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gimmethatagustd · 5 months

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don't go insane | pjm + jjk

Jungkook's friends warned him not to go looking for Thirteen, Seoul's most prolific "pleasure dealer."

↳ pairing: incubus!jimin x human!jungkook

↳ wc/date: 3.9k | November 2023

↳ warnings: idk if this is dead dove or just shitty but maybe don't read this if you're sensitive to problematic characters, alcohol, strip club, jimin is sort of a drug dealer, humans who have sex with incubi can become addicted, codependency, dry humping, shower masturbation, unprotected anal sex, anal sex without prep, painful sex (but consensual aside from the whole addiction thing???), blood, pain kink, degradation, humiliation, jungkook has issues i'm ngl, jimin also has issues sdhkfjs

↳ notes: this was written for @irishhorse-blog for the halloween drabbles (ik i'm late but halloween is a lifestyle, not a season) who was interested in jikook! this probs went in a totally different direction than you'd ever imagine 💀 idk what i was thinking while writing this, as usual. pls don't @ me jhsdkfjs bye🦇 unfortunately, i couldn't figure out who the original person was who made the jimin edit so shout out to them, whoever they are

↳ masterlist / taglist

↳ what was jai listening to? don't go insane - dpr ian

The bouncer looks over Jungkook’s ID for too long. He shines his mini flashlight at the plastic and watches how the shimmery symbols reflect in the light as if to say, I’m real, please believe me, and Jungkook watches with clammy palms splayed against the sides of his thighs. The denim of his jeans soaks up the moisture as he subtly rubs his hands along the seams like it matters if he’s sweaty. No one will be shaking hands with him tonight, and if everything goes according to plan, he’ll be sweaty for another reason.

That is, if he actually makes it inside the club before it closes.

His ID is real, but Jungkook has an “angel-baby face,” as Hoseok calls it. It doesn’t matter that he has hole-punched his face to slip silver rings wherever he can. According to his roommate, round cheeks and eyes pulled straight from a Disney movie are enough to slam Jungkook face-first into the land of perpetual childhood.

“Alright,” the bouncer reluctantly shoves Jungkook’s ID back into his hands and motions toward the door with his flashlight.

Jungkook hears one of the clubbers behind him groan, “Fucking finally,” but he’s too giddy to pay them any mind. He tries to keep calm as he slips through the doors, focusing on walking purposefully rather than skipping with anticipation.

He’s getting way too ahead of himself. A plan is in place, and Jungkook is determined to follow it. Straying from the plan, well, he doesn’t want to think about what that might mean for him.

For a strip club, Ego is far less seedy than Jungkook anticipated. The club is dark enough to give patrons a false sense of anonymity necessary for men to comfortably sit back in black satin chairs and let their tongues hang out of their mouths as male dancers gyrate in front of their faces. There are patrons of other genders, as well, but Jungkook thinks the men are the most afraid. They take their pleasure in the dark because it’s safe. Only the occasional strobe light of pink and gold casting a sugary glow across everyone’s faces breaks the facade, and even then, the effects are minute.

Jungkook thinks he has gathered this much about the club and its patrons by the time he eases into a barstool and sips on his overly-priced cosmopolitan. It’s the only fancy alcoholic beverage he knows of that isn’t dark liquor.

If this were a regular night out with Hoseok and his other friends, Jungkook would be throwing back tequila shots or sipping on a vodka cran. Rather than wear a nice black buttoned shirt and slacks, Jungkook would be sporting baggy cargo pants and an oversized t-shirt.

The thought that this isn’t just one of his regular Saturday nights reminds Jungkook that he should be nervous. And, fuck, he is. The back of his neck is hot, and a sweaty imprint is left behind when he lifts his hand from the black marble bar counter. It fades eventually, but it’s there.

He tells himself as he flags down the bartender that after one more drink, he’ll be ready. He can’t get too drunk; he needs his wits about him.

In the end, Jungkook is lucky that he’s only on his second drink, or else he wouldn’t have noticed the very thing he came to the bar to find.

Behind the bartender’s ear, half obscured by his mint green hair, is a small tattoo of an inverted pentagram with a dagger running through the middle. Jungkook’s heart kicks up in his chest, practically launching him over the counter. Three words are all he needs to speak. Three words. Three words. Three words.

“Um,” Jungkook begins, hearing the insecurity bleeding through his tone.

Shit.

“Would you like another drink, sir?” the bartender asks with a raised eyebrow and an airiness to his voice that catches Jungkook off guard.

Three words, three words, three words, it’s only three words.

Swallowing thickly, Jungkook straightens his posture and looks the incubus dead in the eyes as he says, “I summon Thirteen.”

Jungkook doesn’t know why he does it. There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t. Hoseok laid them all out for him before Jungkook ran off to Ego with his phone on Do Not Disturb and his heart in his throat.

For starters, it’s illegal.

Jungkook gets nervous about simply returning his past-due library books. How would he survive jail? Or even if he doesn’t go to jail, he’ll at least get a hefty fine thrown at him and a mark on his record. That’s enough to make him want to start crying just thinking about it.

Then there are the dangers, which explains why this is so illegal.

Jungkook doesn’t believe in it– he thinks it’s all discriminatory rumors and exaggerations. Incubus or not, they’re just a person. How could sex with a person be dangerous? Sure, there’s the supposed high, but Jungkook just can’t see how it’s possible to become addicted to a person.

Take the vampire blood epidemic currently sweeping the nation. Jungkook understands that. Humans ingesting vampire blood for the hallucinatory high that comes with it, that type of addiction makes sense; it’s consumable, tangible.

To be addicted to a person sounds fake.

For a brief moment, as the mint-haired bartender leads Jungkook through a series of backdoors marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY,” Jungkook thinks perhaps Thirteen is fake, too. Maybe this mint-haired bartender is going to kill him for being fool enough to believe in Thirteen.

All the horror stories Hoseok fed him earlier come bubbling up his throat like acid, images of people with sunken faces and cracked lips hovering around clubs, not unlike Ego, fingers shaking for a fix they can’t get anywhere else.

It’s illegal for incubi to feed off of humans. Incubi can only feed from other immortals; humans’ souls are far too fragile. Jungkook is a human, but he’d never consider himself fragile. He has grit despite how his hands shake.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The bartender’s question jerks Jungkook out of his spiraling thoughts. It takes Jungkook a deep inhale before he finds the ability to speak, and by that point, the two men have stopped in front of a plain black door with the number 13 embossed in gold in Jungkook’s sightline.

“J-Jungkook,” he answers, belatedly realizing he should have given a fake name.

With a curt nod, the bartender turns to the black door and knocks on it three times in quick succession.

From the other side of the door comes a low voice speaking a language Jungkook doesn’t understand. The lock clicks and the sound makes Jungkook realize he can’t hear the loud music from the front of the club. Just how far back is he?

“Come on,” the bartender orders gruffly.

Stumbling forward, Jungkook tries to recover, but his confidence wavers once he peers through the cigar smoke weighing heavily in the air.

It’s a private lounge, perhaps one of those VIP rooms where more than just a routine lapdance occurs behind closed doors. Jungkook wouldn’t know; he doesn’t have the money for that type of thing.

Through the smoke, a man reclines on a red velvet couch with one arm draped over the back and his muscular thighs spread open. Dressed in a slate grey suit with a tastefully patterned tie snug at the base of a throat covered in thorny tattoos, he looks nothing like Jungkook had pictured.

Pleasure dealers are said to be dirty and seductive villains who lurk in the shadows and lure you in with a promise of a good time. Thirteen is sophisticated and intimidating, with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. His eyes, black and ringed an ethereal blue, pierce into Jungkook. Something about him is suffocating, with one look capable of stealing the air out of Jungkook’s lungs like a violent intrusion.

The hand not gripping the back of the couch rests on his left thigh, palm facing upward. At the subtle flick of Thirteen’s middle finger, the bartender shoves Jungkook roughly into the room. The room, he hadn’t noticed, his entire body drawn toward Thirteen.

“Sir,” the bartender bows at the waist. “Jungkook has summoned you.”

Thirteen’s thick lips curl into a smirk that sends a rush of trepidation through Jungkook’s bones. Stony, yet with the slightest glint of amusement, Thirteen’s eyes shift from the bartender to Jungkook.

“Is that so?”

Jungkook’s next swallow is slimy, like a slug inching down his throat. It reminds him of the time Hoseok hexed him with a case of vomiting slugs after seeing the spell in a movie.

Unable to speak, Jungkook simply nods.

Thirteen leans forward to rest his forearms on his thighs with his hands loosely clasped between his spread knees. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Jungkook-ssi?”

Thirteen hisses Jungkook’s name, and Jungkook feels as though he’s being squeezed, Thirteen somehow wrapping around his body like a serpent despite sitting across the room. Warmth spreads across Jungkook’s cheeks and down the back of his neck. The room is stifling, but Thirteen’s gaze makes his chest feel cold.

“Pleasure,” Jungkook finds his voice enough to whisper the word right back. “I seek pleasure.”

Thirteen has a piercing just below his plush bottom lip, a tiny silver ball that matches the location of the little chocolate mole beneath Jungkook’s bottom lip. Jungkook wonders what the silver ball would feel like if he licked it. He’s horrified by the thought.

“Did you not come to beg me for pleasure, Jungkook?” Thirteen’s breath is hot against Jungkook’s neck.

If Jungkook turns his head to the side, he can line his lips with Thirteen’s, make them overlap, and pry them open with the tip of his tongue. The thought assaults his mind.

Thirteen digs his fingers into Jungkook’s hair and yanks his head back to force their eyes to meet.

“Stop fighting me and fucking beg for it,” Thirteen growls.

“Please,” Jungkook whispers. He squeezes Thirteen’s shoulders, straight and thick with muscle Jungkook wouldn’t expect from such a polished appearance. Even the thickness of Thirteen’s thighs beneath Jungkook is surprising.

Sitting in Thirteen’s lap, Jungkook feels small.

“Are you sure you want this, human?” Thirteen spits the question, “Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

Thirteen is cruel. His lips curl into a smirk that’s just as attractive as it is mean. His grip on Jungkook’s waist is bruising and nearly painful, but Jungkook likes it. Usually, he doesn’t. Usually, Jungkook wants to be taken care of gently. He likes soft love, soft touches, soft fucking. Whatever this strange desire to be ruined is, it’s not normal. He yearns for it. His body aches as his mind reels.

Own me, take me, ruin me.

A sick mantra clouds Jungkook’s brain. He tries to blink it away, but the more he struggles against this strange pull, the foggier his head becomes.

“I-I want it,” Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut as a sudden wave of pleasure strikes him in the gut. It’s hot and wet, like lava rolling under his skin, from his chest down between his legs, where his cock is painfully hard in his slacks.

“Want what?” Thirteen mocks Jungkook’s inability to speak.

Jungkook can’t stop himself. He ruts against Thirteen’s body, rocking into him to get as much friction as possible. It shouldn’t be so hot, shouldn’t be hurling Jungkook toward an orgasm so quickly, but he feels like his entire body is pulsing.

“Y-Your cock.”

“No.”

Never in his life has Jungkook ever wailed, but he does now. He sobs with his entire body, back concaving and face buried into the crook of Thirteen’s neck when he cums.

It shouldn’t have been so easy. Aside from pulling Jungkook’s hair and letting him sit in his lap, Thirteen never even touched Jungkook. Yet he came, the force of his orgasm making him tremble like an addict going through withdrawal.

“Good things come to those who wait, little Jungkookie,” Thirteen murmurs in his ear.

A sharp contrast to his earlier behavior, Thirteen runs his fingers through Jungkook’s hair, smoothing out the strands he’d disturbed when he tugged on them so harshly. The action is confusing, though Jungkook’s brain is mush inside his head.

Jungkook tilts his head back to look Thirteen in the eyes. His eyes cross and waver, unable to focus on Thirteen’s face despite being right in front of him. Sleep, or something like it, tugs at Jungkook’s eyelids. His eyes flutter rapidly as the room spins.

“You taste exquisite,” Thirteen sounds pleased when he speaks. Jungkook doesn’t understand.

“I-”

Jungkook is falling. His eyes are closed, and his fingers stretch into the empty air, searching, no longer holding onto Thirteen’s muscular body. The darkness that sucks him up is cold, like the feeling in his chest when Thirteen looked at him for the first time. It seeps into his bones until Jungkook’s entire body trembles.

Jungkook is falling, and there is no one down below to catch him.

Jungkook wakes up in his bedroom to the sound of Hoseok singing. His heart beats painfully in his chest. The rhythm is irregular, skipping a few beats or pumping so slowly that Jungkook panics, wondering if it may stop altogether. By now, the sensation shouldn’t be alarming; he’s been having these nightmares for weeks.

Every morning, he wakes like the living dead, sitting up abruptly with his fingers clawing at his chest and his mouth hanging open as he gasps for air that somehow chokes him when it goes down.

Falling, always falling.

It takes many minutes before Jungkook is calm enough to get out of bed. His knees are weak as he slowly creeps around his bedroom, searching for clothes that aren’t soaked with sweat. Laundry piles up wherever it can; Jungkook can’t remember the last time he cleaned anything in his apartment. He sifts through the piles as he flips through the catalog of dreams in his head.

Hoseok keeps telling him to go to the doctor. Insomnia isn’t anything to be ashamed of, his roommate insists. Plenty of people suffer from nightmares – or worse.

Jungkook knows all this.

The thing is, the cause of Jungkook’s insomnia isn’t the mystery Hoseok thinks it is.

Dark eyes stare at Jungkook from the bathroom mirror. The skin beneath them is puffy and purpling, so swollen that the bags wrinkle the tops of his cheeks. He tries smiling at himself in the mirror, and the black in his eyes remains empty, still murky waters.

Turning on the shower gets more difficult every day. Jungkook's hands shake so hard that he struggles to grip the knob tightly enough to twist it. He can’t ask Hoseok for help. Sleep deprivation can only explain away so much.

Jungkook keeps the water cold. He shivers beneath the stream pelting his skin, and clenches his teeth to stop them from chattering. The temperature never chases away the need that eats at his insides. His body burns with it. The cold water and the heat of his need create a tornado inside Jungkook’s mind, uprooting every sane thought until all he can focus on is the arousal stirring in his stomach.

For an hour, Jungkook jerks off under cold water and can’t reach an orgasm. He rubs his skin raw until tears and snot mix with shower water. It hurts his body, and the aching thing inside his chest that he thinks is his soul.

Why can’t he get rid of this need?

“Jeon.”

A rough hand shakes Jungkook’s shoulder. His head slips from where it rests on his forearm and smacks the surface of his desk.

“What! What?” Jungkook flings his head back, reeling from the sharp pain stabbing his forehead. “What’s happening?”

Taehyung gives him a sad smile as he crosses his arms against his chest. “It’s after five.”

Jungkook blinks and looks around at the empty desks surrounding them. “Oh.”

“Come on, get up.” Taehyung cups his hand under Jungkook’s armpit and hoists him to his feet. “A couple of the guys are going to that new club, Id?”

Jungkook’s heart is thunderous, like a feral animal locked in a cage. He clears his throat before correcting his coworker, “Ego.”

Taehyung snaps his fingers. “That’s it. I was close enough. Weird Freudian shit.”

Jungkook is mostly silent on the subway while Taehyung babbles about the newest office gossip Jungkook has managed to sleep through – again. Hoseok says it’s insomnia; Taehyung thinks it’s narcolepsy.

Jungkook knows it’s Thirteen.

The headache that has made a permanent home nestled in the folds of Jungkook’s brain spikes as the two men wait patiently for the bouncer to check their IDs. Well, Taehyung is patient. Jungkook is sweating through the armpits of his work shirt.

“Hyunwoo said this place is a strip club at night but a pretty standard bar during happy hour,” Taehyung explains because he thinks Jungkook has never been here before. “The duality of it all, right?”

The mint-haired bartender looks at Jungkook with a blank expression, void of any hint of recognition. Jungkook isn’t sure if he should be grateful or offended as he sits with the rest of his coworkers at the bar. They all sip dark liquor that burns the back of Jungkook’s throat, reminding him that this was never really his scene.

He pretends to care about their idle conversation, laughs at all the right moments, and sucks on ice cubes to keep his mouth busy. The bartender doesn’t look him in the eyes when he gets Jungkook a second round, but all Jungkook looks at is the pentagram etched into his skin.

Taehyung’s fingers tickle Jungkook’s elbow, forcing him to look away from the bar.

“I’m gonna take a piss and then probably get outta here,” Taehyung announces. Two hours have passed, but Jungkook wouldn’t know.

The moment Taehyung leaves, Jungkook turns to the mint-haired bartender. The bartender stands off to the side to wipe down glasses and organize the alcohol bottles. His eyebrows furrow when Jungkook clears his throat to get his attention.

“I summon Thirteen,” Jungkook speaks confidently this time, even though he has to sit with his hands clasped between his thighs to keep them from shaking.

“He’s busy.”

Jungkook swallows thickly. “What?”

“Thirteen is busy. He cannot be summoned tonight.”

Anger flares in Jungkook’s chest, heating his face and neck. “What the fuck do you mean he’s busy?”

The mint-haired bartender rests his forearm on the counter and leans close enough for Jungkook to see the flecks of red in his irises. When he speaks, he shows the unnatural points of his canines.

“You better watch your tone with me, kid. Wouldn’t want to get blacklisted, would you? ‘Cause I can make it where no dealer in Seoul will do so much as look in your direction. Got it?”

Shame makes Jungkook want to be stubborn and refuse, but his desperation wins. He ducks his head and nods, aware of the fear rolling off him and realizing he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want just any dealer; he wants Thirteen. But he just wants to experience it once to have him fully. That’s all. Only once. Then his curiosity will be satisfied, and he can stop having dreams about the moment Thirteen takes him, finally takes him all the way, touches him, kisses him, tastes–

“You coming?”

Jungkook startles when Taehyung appears at his side once again.

“Uh,” Jungkook eyes the mint-haired bartender, but he’s no longer looking at him, “Yeah, yeah, I’m ready to go.”

Jungkook returns the following day.

No Thirteen.

Jungkook returns the day after that.

No Thirteen.

Jungkook shivers and shakes through a week.

No Thirteen.

More weeks pass, more tremors and nightmares stack up against Jungkook’s withering sanity.

No Thirteen.

“Please,” Jungkook begs with a sob muffled by the carpet.

He presses his face into the floor, cheek squished in a way that will leave marks on his skin. Jungkook took up the position as a sign of submission that his body naturally fell into without any thought. It should be embarrassing how quickly he sank to his knees in front of Thirteen.

For months, he’s been plagued by the creature in his dreams. For months, all he has thought about is being taken, owned, ruined. He wants to feel full, to be desired. He wants to know, for the curiosity to be satisfied, the way he knows Thirteen could satisfy him.

Only Thirteen.

“Please, what?”

Claws dig into the back of Jungkook’s neck, piercing the muscle and hooking into it so deeply that Jungkook can’t move. He feels blood trickle down his shoulders and pool in his collarbones, but the pain never comes.

All he feels is need.

“Please fuck me,” Jungkook whimpers. “I’ve waited. I’ve been good; I came back. I waited for you.”

Thirteen scoffs as he releases Jungkook’s neck, only to dig his claws into the mess of his hair and yank him backward. Jungkook is pulled onto his knees with his head tilted backward to stare at Thirteen, who hovers above him with a biting, upside-down grin.

“Is that supposed to flatter me, Jungkook-ah? Am I supposed to care that you came sniveling at my door every day for months?” Thirteen twists Jungkook’s hair so tightly in his fist that Jungkook feels strands pull from his head. “Begging for me like a bitch in heat, weren’t you? Desperate for cock and to be praised?”

Each harsh word feels like another claw stabbed into soft flesh. Thirteen’s jeering hurts more than the wounds he digs into Jungkook’s skin, but he can’t stop himself from groveling. His mind is no longer his own. He is desperate. So, so desperate.

“I’m going to die,” Jungkook gasps when Thirteen roughly pushes him to the floor. Hot tears flow like lava down his plump cheeks. “I’ll die.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will,” Jungkook sobs. “I will. I feel it, I will.”

Thirteen’s claws rip into Jungkook’s jeans, shredding the denim until there’s nothing left but tattered scraps of fabric wrapped around his waist. The air is cold against his bare skin, and he realizes belatedly that his briefs are mutilated, too.

“I decide whether you live or die, Jungkook-ah,” Thirteen whispers against the curve of Jungkook’s ear. Jungkook feels the tip of Thirteen’s cock press against his hole while Thirteen’s clawed hand grabs the meat of his cheek to spread him open. “Now shut up and have your reward for being so patient.”

Pain speers Jungkook’s body, sinking so far deep that he swears it creates fissures in his soul. Something horrible rips through Jungkook’s eardrums; it’s animalistic and wild. It’s his own scream, he realizes with a raw throat, that fizzles into whimpers with every rock of Thirteen’s hips.

It hurts getting fucked by an incubus, but Jungkook should have known that. It’s the pain that makes the pleasure so addicting, the feeling of having one’s soul devoured at the same time one's body is satisfied beyond their wildest fantasies. Thirteen fucks into Jungkook with his body, but he tears into his soul with his mind.

Drained, Jungkook wonders if this is how he’ll die.

“Is this what you wanted?” Thirteen hisses. His voice takes on a slurred, gravelly sound that makes Jungkook’s skin prickle. It’s demonic, otherworldly.

“Y-Yes,” Jungkook hiccups, and it’s true.

The skin of his cheek and knees is rubbed raw from being thrust against the carpet, and snot clogs his nostrils from how much he’s crying. When Thirteen twists his hair between his claws and tugs, Jungkook’s orgasm punches him in the chest, leaving him heaving as Thirteen fucks him into overstimulation to the point that he can’t breathe.

This is exactly what he wanted.

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