Chapter 5: Drunk on Desperation
The city lights bled together into a smear of gold and white beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. Jungkook stood at the window, a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey in his hand, the ice cubes clinking softly as he swirled it. The silence in the penthouse was a physical presence, thick and expensive. He’d been trying to read a merger proposal for an hour, but the words kept dissolving into the memory of a choked confession on a gym floor.
I love you.
The intercom buzzed, a sharp, intrusive sound in the quiet. He frowned, crossing the vast living space to the panel. “Yes?”
Static, then a voice, slurred and thin. “J-Jungkook? It’s me.”
Jimin.
He’d given him the access code months ago, a careless gesture of convenience. He’d never used it. Until now. Jungkook’s thumb hovered over the deny button. Then he pressed the one to unlock the main elevator.
When the doors slid open with a soft chime, the sight of him was a punch to the gut. Jimin was leaning heavily against the mirrored wall of the elevator cab, his face pale and tear-streaked under the harsh downlight. He smelled of cheap soju and despair. His clothes were rumpled, his hair a mess. He looked utterly broken.
“What are you doing here, Jimin?” Jungkook’s voice was flat. He didn’t move from the doorway.
Jimin stumbled forward, catching himself on the doorframe. His eyes, glassy and red-rimmed, searched Jungkook’s face. “You… you left. At the gym. You just left me there.”
“I had a car take you home. That was the arrangement.”
“Fuck the arrangement!” The words were a wet, desperate cry. He swayed, and Jungkook’s hand shot out instinctively to steady him, fingers closing around a bicep that felt like bone. Jimin flinched at the touch, then leaned into it. “Please. Jungkook, please. I can’t… I can’t do this. I miss you.”
“You saw me yesterday.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” A fresh tear tracked through the sheen of sweat on his cheek. “Just… take me back. However you want me. I don’t care. Just don’t shut me out.”
Jungkook looked at him, at the beautiful, ruined boy begging for scraps. This was why he didn’t do feelings. They made things messy. They made people pathetic. A cold, familiar detachment settled over him. This, he understood. This was a need he could meet. A problem he could solve with his body.
He pulled Jimin into the foyer, the door clicking shut behind them. He backed him against the cold, polished marble wall, the impact making Jimin gasp.
“Is this what you want?” Jungkook murmured, his mouth close to Jimin’s ear. His hands were already at Jimin’s waist, unbuckling his belt with practiced efficiency. “You come here, drunk, saying things you don’t mean, for this?”
Jimin’s head thudded back against the marble. “Yes,” he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. “Anything.”
“Good.” Jungkook’s voice was a low, cruel promise. “Then we understand each other.”
It was nothing like the gym. There was no frantic energy, no raw passion. This was efficient. Clinical. Jungkook pushed his pants down, spit into his hand, and pressed into him without preamble. Jimin cried out, a sharp, pained sound that was swallowed by the vast, empty space. He was tight, unprepared, the alcohol doing little to numb the burn.
Jungkook held him pinned against the wall, his thrusts steady and deep, a mechanical rhythm of possession. He watched Jimin’s face, the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth fell open in silent, ragged gasps.
“This is all we are, Jimin,” he whispered, his breath hot against Jimin’s neck. “This right here. Your body. My cock. That’s the deal. You don’t get to change the rules now.”
Jimin sobbed, a broken, hiccupping sound. He wrapped his legs tighter around Jungkook’s waist, his fingers clawing at the shoulders of his designer shirt. He was accepting it. Welcoming the degradation. It was easier than facing the truth.
“See?” Jungkook’s pace quickened, becoming harder, more punishing. The marble was unforgiving against Jimin’s back. “This is what you really came for. Isn’t it? Not for pretty words. Not for love.”
He drove into him, once, twice, a final, brutal punctuation. Jimin felt the hot rush inside him and whimpered, his own release a shameful, involuntary spasm between their bodies.
For a long moment, the only sound was their harsh, mingled breathing. Jungkook stayed inside him, his weight keeping Jimin trapped against the wall. Then he pulled out, stepping back and adjusting his clothes as if he’d just taken out the trash.
Jimin slid down the wall, his legs giving way, landing in a heap on the cold floor. He felt hollowed out. Used. The exact thing he’d begged for.
Jungkook looked down at him, his expression unreadable. “The guest bathroom is down the hall to the left. Clean yourself up.” He turned and walked back toward the living room, toward his whiskey and his merger proposals.
Jimin knelt on the hard floor, the physical ache a dull echo of the one in his chest. He looked at the elegant console table against the wall, at a small, abstract sculpture he’d once admired. He remembered Jungkook buying it the next day, a casual million-dollar purchase because Jimin had liked it.
He dragged the back of his hand across his wet mouth. The taste of salt and shame was overwhelming. He had gotten what he asked for. He had gotten exactly what he was worth.