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“Checks out,” Jimin says, eyeing the guy next to him up and down. Their eyes meet and Jimin’s breath hitches. He’s hot. Too hot.
“What’s that?”
“Your costume, it checks out.”
The guy stares at him and Jimin wonders if he’s made a mistake. After all, Halloween is the season of the dead. Chatting up strangers should be the last on his list.
“Sorry, don’t mind me.”
He looks away with a heavy head. The room is ten times smokier than it was an hour ago. Everyone is either drunk, high or hallucinating in toilets. Taehyung’s long gone too. So much for a friendly face in a party across the city. Fucking treason it is, dumping Jimin after he forcefully dragged him here.
When Jimin reverts his attention to his drink, he realises the guy is still watching him. He immediately drops his gaze and fidgets with his mimosa. It’s his what—sixth? Seventh drink tonight? He really shouldn’t be doing this. Chapter 6 of that stupid self-help book Taehyung bought him on a whim: indulgence is the root cause of all evil. Oh, if only Taehyung knew.
Goosebumps crawl up his arms.
“What do you mean it checks out?”
He sounds like honey and velvet, a purring engine from a brand new Ferrari. The bass thumps heavily, some slow jam R&B track. It’s a sex song. The air is humid. He’s tipsy. The guy smells awfully good. Had he really been sitting so close? Jimin could’ve sworn he was two seats away.
“As in you look legit.”
Everything about the guy seems sharper. His nose, his smile, his teeth. “Is it the eyes?”
Jimin stares into his blood red eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”
So hot, what the fuck. His swept back hair and his blacked-in tats, the angled plane of his diamond sharp jaw. Jimin clears his throat and jumps to his feet. He’s standing, the guy’s sitting and they’re the same height. Jimin recoils. “Sorry, um—bathroom.”
The guy smiles and leans back, hand sweeping to the side like a chivalrous gentleman.
Jimin pushes his way through the throng. They’re in various states of undress, some verging on naked. He hates parties for this very reason. They’re consummating out in the open, like a bunch of wild animals. A fair blonde drapes her arm over his shoulder, shoving her boobs up his face. Jimin looks down to her six-inch stilettos.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Why does he have to go around looking like a pint size fool when someone else can just slip on fucking Burj Khalifa on their feet and strut their merry way.
“Got some coke, you want some?” She slurs heavily.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Takes one to not know one.”
Dumb as rocks, figures. Jimin ignores her and resumes his journey. She follows.
“The fuck you want?”
“Who’s your friend?”
“What?”
She giggles and spins around. Her hair slaps him in the face. “Handsome over there. You guys look real close.” Suddenly she’s all up on him. “Are you gay? Is he gay?”
Jimin stares at her dumbly. “I need to fucking pee, lady.”
“So you’re not banging him right?”
“No?”
“Nice. See ya.”
Jimin watches her retrace his path. Her dress is so short it keeps riding up her ass. Where the fuck did she find the balls to come out looking like that? How will she be getting home? Does she live alone? With her parents? Would her mom be washing that dress in the morning? Did the dryer shrink it that much?
He catches himself and his gaze wanders. To the stranger who’s staring right at him. Beneath his platform boots, Jimin is glued stiff to the floor. Sounds all around him dim, darkness spread from rotting fissures, his body feels leaden, his mind twirls in a bottomless fog.
Blondy crosses his vision at a distance.
The spell breaks. Jimin looks up and takes a deep breath. Sure he hadn’t left his house for ages, but is he that desperate? That pull though. It was magnetic, tugged at something deep in him, some infernal bond, a promise set in stone. But he doesn’t even know the guy.
He risks another glance but she’s well and truly blocking him now. She looks like she’s trying to melt into the guy actually, and here Jimin thought she was getting up and personal with him. Poor bastard.
He hurries in his search for a bathroom before he leaks all over the place. Up on the second floor, it’s quieter, only a handful of people. They exist in shadowed corners. Kissing, talking, staring each other like zombified doped up fucks. He sees a hint of red, not dark like berry or bright like candy.
Scarlet.
Sharp and piercing.
Jimin keeps walking. The first door is locked. The second yields a bathroom. He slams it shut and leans back.
What is it about this house? It’s been weird as fuck from the moment he entered. Like he’s fallen into a fathomless pit, like he’s slipped into a noxious dreamscape. He senses eyes on him. He’s been drinking unrestrained. He feels so horny he could shuck his pants off and stick his finger up his cunt.
He does.
The zip is loud, cracking on leather. He bites his lower lip and closes his eyes. The smell is not so strong up here, just a thread of weed, the sweetness of flavoured nicotine, his perfume, the smell of that stranger.
Jimin sees him in his head. His heart beats faster. He snakes his hand into his panties. He’s soaked. His finger slips between his folds. His touch is numb but it stokes hunger and thirst and fondles on deep rooted desire. He rubs on his clit, wrenching his arm left and right. He feels delirious, spurred by some insane desperation. He needs to come right fucking now. It hurts somewhere, at his core, a void that needs to be filled. He stands on his toes, stretches his ankles, balances on his calves. He shoves his left hand into his mouth, suckles on his fingers. His right dives intrusively, reaching, digging. He fucks in and out of his hole, plays with the swollen bulb of his clit. He cries, he sweats, he moans the softest sound of a deep dark secret. It snaps—a thread—a bond—the bond.
Jimin comes and falls to his knees, sliding against the door. He breathes, in and out, in then out. His head pulses rhythmically. The band of his trousers catches on his thighs, bunching on the floor. Taehyung would be so upset, it’s his favourite pair. He raises his hand, studies the wrinkled skin of his fingers and slips it into his mouth. Has he always tasted this good? How tragic that he never thought to try.
He zones out staring at the bathtub for a minute or two. The images come in flashes. A family, a mom and dad and two brothers. What do they usually say? In sickness and in health do I thee wed. Or something like that. It’s the sickness he remembers. Sickness and death and mourning afterwards. And wailing. And screaming and yelling and shouting. And then quiet.
He looks at his hand. Rolls his tongue at the taste in his mouth. Feels the ebbing throb between his legs.
There’s something there, gnawing at the back of his mind, something he feels he should reach for, crack open.
He takes off his panties and throws them in the bin. It’s nothing more than a wet rag now. Then he pulls his pants up and washes his hands. The soap smells of Jasmine. He regards his reflection and says, “Jimin. Park Jimin.” Gives himself a little smile too. He looks pretty. His hair is pretty and his eyes and his nose and his lips. He’s always the prettiest. He wipes his hands on the embroidered tea towel hanging on a peg and exits the bathroom.
“Jesus, fuck. What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“Peeping into toilets?” Jimin bites out condescendingly. He can’t help it. Taehyung is a right fuck to chase some stupid no-name girl instead of sticking close like he promised.
Taehyung groans. “I wasn’t peeping, I’m not a peeper.”
“You got a peepee.” Jimin laughs.
Taehyung tries to tackle him and Jimin jumps out of the way. In his haste he forgets he’s imbibed more than his weight in tequila and vodka and barrels straight into a wall. Taehyung snaps him back right before he does any damage and they fall over each other, cackling hysterically.
Jimin’s head spins. Bubbles of laughter, sparks of red.
They sit on the topmost step of the staircase.
“Look what I got.”
Taehyung pulls up a bag.
“You’re a moron to grab weed at a party. You know they lace that with a fuck ton of crap.”
“Like I care. Exams are over. Better to die now before my results come out.”
“You’ve been studying though. I’ve seen you, late at night on your computer.”
Taehyung gives him a look. “You really think—”
Jimin smacks his shoulder. “Fucking pervert, can you not watch porn while I’m sleeping.”
“Why, you want me to wake you up? Give you a show?” Taehyung wiggles his brows.
“Disgusting pig,” Jimin sighs. He leans his head against the wall and listens to Taehyung’s steady movements.
A guy and a girl stumble up the stairs, holding hands. Taehyung shuffles into him to let them pass. When he moves back, he says, “Still having nightmares?”
Jimin nods sluggishly. “You know how it is.”
“It’s crazy is what it is. How do you keep getting the same fucked up dreams around Halloween like clockwork?”
“I’m cursed.”
“Get uncursed, it’s creeping me out.”
“Get out of my apartment loser, you’re not even paying rent.”
“Blame your rich ass parents.”
Taehyung lights up his joint and fills his lungs. The embers glow. Not red, but orange, a grungy sunset sort of orange. A flicker of light in a sea of darkness. He passes it to Jimin. Jimin inhales. And oh, it’s good. It hits him right where it’s cold and tight and makes everything soft and stretchy and warm.
He hands the roll to Taehyung. “They’re dead. It’s inheritance money.”
“Same difference. But like, have you ever thought about them?”
“My parents?”
“No, the squirrel that shat on my bike. Yes, fuck, your parents.”
“Asshole.” Jimin steals the joint from Taehyung’s lips. He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke in Taehyung’s face.
“Oh yeah, keep going baby.”
Jimin rolls his eyes and shoves the joint back into Taehyung’s hands. “Goodbye.”
He gets to his feet and lumbers down the next step. It’s so fucking hot up here, they should’ve sat outside, out in the garden. Maybe he’ll head there next.
“Where are you going?” Taehyung stands up abruptly. “Look at you, all red in the face. You’re such a girlie girl sometimes.”
Jimin throws his middle finger over his shoulder as he takes another step down.
“Hey, no—Jimin, wait up—”
Taehyung grabs his arm. Jimin jolts from a searing pain. Like he’s touched a hot stove. It’s there and it’s gone so fast he feels disorientated.
“—Come on, you know I didn’t mean it. Anyway, the girls have been talking bout some weird stuff happening around the area. I meant to give you a heads up. Watch your back, alright. Who knows what goes on in these fucked up streets at night.”
Jimin frowns. “What weird stuff? Which girls?”
“The girls from the orgy, duh. There’s missing cases and shit, something like that.”
“You were at an orgy?” Jimin squints in disbelief.
“I’m hot stuff you know,” Taehyung slinks up to him. “Just because you don’t want me, doesn’t mean I’m off the market.”
“The fuck are you saying?”
“Playing coy, are we?”
“Get your head out of your ass. It’s not funny.”
“Isn't it?”
Taehyung’s pupils are blown. And there’s something about his face. Like it’s him but it’s not him. Jimin looks down the stairs. There’s nobody nearby. Upwards, the staircase banister looms high. Sweat collects at his hairline. He feels it trickle, ice cold. It’s those nightmares all over again. The hot and cold, the pulling and pushing. Closing in, crushing. His soul, drifting.
Taehyung has him cornered.
“Kim Taehyung, back the fuck up!”
He pushes hard against Taehyung’s chest, gives him a solid kick at his feet. Taehyung stumbles and Jimin takes off with a single baleful glare. The wood creaks as he bounds, his concentration tunnelling on a stormy centre. He feels sick. It consumes him, some kind of seeping hate. Loathsome, evil and dark.
The penumbra of doom and gloom lifts off his shoulders the moment he reaches the ground floor. He feels it physically, not just the heat and shadows but his head. His body. Fucking oxygen.
He makes a beeline for the back door. He hasn’t been to this house before but it’s not a hard guess. He just follows where the crowd thins out. They step out of his way and look past his shoulder. He feels invisible, like nobody sees him. What a fucking party it’s turning out to be. From the hall to the dining to the kitchen to the garden. Nobody bumps into him, nobody says hello.
Outside, he gulps on fresh air, forces it into his lungs, holds it there till he’s blue with breath.
He can’t wrap his head around it. Around anything. This year isn’t like the last or the one before. Then, it was only the nightmares. Taehyung asked if he’d wondered about his parents and he did. He does. The nightmares unveil them in a different era, when trees were unruly and roads were dirt and cars were cattle. He knows it’s them because he recognises their faces. He calls out to them in his sleep, Mama and Papa and they turn around and hug him tight. And from behind, someone else embraces him with warmth and familiarity.
“Do I know you?”
A spectral melody skips and skirts over trees and bushes. “I don’t know, do you?”
“I don’t know either.”
Jimin pivots slowly. He’s stepping on a leaf, grounded with the passing of autumn. It strikes him that the clothes are similar, the satin bell sleeves and the cravat that’s neatly tucked in. A mirror of his visions. It must cost a pretty penny. Vintage wear isn’t easy to come by these days.
The guy peels himself off the door and steps out. Everything about him screams for attention. The way he dresses, the way he’s built, the sound of his voice and the look of his tempestuous eyes. The allure in a resolute step forward, the persuasion in a gentle careful wave. It hits Jimin square, this casual act of dominance. Desire creeps up his spine like a trail of fire ants.
“You don’t know me and I don’t know you. What do you say to getting to know one another?”
“In this day and age? A shocking offer.”
“What’s Halloween without a little double double toil and trouble?”
Jimin cheeks fill with colour. There’s a smile prodding at the corners of his lips. His eyes fall to his feet, shy and embarrassed. He must look so silly.
“You’ve figured me out. So what are you here as?”
Jimin glances up. The guy is much much closer. He feels a little overwhelmed but he stands with his back straight. “Me.” After a pause he adds, “Myself and I.”
“Can’t say I heard that one before.”
“Made it up three seconds ago.”
“Nothing beats an original.”
Jimin nods at the blades of grass curving at his feet. They’re a startling jade green, beaded with moisture, feathered, haloed, buoyed by the festivities. For some reason, the ones further back are crystalised with frost. But that’s impossible.
He feels the guy’s stare boring into his skull. He keeps calling him guy, stranger.
“What’s your name?”
“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”
“What, show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
“Will you?”
Heat blooms beneath Jimin’s skin. It travels traitorously down his neck and chest. “Hold your horses, cowboy.”
“Good thing I'm a vampire then.”
The words hang there, taking space and filling silence.
Jimin leads the way in.
The kitchen is empty. It’s strange that no one’s around. Or lucky. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Jimin is staring at the countertop, wondering how to get himself up without looking like a loon when the guy lifts him by his waist. The instant they touch, Jimin’s blood gurgles. It rushes to his head, past that shroud of uncertainty that’s constantly plagued his waking days. It splits open, a trail of wreckage in its wake. Nostalgia hurtles him through space and time and reincarnated bodies of himself. Different places, different people, always the same face and the same nightmares.
The guy wedges himself between Jimin’s legs, palms sliding up his thighs. Jimin gasps and the guy swallows it right from his mouth. He’s hot and cold, his tongue drags from top to bottom, licking every corner and crevice. His saliva pools, trickling down Jimin’s throat. He drags Jimin closer, both hands around his ass, hitching Jimin’s leg around his hips. He tilts him, just a little, just enough for Jimin to brush against his growing tent. Jimin kisses him back frantically, wraps his hands around the guy’s neck. Sparks run up his arm in a burst of static. His breathing quickens, his pulse rockets.
He breaks their kiss and puts his arms up. The guy whisks his shirt off without a word.
“It’s Jimin,” he admits. “My name.”
“Jungkook.”
He kisses down Jimin’s jaw, dawdling at the crook of his neck, grazing on the tender skin between his collarbones.
Jimin moans. “You’re so hot.”
“Runs in the family,” Jungkook roughs out, low and gritty.
It floats over Jimin, something to be heard but inconceivable. Like a passing dream, myth from a forgotten world. What does it mean? What does it matter? Jimin moans louder. He’s plastered to Jungkook’s front, touching him everywhere. He feels impulsive, reckless, like he can’t be constrained by the laws of this paltry earth.
“Wanna fuck.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Here?”
Jimin whines. Here, in this kitchen, in a house whose owner he’s never seen or met. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, fuck,” Jungkook hisses. He rips Jimin’s pants down the middle, nails scratching against Jimin’s thighs. It burns, red hot. His eyes glitter, his teeth glimmer.
Jimin throws his head back when Jungkook cups his bare cunt. He has his arm slung around Jimin’s back, curling around his waist, holding him close. Slick pours into his hand.
“Heard you playing with yourself. Was it any good?”
Jungkook slathers it in between his folds, around silky depths and prickly stubs. His fingers run free, skimming over flesh and muscle and a canvas of pearly skin.
Jimin hollows his stomach and answers through his teeth. “Mm, yeah.”
“Thought about me, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Made yourself so wet. Fuck, you’re dripping all over my shoes.”
Jimin doesn’t care about Jungkook’s shoes. The ache he feels is unreal, the drive, the urge to impale himself till his brain explodes in a confetto of dregs. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, he feels like he might break into a sob.
“Want your fingers in my mouth.”
Jungkook looks at him with a kind of reverence, with the solemnity of worship. Jimin darts between present and past. He’s waddling in his napkin, entering a room with a half-open door. He climbs up someone’s lap and suckles on their finger. He’s cocooned by their chest, the weight of their arms.
Slowly, Jungkook drags his hand up Jimin’s naked chest, flirting on the edges of his erect nipple, crossing boundaries to neck and face. “Old habits die hard,” he whispers, like he’s saying it to himself. He rests his palm on the slope of Jimin’s jaw, thumbing his mouth.
“Do I know you?” Jimin asks.
Jungkook’s breath stalls in the space between them, nudging softly. “Do you?”
“Maybe.”
Jungkook kisses his lips, drags his teeth over flesh, swipes his tongue along their length. When he separates, he pushes two fingers in. Jimin sags as he shuts his eyes. It comes to him like muscle memory, the way he used to draw patterns, the way he flicked left and right, sponging saliva into flesh and bone. He sucks and nips, swallows whatever essence that has drained into his spit.
Jungkook backs away, minutely, not far enough to withdraw his fingers. He unbuttons his trousers with a nifty flick, unhooks his waistband and flings his blouse. He clips his boxers beneath his ball sack, fits his hand over his purpling cockhead.
Light from the hallway flickers in dying strain, bathing them in eerie flashes of gold. There’s a creeping chillness spreading through the air, cracks of rime resonate dull and far. Jimin exhales through his nose, watches plumes of condensation bleed into his surroundings. He doesn’t think to question it. He doesn’t think at all. Not when Jungkook hovers large and fierce, like he commands a power so ancient and raw.
He slaps his cock to Jimin’s cunt. It echoes, wet. Jimin spills more, onto the countertop, onto Jungkook’s shoes. He raises his legs and plants his heels on the marble, leans back on his elbows. Jungkook’s fingers travel with him. As does his cock, sliding easily into Jimin’s hole. Jimin lowers further, on his back. He stares up into Jungkook’s scarlet eyes, into his pinpoint pupils. His hips meet Jungkook’s on each deliberate thrust. He holds Jungkook’s wrist above his mouth, sucking on his finger, plunging it deep. Like this, he’s saying, fuck me like this.
Jungkook braces on his forearms, meeting him fuck for fuck. He buries his face in Jimin’s hair.
“Do you know what makes Halloween so special?”
Jimin shakes his head. His hole flutters, dragging Jungkook up the smooth surface of his walls, squishing slick and precum in a slurry mess.
“It used to be called Samhain. Gaelic for summer feast, assembly of the living and dead.”
“Living and dead,” Jimin says.
“It’s when the boundary between the two worlds blur.”
“Yeah.”
Jimin rolls his head and screws his eyes. Jungkook’s cock strikes him so firmly, so assuredly, he can’t be certain a pleasure more compulsive exists in this world. His body curves into him, his legs fan out weightlessly. He’s pitching closer and closer to an edge, resisting it within an inch of his sanity. Instinct tells him not yet.
“Some cross for fun, some try to stay.”
“Mmhm.”
“I’ve been searching. For years and years.”
“Years, so many years.”
“So many years,” Jungkook agrees quietly. He sucks Jimin’s lobe into his mouth, releases it with a fresh coat of drool.
Jimin whines, shameless and honest.
“Jimin,” Jungkook calls out. “You know, don’t you. You have to.”
It’s muffled and distant until it’s not. Chatter rises around him, whipping in a squall. He breaks from an underwater enclosure, whimpers through the sharp ringing in his ears.
“Holy, fuck. Holy fucking fuck—Jimin? Park Jimin? What the fuck?!”
Around the muscled brawn of Jungkook’s shoulder, Jimin is confronted by Taehyung’s dumbstruck expression. And gathering in a tight circle around him, with eager eyes and flashing cameras, people gawk like cows on a field.
Jungkook catches his eye, time slows. Gently, slowly, his lips curl in a sly grin. He draws his cock and slams back in. Jimin moans as he slides up the counter. Jungkook fucks him like that, harsh, quick, precise. Over and over, pummelling into Jimin’s cunt with meticulous rhythm. His hands feel like claws, his cock like a steel rod. The skin on Jimin’s back chafes. His voice jumps octaves, shrill and stark, please and oh gods and fuck me, fuck me.
He arches his back and stretches his neck. Jungkook dives in like a moth to a flame. Between laboured breaths and spinning arousal, Jimin is near ruined. He’s wet everywhere, with slick, with sweat, with Jungkook’s sloppy kisses bruising him purple and blue. His head buzzes with adrenaline and memories, memories a thousand years’ worth.
“Jungkook,” Jimin cries helplessly. He squirms and thrashes. Fire brews in the base of his stomach, gaining zeal, gaining violence. He leaks all over himself, feels it trickle down the tip of his heel. Jungkook grips him at the inner corners of his waist, hauls him down on his swollen cock, bashing madly into Jimin yielding cunt.
“You’ve always been mine.”
Jimin chokes and garbles out whimpers. He lifts his hips, crosses his ankles on Jungkook’s ass. Pushes off on the wall by his head. Clenches his hole so hard he sees nothing but flashes of Jungkook’s demonic eyes.
“You’ll always be mine,” Jungkook roars. He sinks his teeth into Jimin’s neck. Starbursts explode behind his eyelids, a flash of white through his head. Clarity zaps through his bloodstream like a bolt of lightning. Jimin seizes up, heaving for breath. Everything sharpens into focus, every sensation, every pinprick, every wistful brush of the midnight thin air.
Jungkook pulls out and rubs relentlessly against the distended bulb of Jimin’s clit. He watches with laser focus, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks hollowed, the veins on his arm protruding from the ferocity of his movements. He slaps, he pinches, he flicks, sluicing lewdly through a rush of fresh slick. Jimin pulls his lower lip into his mouth, cages it with his teeth. His stomach caves, his chest swells. His toes dig, his heart stutters. His spine tingles, welcoming a fiery heat through his limbs. Jungkook groans a sound so guttural it ricochets in Jimin’s head like a bullet. It tips him over the edge. He comes so hard he gushes and gushes, soaking both Jungkook and him, the countertop, the wall, the floor.
Jungkook stuffs himself back in, filling Jimin with his length. He’s forced out from the pressure of Jimin’s squirt and heedlessly shoves in deeper. He fucks up hard, thrusting, grinding, throwing his weight till he’s nose to nose with Jimin, breathing in his air, exhaling into his mouth. His eyes glow, he glows. Then he’s coming. Jimin feels it with every cell of his being, feels it on a molecular level that imprints on his DNA. Jungkook spurts a stream of warm cum, nuzzles into the underside of Jimin’s jaw, licks over his bite, sips on his blood, fucks him slow and shallow till everything sloshes out of Jimin’s hole.
“Do you know me?”
“I do.” Jimin knows him. He knows his brother.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, then a clap and the sky blooms white. Charges float in a timeless limbo, gathering current, gathering spark. Another rumble and the house vibrates. A door creaks open. A hand falls out, pale, limp. And next to it, a single strand of fair blonde hair.