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The Walther digs into Jimin’s hip.
It’s been there for four hours, holstered against his skin, and by now the imprint will be a livid red tattoo, ridged and angry, the cross-hatching of the grip stippled into the jut of bone just above his waistband.
Room 613 of the Conrad is dark except for the amber stripe of city light bleeding through a gap in the curtains. The Yeouido neighborhood hums with life six floors below, indifferent and ever-moving. Jimin stands with his spine against the wall to the left of the door, breathing slowly through his mouth so the silence stays absolute.
He had heard the elevator ding four minutes ago.
Then there had been footsteps in the corridor. It couldn’t have been housekeeping. If it was, there would be the roll of wheels, the clutter of mops. And anyway, it was the wrong sort of cadence—the wrong hour, moreover. These footsteps that Jimin hears now don’t shuffle or stamp. They’re careful and calculated: heel first, slow roll through the arch.
Jimin’s tongue presses against the back of his teeth. His free hand drifts to the holster.
Outside, the footsteps stop.
The little light under the door doesn’t flicker. No shadow interrupts it. Whoever’s out there is standing perfectly still, probably reading the room number, probably reaching into a jacket, probably—
The lock clicks. Jimin’s heart is hammering now.
The green LED blinks once, twice, and then the handle depresses smoothly.
The door swings inward and the hallway light spills across the carpet in a widening triangle, and in the middle of that light stands a silhouette Jimin knows better than his own reflection.
Jeon Jeongguk.
Five years of cat-and-mouse will do that. Years of near-misses and blown covers. Months of intel packets with the same name scrawled in the same analyst’s handwriting. Jeon Jeongguk is all Park Jimin thinks about, really.
Though perhaps if he had never met him that first day in Valencia, this would never have happened. Jimin had been poolside at the hotel in Parque Central when he first saw him—not that he’d known who he was, not then. All he’d seen was a man in navy swim shorts, dark hair pushed back from a face that belonged on a billboard, cutting through the shallow end with a precise breaststroke. Water sheeting off his insanely wide shoulders, a couple of tattoos on his right arm.
Jimin had lowered his sunglasses. “Who’s that?” he’d asked the bartender, already sliding off his lounger.
The bartender had shrugged. “Dunno. He checked in two days ago. Keeps to himself.”
Jimin had smiled at that. The quiet ones were always the most fun to play with.
He’d ordered two gin and tonics he didn’t intend to drink and stationed himself at the edge of the pool, letting the condensation drip onto his thighs, letting the afternoon heat pink his cheeks into something that vaguely resembled youthful innocence. When the stranger had surfaced at the ladder, rivulets making their way down the crevices of his abdomen, Jimin had extended the glass sweetly.
“You must be thirsty.”
The stranger had blinked up at him. Water clung to his lashes. Up close, his eyes were dark and utterly unrevealing: a poker player’s eyes, if you will. He’d accepted the glass without smiling, taken a sip, and set it down on the coping with a click.
“Thank you,” he’d said. Then he’d turned to leave.
Jimin should have let him go. That was protocol, after all, the training that had been drilled into him across his years of work—don’t draw attention, don’t leave an impression, be the gray man, be forgettable. But Park Jimin had never been very good at being forgettable, and he’d been undercover as a dissipated chaebol heir for eight months by then, so perhaps the role had bled into his body in ways he didn’t quite care to examine then.
That was why he’d followed.
“You’re not going to ask my name?”
The stranger had paused, one hand on the gate to the adult-only terrace. His back was still to Jimin. “I know your name.”
“Oh?” Jimin had blinked, confused. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Neither.” A beat. “It’s printed on your room key. Sticking out of your towel.”
Jimin had glanced down. Ko Jinwoo, Room 0901, in embossed gold lettering. He’d laughed, and when he’d looked up again, the stranger was halfway across the terrace.
Quitters are losers, though, so he had caught up.
And so the next three hours unfolded, and Jimin found that he had done most of the talking. He’d been charming, had deployed every arrow in his quiver: the hand on the forearm, the head tilt, batting his lashes. And the stranger had no reaction.
He’d given Jimin nothing. Not even a name.
“What am I supposed to call you?”
The stranger had shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
“No name at all?” Jimin had pouted. “Then what am I supposed to scream when I’m in bed with you?”
The stranger, rather embarrassingly, hadn’t replied.
They’d ended up in the resort’s rooftop bar, the one that cantilevered out over the city, and their sangria had given way to whisky, just as Jimin’s stubbornness had given way to frustration.
“You don’t like me,” Jimin had said, swirling his glass. The ice had melted, watering the amber down to a pale gold. “Which is fine. Plenty of people don’t like me. But most of them have the courtesy to tell me why.”
The stranger had been looking out at the city, at the cathedral spires and the distant glint of the sea. “I don’t dislike you.”
“Then what?”
A long pause. When the man had turned back to him, his expression had been almost gentle. Almost pitying.
“You’re exactly like your file says,” he’d said.
The glass stopped halfway to Jimin’s mouth.
“My—”
“Recruited out of KAIST at twenty-one. Specialized in deep-cover infiltration. Five confirmed operations, three of them in hostile territory. Fluent in Korean, English, Japanese, and conversational Spanish.” The man’s head tilted, and he bared a small smile that was almost canine. “You’re better than most people, Park Jimin. But you’re not subtle.”
The world had begun to spin. Jimin’s hand had found his thigh under the table, sweaty fingers pressing into the muscle to anchor himself. His face had remained pleasant, slightly drunk, slightly confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” The stranger had stood, pulling a billfold from his pocket and laying enough euros on the table to cover both their drinks. “The man you’re here to find—Santiago González—he’s about to leave the country. By the time your agency figures that out, you’ll have been sitting in this resort for two weeks, flirting with strangers and drinking overpriced gin, and González will be in Caracas with a new face and a new passport.”
Fuck.
Jimin had stayed frozen in his chair, the night breeze lifting the hair at his nape as he watched the stranger disappear through the rooftop bar, swallowed piece by piece by the darkness. He wouldn’t learn his name until later—Jeon Jeongguk, he would discover, from a photograph buried in a classified file, attached to a history of missions, vanished identities, and operations—and by then the name and its owner would already have lodged itself somewhere irritatingly deep inside his mind.
But that was the day Park Jimin had decided he would hate Jeon Jeongguk forever.
He bristles when Jeongguk steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click, and then the darkness swallows them both.
He’s in dark blue jeans, a crewneck, and a black leather jacket, and his hair is longer than the last surveillance photo. It curls at the nape of his neck, and in the dim light, Jimin can just make out the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the way his hand hasn’t come out of his jacket pocket.
That’s where the gun will be.
“Don’t,” Jimin says, very quietly.
Jeongguk doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t even flinch. His head turns a fraction, tracking the voice in the dark, and when he speaks his tone is almost conversational. “Don’t what? Shoot you? I wasn’t gonna.”
“Bullshit.”
“I mean it.” A pause. “I know where you keep yours, too. And we could do the whole thing right now if you want, could have both of us bleeding out on this very tasteful beige carpet, but if I’m being honest, I’m kind of fucking starving, Park.”
Jimin’s brain blanches. “You’re what?”
“Starving. Hungry. Didn’t eat on the flight.” Jeongguk finally pulls his hand out of his pocket, and it’s empty. No gun. He holds both palms up, a lazy surrender, and then reaches for the light switch. “Can I? Or are you gonna shoot me the second I’m visible?”
“I should.”
“Mm, probably.” The lights come on, dim and warm, and Jeongguk squints through the adjustment. His eyes find Jimin pressed against the wall, Walther already drawn and aimed center-mass. He looks at the gun. Looks at Jimin’s face. Smiles—just a little, just the corner of his mouth. “But you won’t.”
“Why are you here?”
“Same reason you are, I’m guessing. Someone wants someone dead, I got a plane ticket, here I am.”
“Not what I meant.”
“I know.” Jeongguk shrugs off his jacket, and Jimin’s aim tracks the movement. The crewneck is fitted across his shoulders, and the sleeves are pushed up to reveal forearms laced with black ink. Tattoos coil from wrist to elbow, dark against the tanned undertone of his skin. Jimin’s mouth goes dry before he can stop it.
Fucking focus, Park.
“You’ve been in Seoul since yesterday,” Jeongguk says, draping his jacket over the back of the armchair by the window. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the gun still pointed at his chest. “Checked in under a Lee Hyunsoo. Did you know your satoori comes out when you’re tired? I heard you on the phone in the lobby. It’s cute.”
“You—” Jimin frowns. “You were there?”
“Had a cap on and glasses. You walked right past me.” He drops onto the armchair like he owns it, legs spread, head tipped back. “Almost anticlimactic, really. All this time we’ve been chasing each other, and you just strolled by. I could’ve had you right there and then.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Jeongguk lifts his head. Their eyes meet. For a long, strange moment, neither of them speaks.
Then Jeongguk yawns.
What the fuck?
He actually yawns, mouth wide, jaw cracking, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes like a sleepy child. “God, sorry. Rude, I know. Been a long fucking week.” He blinks, yawn-slick eyes refocusing. “Mm. You want room service? I saw this advert in the elevator saying they just started selling those little sliders with truffle fries. I’ll pay.”
Jimin stares at him. “Are you having a stroke? Is this a bit? Am I supposed to laugh and then you shoot me?”
“I told you, I’m not gonna shoot you!”
“You’ve been trying to kill me for, like, five years.”
“So have you. It’s kind of our thing.” Jeongguk scratches his jaw. “But I’m not trying to kill you tonight, okay? Anyway. Sliders. You in or not?”
Jimin lowers the gun a little. His arm drops to his side, but his finger stays near the trigger guard warily. “You know you’re insane?”
“Probably. Occupational hazard.” Jeongguk is already reaching for the phone on the side table, thumbing through the laminated room service menu. “Do you eat meat? I can’t remember. We’ve never done dinner.”
“We’ve never done anything except try to murder each other.”
“Right, right.” Jeongguk lifts the receiver. “Well. First time for everything.” Then, at Jimin’s posture: “You can sit down, Park.” Jeongguk says. “I’m not gonna jump you.”
Jimin huffs. “Well, you did blow up my safehouse in Zurich.”
“Blow up is a strong way to look at it.”
“The explosion was three blocks wide!”
Jeongguk grins. It’s a real grin, two endearingly bunny-like front teeth and crinkled eyes, and Jimin hates how it makes his stomach clench. “Okay, fine, that one was my bad. I was in a mood. Can you blame me? You’d just shot my fucking car.”
“You were driving it at me.”
“Was I? Shame.” He taps the receiver on the side table for emphasis. “C’mon. You eating with me?”
Jimin doesn’t answer for a long moment. His eyes sweep across the room—window, door, bathroom—trying to calculate whether he can make it across the room before Jeongguk draws whatever weapon he’s almost certainly still carrying. But his silence must be mistaken for compliance, because Jeongguk is already talking to room service now, voice pitched polite and unhurried, ordering two portions of sliders and extra truffle fries and—a bottle of red wine…?
“Are you seriously getting wine,” Jimin says flatly when Jeongguk hangs up.
“Yeah. Malbec. I’ve heard it goes really well with sliders.” Jeongguk stands, stretching his arms overhead, and the hem of his crewneck lifts to reveal a strip of stomach. Jimin’s eyes drop before he can stop them. A scar runs diagonal across Jeongguk’s hipbone—faded white, maybe two inches long.
Zurich.
Maybe in another life, Zurich could’ve been dinner, Jimin thinks, but all he remembers of Zurich now is the cold. It’d been vastly different from the polite cold of a Seoul winter, where the wind nips at your ears and you duck into a pojangmacha for tteokbokki and soju after work. No, Zurich cold sank through Kevlar and into marrow, Jimin’s breath pluming white in the November air as he sprinted across the Münsterbrücke.
Before that, he’d been sitting in a café on the Limmatquai for two hours, nursing a cup of coffee that had gone cold forty minutes in, watching the door of a watchmaker’s shop across the river. Intel said Jeongguk would be there at 14:30. However, as it turned out, the intel had been too slow.
Jeongguk’s Alfa Romeo had come screaming around the corner at 14:02, tires slick on the rain-glossed cobblestones, and Jimin had been on his feet and running before his brain caught up. On the Münsterbrücke, his boots slipping, the river black and churning below—behind him, the Alfa’s engine howled, headlights bleaching the bridge in white, and Jimin thought, this is it, this is how I die, run over by a homicidal bastard in a sports car, before muscle memory took over.
He spun, planted, and fired twice.
The windshield spiderwebbed, and the Alfa swerved hard left with a grating screech, clipping the stone balustrade in a shower of sparks. Jimin was already moving toward it, gun up, heart slamming against his ribs.
Jeongguk kicked the driver’s door open and rolled out. Blood sheeting down the left side of his face from a cut above his brow where the glass had caught him. He was cursing, low and steady, one hand clamped to his hip.
Jimin’s shot. One of the rounds had punched through the door panel.
Jimin had the sudden urge to laugh.
“You shot my fucking car,” Jeongguk said, blinking up at him through the rain. He sounded genuinely aggrieved.
“You were driving it at me,.”
“Still.” Jeongguk’s hand came away from his hip, and his palm was slick with red. His mouth tightened. “Ah, shit. That’s deep.”
Jimin should have pulled the trigger again. One more round, center mass, and all the chase would have ended on that very bridge. Instead, he heard himself say: “Let me see.”
Jeongguk stared at him. Laughed incredulously. “What?”
“Let me see the wound.”
“Are you a medic now?”
“I put that bullet inside you. I want to see it.”
For a long moment—rain dripping off Jeongguk’s jaw, police sirens beginning to whine in the distance—neither of them moved. Then Jeongguk peeled his hand away from his hip, and Jimin crouched down, and there it was: a furrow through the flesh just above the hipbone, deep enough to scar, angled on a diagonal that Jimin’s eyes traced greedily.
Mine, he thought.
He’d bandaged it with a strip torn from his own shirt. Jeongguk had watched him the whole time, expression unreadable. Then the sirens got closer, and Jeongguk had said, “You should stay away,” and Jimin had. Three hours later the safehouse went up in a column of fire that turned the whole block orange. Jimin had stood on a rooftop two kilometers away, watching the flames chew through the night, and when he’d finally gone back to sift through the wreckage, all he’d found was a knife.
A small thing. Beautiful, really. Damascened blade, ivory handle, the steel folded so many times the pattern looked like wood grain. And etched into the base of the blade, just above the tang, were three letters: JJK.
To this day, it’s still in his go-bag, tucked into the inside pocket.
Now, Jeongguk turns, heading for the minibar, and over his shoulder adds, “You should take it off, by the way. The holster. Your skin’ll thank you.”
Jimin’s throat tightens. “I’m not taking anything off.”
“Okay. Suit yourself. But it’s 2AM, and the food’s gonna be like forty minutes. You can’t point a gun at me the whole time. Your arm’ll get tired.”
“I’ve held position for longer.”
“Mm, I remember.” Jeongguk pulls two miniature bottles of vodka from the minibar and cracks one open. “Forgot about that for a second. Lisbon, right? Six hours in a ventilation shaft. I was three floors below you the whole time, by the way. You never knew.”
Jimin’s pulse ticks up. “You were not.”
“Was too. Watched you rappel out the window at dawn. Very graceful, Jimin-ssi. Almost balletic.” He downs the vodka in one swallow, wincing slightly. “Ah. Sit down. You’re making me nervous just standing there all coiled up like a spring.”
Jimin bristles. “I’m not here to make you comfortable.”
“Clearly.” Jeongguk drops back into the armchair, legs sprawling. The posture is, objectively, vulnerable: exposed throat, hands empty, all his body weight settled into the furniture—but Jimin knows better. Jeongguk’s never vulnerable. “But you’re also not shooting me, which means we must be at some kind of impasse, and I’d rather be at an impasse sitting down with a drink than pressed against a wall with my hand on my piece. You feel me?”
Jimin doesn’t answer, but he does, however, finally, move.
He crosses the room and takes the wheeling desk chair opposite Jeongguk. It’s easier to launch from if needed. He doesn’t holster the Walther, just lays it on the desk beside him, grip inward, barrel pointed toward the window.
Jeongguk watches the gun settle on the desk and there’s a glimmer of satisfaction, maybe even surprise behind his eyes. “There. See? We’re practically friends now.”
“Don’t kid yourself. We’re not friends.”
“No. I guess we’re not.” He cracks the second vodka but doesn’t drink it, just holds it by the neck, rolling the bottle between his palms. “We are something, though, surely.”
Jimin studies him in the light. His shoulders are broader, biceps bulging out more than before, and his hands are big and broad-knuckled, veins prominent, nails cut short and clean.
“You’re bigger than the last time I saw you.”
“I’ve been hitting the gym. Boredom, mostly. Lotta downtime between jobs.” He finally meets Jimin’s eyes. “You look exactly the same. It’s annoying, actually. Looks like you haven’t aged a day. What is that, genetics?”
“It’s called minding my own business,” Jimin replies dryly. “You should try it.”
Jeongguk laughs. It seems startled out of him. “Fuck,” he sighs. “I missed that.”
Jimin gives him a deeply unimpressed once-over, one eyebrow arcing upwards. “Missed—what exactly?”
“You.” Jeongguk says, but before Jimin’s mind has a chance to process that, he goes on. “Your whole—you know. Whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely between them with the vodka bottle. “Nobody else does this, nobody else gives me a run for my money. It’s boring out there without you, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin’s jaw tightens. “Don’t call me that.”
“Park Jimin. Jimin-ssi. Baby.” The last word drops off his tongue casual, just a throwaway. Jimin’s stomach flips anyway. “You’re blushing.”
Jimin splutters. “No I’m not!”
Jeongguk raises an eyebrow.
“I swear to God, I will string you up by your intestines and leave you hanging from the nearest tree.”
“Oh, there he is.” Jeongguk grins again, all teeth. “You know, I was almost starting to think you’d gone soft.”
Jimin scoffs. “As if,” he spits out contemptuously.
“No. No, I know that.” Jeongguk’s grin fades. He sets the vodka bottle down untouched, leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I read the file on the Huang operation, you know.”
Jimin stiffens. “Yeah?”
“Mm. Guangzhou, fourth quarter last year. There were eight men, heavily guarded, holed up in that compound in the Baiyun district with enough firepower to blow up a small city.”
Jimin keeps his face carefully neutral. “Oh?”
“Eight men,” Jeongguk repeats, slower this time. “Three previous teams had tried. A SEAL unit, a private contractor group out of London, and one of ours. Do you know what happened to them? The SEALs, they made it two hundred meters past the perimeter wire before they were lit up. The contractors who survived were sent back in pieces. And our guy, the one we sent? He was found hanging from a crane on the waterfront with his own tongue nailed to his chest.”
Somewhere beyond the curtains, a street cat starts yowling.
“Then how is it, that one day, Huang and his men start turning up dead?” Jeongguk continues. “One per night. Precisely at midnight, like clockwork. The first, found in his own bathtub with a single cut that opened his femoral artery. He bled out in two minutes, and the water was still warm when they found him. The second—shot through the eye with a subsonic round. No exit wound. The third, poisoned. The fourth, suffocated with a pillow in a locked room. By the fifth, the rest of them are shitting themselves, begging for extraction, and someone in our office is starting to pay attention.”
Jeongguk’s eyes haven’t left Jimin’s face. “The fifth and sixth were found together. Two different methods: one stabbed, one strangled. And it was so well-done that our forensics people spent three days arguing about whether it was one killer or two working in tandem.”
Jimin’s tongue traces the back of his teeth. He says nothing.
“The seventh—that was an interesting one. Huang’s right-hand man. Li. Ex-special forces, decorated, paranoid enough to sleep with a shotgun. He turned up in the compound’s own wine cellar, apparently sealed from the inside, with a single stab wound through the subclavian artery that would have killed him in under twenty seconds. The lock on the door was still engaged.” Jeongguk’s smile is slow, almost admiring. “There was no sign of forced entry. No prints, no DNA. The security tapes showed nothing but static for exactly eleven minutes—not enough time to get in, do the job, and get out, unless you knew exactly where every camera was, every blind spot, every patrol gap.”
Jeongguk leans back in the armchair. The leather creaks. “And then Huang himself. Number eight. The big one.” He pauses. “You know what they found?”
“I don’t read other people’s files,” Jimin says flatly.
“I’m sure.” Jeongguk deadpans. “Huang was found in his panic room. The door was reinforced steel, eighteen inches thick, biometric lock, the works. He’d sealed himself in after Li died, refused to come out. They had to cut through the hinges with a plasma torch to get in. And when they did—there he was. Unmarked. No blood, no wounds. Just a a complete dislocation of his elbow, and a needle-thin puncture from a microdose of tetrodotoxin hidden in his skull. Took him six hours to die, apparently. All alone in that room, knowing exactly what was happening to his body, unable to do anything about it.”
Jimin’s shoulders stay loose. He reaches for the vodka bottle on the desk, uncaps it, takes what he hopes is a calm sip. “Sounds like whoever did it knew what they were doing.”
“Whoever did it.” Jeongguk repeats the words like he’s tasting them. “Yeah.” He lets out a breath, almost like a laugh. “Whoever.”
The silence stretches on.
“You know what pissed me off the most, Park?” Jeongguk’s voice drops, losing its playful edge. “It’s not that you took out eight high-value targets in six days. It’s not even that you did it without leaving a single trace.” He sets the bottle down and leans forward. “What pissed me off,” he continues, “is that you vanished completely. It was insane, like—like fucking, I don’t know, magic or some shit. Pissed me off so fucking much.”
Jimin’s thumb traces the rim of the bottle. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Jeongguk gives him a look. “You don’t need a compliment from me to know you’re good.” His eyes hold Jimin’s. “You’re really fucking good. And that means every time I get close to you, I know you’re gonna be a nightmare to take on.” He drinks the vodka. “But,” he tilts his head. “I like it. I like the challenge.”
Jimin snorts. “You like losing, more like.”
“Who said I lost?” Jeongguk smiles. “You’re still alive. So am I. That can hardly be considered a loss, can it, Park? ’S more like a draw.”
Jimin’s pulse is doing something annoying in his throat. He shifts in the desk chair, crossing one leg over the other, and the movement draws Jeongguk’s attention downward toward the line of his thigh, the slim cut of his ankle. His gaze lingers there just half-a-second too long, and then he’s looking away, reaching for the minibar again. “Anyway. Room service’ll be here soon. You should probably put the gun away. I have a feeling the guy bringing the sliders might not appreciate it.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Jeongguk shrugs. “I’m sure you will.” He pulls out another miniature—gin this time—and holds it up in offering. “You want?”
“No.”
“Aish, Jimin-ssi. You’re no fun.”
“I’m not here to be fun,” Jimin starts. “You’re the one who broke into my—”
“Why are you here, actually?” Jeongguk interrupts. He sets the gin aside and runs a hand through his hair. “In Seoul? Who’s your target?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
“I’ll find out anyway. I always do.” His voice drops to a whisper. “But you wanna know what I think? I think we’re here for the same person. I think someone put a contract out and didn’t care who collected, and now we’re both in the same city circling the same mark like two fucking sharks.”
Jimin’s mouth presses into a line.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk breathes. “So here’s the thing—I don’t really give a shit about the money. I’ve got enough. But I do give a shit about the principle, and the principle is that I don’t let anyone beat me to a mark. Including you. Especially you.”
Jimin swallows, schooling his face into mock-sadness. “So you’re telling me that this isn’t a social call?”
“I mean, it can be both.” He stands. It’s a slow motion, unfolding all five feet and ten inches of himself from the armchair like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to fear. Jimin’s hand twitches toward the Walther on the desk but doesn’t reach for it. Jeongguk steps closer. “Do you want to be?”
He’s standing over Jimin now, close enough that Jimin can smell the vodka on his breath and the dizzying scent of his cologne—something smoky and peppery, maybe undertones of vanilla in it. He’s forgotten how to breathe, and he hates it—hates the way his body is responding to proximity like some kind of starved animal. Jeongguk is close enough to see it. Jeongguk definitely sees it.
The bastard’s smile widens a fraction.
“See, this is what I mean,” Jeongguk murmurs, voice pitched low. His hand drifts from Jimin’s hair to the curve of his jaw, knuckles brushing the hinge. “We’ve been doing this dance for half a decade, and you still get all wound up when I get near you. It’s cute.”
Jimin’s throat works. He forces his spine straighter against the desk chair, refusing to lean back, refusing to give ground and catches Jeongguk’s wrist. His fingers wrap around it and squeeze. “You said it yourself—you’re only here because you want the mark. You just want to beat me one more time so you can go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and jerk off to the memory.”
Jeongguk’s eyes glitter. “That’s a vivid image.”
“Fuck you.”
“Promises, promises.”
Jimin releases his wrist, shoves his hand away and stands, putting himself as close to eye level as he can get with Jeongguk. “You won’t get anything out of me. Not the target, not their location, nothing. You want to win this one? Fine. Go find him yourself. Do the legwork. Earn it.”
Jeongguk doesn’t retreat, to his credit. “You think I can’t?”
“You’re lazy. You’ve always preferred following me around, using my debris, picking off the scraps I leave behind.” Jimin’s mouth curls. “You’re a scavenger, Jeon. Always have been.”
Jeongguk grins and it’s all teeth. “Aw, don’t be like that. Maybe I came because I wanted to see you too.” He reaches out. Jimin tenses—but all Jeongguk does is brush a strand of blonde hair away from Jimin’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear with absurd gentleness. “This is new, right? It suits you.”
“Stop it.”
“What?”
Jimin squirms under Jeongguk’s heavy-lidded gaze “Don’t do that.”
“What am I doing?” His fingers are still at Jimin’s ear, tracing the shell of it now, barely touching. Jimin shivers before he can stop himself. “Hm?”
“Just—just stop.”
“Okay.” Jeongguk drops his hand—but he still doesn’t step back. Instead, he stays right there, crowding into Jimin’s space, looking down at him with something wicked and hungry glimmering in his big eyes. “So tell me to leave.”
“What?”
“Tell me to leave. Right now. Say ’Jeongguk, get the fuck out of my hotel room.’ And I will. I’ll walk out that door and we’ll go back to trying to kill each other tomorrow.”
Jimin’s lips part. Nothing comes out.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
He steps back—finally—and heads toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna wash my hands.” A crooked grin tugs at his mouth. “My mom raised me better than to eat with dirty hands.”
The bathroom door clicks shut behind him. Jimin stays frozen in the desk chair, heart hammering, skin tingling where Jeongguk’s fingers had brushed his ear. What the fuck. What the actual, ever-loving fuck. His lungs are burning—he’d been holding his breath without realizing it, and when he finally exhales, the sound is ragged, almost a gasp.
Get up.
The thought punches through the blankness in his brain. His body obeys before his mind catches up, and he’s on his feet in seconds, the desk chair rolling backward until it bumps the wall with a soft thud. His hands move on autopilot—snatching the Walther from the desk, jamming it into the holster, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. His go-bag is by the bed. Three strides. Four. The bathroom faucet is still running.
Now. Move now.
His fingers close around the bag’s strap. The bathroom door is still shut. Water’s still running. He can make it—three more strides to the door, the deadbolt, the corridor, the stairwell. He’s memorized seventeen exit routes from this building. He can be gone before Jeongguk dries his hands.
Jimin’s pulse is a war drum in his ears. It’s so loud he can barely hear his own footsteps as he crosses the room, one hand outstretched for the door handle—
A body slams into him from behind.
The impact drives the air from his lungs. His chest hits the door, cheek pressing against it, and the go-bag tumbles from his grip. His gun digs into his hipbone with bruising force.
One of Jeongguk’s hands is wrapped around the back of his neck, pinning him in place with terrifying ease. The other hand has captured both of Jimin’s wrists, twisted up behind his back at an angle that’s just shy of painful.
“Really?” Jeongguk’s voice is low. It’s the first time this evening he’s sounded genuinely annoyed, and something about the cadence makes Jimin’s pants grow tighter. “You’re gonna run away?”
“Get off me.”
“I was in there for forty seconds,” he mock-pouts. “Forty seconds, and you were already halfway out the door.” His grip on Jimin’s wrists tightens. “Isn’t that rude, Park? We haven’t even eaten yet.”
Jimin twists, testing the hold. Jeongguk doesn’t budge.
“I wasn’t running,” Jimin grits out.
“No?” Jeongguk’s mouth is right by his ear now, breath hot and uneven. “Jimin-ssi,” he taunts. “Did you really think I’d just let you get away that easily?”
“Let me go, Jeon.”
“No.”
Any teasing lilt has evaporated now. Jimin shivers. His breath is coming heavy, and there’s a fine tremor running through his thighs, the heat beginning to simmer in his belly, the way his hips want to press back against the man behind him. He hates it. (Most of all, though, he hates how much he doesn’t hate it.)
Jeongguk shifts his weight, and before Jimin knows it, he’s being spun, his back hitting the door with a soft thud. Jeongguk’s forearms cage him on either side, hands flat against the wood. The proximity is dizzying. Jimin can see the tiny scars across Jeongguk’s face. He could count every single one of his eyelashes if he wanted to.
“You know how many times I’ve imagined this?” Jeongguk murmurs.
Jimin’s breath is shallow. “What, almost killing me?”
Jeongguk smiles. “Yeah, sometimes.” His mouth is near Jimin’s ear now, breath warm and even. “But sometimes other things. You know? Sometimes in my imagination, I’d have you just like this—backed into a corner, no way out, that smart fucking mouth finally quiet. And I’d tell you all the things I could do to you.”
Jimin’s hands scrabble. “Jeongguk.”
A beat. Maybe two. Jeongguk doesn’t pull back.
He tries again. “Jeongguk, you’re in my space.”
“Move, then.” he replies cooly. “Or just say the words. Come on. ’Get the fuck out.’ That’s all you have to say, but you’re still not saying it, are you?”
Jimin swallows. His throat clicks. “What the fuck do you want, Jeon?”
“Right now?” The tips of Jeongguk’s fingers land just under Jimin’s chin, tilting his face up an inch. “I wanna hear you admit how bad you want this.”
Jimin feels breathless, but still—he doesn’t pull away. Pulling away would show weakness, would show that Jeongguk’s proximity is doing something to him, and that would be terribly inconvenient to reveal.
(It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie.)
“You want me to admit what?” he snarks. “That I’m going to fall asleep listening to your freestyle Bond villain monologue? Is this all you came to do, Jeon? Talk me to death?”
Jeongguk’s mouth curves. His hand leaves Jimin’s chin, and drifts down until his fingers brush the holster at Jimin’s hip. The leather dips. “No. Well, if you wanted to die—” He traces the edge of the holster, back and forth hypnotically. “I could take your own gun. Put it under your chin, angle it up. One shot. You wouldn’t even have time to blink.”
Jimin’s breathing is shallow. His chest is rising and falling in short, sharp bursts. “You’d have to get it out of the holster first.”
“I could. You’d let me.”
“Fucking—arrogant—”
“Or.” The fingers leave the holster. Trail upward, skimming Jimin’s waist, the curve of his ribs, the side of his throat. “I could take my time with it. Could get my hands around your neck.” His palm settles there, warm and broad. “You’re smaller than me. Wouldn’t take much. I could pin you against this wall and squeeze until you went all hazy. Until your lips turned blue. You’d fight, maybe. Maybe not.”
Jimin’s hips jerk forward involuntarily. A tiny motion, barely there, but Jeongguk catches it—of course he catches it—and the smile that his mouth morphs into is sharp and knowing. “Or maybe I wouldn’t use my hands at all. Maybe I’d use this.” His free hand drops to his own waistband, and for the first time Jimin sees the gun tucked there—a Glock, nestled against his hip “Press it right here.” Two fingers tap Jimin’s temple. “Right here.” Tap his sternum. “Right here.” Tap the hollow of his throat. “Maybe even here.”
Jimin’s eyes flutter. He can’t help it—the image flashes through his mind, and his thighs press together, head tipping back against the wall.
“You’re sick,” he whispers, but his voice cracks on the second word.
“Yeah.” Jeongguk’s thumb strokes the side of his neck, feather-light. “So are you.”
Jimin’s mouth goes dry. The pressure in his pants is becoming impossible to ignore, a tight ache that demands attention. He shifts his hips, trying to angle away, but the movement only presses his thigh against Jeongguk’s.
Think, Park. Think.
Fighting is useless. Jeongguk’s got a significant amount of weight on him and an iron-grip. Running is out—he’s got him pinned against the door. That leaves only one option.
Jimin lets his shoulders drop.
His spine softens against the wood, and he tilts his head just so. His lashes flutter—once, twice, and his lower lip juts out in a perfect pout.
“Jeongguk-ah,” he whines, drawing the syllables out. “You’re so mean.”
The effect is immediate. Jeongguk’s brow furrows, his grip loosening a fraction. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Jimin blinks up at him innocently. “Just saying. I came all the way to Seoul, I’m jet-lagged, I haven’t eaten anything apart from shitty convenience store tteokbokki, and now you’ve got me pressed up against the door like I’m some kind of criminal.” The pout deepens. “So mean, Jeongguk-ah. Really. And here I thought we were gonna be friends.”
Jeongguk’s jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” Jimin tilts his head the other way. “I’m just talking. You’re the one who’s got me all trapped. You know, I read somewhere that this kind of behavior is really bad for trust-building. Mm? All that talk about manners. What would your mom say?”
Jeongguk’s eyes narrow. “My mom would see right through this bullshit act you’ve got going on.”
“What?” Jimin presses a hand to his chest, wounded. “I’m hurt, Jeongguk-ah. Truly. Here I am, being vulnerable, and you’re accusing me of—”
“Of playing me? Which you are?”
“Maybe I am.” Jimin shrugs, the motion pushing his chest against Jeongguk’s forearm. “But you’re the one who cornered me. What did you expect? That I’d just melt into your arms and confess all my secrets?”
“Would’ve been nice.”
“Mm, no. Not my style.”
Jeongguk’s grip loosens another fraction.
Keep going. Keep him off-balance.
“Weren’t you the one who wanted to come to an impasse?” Jimin asks, voice syrupy sweet. “Isn’t that what you said? That you’d rather be at an impasse sitting down with a drink? And now look at you, so handsy. Real consistent, Jeon.”
“That was before you tried to run off,” Jeongguk grits out.
“Well, why wouldn’t I?” Jimin’s voice loses its teasing edge. “I’m not stupid, Jeon. Or did you really want my company that bad?”
Jeongguk’s eyes search his face, and Jimin watches something flicker behind those dark irises—something that looks almost like hurt before it’s swallowed up.
“Yeah,” Jeongguk says quietly. “I did. I wanted your company that bad.”
The admission feels like a punch to the gut.
Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t feel anything.
“Well.” Jimin’s voice comes out thinner than he intended. “Then that’s pathetic.”
Jeongguk’s expression shutters. “Jimin,” he says slowly. His whole face hardens, and his grip, which had loosened significantly, tightens, his fingers biting into Jimin’s wrists until the bones near damn grind together. “If I were you, I’d be very careful with what comes out of that pretty little mouth right now. Because I can easily overpower you, and I will, and you won’t have a single thing to say about it.”
Jimin’s heart is a trapped bird in his ribcage. The threat should terrify him.
“Only because you’re so much bigger than me.” Jimin lets his gaze drift down Jeongguk’s body—the breadth of his shoulders, the ink winding up his forearm. When he looks back up, his eyes are wide. It’s a performance so good it almost feels real even to him. “That’s not very fair, is it? All those muscles and tattoos. You look like a real thug, you know that?”
Jeongguk’s laugh is a low exhale, not quite a laugh at all. “Uh-huh. Cute. If I’m a thug, what does that make you?”
Jimin’s lashes dip. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, and his voice has gone sweet and shy, a little breathy at the edges. “What does it make me? The guy you’ve been chasing for five years?” His shoulder lifts in a half-shrug, and he lets his head tip back against the wall again, baring the stretch of his throat. “That’s kind of pathetic, Jeongguk-ssi. Five whole years and you never caught me.”
“You’re hard to catch.”
“Maybe.” Jimin’s mouth curves, just barely. “Or maybe you’re just too slow, Jeon.”
The hand on his throat flexes, just a twitch of the fingers, and Jimin feels it everywhere. His pulse kicks against Jeongguk’s palm.
“Careful,” Jeongguk says, low. “Being a brat will get you nowhere.”
“It’s no fun if I’m not.” Jimin pouts. “You know that. It’s, like, my whole thing.”
Jeongguk’s staring at his mouth. Jimin wets his lower lip, just a quick dart of tongue, and watches Jeongguk’s eyes darken.
“You’re really fucking pushing your luck, Jimin.”
“What?” Batting his lashes again now, laying it on thick. “You’re the one who came to my hotel room. You’re the one with your hand on my throat. If anything, you’re the one being inappropriate right now. I should report you.”
Jeongguk barks out a laugh. “Report me to who? The fucking—assassin HR department?”
“Maybe. There’s probably a union.” Jimin’s smile breaks wider, a little crooked. “We should look into it. Better benefits.”
“You’re so strange,” Jeongguk says, but he’s grinning now too, and some of the tension in his shoulders has loosened. His thumb traces the tendon at the side of Jimin’s neck, back and forth, a slow, idle motion. “You always like this? When someone’s got you cornered?”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean. So shameless.”
Jimin considers the question. His heart’s hammering hard enough that he can feel it in his temples, his wrists, the backs of his knees. “I dunno. No one’s cornered me before.” A pause. “Not like this, anyway.”
“Not like this?”
“No, not like this.” Jimin’s voice drops. “Usually when someone’s got me against a wall, it’s more…” He trails off, letting the silence do the work. A tiny shrug lifts one shoulder. “You know.”
Jeongguk’s thumb stops its tracing. “More what?”
“More…” Jimin’s teeth catch his lower lip, worrying it for half a second before releasing. The pink flush that started at his ears has crept down to his cheekbones now, and he lets it happen. “More like I’m getting fucked. If I’m being honest.”
It’s silent for a moment.
Jeongguk doesn’t move. His hand is still on Jimin’s throat, his body still caging Jimin against the desk chair, but something in his eyes has gone very, very still, like a predator about to jump on its prey. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” Jimin’s mouth curves, shy and sly at once. “Big strong guys, usually. The kind who can just—you know—pick me up. Hold me down.” His gaze flicks down to Jeongguk’s forearms, then back up. “You’ve got the arms for it, honestly. You could probably do it pretty easy.”
Jeongguk’s exhale is audible. A soft rush of air through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Mm.”
“Yeah.” Jimin’s voice has gone breathy again. “I like it when they do that. When they just—hoist me up, you know? Back against the wall, legs around their waist, and then they just…” He makes a small, helpless gesture, shrugging his shoulders. “Go to town.”
Jeongguk lets out a choked, incredulous laugh. “Go to town?”
“Mhm. Fast. Rough. None of that slow romantic bullshit.” Jimin’s eyes are wide, guileless, the picture of accidental honesty. “I like it when they don’t ask and they just take what they want. When they’re so—god—so fucking big that I can’t do anything except hold on and let them wreck me.” A pause. “And they always do. Wreck me, I mean. It’s kind of embarrassing how much I like it.”
Jeongguk’s jaw tightens. The muscle at the hinge of it bunches and releases, and his hand on Jimin’s throat has gone heavier, stroking his skin hard. “Uh-huh.”
“I get so loud,” Jimin continues, almost whispering now, as if he’s sharing a secret. “It’s really bad. Like, neighbours-complaining loud. And I can’t help it, because they’re just—fucking into me so hard I can’t breathe, and my brain goes all fuzzy, and all I can do is whine and claw at their back and beg for more.” His lashes quiver. “Is that too much? I feel like that’s too much.”
Jeongguk doesn’t answer. His eyes are a storm—black and dark and churning. He swallows, and Jimin watches the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“Aww.” Jimin tilts his head, the picture of innocence. “Did I make you jealous?”
Jeongguk’s nostrils flare.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Jimin’s voice is a coo now, syrupy and sweet. “Thinking about all those other guys. All those big, strong men who got to pin me against a wall and fuck me stupid while you were still chasing me across Europe like a lost puppy.” He pouts, just a little, just enough to be infuriating. “That must sting, huh?”
Frustratingly, Jeongguk’s face doesn’t change—not even the slightest twitch of an eye or the downward curl of his lips. But his hand, resting warm and heavy against Jimin’s throat, goes completely still again.
“Looks like I really did hit a nerve,” Jimin grins. “Poor Jeonggukkie.” He taps his chin with one finger, gaze drifting ceilingward as if searching his memory. “You remember Croatia? That job with the diamond courier?”
Jeongguk’s jaw clicks.
“You were, what, two hours behind me? Two-and-a-half, maybe? I was already done with the mark by the time you got to the safehouse. And so—what was his name, the head of security…. Andrei? Andrej?” Jimin’s smile goes purposefully dreamy. “Big guy. Like, big-big. Played rugby in university. Had me bent over a counter while the body was still cooling in the next room. God, the bruises lasted a week.”
Jeongguk’s hand increases the pressure around Jimin’s throat.
“You’re lying,” Jeongguk hisses quietly. His eyes dart frantically across Jimin’s face.
“Am I?” Jimin tilts his head, exposing more throat. “Or are you just hoping I am because the alternative makes you feel like a fucking idiot? All that effort, all those near-misses. For what? The whole time I was getting split open by whoever was closest and warmest and willing—”
Jeongguk’s mouth is against his throat before the second word is fully out, all teeth and tongue and wet heat sealing over Jimin’s pulse point and sucking—hard enough to hurt a little, hard enough to make a mark, hard enough that Jimin’s back bows off the door just slightly and a tiny sound tears out of him that he doesn’t recognize.
“Fuck—”
“Mm.” Jeongguk’s hum vibrates against Jimin’s skin, and Jimin tries to form words to reply but his brain is static. He can feel the blood rushing to the surface of his skin, the bloom of a bruise that’ll be purple by morning, and all he can do is grip the wall and gasp—
And then Jeongguk pulls off with a slick sound that goes straight to Jimin’s cock before he surveys his work.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“That’s one,” he murmurs. His thumb traces the edges of the mark he’s made—a small circle of raised, angry skin just below Jimin’s jaw. “I think I’m gonna cover you in these. Everywhere. Make it so you can’t look in a mirror without remembering who put them there.”
Jimin’s laugh is breathless, shaky around the edges. “Possessive much?”
“You have no idea.” Jeongguk’s mouth trails lower, finding the join of neck and shoulder, and he bites down there too, drawing the skin between his teeth and worrying it like a dog with a bone. Jimin’s hips jerk forward of their own accord and the moan that escapes him is a desperate thing. Jeongguk’s mouth travels again—collarbone now, the hollow of Jimin’s throat, a detour to the other side of his neck where he starts a third mark with the same meticulous brutality. Jimin’s hand flies up involuntarily and grabs a fistful of Jeongguk’s hair.
“Just listen to you,” Jeongguk mutters, his breathing uneven. “Who’re you trying to fool into thinking that you hate me when you’re making those noises?”
Jimin flushes. “Ah—what—what noise—”
He sucks another bruise into the pale skin above Jimin’s collarbone, and Jimin keens—high and thin. He’d be embarrassed if he had any blood left in his brain. “Those right there. Jesus, you sound like you’re getting fucked already.”
Jimin’s head lolls against the door, his fingers still twisted in Jeongguk’s hair. The marks on his throat throb in time with his pulse—three of them now, maybe four, each one a hot little sunburst of ache. His cock is straining against his trousers, trapped and beginning to leak.
“Kinda I wish I was getting fucked,” Jimin breathes, and the words come out slurred, honey-drunk. “Preferably by someone who actually knows what he’s doing.” Jeongguk’s mouth pauses on his collarbone. “But I guess you were all talk, Jeon.” Jimin tugs Jeongguk’s hair. “Said all that just for you to suck hickeys onto my neck like a teenager at prom.”
Jeongguk lifts his head. His lips are swollen, slick, pinkened from all the sucking. “You can drop the act, sweetheart.” His thumb sweeps across the mark he just made, pressing into the tender center until Jimin’s breath hitches. “I remember Valencia. You think I don’t? Think I didn’t notice the way you followed me around that hotel like a desperate little stray, flitting those pretty lashes at me?”
Jimin whines.
“You were desperate for my attention. I saw it then and I see it now.” Jeongguk’s hand slides up from Jimin’s hip, dragging his shirt with it, rucking the fabric until cool air hits the bare skin of his stomach. “All those other guys you mentioned—Andrew, whoever the fuck—they were just placeholders. Distractions. Because you couldn’t have the one you actually wanted.” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear. “Isn’t that right, Jimin-ah? Tell me I’m wrong.”
Jimin thinks of Valencia, of the humiliation he’d felt when Jeongguk had walked away, and it makes something hot and defensive flare inside him.
“Gladly.” He tilts his head, the embodiment of bored amusement. “Get over yourself, Jeon. It’s been five years. I’ve had better.” He drags the last word out, lets it land. “You’ve barely managed anything apart from a couple of sad little love bites. Not exactly a stellar track record.” A dismissive shrug lifts one shoulder. “Maybe I should call one of those other guys. Still got their numbers.”
Jeongguk’s reaction is immediate. “You’re so full of shit,” he says, but his voice has gone rough and scratchy with the effort of holding back. “I’ll find every last one of those guys and put a bullet in their skulls. Then we’ll see who’s better.”
Jimin’s stomach drops even as a fresh pulse of arousal slicks the head of his cock against his briefs. “Hn—ah, Jeongguk, you’re such an animal.”
Before he can fire back, Jeongguk’s hand leaves his throat and grabs a fistful of Jimin’s shirt at the small of his back. The world tilts, and Jimin yelps as his feet leave the carpet. One shoulder digs into Jeongguk’s sternum, and then he’s upside down, staring at the back of Jeongguk’s thighs, blood rushing to his head.
“What the—put me down!”
“You said you liked being picked up.” Jeongguk’s arm bands across the backs of Jimin’s thighs, pinning him in place like he weighs nothing. “Big strong guys, right? Hold you down? Hoist you up?” He takes a step toward the bed, and another, and Jimin’s palms slap uselessly against the leather of his jacket. “I’m just giving you what you asked for.”
Jimin squirms, face hot, humiliation and arousal tangling into a knot behind his navel. “I didn’t ask for this, you absolute psychopath—”
The mattress dips under Jeongguk’s knee, and then Jimin’s back hits the duvet with a soft whump. The ceiling swims above him. Before he can scramble backward, Jeongguk is climbing over him, a knee on either side of his hips, caging him in. “There. That’s better.”
Jimin’s chest heaves. His shirt is rucked up around his ribs, and the cool air pebbles his nipples through the thin fabric. Jeongguk’s gaze devours the faint trail of hair disappearing into Jimin’s waistband, the shallow dip of his navel, and he digs into his lower lip with his two front teeth.
“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. His hands find the top button of Jimin’s shirt. “Let me see.”
Jimin’s protest dies in his throat. Jeongguk’s fingers are languid and careful, slipping each button through its hole with patience that feels more obscene than any rush. Pop. Pop. Pop. The shirt falls open, and Jimin’s entire torso is bared.
The flush sweeps down Jimin’s chest, now, blotching his sternum, spreading across his collarbones like a watercolor bloom. He turns his face into the duvet. Jeongguk reaches down and eases the Walther from Jimin’s holster, heedful enough not to jostle him. He sets it on the nightstand, then he rocks back on his heels, and his own Glock follows, joining Jimin’s gun like they’re a matched set. “There. No more weapons.”
Jimin snorts at that. “I’m still armed,” he drawls.
“What?” Jeongguk’s smile drops. “Where?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Jeongguk’s eyes narrow, scanning Jimin’s body with renewed interest, from his open shirt, to his rumpled trousers, down to his bare feet. “Ankle holster?”
“Nope.”
“Thigh?”
“Getting warmer.”
“Fuck.” Jeongguk’s hands find Jimin’s belt. “You’ve got a knife strapped to your thigh, don’t you? Under the trousers.”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s a gun. Maybe it’s a flashbang.” Jimin lifts his hips obligingly as Jeongguk works the belt open. “Maybe it’s a grenade and we’re both about to have a really bad time.”
“You wouldn’t frag your own hotel room.”
“You don’t know that. I’m unpredictable.”
“Little shit.” The belt slides free and Jeongguk tosses it aside and starts on the button of Jimin’s trousers.
The button gives way. Jimin’s trousers loosen, and Jeongguk’s knuckles brush bare skin as he works the zipper down tooth by tooth. Then Jimin lifts his hips up again, and the trousers slide down his thighs, catching at the knees before Jeongguk tugs them free and drops them off the side of the bed.
And there it is.
A slim pistol strapped to the inside of Jimin’s left thigh with two leather bands. The holster sits high, close to the crease of his groin, and the barrel presses a faint mark into the pale skin just above the hem of his briefs.
“Well,” Jeongguk breathes, going still. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”
Jimin props himself up on his elbows, watching Jeongguk’s face. “Told you.”
“Mn.” Jeongguk’s fingers finds the first leather strap. He works it loose carefully, then the second. The holster falls away, and he lifts the little pistol into the lamplight, turning it over in his palm. “This is cute. What is it, a Pico?”
“Mhm. Six rounds. Pretty good for close quarters.”
“I’ll bet.” Jeongguk’s thumb traces the barrel, the trigger guard, the grip. Then his gaze drops back to Jimin’s body. His shirt is open, the briefs doing nothing to hide his hard length straining against the cotton.
Jimin’s breathing is getting shallower.
He’s been in dangerous situations before. Dozens of them, in fact. A knife against his throat in Marrakech, a bomb vest strapped to his chest in Kuala Lumpur. But nothing—nothing—compares to the way Jeongguk looks at him now, eyes half-lidded and speculative, toying with the gun musingly.
“You ever had a gun on you?” he asks.
Jimin frowns, puzzled. “Plenty of times.”
“Not like that.” Jeongguk shifts his weight, knees bracketing Jimin’s hips. “For fun, I mean.”
Jimin blinks at him.
What?
Jeongguk, however, doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans forward, one hand planted beside Jimin’s head, and brings the Pico’s barrel to Jimin’s collarbone.
Jimin tries to summon a quip. Something about foreplay, something sharp enough to draw blood from Jeongguk—but his tongue is a dry wad of cotton, and the only sound that escapes is a thin, reedy exhale that catches in the back of his throat and sticks there.
The Pico moves down and traces the ridge of his ribs. Jeongguk’s eyes are on him, evaluating. His free hand stays planted beside Jimin’s head, knuckles pressing into the duvet, and his knees clamp tighter around Jimin’s hips.
Jimin’s shirt is still open, spread beneath him like a broken wing. The cool air of the hotel room pebbles his nipples, raises goosebumps along the pale plane of his stomach. But the gun is the only thing he can feel.
Click.
The safety snaps off.
Jimin’s whole body is wracked with a single, involuntary full-body flinch that he can’t suppress, and his hips buck against Jeongguk’s weight before he can stop them.
The safety was on before. He knows it was on… which means that now, the trigger mechanism is live, and all that separates Jimin’s existence from a subsonic round punching through his brain is a featherlight touch.
He should be terrified.
Instead, his head goes floaty. The ceiling swims above him, a pale blur of plaster and shadow, and something behind his navel unspools. His limbs feel heavy. His jaw slackens. The small voice in the back of his head that’s kept him alive through almost a decade of knife-edges and kill-shots has gone very, very quiet.
Move. Fight. Do something.
The thought surfaces briefly, then dissolves immediately. Jimin blinks slowly, twice, and lets his head loll to the side on the duvet.
The Pico skates lower, circling the rim of his navel. The sensation is so oddly intimate that Jimin’s stomach clenches, a ripple of muscle that pushes his hips up another inch.
“Hn—”
The Pico reverses direction, drags up the center of his abdomen, retracing the same path in reverse, and Jimin watches the ceiling blur and reform, blur and reform. His hands are lying useless at his sides, fingers curled loosely into the duvet, and he thinks distantly that he could reach up. He could grab Jeongguk’s wrist. He could twist, disarm, reverse the pin. The mechanics of the move flicker through his mind—judo grip, thumb-lock, elbow-break—but his arms refuse to move.
The barrel kisses his left nipple and keeps going, tracing the areola in a small, maddening loop that drags a whimper out of him. His back arches. His hips twitch. The cotton of his briefs is tacky with precome, the head of his cock leaving a darkening spot that he can feel growing against his inner thigh.
“Jeongguk—”
A hand settles over his mouth. Jeongguk’s thumb hooks beneath his chin and presses up, closing his mouth with a gentle click of teeth.
“Shh.”
Jeongguk hasn’t looked at his face in a full minute. His gaze is still on the gun—watching the barrel paint a lazy figure-eight across Jimin’s ribs, back and forth, back and forth. The concentration in his expression is almost reverential. The Pico glides up Jimin’s sternum a second time and stops at the hollow of his throat. Presses there. Just for a moment, just enough for Jimin to feel the metal kiss his trachea. He can feel every rabbiting beat of his pulse.
Then the gun lifts, travels the column of his throat, skates along his jawline, tracing the bone from chin to ear, and finally, pauses at the corner of his mouth.
Jeongguk’s hand shifts. His palm slides down, off Jimin’s lips, and his thumb strokes once across the lower lip—pulling it down, watching the wet pink flash of the underlip’s inner surface. Jimin’s breath escapes in a ragged puff.
The Pico’s barrel nudges against the seam of his lips.
Warm. Still so warm. Jimin can smell the faint residue of gun oil. His lips part, and Jeongguk’s eyes flick up to his face finally. Their gazes lock.
“Open,” Jeongguk orders.
Jimin’s lips part on a sharp breath. “You’re actually out of your fucking mind—”
Jeongguk presses the rounded muzzle between those parted lips, sliding it over Jimin’s tongue until the metal rests heavy against it. Jimin’s protest dies in a wet sound, eyes flashing wide, but he doesn’t pull away. His hands fist tightly in the sheets instead, knuckles whitening.
Jeongguk pushes the gun a little deeper, watching Jimin’s throat work around the intrusion. “That’s it.”
Jimin makes a muffled, indignant noise around the barrel, but his tongue curls up anyway, licking along the underside. His cheeks hollow as he obeys, and Jeongguk’s breath catches.
“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps out. He rocks the pistol forward in a thrust, then pulls it back, letting Jimin’s lips drag wetly along the length. Spit glistens on the metal when it slips free for a second, and Jeongguk immediately pushes it back in, deeper this time. Jimin’s eyes water, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue laps at the barrel, tracing the tiny grooves, swirling around the tip. Jeongguk’s free hand drops to Jimin’s chest, fingers spreading over heated skin.
“You getting hard from this?” he asks, almost conversationally, though his voice is rougher now. His thumb brushes over Jimin’s nipple, feeling it stiffen. “Didn’t think you’d be this much of a slut.”
Jimin makes another sound—half protest, half moan—and Jeongguk answers by fucking the pistol into his mouth in steady, shallow strokes. Each push makes Jimin’s throat flutter. He gags once, eyes squeezing shut, but his hips jerk up, grinding against nothing. The briefs are completely soaked at the front now, the outline of his cock clear against the cotton.
Jeongguk watches, transfixed. His own face is flushed, lips parted, breathing faster. “Take it deeper,” he demands, voice tight. He angles the gun and presses until the muzzle nudges the back of Jimin’s throat. Jimin’s fingers fly up to clutch at Jeongguk’s wrist as he forces himself to relax and let the barrel slide further. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes, but he swallows around it, tongue working frantically.
“Shit,” Jeongguk breathes. It seems like he can’t look away from the sight of Jimin’s stretched lips, the way spit runs down his chin, the way his throat moves. “You’d let me pull the trigger right now, wouldn’t you, Jimin-ah? One little squeeze and it’d all be over.”
Jimin’s only answer is a broken, wet sound and the frantic bob of his head, trying to take more. His thighs are shaking. Every time the gun pushes in he moans around it, the vibration traveling up Jeongguk’s arm. His cock leaks steadily, a dark spot spreading on the briefs, and he can’t stop grinding his hips in tiny, desperate circles.
Jeongguk’s free hand moves lower, palming the wet fabric. He squeezes Jimin’s cock through the fabric, then traces the outline with one finger, following the curve from root to tip, and Jimin’s hips buck so hard the gun nearly chokes him.
“Look at this,” Jeongguk murmurs. His thumb circles the damp head, pressing down until Jimin mewls around the barrel. “You’re absolutely drenched. I’ve barely even touched you.” He squeezes again, slower this time, milking another sound from Jimin’s throat. “Are you gonna come?”
Jimin shakes his head frantically, eyes squeezed shut, tears still leaking from the corners. His tongue works desperately along the gun’s slide, lapping and sucking. It’s almost as though he’s forgotten it’s not flesh in his mouth. Every nerve in his body has narrowed to two thing in his awareness: the steel on his tongue and the hand on his cock.
“You’re lying.” Jeongguk’s palm grinds down, flat and firm, and Jimin moans. His thighs clamp around Jeongguk’s hips, heels digging into the duvet. “Can feel you twitching, baby. You’re right there, aren’t you?” He rocks his hand in a circular motion. “Gonna make a mess of yourself just from a little gunplay? That’s embarrassing, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin’s throat constricts. The Pico slides another half-inch deeper, and his vision whites out for a second. When it comes back, the ceiling is swimming, and his hips are moving on their own, rutting against Jeongguk’s palm in short, desperate thrusts.
“There you go.” Jeongguk’s hand keeps working, steadily while his other hand fucks the pistol in and out of Jimin’s mouth in counterpoint. “Take it. Take what you need.”
Jimin’s fingers grasp at Jeongguk’s wrist. The heat in his groin is unbearable now, getting tighter with every stroke. The sounds coming out of him don’t even sound human anymore: wet, desperate, punched-out little cries that get swallowed by the gun.
Jeongguk leans down, lips brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear. “Come on then,” he breathes. “Show me how much you love it. Suck it like you’re starving for cock. Maybe if you’re good I’ll let you have the real thing.”
With that, Jimin doubles down, sucking with everything he has, tongue working frantically against the underside of the barrel, cheeks hollowing with the force of it. His throat relaxes, then takes the Pico deeper, until the trigger guard presses against his lower lip, and then all of a sudden he’s—
Jimin comes with a jerk, hips bucking up in convulsive little thrusts against Jeongguk’s palm. The wet spot on his briefs darkens, spreads, grows. A choked scream tears out of him around the barrel, and his whole body shakes—thighs clamping, stomach clenching, fingers digging bruises into Jeongguk’s wrist. His body goes slack, his jaw loosens, and the Pico slides free from his mouth with a slick noise, cool air rushing over his spit-slick lips.
Jeongguk sits back on his heels. His chest is heaving. The hand that had been on Jimin’s cock is sticky now, the cotton clinging transparently to the shape of Jimin’s now-flaccid cock. But he’s not looking at that.
He’s looking at the gun. The gun, which is glistening, coated in a sheen of saliva. A strand of spit still connects the muzzle to Jimin’s lower lip, stretching thin before it snaps.
Jeongguk lifts the Pico to his own mouth.
His tongue emerges first, and then he does a long, slow lick up the barrel, from trigger guard to muzzle, gathering every drop of moisture. His eyes flutter shut for half a second. When they open again, they’re fixed on Jimin’s face.
Jimin watches, stupefied, as Jeongguk’s tongue traces the slide grooves, cleans the sight post, laps at the ejection port like it’s the rim of a champagne flute. His lips close around the barrel for just a moment—a quick, filthy kiss—and then he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Jimin’s voice comes out croaky. “You’re such a freak.”
Jeongguk grins. “And you just came from me putting a loaded gun in your mouth. Let’s not point fingers now.”
As Jimin tries to summon a retort, Jeongguk’s hands are on him again—one on his hip, one on his shoulder, flipping him onto his stomach. The duvet rushes up to meet him, the pillows soft and cool against his flushed cheek. His arms tangle beneath him.
A broad palm settles on his ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.
“What are you—”
Jeongguk squeezes. The meat of Jimin’s cheek fills his hand, and he kneads slowly, thumb dipping into the crease where thigh meets muscle.
Jimin’s protest dissolves into a sharp inhale. His hips twitch involuntarily, pressing back into the touch. The briefs are peeled down next—rolled over his hips, the elastic dragging across sensitive skin until his ass is bare. Cool air kisses the cleft, and Jimin’s toes curl against the duvet.
“Hey—!”
But Jeongguk’s already there. Both hands now, spreading him open, thumbs pulling apart his cheeks until Jimin feels utterly exposed. Jeongguk’s warm breath ghosts over that impossibly sensitive skin, and his hole twitches. He can feel it happen, and he knows Jeongguk saw it, because a low laugh rumbles against the top of his thigh.
Warm liquid lands directly on the puckered skin.
Spit.
It drips obscenely down the crease, and then Jeongguk’s mouth is on him—hot, wet tongue spearing flat against his hole and licking up with a hunger that blanks every thought from Jimin’s head. His face buries into the pillows. Jeongguk’s tongue circles the rim, then pushes inside, spearing deep, and Jimin’s hips rut backward on instinct.
“Mnnhh—ah—Jeongguk, that’s—”
He can’t finish. The tongue retreats, laps around the quivering entrance, then thrusts back in. Over and over, a rhythm that has Jimin writhing, his hands fisting in the sheets, his thighs trying to close but held open by Jeongguk’s bruising grip. His hole clenches and flutters, and Jeongguk moans against him like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
A hand snakes beneath Jimin’s hips, finds the hem of the ruined briefs still tangled mid-thigh, and tugs them to his knees. Jimin barely registers the cotton sliding away before fingers wrap around his cock—half-hard again already, sensitive and slick with his own come.
“Lift up.” Jeongguk’s voice is muffled against his skin.
Jimin can’t. His legs won’t work. So Jeongguk does it for him—a forearm hooked under his waist, hauling his hips up until he’s on his knees, face still crushed into the pillows, ass presented high. The new angle lets Jeongguk’s tongue sink deeper, and the hand on his cock starts stroking in a lazy, twisting pump that drags along his length in time with the thrusts of his tongue.
Jimin’s mouth falls open against the pillow, drool soaking the cotton. A thin sound is ripped out of him, high and desperate, and he doesn’t recognize it as his own voice.
“Hnnn—Jeonguk—Jeonguk-ah, stop—”
Jeongguk’s mouth pauses. His tongue retreats, but his thumb replaces it, pressing gently against Jimin’s winking hole. “Hm?”
Jimin lifts his head, neck aching, and looks over his shoulder. Their eyes meet. Jeongguk’s face is flushed, his lips glossy wet, his chin slick. He looks deranged and beautiful and Jimin can’t remember ever wanting anything more than this.
“I wanna come on your cock,” Jimin slurs. It takes three tries to get the words out, his voice wrecked and barely audible. “Stop. It’s embarrassing if I come again and you haven’t—” He swallows. “You haven’t come once at all."
For that, Jeongguk crawls up Jimin’s body, smothering him against the mattress as he captures his mouth in a kiss. “So sweet, baby,” Jeongguk murmurs against his mouth. “You’re being considerate of me, huh?”
Jimin groans, turning his face away, but Jeongguk follows, kissing the corner of his jaw, the bruise on his throat. “Don’t kid yourself, Jeon.”
Jeonguk laughs, breath warm on his ear, and gets back up. Jimin shifts beneath him, suddenly aware that he’s completely naked while Jeongguk is still fully dressed.
“Take this off.” Jimin’s fingers find the hem of Jeongguk’s crewneck and tug sharply. “Off. Now.”
Jeonguk’s grin is infuriating, but he complies. He reaches behind his head, grips the collar, and pulls. The crewneck slides up over his chest, his shoulders, his head, and then it’s gone—tossed somewhere into the dark—and Jimin stops breathing.
The tattoos are even more intricate up close, across his pec, sweeping down his ribs. There are lyrics inked across his collarbone that Jimin can’t read from this angle, and muscle everywhere—dense, defined, shifting under golden skin as Jeongguk lowers his arms.
But it’s the scar that snags Jimin’s attention again.
The diagonal furrow above Jeongguk’s left hipbone, two inches of puckered white. Seeing it up-close is something else entirely.
His fingers reach out before his brain can stop them. They trace the raised line, featherlight, following its trajectory from hip toward navel.
“I gave this to you,” Jimin whispers.
Jeonguk’s chest is rising and falling visibly. His voice is soft. “Yeah. You did.”
“Does it still hurt?”
Jeonguk’s hand covers Jimin’s, pressing his palm flat against the scar. The warmth of his skin seeps through. “Only when I think about you.” The corner of his mouth lifts—not a grin, not quite a smile. “So, constantly.”
Jimin’s throat tightens. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jeongguk doesn’t let him. He’s kissing him again, mouth slanting over Jimin’s, and this time there’s nothing tender about it—Jeongguk’s tongue sweeps in while Jimin’s hands slide up Jeonguk’s bare back, nails raking faint lines over muscle.
The kiss breaks only when a sharp knock sounds from the door.
They freeze.
“Room service,” calls a muffled voice from the corridor. “Truffle sliders and wine?”
Jimin’s chest is still heaving, spit cooling on his chin, and Jeongguk’s mouth is a breath away, lips slick and parted. For a few heartbeats neither of them moves.
“Room service,” the voice calls again, a little more insistent. “Hello?”
Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the door, then back to Jimin. He exhales through his nose. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, and then presses a quick kiss to Jimin’s mouth. “Gimme a sec, baby.”
Then he’s off the bed, swiping his crewneck from the floor but not bothering to put it on, still shirtless as he crosses to the door. His jeans ride low, top button undone, and Jimin’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the denim.
Jeongguk cracks the door open just wide enough to block the view inside, one hand braced on the frame. The hallway light spills over his bare shoulders.
“Hey,” he says, voice easy. “Sorry, bit of a mess in here.”
The server is clearly startled to find a tattooed, half-naked man answering the door of a room registered to one Lee Hyunsoo. Jimin catches a glimpse of his face over Jeongguk’s shoulder.
“Uh. This is for Lee Hyunsoo…?” The server’s head cranes slightly, trying to see around Jeongguk’s frame. “Is the guest here?”
Jimin freezes. He’s still sprawled on the bed, naked, covered in bruises and drying spit and his own cum. Not exactly the image he wants to present to Seoul’s hospitality industry. He scoots backward, pressing himself against the headboard, pulling the edge of the duvet across his lap.
Jeongguk laughs, low and warm. “Ah, yeah, he’s a little… indisposed right now.” He leans against the doorframe, casual as anything. “I’m his boyfriend. So.” A shrug, a knowing grin. “You get it.”
The server blinks. Behind him, Jimin’s face flames. Boyfriend? He mouths the word contemptuously at Jeongguk’s back, incredulous, but Jeongguk can’t see him and, frankly, wouldn’t care if he could.
A beat passes. Then another. Then the server’s ears go red. “Oh. Oh, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No worries, man.” Jeongguk reaches out and takes the trolley handle from him, steering it through the doorway. “We’re just, you know. Pretty busy.” He fishes a wad of bills from his back pocket and presses a generous tip into the server’s hand firmly. “Thanks for bringing it up. Have a good night.”
The door clicks shut on the server’s stammered goodnight, and the lock engages with a beep sound. Jeongguk wheels the trolley into the room, and immediately, Jimin’s hit with the smell of grilled meat, truffle oil, and toasted brioche bread. His stomach clenches, water filling in his mouth. On the trolley there are two silver-domed platters, two plates, a bottle of Malbec sitting pretty beside a pair of stemmed glasses, a little silver cup of extra truffle fries glistening with salt. Jimin leans forward without thinking, one hand reaching out.
“Finally, I’m fucking starving—”
A hand closes around his ankle and yanks.
Jimin yelps, toppling backward onto the mattress, the duvet sliding off his lap entirely. Jeongguk’s grip moves to his hips, dragging him down the bed until he’s flat on his back with Jeongguk braced over him, grinning hungrily.
“Jimin-ssi,” Jeongguk taunts, dipping his head to press a kiss to one of the hickeys on Jimin’s throat. “Did you really think I was done with you?”
Jimin’s hands come up to push at Jeonguk’s shoulders, but there’s no real strength behind it. “I hate you,” he grumbles. “First you break into my room, then you threaten me, now you’re denying me the food you ordered? Who the fuck does that?”
“Me.” Jeonguk’s mouth trails lower, over Jimin’s collarbone, down his sternum. “I do that.”
“Did I already tell you how much I hate you?”
“Mm.” The response vibrates against Jimin’s chest, right over his heart. Jeonguk’s lips find Jimin’s left nipple. “Tough shit.”
Then his mouth closes over it and sucks. Jimin’s back arches, his fingers flying to Jeonguk’s hair and gripping tight. “Hn—fuck—Jeongguk—”
Jeongguk doesn’t stop. His tongue works around the peak, then flicks rapidly, then draws back to let his teeth graze the sensitive tip. Jimin writhes beneath him, but Jeonguk’s weight pins his hips in place. The attention is relentless—suck, lick, gentle bite, a soothing kiss, then the same sequence on the other side while Jimin’s hand paws at his shoulders.
“You’ve got such pretty nipples,” Jeongguk murmurs appreciatively. “So responsive. Could do this for hours.”
Jimin whines. “Jeongguk—ngh—you said you were starving—”
“I am.” The words vibrate against his skin. “Eating right now, aren’t I?”
“That’s not—hnn—”
Still, Jeongguk’s mouth doesn’t relent.
“I’ll shoot you,” Jimin gasps, heels kicking against the duvet. “I swear to god, I’ll—ah—I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes—”
“Mmhm.” Jeongguk’s lips shift to the other nipple, neglected and aching, and give it the same torturous attention. His tongue laves the stiff peak before his teeth close around it—gentle, then sharper, then soothing with a broad lick. “Okay, sweetheart.”
“I’m serious—nghh—I’m gonna—”
“I know you are.” Jeongguk lifts his head just enough to meet Jimin’s eyes. His lips are slightly swollen, curled into that infuriating half-smile. “Shoot me later. Right now you’re just gonna let me play with these pretty little nipples, okay?”
His mouth descends again, and he uses his teeth to delicately graze along the sensitive rim of Jimin’s areola that makes his hips jerk and his cock slap wetly against his stomach. He’s fully hard again, and the head is an angry, glossy red, leaking steadily onto his belly.
“Jimin-ssi,” Jeongguk teases at the sight, breath ghosting over Jimin’s skin. “You’re insatiable.”
“You’re—ah—you’re the one who won’t stop—”
“Why would I stop?” Jeongguk’s tongue dips into Jimin’s navel. Jimin’s stomach clenches, a helpless spasm, and his cock twitches against his belly. “You’re making the prettiest sounds. Gonna have to shut you up in a second so the neighbors don’t get mad.”
Jimin’s protest dissolves into a moan, and his thighs clamp around Jeongguk’s hips, heels digging into the small of his back.
“You’re so—fucking—corny,” he manages.
“And you’re so fucking hard it looks painful.” Jeongguk’s palm drags down Jimin’s stomach, avoiding his cock entirely, and cups his balls instead, rolling them gently. Jimin’s moan is pained. “Want me to do something about that?”
“Mh—want you to—ahn—stop being a tease and just—fuck—”
Jeongguk laughs. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He sits back on his heels and finally—finally—reaches for his jeans. The button is already undone; the zipper comes down at last. Jimin watches, mouth dry, as Jeongguk shoves the denim down over his hips, his thighs, kicks it off the bed along with his briefs in one motion.
Jimin’s brain short-circuits.
Jeongguk’s cock is…
Well, he’s unfairly well-endowed. Thick, flushed dark at the tip, curving slightly upward toward his belly. A bead of precome glitters at the slit. The sight of it makes Jimin’s hole clench around nothing, a hungry, greedy flutter he can’t control.
“See something you like, Jimin-ssi?”
Instead of responding, Jimin surges up, grabs Jeongguk by the back of the neck, and kisses him, their teeth clacking and tongues sliding. Jeongguk groans into his mouth and pushes him back down onto the mattress, settling between his thighs.
When he pulls back, Jimin’s chest heaves. His legs fall open wider, and Jeongguk’s hands find the backs of his thighs and push them up, folding Jimin nearly in half. The stretch burns pleasantly in his hamstrings.
“You should thank me,” Jeongguk murmurs, lining himself up.
“For—nnh—what?”
“For keeping the food aside.” He notches the head of his cock against Jimin’s entrance, just the tip. His grin is wicked. “You’re gonna need it when we’re done.”
Jimin groans, head thunking back against the pillows. “You’re so full of yourself, Jeon, you—”
The rest of the sentence dies in his throat as Jeongguk pushes in. Jimin’s body opens for him like a flower in bloom. His mouth falls open but no sound comes out, and his fingers clutch at Jeongguk’s shoulders, his biceps, anything he can reach.
The stretch burns.
“Fuck,” Jeongguk breathes, forehead dropping to Jimin’s collarbone. “You’re so—” A shudder runs through him, his hips twitching deeper. “So fucking tight. Haven’t done this in a while, have you?”
Jimin’s response is a choked whimper. His thighs clamp around Jeongguk’s waist, and his inner walls flutter helplessly around the intrusion. He can feel every inch—every ridge, every vein, the blunt head kissing somewhere so deep.
“Not exactly—ah—easy to find someone when you’re—nngh—on the run,” Jimin manages, voice thin and reedy. “And not every guy comes with—with a fucking baseball bat in his pants, Jeon, what the fuck—”
Jeongguk laughs. “You complaining?”
“No, I’m—” Jimin’s eyes are dangerously close to rolling back as Jeongguk shifts his weight. “Oh, god—”
“There you go.” Jeongguk’s mouth finds Jimin’s ear, sucks the lobe gently. “Just relax for me. I’ve got you.”
Relax! Right. As if that’s possible with Jeongguk’s monster cock buried to the hilt inside him, stretching him so full he can barely breathe. Jimin squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember how his lungs work.
Jeongguk draws back, and then thrusts forward again. “So good for me,” Jeongguk whispers. “Taking all of me so well. Knew from the moment I saw you that you’d be like this underneath all that attitude.”
Jimin wants to snap back, wants to say something sharp and cutting, but Jeongguk’s hips roll forward and whatever words he had disappear into the pleasant buzz of nothingness in his brain. The headboard creaks loudly, and his cock bounces against his stomach with every thrust, leaking a thin trail of precome that smears across his skin.
“You’re—ah—so fucking—” Jimin gasps, then grits his teeth. No. He’s not going to let Jeongguk win this easily. He’s Park Jimin, for fuck’s sake. He’s never let anyone win anything.
Summoning every ounce of strength left in his trembling limbs, he plants both hands on Jeongguk’s chest and pushes.
Jeongguk blinks, startled, and falls back onto his heels. His cock slips free with a wet sound that makes Jimin’s face flame, and for a heartbeat they’re both frozen—Jeongguk on his knees, cock slick and straining, Jimin scrambling upright with unsteady limbs.
“The fuck do you think—”
“Shut up.” Jimin says weakly. He shoves Jeongguk backward onto the mattress, and Jeongguk goes—whether from surprise or willingness, Jimin doesn’t care. “Lie down.”
Jeongguk’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline, but he obeys, sprawling back against the rumpled sheets. Jimin swings one leg over Jeongguk’s hips, straddling him, and reaches down to grasp the base of Jeongguk’s cock, positioning himself, and sinking down.
A breathy moan escapes him.
“Fuck,” Jimin whimpers, head tipping back. His hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away with a trembling hand. This angle is deeper—so much deeper—and he can feel Jeongguk’s cock pressing in. “Fuck, what the fuck do you even do walking around with a dick this big, huh? Do you—ahn—do you need a special permit or something? What the fuck—”
Jeongguk laughs, startled, his hands finding Jimin’s hips. “You’re so fucking weird.”
“You’re the one—nngh—walking around with—” Jimin’s breath hitches as he bottoms out, the full length of Jeongguk seated inside him. His thighs are already burning. His hole clenches, and Jeongguk’s grip on his hips tightens. “—with lethal weaponry in your trousers.”
“You gonna ride me or keep complaining?”
“For that," Jimin grits out, lifting himself an inch and dropping back down, “I’m complaining the whole time.”
He’s unsteady at first, finding his rhythm, one hand braced on Jeongguk’s chest and the other gripping his own thigh for balance. The stretch is incredible. Every downward stroke punches a sound out of him, little ah-ah-ah noises that sync with the bounce of his hips. Sweat beads along his hairline.
Jeongguk watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking into Jimin’s hipbones. “All fucked-out and still trying to be in control. It’s cute.”
"I’m not—ah—cute—"
“Cutest little thing I’ve ever seen.” His hips buck upward on the next descent, driving himself impossibly deeper, and Jimin’s retort dies on his tongue. “You feel even better than I imagined.”
Jimin’s thighs are starting to tremble, and his pace falters.
“Getting tired already?” Jeongguk’s voice is a low taunt. “You wanna let me take over?”
“I can do it.” Jimin’s movements slow despite himself, muscles burning. “I’m—I’ve got this—”
“You’re getting tired.” Jeongguk’s hands slide from his hips to his ass, gripping both cheeks and spreading him wider. "Let go, baby. Let me take care of you."
Then Jeongguk flips them.
One moment Jimin is upright, the next his back hits the mattress with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. Jeongguk looms over him, bracketing his body with those broad shoulders, and slides back in with one smooth thrust that makes Jimin’s vision white out.
“There we go,” Jeongguk murmurs, lips brushing Jimin’s ear. “That’s better, isn’t it? You don’t need to do anything. Just lie there and take it.”
Jimin’s ankles lock at the small of Jeongguk’s back, and Jimin can’t do anything except claw at his shoulders and moan.
“That’s it,” Jeongguk breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s almost lazy. Almost. “Just like that. Fuck—you’re so unreal, baby.”
Jimin’s answer is a whimper. His head falls back, baring his throat, and Jeongguk takes the invitation immediately, latching onto the column of his neck, sucking another bruise into his skin.
But something swings in his peripheral vision—a thin silver chain, dangling from Jeongguk’s neck, its pendant, a small ornate cross. It bounces against Jimin’s collarbone, then his chest. Jimin hadn’t noticed it before.
His fingers find the chain shakily. He wraps it around his knuckles, once, twice, and tugs—gently at first, then with more intent. The pull drags Jeongguk down toward him, and the cross dangles directly above Jimin’s face now. When Jeongguk obeys the pull, his body pressing Jimin deeper into the duvet, the chain goes slack against Jimin’s cheek.
“So obedient,” Jimin teases, voice honeyed. “Such a good puppy. Comes when I pull his leash.”
Jeongguk’s rhythm stutters. His eyes snap to Jimin’s face, and something dangerous flickers behind them. The muscle in his cheek jumps once, twice.
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
“Puppy.” Jimin smiles, and he gives the chain another gentle tug, the cross swinging between them. “Is that not what you are? All that growling, but you come running the second I yank on your little—” He tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. “—collar.”
Jeongguk’s hips stop moving entirely, leaving Jimin impaled and aching, and for a long, terrible moment, he just stares down at him.
“You know,” Jeongguk says, voice as measured as it can be, “I was trying to be nice.”
Jimin pouts. “Were you?”
“Mn.” Jeongguk tugs the chain free from Jimin’s grip with a single, smooth motion, and then he’s wrapping it around his own fist, the cross dangling from his knuckles. “I was gonna be sweet. Take my time. Make you feel good.”
Jimin’s hole clenches around nothing as Jeongguk pulls out completely, leaving him empty and twitching. A needy mewl escapes him before he can stop it.
“But you just can’t help yourself, can you?” Jeongguk sits back, surveying Jimin sprawled beneath him, bruised, flushed, leaking. “You gotta poke and prod and push until you get what you really want.”
“And what would you know about what I want?”
“Oh, I know exactly what you want, Jimin-ssi.” Jeongguk’s voice drops to a near-whisper, intimate and cold. “You want me to remember what we actually are.” He leans forward slowly, the chain still wound around his fist, the cross swinging between them like a pendulum. “You want me to fuck you like we’re enemies.”
Jimin’s breath catches.
“Because that’s what we are, isn’t that right?” Jeongguk continues, his other hand trailing down Jimin’s thigh, nails raking lightly. His hand reaches Jimin’s knee, grips it, pushes it up and to the side, opening him. “So let’s stop pretending we’re anything else.”
He repositions himself between Jimin’s spread thighs, and the weight of him settles back into place, the blunt head of his cock nudging against Jimin’s spent, slick hole.
“Gonna fuck you like I mean it,” Jeongguk murmurs promisingly. He lets the head press just barely past the ring of muscle, that first shallow stretch making Jimin’s breath stutter. “You think you can take that?”
“Just—fucking—do it,” Jimin grits out, grabbing two fistfuls of the duvet. “All bark and no bite, aren’t you?” he rolls his eyes. “Stop talking.”
Jeongguk’s mouth curls into something sharp and wolfish, then he pulls his hips back, and slams home in a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
The headboard cracks against the wall with a sound like a gunshot.
“Oh—fuck—!”
Each stroke is a punishing slam. The headboard rattles against the wall relentlessly, and somewhere in the back of Jimin’s mind, he registers there will definitely be complaints from Room 612 and 614, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Jeongguk is splitting him open like this, not when every thrust sends fireworks popping behind his eyes.
“That’s it,” Jeongguk pants, voice rough and wrecked. “Taking my cock so good, baby. You’re so fucking good for me.”
Jimin whines, hands scratching at Jeongguk’s back, nails dragging down the sweaty skin and leaving angry red furrows in their wake. Jeongguk hisses through his teeth but doesn’t slow. He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the pain in his expression seems to spur him on, his hips snapping forward faster, harder, angling to hit that sweet spot inside Jimin with every single stroke.
“Hnnh—Jeongguk—oh—fuck, yeah, Jeongguk, right there—!”
“Right here?” Jeongguk shifts his weight, changing the angle just a fraction, and the next thrust hits Jimin’s prostate dead-on. “Oh, yeah, that’s the spot. Feel that? Can you feel how deep I am, Jimin-ah?”
Jimin can’t speak. Speech is beyond him. All that exists is feeling: the drag of Jeongguk’s cock against his walls, the squelching wet sounds of his hole being pounded, the overpowering heat of Jeongguk’s body covering his own, pinning him to the mattress. His nails dig deeper into Jeongguk’s shoulder blades, and he wriggles underneath him, hips rolling desperately.
“Look at you,” Jeongguk growls. He gets his forearm under Jimin’s knee and pushes it up, folding him nearly in half, opening him even wider. Jeongguk’s cock goes impossibly deeper, and Jimin lets out a broken sob. “So fucking greedy. Taking everything I give you and still begging for more.”
“Please, Jeongguk—ah—please—” The words tumble out of him mindlessly. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, only that he needs Jeongguk to keep going, to never stop, to split him open until there’s nothing left of Park Jimin but this.
“Tell me, Jimin-ah,” he pants, hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm. “Who’s the best you’ve ever had? Who fucks you like this?”
Jimin’s head lolls to the side. He won’t give Jeongguk the satisfaction—won’t hand over that last thing. But Jeongguk’s hand is on his chin in an instant, fingers digging into the hinge of his jaw, forcing his face back around until Jimin has no choice but to meet his eyes.
“I asked you a question.” Jeongguk murmurs, and his voice is soft, almost gentle, which makes it infinitely more terrifying. He rolls his hips, and the head of his cock drags against Jimin’s prostate again torturously.
“You—” The word tears out before Jimin can stop it. “You, Jeongguk—fuck—it’s you—”
“That’s right.” Jeongguk’s grip on his chin loosens, his thumb stroking across Jimin’s swollen lower lip. But his hips pick up speed again, hammering into Jimin with renewed vigor. “Best you’ve ever had. Best you’ll ever have. Say it again.”
“You—Jeongguk—Jeongguk—” Jeongguk’s name pours out of him like an insistent prayer. “Best I’ve ever had—fuck, Jeongguk—no one fucks me better than you, no one’s ever—”
Jeongguk’s rhythm falters for just a second, and that’s when Jimin feels it—the slight thickening inside him, the way Jeongguk’s cock swells and twitches with every stroke.
He’s close. Jeongguk is close.
The realization lights up Jimin’s exhausted body. His walls flutter around the intrusion, clenching and squeezing in desperate, greedy waves, and he rocks his hips up to meet every thrust, taking Jeongguk in deeper, pulling him in.
“You can’t come yet,” Jimin pants, voice wrecked and hoarse. His eyes shut. “Not until I come.”
Jeongguk’s laugh is a breathless thing. “Bossy little—fuck—” His hips slam forward, and the headboard slams against the wall again. At this rate, there really might be a dent in it. “You’re gonna come when I say you can, sweetheart.”
But Jimin can feel it—the slight shakiness in Jeongguk’s legs, the way his pace is getting sloppier, more desperate. They’re both wound so tight that the edge is inevitable. Jimin’s eyes flutter open, meeting Jeongguk’s dark, blown-out gaze, and Jeongguk looks completely wrecked: hair plastered to his forehead, sweat beading at his temples, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. The cross around his neck swings between them with every thrust.
“’M gonna fill you up,” Jeongguk pants. “Gonna come so deep inside you, Jimin-ah. You want that?”
Jimin’s answer is a borderline pornographic moan. The thought of being marked from the inside with Jeongguk’s cum makes his cock pulsate violently against his stomach.
“Yes—hn—yeah, Jeongguk, want it—” His prostate is being pummelled with merciless precision, and his cock is trapped between their bodies, rubbing against Jeongguk’s stomach with every thrust.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” Jeongguk breathes. “Best I’ve ever had too, you know that? No one—no one compares to you, Jimin-ah. No one’s ever made me feel like this.” His hips stutter, and he lets out a pained moan, head dropping onto Jimin’s shoulder. “Fuck, I’m so close—”
Jimin feels the swelling inside him intensify, feels the twitch of Jeongguk’s cock against his walls. His own orgasm is rising fast in his stomach, a hot, tight knot. He sobs.
“Jeongguk—hngh—Jeongguk-ah—” He’s so close, so fucking close— “Touch me, please, touch, touch me—”
“So needy, baby.” But Jeongguk takes mercy. His hand snakes down between their bodies, wrapping around Jimin’s cock. Jeongguk’s calluses can be felt now, the rough texture of his palm dragging deliciously over sensitive skin as he pumps Jimin’s cock in time with his thrusts, thumb swiping over the leaking tip, playing with the sensitive slit until Jimin is mewling, writhing, squirming, and then, finally, finally, finally, he’s coming.
Jimin’s cum splatters across their stomachs, hot and wet, and Jeongguk fucks him through every last twitch of it, thrusting into the clutch of his body like he can’t get deep enough.
“Fuck,” Jeongguk gasps out, and then he’s coming too, hips jerking as he groans against Jimin’s shoulder and spills his cum deep inside him.
Jimin’s limbs are liquid. His brain is static. He’s dimly aware of Jeongguk pulling out, of the wet mess dripping onto the duvet, of Jeongguk collapsing beside him with a grunt.
“Fuck.” Jeongguk says again, staring at the ceiling.
Jimin turns his head—the only part of him that still works—and looks at him. “Food’s probably cold by now,” he says hoarsely.
Jeongguk turns his head on the pillow, one eyebrow arching offendedly. A bead of sweat still clings to his temple, and his chest is still rising and falling in deep breaths. “I just gave you the best sex of your life and you’re thinking about food?”
“It’s expensive food.”
“Unbelievable.” Jeongguk flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling with an expression of mock offense. “I pour my heart and soul into fucking you into the mattress and this is the thanks I get.”
Jimin swats weakly at his bicep. “Don’t get cocky. I never said you were the best.”
With that, Jeongguk is on him again, rolling over to cage Jimin against the mattress with his forearms bracketing either side of his head. Their noses squish together, and Jimin makes an undignified squeaking sound that he’ll deny to his dying day.
“Excuse me?” Jeongguk’s breath is warm against his lips. His hips settle between Jimin’s thighs, and the oversensitivity makes Jimin twitch and squirm. “Who’s the best, then? Hm? Hm?”
Each question is punctuated with a roll of his hips, and Jimin’s laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it. “Get off me, you oaf—”
“Not until you say it.” Another roll. Jeongguk’s eyes are mischievous, and Jimin wants to kiss him so badly. “Who’s the best?”
“I don’t know, I’ll have to sleep on it maybe—”
Jeongguk’s fingers find his ribs and attack.
Jimin shrieks, heels drumming against the mattress, hands slapping at Jeongguk’s shoulders, his chest, his face. “Jeon—Jeon, stop—you’re so— ugh —you’re so fucking annoying—”
“Say it and I’ll stop.”
“Fine! Fine, you’re the best, you insufferable bastard, now get off —”
The tickling ceases. Jeongguk props himself up on his elbows, looking down at Jimin with an expression that’s halfway between smug and affectionate.
“Was that so hard?” Jeongguk murmurs.
“I hate you,” Jimin breathes, but there’s no venom in it. His chest is still heaving, cheeks flushed pink, blond hair a disaster against the pillow. “I really do, Jeon Jeongguk.”
Jeongguk just smiles, and then he pushes himself up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and stands, completely butt-naked. Jimin snorts.
“Here.” The trolley rattles as Jeongguk wheels it across the carpet, positioning it right beside the bed. The silver domes are still in place, and when he lifts one with a theatrical flourish, the scent of food floods the room. “Your highness’s sliders.”
Jimin pushes himself up against the headboard, wincing slightly at the ache in his lower back. His thighs are sticky, his hole is still leaking, and there are a million hickeys blooming all over his body—but the sight of those miniature buns stacked with beef patties and melted cheese makes his stomach roar like an angry bear.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, reaching for one with both hands. “Give me that.”
Jeongguk snorts, settling onto the edge of the bed with his own slider in one hand and the bottle of Malbec in the other. He uncorks it with his teeth— show-off —and pours two generous glasses, the wine glugging dark and red into the stemware.
“Classy,” Jimin says around a mouthful of brioche.
“Only the best for you, Jimin-ssi.”
Jimin devours his first slider in four bites, moaning obscenely around the truffle mayo, and Jeongguk watches him with an amused expression on his face.
“Fuck,” Jimin groans, licking grease off his thumb. “I’m so hungry. I didn’t even realize.”
“Mm.” Jeongguk polishes off his second slider and reaches for the fries. “That’s what happens when you burn, like, eight thousand calories getting railed into next week.”
Jimin kicks him under the duvet. Jeongguk doesn’t even flinch.
“You’re so crass.”
“You love it.”
Jimin doesn’t dignify that with a response. He grabs another slider instead, and a handful of truffle fries, and washes it all down with a long swallow of Malbec.
When was the last time he ate with someone who wasn’t a mark, or a handler? When was the last time he dined with someone who wasn’t a target he was meant to be seducing? It’s weird, being this close to someone who knows exactly what he is. Jeon Jeongguk has seen him at his most lethal and violent, and yet he still looks at him with undeserving softness.
Jeongguk’s knee presses against his thigh under the duvet. “You know,” he says, licking salt from his fingertips, “this is kind of surreal.”
“Hm?”
He gestures vaguely between them with his wine glass. “Just—you know. This. We’ve been at each other’s throats for the longest time and it turns out all we needed was for me to break into your room.”
Jimin snorts into his wine. A drip of red escapes the corner of his mouth, and Jeongguk reaches over to wipe it away with his thumb. They finish the sliders, then the fries. The Malbec bottle empties, and Jeongguk sets the glasses aside on the nightstand next to their lovely assortment of guns and the trolley gets pushed toward the window, out of the way.
Then Jeongguk flops backward onto the mattress with a groan and a nasty burp. “Fuck. I’m so full.”
“Of course you are. You ate way too many sliders.”
“I earned them.” He pats the space beside him. “C’mere.”
Jimin hesitates. The rational part of his brain tries to remind him that this is still Jeon Jeongguk, but…
He lies down anyway.
Jeongguk’s arm slides beneath his neck, pulling him close, and Jimin’s head finds the hollow of his shoulder. Their legs tangle beneath the duvet. Jeongguk’s fingers find his hair and stroke through the sweat-damp blond strands, untangling the knots with a gentleness that makes Jimin’s chest hurt. His nails scrape lightly against Jimin’s scalp.
“I’m gonna beat you to the mark,” Jeongguk says softly. “You know that, right?”
Jimin’s eyes are already drifting shut. “Go fuck yourself,” he mumbles into Jeonguk’s chest.
“No, I mean it. Soon as the sun’s up, I’m gonna find them first. Gonna close the contract and leave you standing there with your pretty mouth hanging open.”
“In your dreams, Jeon.”
Jeongguk’s laugh is a low rumble beneath his ear. His fingers don’t stop moving through Jimin’s hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs softly. “In my dreams.”