes dark as he follows his own fingers splaying over the width of his pectorals. Jeongguk’s breath doesn’t even hitch when Jimin’s fingers graze over his nipples through the thick material of his black turtleneck.
But Jimin smirks. They’re pebbled underneath his touch and Jimin reaches up to leave a lingering kiss to Jeongguk’s chin. Like he’s appeasing him, rewarding him for being so still and good for him.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” Jimin murmurs like a tease, nosing at Jeongguk’s jawline. “I know you want to touch me.”
Not much changes, Jeongguk’s defenses stubborn, but Jimin feels his body lose some of its tension. Jimin pushes some more, letting his hands glide down and underneath his sweater, cold fingertips pressing into the warm skin of Jeongguk’s abdomen.
Jeongguk’s eyes close, his nostrils flaring like he’s concentrating on not letting his guard slip, and Jimin thinks that’s an awful decision. He feels his way up Jeongguk’s torso, tracing the scars that mar his skin and the tattoos he knows by heart. And when he reaches Jeongguk’s chest, Jimin’s fingers caresses the scar there; he always takes his time to worship it, because it’s the physical proof of Jeongguk’s loyalty to him.
It had been months before Jeongguk confessed to him that the bullet he took was for Jimin. Jeongguk told him how he had been visibly out of it that night, how he never left his side, and how fortunate he was to have been close enough to get Jimin’s body out of the bullet’s way last second.
Jimin hadn’t been happy.
After Jeongguk went to sleep that night, Jimin had left their room and went in search for a cigarette and lighter. He found a few pairs of them carelessly strewn on the marble coffee table in the living room. And Jimin didn’t hesitate to light up a cigarette.
He was already shirtless as he took a generous drag, letting its end burn brightly in the dark. And when he deemed it enough, Jimin brought the flame to the middle of his chest, putting out the cigarette on his own skin. Let it burn away at once with his flesh, because if Jeongguk was cursed to live with that mark, then Jimin will too.
Jeongguk hadn’t been happy either, when he saw it the next morning.
And now, Jimin digs his fingers into the scar they share vengefully, because he hates it. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it.
He hates how Jeongguk has always loved him with his very life.
Jeongguk hisses at the phantom pain, and it’s only then that Jimin resumes his ministrations, moving to his nipples, skin-on-skin, tweaking them roughly.
“Give in,” Jimin hisses, because he never prided himself with his patience and he needs Jeongguk like he always does.
Jeongguk doesn’t falter, but he does finally lean down enough to brush his lips down Jimin’s cheek. “I am,” he says simply, his lips hovering over Jimin’s.
And Jimin takes them.
Jimin surges up and kisses him with the hunger he’s been staving off ever since they left their room back in Korea. Jimin pulls his hands out from underneath Jeongguk’s sweater so he can wind them around his neck, pulling him down with him, against him, licking at his lips until they give in and Jeongguk’s finally kissing him back with just as much longing.
Jimin mewls pleased, curling his tongue around Jeongguk’s and fisting his hands into the back of his sweater, clawing it up and bunching it into his fists, eager to take it off already.
Jeongguk breaks the kiss enough to pull it off himself, discarding it to the floor carelessly before taking Jimin’s face into his hands with a gingerness that Jimin has no care for. But still, he doesn’t stop Jeongguk from kissing him tenderly, Jimin’s hands preoccupied with finding the buckle of Jeongguk’s belt and starting to fumble with it until it’s off and his pants are unzipped.
Jimin pulls back, licking his swollen lips because he can’t stand to have them untouched for one second. In the silence of the room and in the privacy of the darkness, Jimin begs.
And like a switch being turned on, Jeongguk gives way to his most natural instincts.
Jimin doesn’t get one second to relish in it before Jeongguk turns him around briskly. He’s pushed towards the bed aggressively enough that Jimin has to catch himself on his hands, bent over for Jeongguk’s eyes.
His shirt is being yanked up his back and to Jimin’s glee, he feels Jeongguk’s weight over his, one hand digging into his hip and the other squeezing him mercilessly through the tough material of his pants.
He’s hard, and Jimin sucks in air when Jeongguk fondles him, grabbing him in a tight grip and dragging his palm along his thickness. Jimin pushes against Jeongguk’s crotch, just as avid to make his lover feel good. He can feel Jeongguk’s cock, hard and long, the bagginess of his pants doing nothing to conceal just how eager he is himself.
Jeongguk’s hand is in his hair suddenly, fingers twisting around his light grey strands as he pulls his head back, lips promptly latching to his ear. “Is this what you want? Am I treating you as deserved, boss?”
Jeongguk spits out the honorific title. He’s mocking Jimin. He knows any hierarchical statues have long been erased between them.
Which is why Jimin only adds fuel to fire as he grinds back against Jeongguk. “Yes,” he says with half a breath, turning back in his grip to look at Jeongguk with hooded eyes, his hips doing all the talk. “Give in to me, hyung. Take everything you want.”
To talk in that way to a subordinate. If any of Jimin’s men were to see him right now – bent over, cock hard in a supposed servant’s hand – they would all spit on him. Have his head.
But it’s worth it.
So fucking worth it when he sees Jeongguk lose himself in it. His training never does stand any chance in the face of his adoration for Jimin.
It’s all that Jeongguk instructs before he releases Jimin’s head.
And Jimin follows, forehead digging into the cheap mattress as he spreads his legs.
Jeongguk’s palm comes down viciously on one of his cheeks then. It stings so much it makes Jimin’s eyes blur, but he welcomes it all. Another slap reddens the skin of his ass and Jimin moans this time, arching his back and waiting for more.
But nothing comes.
Jimin feels the front of his pants being yanked at, belt unbuckled, zipper audibly being pulled away, pants and briefs shoved down over his ass, stuck around his thighs.
It’s only then that another palm collides with his sensitive skin. Jimin takes the sheets between his teeth, knows there’s worse to come.
And it does.
Jeongguk slaps him unrelentingly for a while, like he carries a personal vendetta against him. He switches between his hands too – right, right, and then left. Left, left, and right again.
Jimin’s whimpering with it all, rocking forward with each slap as his drool keeps soaking into the sheets grasped between his teeth. It feels so good; so unmistakably right to leave himself all up to Jeongguk’s mercy.
The slaps of Jeongguk’s palms are loud – so loud that it makes Jimin briefly wonder if any other patrons can hear it. Not that he particularly gives a fuck, but he’s growing all the more aroused the more he finds himself screaming, any sounds muffled by the bed he’s being forced into.
Jeongguk hits him one more time, before Jimin feels cold spit dragging down the cleft of his ass. He squirms, anticipation squeezing his stomach in unbearable ways.
“More,” Jimin pants like a bitch in heat, turning on his cheek to look up at Jeongguk. “Gimme me more,” he lisps out.
Jeongguk doesn’t take his pleads into consideration, but that’s only because their desires have always been aligned.
Without any preamble, Jeongguk has two fingers hooking inside of Jimin. He doesn’t push, doesn’t penetrate, he just pulls at Jimin’s rim, making a joke out of his arousal.
“Loose, aren’t you?” Jeongguk appreciates the more he pulls his rim apart. “I often wonder if you aren’t cheating on me, you know? Bet you’d love all of your men splitting you open. Right, hyung?”
And at that, Jimin can’t play the part anymore. He shakes his head vigorously against the bed, his lashes dampening the more he rejects any notions of the kind. “Never – never. Only, only you, Jeonggukie.”
Jeongguk rewards his promises with another hit to his ass, as he simultaneously presses his clothed cock against Jimin’s spread cheeks. And Jimin would howl if he could.
“Yeah? Only me, hyung? Only I get your sloppy hole?”
Jeongguk is still a mystery to Jimin. He could never for the life of him have him figured out, and that’s perhaps a good part of his charm. Jeongguk’s always polite, proper, stoic, even timid at times, and yet –
All of that swipes away the moment Jimin’s on his knees.
And oh, does he fucking live for it.
Jimin plasters the whole of his front to the mattress, his legs spreading as much as his pants allow, and one hand reaching back to spread himself open. Proving Jeongguk’s words. “Yeah,” Jimin drawls out in a high-pitched moan. “Yeah, all for you, hyung.”
Jeongguk doesn’t dignify him with another mocking comment; he just takes his cock out from the loose front of his pants and nudges it against Jimin’s rim.
He’s barely prepped – Jeongguk’s fingers, glob of spit, and precum not by far enough to have him slicked up. But Jeongguk’s well aware it’s been hardly 24 hours since he last fucked Jimin, and Jeongguk knows Jimin’s always enjoyed the sting of being breached just a bit too dry.
Still, he spits into his palm thickly, spreading it all over his cock before he brings it back to Jimin’s gaping rim. And he pushes in, breaking through the tight muscle and sinking slowly into his lover.
Jimin’s back arches beautifully, his hands twisting into the sheets as he gives in to Jeongguk.
“That’s it,” he swishes out, “just like that – right there – “
Jeongguk doesn’t give any attention to Jimin’s words, he just focuses on setting up a consistent pace, pulling out and pushing in, hips rotating in and then stealing away any of Jimin’s wants. He fucks in hard, knowing exactly what gets Jimin panting, but he never for too long. Jeongguk chases his own pleasure, greedy and mean, using Jimin in ways he’s used him for years.
It’s a punishment, as much as it is a reward.
Jeongguk’s strokes are blissed torture – strong and powerful, all too knowing, and just as much intimate and giving. Jimin can’t quite find his breath anymore, air humid and thick, his lungs collapsing on themselves with the lack of anything but panting. And still, he meets Jeongguk half way, rocking back, just as Jeongguk fucks into him.
It’s a familiar game – this push and pull.
It’s what makes them – Jimin’s push and Jeongguk’s pull; Jimin disappearing and Jeongguk chasing; Jimin following and Jeongguk hiding. Meeting in the middle always.
And fuck, Jimin – he, with all his being, he –
“I love you,” Jimin chokes out in his daze, hiding his face into the sheets once more as Jeongguk fucks his prostate good. “Love you so much,” he rasps out. Shamefully.
Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, he never does.
But his hips quicken to abominable heights and Jimin feels like he’s grasping at his life with weak fingers. But he would never truly hold on. How could he? When Jimin has been already falling for good years now.
At this point, he just wonders when he’ll feel the collision of the fall.
Jeongguk’s hands coil against the bones of Jimin’s hips, pulling him brutally against his own pelvis. And then there are wet lips right in Jimin’s ear. “You love me, don’t you? But is it me or my cock that you truly love, Jimin?” A particularly hard thrust rattles Jimin’s brains. “Is it me, or the way that I fuck you that you love, hm? Is it me, or just the way that I make you forget that you love?”
Jimin doesn’t like that.
Doesn’t like his mind being tossed around and being prodded at.
Doesn’t like Jeongguk masking his insecurities behind fucking either.
So Jimin thrashes under Jeongguk, he fights underneath his hold to get back to his front. Jeongguk stops and gives him space, pulling out mindfully.
Jimin twists around, plopping on his back and staring up at Jeongguk with an annoyance he doesn’t even try to mask. He wiggles out of his pants and briefs too, throwing them off of him and beyond the bed. And then he’s finally bare, only his shirt pooling underneath his back.
Jeongguk stares down passively, but Jimin can see the concern waging war in his eyes. And Jimin says nothing either; he just takes Jeongguk’s cock in his hand, tugging at it a few times just to have Jeongguk’s breathing stutter.
Jimin allows his eyes freedom to admire Jeongguk’s tattoo – their mafia symbol carved right above his heart, signifying Jeongguk’s close relationship to their family: the elegant circles of the rose of Sharon, a dragon coiled right in the middle of it. Jeongguk’s loyalty – right there, before his very eyes.
Jimin’s heart is full as he guides Jeongguk’s cock back inside of him meaningfully.
Jeongguk takes over on autopilot, pushing himself into Jimin just as carefully as he did the first time.
Jimin allows himself only one second of inhaling and exhaling evenly.
And then he starts fucking himself on Jeongguk’s cock in its earnest, rocking up and down, driven only by the never-ending conflict surrounding their relationship.
Jeongguk hisses at the tightness engulfing him, and falls on his forearms, bracketing Jimin, hot and close.
“Never – “Jimin swallows dryly, tightening his legs around Jeongguk’s hips, pushing him onto him. “Never, ever, question my love for you. I could have you – “Jimin’s words get lodged in his throat when Jeongguk’s teeth bite into his neck, his hips slamming with renewed challenge. And even though Jimin has never been subjugated to worse torture than that, he keeps stammering out, “I could have you shot and left for hanging. Until – until you bleed out and you – “
Jeongguk’s lips are on his all of a sudden, gaze as penetrating as his cock. “Do you not already have me bleeding, Jimin-ah?”
Jimin scrunches his eyes shut, his back bowing in painful pleasure.
But Jeongguk doesn’t let him escape it, his lips chasing his. “Do you not already have my life?” His cock drives in deeper, harder, rougher, and he stills. “Do you not already own me? Am I not already completely and fundamentally yours?”
And Jimin’s coming before he can even pace himself.
His cock twitches violently, spurting out cum against both of their bellies and Jimin trembles bodily on the pristine sheets.
Jeongguk kisses him through all of it, but he never stops his thrusting. He keeps fucking Jimin, selfish and angry, chasing his own release.
But Jeongguk’s always lasted more than the average cock, yet another result of his immaculate discipline. So Jimin’s left a writhing victim, fucked into oversensitivity and beyond.
Jeongguk cared enough only to take Jimin’s cum and push it against his rim at some point, making a joke of a smooth drag.
Jimin clung tightly to Jeongguk’s shoulders as he kept going, and going, and going until his rim was raw and sensitive, and Jeongguk didn’t stop, not even then.
But Jimin didn’t say anything either – he knew he could always stop the onslaught at the uttering of one word, but Jimin allowed Jeongguk to take as much as he wanted to.
Jimin allowed Jeongguk to take the last drop of his sanity.
“Close,” it’s Jeongguk’s only warning.
Jimin pulls at the back of his own knees, spreading himself completely open for Jeongguk, his body a blank canvas for his lover.
With hooded eyes, Jeongguk barely registers the expanse of Jimin’s skin. It’s always a choice – to pull out or, to not.
But tonight, Jeongguk wants Jimin filled up, wants him marked as his from the inside out.
So Jeongguk comes with a strangled growl, releasing right inside of Jimin, feeling the tight knot gradually dissipating in searing sparks of white.
And then he’s falling right against Jimin, but his fall is cushioned, soothed with lips at his temple and with fingers down his back.
Jeongguk breathes in deeply, tasting Jimin’s sweat on his lips and feeling his hot skin against his chest.
He never thought he’d ever get to see Heaven, but then he met Jimin.
Jimin who, somehow, has always been his. Long before they even crossed paths.
“I love you,” Jeongguk finally replies, whispering the words against Jimin’s heart, his cock spent, still inside of him, and his skin thrumming with a satiated buzz.
Jimin’s lips kiss his damp brow. “I know, Jeongguk-ah.” His hands brush his hair out of his eyes, singing him to sleep. “I know.”
It’s the last promise Jeongguk remembers.
Jimin gets up before Jeongguk does.
That happens more often than not. But it’s not routine that wakes up Jimin this time.
It’s police sirens.
Jimin doesn’t panic.
He just sits on the chair next to the window, twirling a gun between his fingers, only his pants on as he watches Jeongguk sleep.
He’s known it for a long time now.
Jeongguk knows he knows too.
But it never gets any easier.
One year into their relationship, Jimin began wondering how come Jeongguk was so fast to accept his father’s offer. Young, innocent, kind-hearted, patriotic Jeonggukie just accepting to be a part of the Korean mafia.
Just like that.
Jimin started looking around, asking for answers, snooping around, turning to their police moles for information. Because Jeongguk had a blank history behind him. No traces left. He was a ghost soldier, with supposedly, no family.
But that was a lie.
Jeongguk did have family.
He had an older brother.
And Jimin didn’t waste any time to set up a meeting with him. Didn’t take much of a coverup – a poorly drawn up uni colleague story, an innocent smile there, an awkward stutter there, and Junghyun had told Jimin everything he needed to know about Jeongguk.
Everything about his life at the academy, his time in the army, and all about his high status in the Korean National Intelligence Service.
Junghyun had asked Jimin to keep quiet about Jeongguk’s real job.
And Jimin had kept his lips sealed indeed.
Jeongguk has been a dirty cop undercover all this time, but that –
That never swayed Jimin’s love for him. Not once.
It broke him at first. Jimin saw himself as the fool he’s always been. Falling for an officer, a Superintendent General no less.
And Jimin only felt petrified with his own self when he couldn’t feel any hatred. He’d been terrified with his own self when he could only feel pride in spite of it all.
It made Jimin kill more for a good while. It was like he was trying to make up for loving a law enforcement officer. He killed, and he killed, and he killed, and he –
He would always come back to Jeongguk at the end of the day and tell him all about it.
Sadistically wanting Jeongguk to snap out of it.
Sadistically wanting to break Jeongguk just like he broke him.
Sadistically wanted Jeongguk to show his true face and stop lying to him. Arrest him for all he cared, but Jimin wanted the true Jeongguk. He didn’t want lies. He didn’t want to be manipulated and being deceived.
He just wanted Jeongguk.
No matter how bad it was.
But Jeongguk never caved in. He continued following Jimin like a lamb to his own slaughtering. Never asking, never questioning, never faltering, never doubting.
And Jimin fucking hates him for it to his day.
He draws in a deep breath and clicks the safety of his gun off.
Like a Pavlovian answer, it has Jeongguk springing up to awareness, his own hand reaching for the gun underneath his pillow, instincts forcing him to aim it at Jimin.
Jimin doesn’t want to cry.
So he won’t.
He stands up, gun pointed at Jeongguk’s head with a steady hold.
“Who called them?” Jimin asks him, the sirens blaring in the background turning an hourglass over for them.
It was Jeongguk’s gut that had him draw his gun out, but it’s not his gut anymore that keeps it aligned with Jimin’s chest.
“I didn’t,” Jeongguk breathes evenly.
Seconds trickle between them, as they both have each other at gun point.
“I thought you wanted to see the Red Square,” Jimin says, filling up time. “We came all the way here, just for you, Jeongguk-ah.”
Jeongguk’s eyes soften, but his hold on his gun doesn’t. “I didn’t call them here, Jiminie,” he promises in a whisper.
As he does every single time, Jeongguk breaks Jimin’s heart with just one word. One emotion. One wretched feeling.
Jimin's grip on his gun tightens so much it makes it tremble. “You – “he starts, but his train of thought is interrupted by their door being slammed open.
Jimin recognized Taehyung’s gait, so he doesn’t falter.
“Jimin, we need to go. Police is – “
Jimin doesn’t lower his gun, and neither does Jeongguk. “I know. I know, Taehyung.”
He hopes Jeongguk gets what he cannot say.
And he does.
Because Jeongguk does lower his gun then. Wordlessly, he holds his hand out. And just like that, Jeongguk’s back to being his closed-off self. And Jimin fucking hates him for it.
Just as silently, Jimin unstraps the knife from his thigh. Throws it to Jeongguk and holsters his gun back to the small of his back.
Jeongguk catches the knife easily. He doesn’t do it just yet, and that’s what makes Jimin look at him questioningly.
They’re running out of time, but Jeongguk’s lips are parted, words struggling to make it past them. He’s struck, and nothing comes out.
But Jimin gets it.
Has been getting it for a long time now.
So he just nods and looks away.
He doesn’t see Jeongguk stabbing the knife into his shoulder – an excuse for both their out and his own reasoning when fellow police officers will surely ask about it – but Jimin feels it like it’s his own skin. He shudders with the ghost of the pain.
His knife is thrown back to his feet, bloody and dripping.
Jimin doesn’t make one move –
“Jimin,” Taehyung insists, his eyes darting intermittently between them and the stairs behind them. “Right about now would be a pretty good fucking time.”
Jimin nods rapidly, pulling himself together. Both Jeongguk and Taehyung throw his clothes back at him, and he fumbles his way back into them shakily.
He doesn’t want this –
Doesn’t like –
He hates –
Jimin looks back at Jeongguk only when he’s already at the door’s threshold, Taehyung long gone up the stairs, making his way towards the rooftop most likely.
Jeongguk’s clutching at his bloody shoulder, but it has nothing on the pain in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything to Jimin.
But he does take only one moment to smile – that big toothily smile that Jimin worships – before he jerks his chin towards the exit.
Go, he says.
And Jimin does, shutting the door behind him violently enough to have the paint crack down.
Jeongguk has been lying to Jimin for five years; about his identity, his motives, his real personality.
But there was one thing Jeongguk never lied to him about.
The love he carries for him.
That’s always been Jeongguk’s. Purely and fundamentally, only Jeongguk’s.
And Jimin prays a day will come when they’ll stop running.