Chapter 7
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The night had been a haze of bodies and noise, but none of it had been enough.

Jungkook had taken the girl back to his penthouse, knowing full well she was just a placeholder, a fleeting distraction to quiet the storm in his mind.

Her perfume was cloying, her laughter shrill, but he’d let her climb into his lap anyway, hoping the press of her lips and the scrape of her nails would silence the thought that wouldn’t leave him.

Park Jimin.

Even as the girl trailed kisses down his neck, Jungkook’s mind betrayed him. He saw Jimin instead—soft, trembling, and so utterly breakable.

The image gripped him with an intensity that made his breath hitch, his grip on the girl tightening involuntarily as she moved against him.

“Jungkook,” she murmured, misreading his reaction as passion.

But it wasn’t her he was thinking about.

He imagined Jimin’s velvet skin beneath his hands, his plush thighs parting as Jungkook slid between them.

His mind painted a vivid picture of Jimin's soft, gasping moans—sounds that would tumble from his lips as Jungkook’s fingers teased over every inch of him.

He could almost feel the heat of Jimin’s body, the way it would arch and twist, his every movement begging for more.

The girl’s lips moved lower, her hands wandering, but the moment felt hollow.

Lifeless.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, tilting his head back against the headboard as his mind refused to let him escape.

He pictured Jimin beneath him instead, bare and vulnerable, his eyes wide with both fear and desire.

The way his body would yield, pliant and obedient, trembling with every thrust until he couldn’t take any more.

A low growl escaped Jungkook, startling the girl. She paused, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone sultry, but it grated against his nerves.

He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he grabbed her hips, flipping her beneath him. If he couldn’t have Jimin, he’d take out his frustration here.

But it was a mistake.

Even as he moved, the girl’s body was a poor substitute. She didn’t tremble like Jimin would, didn’t gasp in the way he craved.

Her reactions were wrong—predictable, hollow.

It’s not him, Jungkook thought bitterly, his movements growing mechanical.

Not him.

His mind betrayed him again, conjuring up an image of Jimin’s lips parted in a silent cry, his cheeks flushed as Jungkook buried himself deeper, claiming him inch by inch.

The thought sent a surge of heat through him, a dark, primal need curling low in his gut.

He wanted to ruin him.

Leave him trembling and marked, his body a testament to Jungkook’s dominance.

The girl beneath him moaned, dragging him back to reality, and he felt a sudden wave of irritation.

“Enough,” he growled, pulling back abruptly and leaving her startled and confused.

She tried to coax him back, her hands reaching for him, but Jungkook was already done.

The night was over.

She’d served her purpose, however temporary.

As he lay back in the bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts returned to Jimin.

The way the older boy had looked at him just hours ago—defiant, yet vulnerable. Jungkook smirked, his fingers brushing over his lips as he imagined how they would feel pressed against Jimin’s.

Soon.

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The morning light crept into Jungkook’s penthouse, stretching over the disarray of sheets and discarded clothing.

The air was still thick with the remnants of last night—faint perfume, the lingering taste of whiskey—and the silence was almost deafening.

He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips as he reluctantly opened his eyes.

His hair, a messy tangle, clung to his forehead as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Beside him lay a woman, her bare back rising and falling with each breath.

Her name?

Forgettable.

She was just another face, another body in a sea of meaningless distractions.

The only thing that stood out was the blur of the night before—the distant memory of stepping on his girlfriend’s face, of asserting his dominance over her.

Not a shred of regret.

Not even the slightest twinge of guilt. She had been beneath him, quite literally, and if she had just stayed in her place, nothing would have gone wrong.

But no, she had to push him.

Pathetic.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, wiping a hand over his face. His mind wandered, thoughts swirling back to the one thing he could never seem to shake: Park Jimin.

The way Jimin had looked at him the day before, desperate, fragile, completely at his mercy.

A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as the memory flooded back—the trembling voice, the vulnerability.

Perfect.

The girl beside him stirred, blinking up at him sleepily, her lips curving into a hopeful smile.

“Good morning,” she murmured, still caught in the haze of sleep.

Jungkook barely acknowledged her, his eyes narrowing as he muttered,

“Morning.”

His tone was void of warmth, colder than the whiskey he’d drained last night. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets slipping off his toned body, his muscles flexing with the movement.

Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, he scrolled through the messages—nothing of interest.

No texts. No calls. Nothing worth his time.

The girl, still propped on one elbow, tried to make small talk. “Last night was fun,” she said, a little too hopeful.

Jungkook didn’t even spare her a glance. Instead, he grabbed his wallet, pulling out a handful of cash and tossing it onto the bed without a second thought.

“For the trouble.”

Her face fell, the forced smile cracking. “I’m not a prostitute,” she said, her voice trembling.

Jungkook’s eyes snapped to her, a dark glint in his gaze. “And yet, you’re still here.”

His words were cold, a razor-sharp tone cutting through the silence. “Take the money and go.”

There was a moment of tense silence before the girl scrambled to gather her clothes, clutching the cash like a lifeline. She shot him a glare before heading for the door.

But just before she left, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the nightstand, taking a long, defiant swig.

“You’re a real piece of shit, Jeon Jungkook,” she spat, slamming the bottle back onto the table with a finality that echoed in the silence of the room.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. He leaned back against the headboard, his arms crossed, watching her leave with a smirk. “And yet, you still drank my whiskey,” he muttered under his breath as the door slammed shut behind her.

He stared at the ceiling, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. Last night was already slipping from his mind, the girl’s presence fading into the background.

The only thing that lingered was Jimin—the game they had yet to finish.

The storage room.

The tears.

The way Jimin had been so perfectly broken, so malleable under his control.

With a sigh, Jungkook swung his legs off the bed and stood, stretching his toned body.

The cool floor against his feet grounded him, but his thoughts remained distant, consumed with one thing—Jimin.

He needed to see him again. To remind him of who held the power.

He grabbed his phone and quickly typed out a message: Be at The Viper’s Den. 10 PM. Dressed in all black. Enter through the back door.

It wasn’t a question. It was an order. He hit send, knowing Jimin wouldn’t dare defy him.

Jungkook’s lips curled into a wicked smirk as he set the phone down. The game was far from over. And as far as he was concerned, it had only just begun.

Barefoot and clad only in boxers, he poured himself another glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as the amber liquid slid down his throat.

The night ahead pulsed in his mind, and his pulse quickened at the thought of Jimin. The anticipation made him grin—boyish yet dark, full of satisfaction.

But then, something changed. He frowned, the familiar weight of irritation settling in.

The call.

Her call.

He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts of control, in the quiet satisfaction of knowing that Jimin would come to him, that he hadn’t expected the interruption.

The woman who had just left, who thought she could beg for some form of redemption—she had the audacity to try and ruin his morning, his peace, after everything.

Sighing in frustration, he tossed his phone onto the couch. He was in no mood to entertain her weak apologies.

For a moment, he considered going out—to school of course —but something about today felt different.

He didn’t need to remind those ignorant classmates of his superiority.

The penthouse wasn’t just a place for meaningless hookups or an escape from his parents—it was his domain, a space where he could indulge every whim without consequence.

He didn’t need to prove anything.

Today, he would stay in his private home, a mansion his parents had bought him for his first birthday.

Today he'd embrace and celebrate his control, and let the silence wash over him. He didn’t care for their idiotic need to be around him.

Turning away from the window, he returned to his routine, grabbing his favorite black silk robe.

The robe clung to his body, loose yet tight enough to accentuate his sculpted physique.

He tied the belt, the material slipping over his muscles as he adjusted it, relishing the comfort of knowing that nothing and no one could disturb his moment.

The music beckoned again.

Jungkook walked back into the living room, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

He pressed play on the sound system, letting the sultry beat fill the air once more.

A constant flow of R&B spilled loud from his expensive speakers, the smooth beats wrapping around the room like a sultry embrace.

The music seemed to mirror Jungkook’s mood—slow, deliberate, and undeniably provocative.

He closed his eyes and let the rhythm take over, moving with it—fluid, seductive, a display of power.

Every motion was slow, deliberate—an exercise in control.

His body moved with calculated ease, the robe slipping off his shoulder as he danced. No one in the world could compare to him.

He grabbed the whiskey again, downing the glass, the burn sharp, but not enough.

He wanted more.

The song darkened, and he moved with it, languid, hypnotic. His fingers trailed over his chest, down his abs, teasing every inch of taut muscle.

The phone buzzed again.

But this time, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He answered it with a bored tone, the irritation from earlier still lingering.

He didn’t even check the caller ID before pressing it to his ear.

His girlfriend was calling.

As expected.

“Jungkook, I—I’m sorry for what happened last night. I didn’t mean to push you... I just wanted to talk.”

Pathetic.

He let her ramble on, the desperation and worry thick in her voice. She was begging, pleading, for forgiveness. For control.

“Worried?” he drawled, sipping whiskey. “And yet you couldn’t think about how I felt last night? You couldn’t stop running your mouth when you should have been... silent.”

Her voice faltered. He let her talk, savoring her pathetic attempts to redeem herself, but nothing she said could undo what had already been done.

There was no limit he had set to what she could do.

Her opinion was not requested, she just needed to shut up and be pretty.

“You didn’t care about that when you were pushing me last night,” he added, mocking her further.

Jungkook took another sip, savoring the burn as he let his words sink in. “I’ll let you off this time. But don’t push your luck again.”

“I love you, Jungkook,” she whispered, almost pleading.

Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He let out a low, mocking laugh before ending the call, tossing the phone aside with a smirk.

Pathetic. All of it. She needed him. And he knew it.

But tonight? Today, it wasn’t about her. It was about Jimin.

And Jungkook couldn’t wait to claim him.

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The morning sun filtered into Jimin’s room as he lay sprawled across his bed, phone in hand.

The first notification he saw wasn’t surprising—Jungkook’s text, was as controlling and arrogant as always.

Be at The Viper’s Den. 10 PM. Dressed in all black. Enter through the back door.

Jimin snorted, tossing the phone onto his desk.

How predictable.

Yesterday, he had slipped.

He didn’t know when he’d become so weak, so easily swayed by simple threats. His mother had raised him better than that—had drilled into him the art of control, of standing firm no matter what.

She would be ashamed if she had seen him yesterday, on his knees, sobbing as Jungkook’s hand tangled in his hair, his lips stretched around his cock like some desperate, obedient pet.

The memory burned his cheeks, humiliation coursing through him.

How could he have let it go so far?

How could he have broken so easily?

No. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t Park Jimin.

Jungkook wanted a rival? Fine. He’d give him one.

Step one: be a brat.

Jungkook’s message tone was dripping with authority as if Jimin would fall into line without question.

But this time, Jungkook had miscalculated. The game hadn’t even started, and Jimin was already planning to rewrite the rules.

He took his time getting ready for school, choosing an outfit that stood out—a bold, cropped black sweater and tight jeans that accentuated his slim waist.

If Jungkook showed up today, Jimin wanted him to see the quiet rebellion in every step he took.

The thought made him grin.

At school, Jimin kept an eye out for Jungkook, but the younger boy was absent. Not seeing him should have been a relief, but it only fueled Jimin’s determination.

He wanted to disobey Jungkook face-to-face, to see the flash of annoyance in his eyes.

Midway through his second class, his phone buzzed. Another message from Jungkook.

Don’t forget my instructions.

Jimin grinned to himself. His disobedience would taste even sweeter now.

When school ended, Jimin headed home, mentally preparing for the only obstacle in his plan: his mom.

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Jimin strolled into his family’s sprawling penthouse, the late afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

His mother, seated at the dining table with a stack of papers and her tablet, barely glanced up when he entered.

“Jimin,” she said, her tone clipped and efficient, “your two minutes late”

“I'm sorry ma'am,” he replied, dropping his bag onto a nearby chair. “I have a group project tonight. I’ll need to go over to Kyara’s to work on it.”

At this, his mother finally looked up, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Kyara? That girl with no ambition? The one who spends more time drawing cartoons than preparing for her future?”

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s an artist, Mom. And she’s one of my closest friends.”

“And precisely why I don’t trust her,” she replied, setting down her tablet. “You’re the heir to Park Industries, Jimin. You can’t afford to waste time with people who don’t match your standards.”

“Mom, it’s a school project,” Jimin argued, forcing a polite smile. “It’s worth a big part of my grade. I can’t just blow it off.”

She studied him for a long moment, her gaze calculating. “And why can’t they come here? Why must you always run off to their houses?”

Jimin felt his patience slipping. “Because it’s a group project, and we need the space to collaborate. It’s not just Kyara; others will be there too.”

His mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t like this, Jimin. I don’t like the idea
of you wasting your time with people who won’t elevate you.”

“Mom,” Jimin said, softening his tone. He knew he needed to compromise to win her over. “I promise, I’ll keep my focus. I’ll even be back before midnight. Please.”

She let out a long sigh, her fingers tapping against the table. “Fine. But don’t make me regret this. And if your grades slip, we’ll be having a very different conversation.”

“They won’t,” Jimin assured her, relief flooding him. “Thanks, Mom.”

She waved him off, already returning her attention to her tablet.

Jimin retreated to his room, closing the door behind him. His polite facade melted away, replaced by a triumphant grin.

His mother, with all her rules and expectations, was his last barrier. And now, nothing was standing in his way.

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The night air was brisk as Jimin stepped out of the car, his defiance dressed to perfection.

He hadn’t bothered with a suit—too formal, too obvious. Instead, he wore a crimson silk shirt, the buttons undone just enough to hint at his collarbones and the smooth skin beneath.

A pair of black leather pants clung to his legs, accentuating his figure, and his combat boots made a satisfying thud against the pavement.

If Jungkook wanted obedience, he wasn’t going to get it tonight.

The front doors of The Viper’s Den loomed before him, their sleek black finish almost daring him to enter.

Without hesitation, Jimin pushed through, his every step a challenge, his every movement deliberate.

Inside, the music thrummed like a heartbeat, the bass shaking the walls and the crowd pulsing with life.

All eyes turned to him as he strode in, his crimson shirt blazing like fire against the dim lighting. But Jimin didn’t care about them.

He was here for one person.

It didn’t take long to find Jungkook. He was at the far end of the room, seated in a leather armchair like a king surveying his court.

His dark eyes met Jimin’s across the crowd, and for a fleeting moment, something like anger flickered in them.

For a moment, Jungkook's irritation dissolved, replaced by a molten wave of arousal that gripped him like a vice.

His gaze trailed over Jimin’s figure—sinful, decadent, wrapped in crimson silk that clung to his every curve and dip like it had been painted on.

The subtle sheen of his exposed collarbones, the way the low lights of the club teased at the expanse of smooth, pale skin, was enough to make Jungkook’s mouth dry and his cock stir against his thigh.

He’d never seen anything highlight anything prettier, every inch of Jimin an invitation to sin.

The older man looked like temptation personified, and Jungkook, for all his power and restraint, could already feel himself hardening at the sight.

It wasn’t just attraction—it was hunger.

Hunger for that body, for that defiance, for Jimin completely undone beneath him, red silk discarded and replaced with the marks of his dominance.

Jungkook licked his lips, forcing himself to suppress the primal urge threatening to overwhelm him.

Control.

He had to maintain control.

But as Jimin’s smirk met his from across the room, Jungkook knew tonight would be a test of every ounce of his restraint.

Jimin’s lips twitched into a smile of his own as he made his way over. The crowd seemed to part for him, the tension between the two of them palpable even from a distance.

“You’re late,” Jungkook drawled as Jimin finally stood before him. His voice was smooth, but there was a bite of irritation underneath.

“Am I?” Jimin tilted his head innocently, his crimson shirt catching the light. “I must’ve lost track of time.”

Jungkook’s gaze raked over him, lingering on the open buttons of his shirt, and the leather pants that left little to the imagination. “And the instructions?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. “All black. The back door.”

Jimin smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice soft but teasing. “Didn’t feel like it.”

The tension crackled between them, thick enough to suffocate.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his hand gripping the edge of his glass. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“I don’t think,” Jimin said, his smile widening as he straightened. “I know.”

For a moment, Jungkook said nothing, his dark eyes burning into Jimin’s.

Then he stood, towering just slightly over the older man, and motioned toward a set of doors in the back.

“Let’s see just how clever you are, hyung.”

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Vote bitches
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