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Jimin’s phone screen is giving him a headache. Artificial bright, too white when he closes out of his tabs, he keeps a YouTube video open and rolling just to see a blur of colors when his vision unfocuses. Focuses. Unfocuses again. The changing visuals are less harsh somehow, better on his brain than the redundancy of his lock screen, but the pixels on the interface turn even hazier in Jimin’s peripheral when he turns his head. Taehyung is crossing the room.
“You’ll trip and die,” Jimin scoffs at him. In bare feet, Taehyung wears nothing but sleep shorts and a toothbrush, dangling from his mouth and accessorizing his teeth more than actually scrubbing them.
Perfect white, straight-lined, pretty teeth. Jimin gets a flash of them when Taehyung sticks his tongue out past his lips, right next to the rubber-rimmed, neon green handle. Jimin’s sweater sleeves cover the speakers on his phone, and Taehyung’s brushing blends in with the muffled static of the next video that autoplays.
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says when the bed sinks down beside him. Jimin is still jet-lagged a little. Doesn't know how Taehyung isn't, when Jimin's been back for over a week and Taehyung hasn't even been home for a full thirty eight hours. He smells minty, like Jimin's toothpaste, the kind he likes from America that he took home, three whole tubes of it, even though he can get it shipped here just as easily. Taehyung smells like soap, too, like the bars he took from his Hawaiian hotel, the one he’d spent the last few days at. Jimin saw pictures from his camera roll.
(“That's not that interesting, let me show you the beach,” Taehyung had said earlier, when swiping past videos of his parents, snaps of Hoseok being the most exuberant and expressive person to exist on the planet, even while— and especially while— wearing a face mask, sunglasses, and an oversized straw hat. Next was sandy thirst traps, Taehyung standing between two palm trees with his patterned swim trunks hanging low on his hips, eyes aimed high at the camera. With a curve to his pout, targeted and always effective but not quite devilish enough, Jimin doesn’t have to see the next selfie with Eunjun to know she was the one forced behind the camera. Taehyung tells the story of it and Jimin can hear her voice, reedy and laughing as always, huffing a breath: “Aish, I don't need to know what Jiminie-oppa likes, I already know too much.”)
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says again, when he realizes the bathroom light is finally off. The weight on the bed is Taehyung. Taehyung here, home, with Jimin again; sprawled out crooked and diagonal with his cheek pressed to the foot of the bed. He’s got his book, the same one he cracked open on the flight to Los Angeles, and from where Jimin’s sitting, he can tell he’s barely made a dent in it.
Jimin nudges him with his toe. Pokes his shoulder blade, digs into the meat of his muscle. Taehyung tips over the curve of the mattress some more and the pages of his book flutter. Another jab from Jimin and Taehyung’s grip on the book slips, but he adjusts himself to move closer instead of pulling back. He’s always topsy-turvy like this, always fine with it, even when there’s a perfectly good space on the mattress next to Jimin, not to mention the numerous chairs around the room.
(And there’s a comment stuck to the roof of Jimin’s mouth, but he swallows it down: something about all the blood rushing to Taehyung’s head, about the last time Taehyung had laid sort of like this, in his room instead of Jimin’s, in his bed instead of Jimin’s, still home like they are now. And no, not that time, but the time before, when Taehyung’s hair was brown instead of black, and they’d just gotten done with shooting maybe the hundredth episode or so of Run, and Jimin’s hands had been on the hinges Taehyung’s jaw, the bones of his mouth, and Jimin’s hips had been in Taehyung’s palms, other things of Jimin’s in Taehyung, too— his mouth, god, his—)
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says again, and this time it’s for a reason. He taps his phone, pauses the video. James Corden’s face is caught in faux laughter, preserved in pixels and Internet eternity. He’s interviewing someone Jimin’s never seen before. Jimin’s not sure how many videos he’s let play since it had been their own bodies on the screen, perched seven to one. Himself, fake-smiling, eager to get off of that too-stiff couch and into comfier clothes, around safer faces.
“Hmm?”
“Did you need to tell all of America that you like my thighs?”
Taehyung turns over. Puts his head flat on the mattress.
“That’s not what I did,” he says.
“No?” Jimin flips his phone around, makes sure his brightness is up all the way. Four videos back, he taps, and gets to the original source. “I’m looking at it right here.”
Taehyung scoots closer. A graceless little shimmy, the kind Jimin’s gone breathless over from giggling about countless times, and he could now, too, but. Little Yoongi looks unimpressed in the freeze frame, bored in the cape of his wheaten, four thousand dollar blazer. Big Jimin’s gotta look unimpressed here and now.
Taehyung clicks his tongue. “I told,” he says, “all of America that I love your thighs.”
He says it slowly, like he’s sort of only just realizing it, but also maybe like he’s had this response tucked away in the back of his mouth for days now, waiting for Jimin to ask about it.
“Oh,” Jimin says.
“It’s an important distinction.”
Jimin’s facade breaks. As easy as that, short-lived and hardly victorious while it reigned, just for mere seconds, but Taehyung makes Jimin get like that: weak in the best way. The good way, the fun way.
(“Ridiculous,” Seokjin always says. “Save some love for the rest of us. You two hoard any more and mothers won’t be able to find any for their newborn children because the world’s supply’ll have run out.”)
Taehyung flings his book off to the side— there’s a thud, and Jimin thinks it may have hit the window, or maybe the polyethylene of Taehyung’s inky trumpet case— and then Taehyung’s hands slip up Jimin’s flank. Ghosting touches, teasing, there and gone, and then his lips find Jimin’s neck, kissing maybe too hard for foreplay. Jimin’s eyes close.
(“Needy baby,” Taehyung had said, practically purred into Jimin’s mouth the minute he stepped into the house last night. One hand looped around Jimin’s neck, the other down his pants, moving fast and smooth, back and forth. Taehyung’s suitcase abandoned and toppled in the doorway, his face mask still hanging off one ear, coat still on even when he turned Jimin around and fit himself inside of him, sweatpants pooling at his ankles. Jimin had prepped himself wet and wide. He’d waited up for hours.
“Needy, needy, so fucking- missed you, god,” Taehyung rambled, and Jimin hadn’t known which one of them he’d been talking about at that point.)
Now Taehyung’s mouth is hot against Jimin’s earlobe. And we go again, Jimin thinks with an invisible smirk, like he’s even surprised. Lucky him. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
(“Think of the children!” Seokjin always wails, with a hand clutched to his chest and a glittering grin.)
“Taehyung-ah,” says Jimin. He sounds like a broken record. Like he’d forgotten what Taehyung’s name tasted like on his tongue, how it fit so good against his molars, sticking like hard candy. How it sounded better, always does, when Taehyung is in the room to hear it.
“I love all of you,” Taehyung says. He kisses Jimin on the mouth. “But they don’t need to know that.”
Jimin forgets for a moment what they’re talking about. Taehyung’s lips are so soft.
“They as in James Corden? Or everyone?”
Taehyung wrinkles his nose. “Definitely not-” he pauses, sits up straight, renders himself ready for a show of extravagant hand gestures and eyebrow movements that Jimin should have known was coming. Hell, he signed himself up for it. “Absolutely not James Corden.”
Jimin rolls his eyes.
(Jimin rolls his eyes and tries not to think of the clunky American talk show humor, jokes he can tell don’t land even when he barely speaks the language they’re pitched in; tries not not to think of foreign fingers squeezing him, too hard, too much, on his hand and his knee and his hip and always too close.)
Jimin hooks his elbow around Taehyung’s arm to pull him closer instead. Needy again. Always needy.
“Maybe everyone can already tell,” Jimin says to Taehyung, answering the question he hasn’t yet asked.
With his voice shifted all the way down low, this is a conversation they have sometimes: wondering whether the world knows, whether they’re too obvious, whether they push the red string-miracle-best friend-soulmate-everything thing too far. A discussion they have in meetings with Namjoon-hyung and everyone else, after rewatching and reshooting things or deciding Seokjin and Hoseok and Jeongguk have to sit in between them at the next panel. A worse conversation with worse people— because really, everyone is worse than Namjoon-hyung— who say, or at least think, no, that’s enough, end it, or we’ll end this.
It’s dark. Precarious. Terrifying. Makes Jimin feel raw inside, and wrong, too, and sometimes even Taehyung can’t fix it because he feels it just the same.
So, instead, every time, they get off on it a little.
“Yeah?” Taehyung says. “Think they know?”
Jimin just hums, an encouragement to go on. Egging him forward, really, with that instant gratification kind of peer pressure. Taehyung’s eyes are already darker.
“Think they know that the best way I like to wake up is with your pretty little dick down my throat?”
Taehyung’s hair, blow-dried and wavy, swoops down near his eyelashes. It’s so distracting that it takes Jimin a second to process anything else. Then, he swats at Taehyung.
“My dick is not little.”
“Oh, of course not. Your massive, thick, veiny, heavy, fucking delicious-”
“Okay,” Jimin sighs.
Taehyung gropes him. Through the blankets, between layers of Jimin’s sheets and underwear and fuzzy pajama bottoms that are so thick they almost function as two pairs of pants, good for the winter and also just for Jimin because he always runs cold. It’s barely a touch. More an allusion of pressure than anything. It’s enough to make Jimin’s hips jump anyway.
“But really,” Taehyung whispers, “I wish you’d woken me up that way.”
(Jimin had thought about it, if he’s honest: in the early light of nine AM, after sleeping in, he’d thought about slipping his hand down Taehyung’s boxers, waking him up with slow touches, getting him wet through the fabric and whiny and red-cheeked before he was even fully awake. He thinks about it on most mornings that he wakes up before Taehyung, which isn’t many, but Jimin had let Taehyung sleep in even more today. He’d gotten distracted by counting his eyelashes, got sentimental because of how warm the bed was, by liking how quietly Taehyung breathed and how cloudless the sky was beyond the shuttered windows. So Jimin stayed put, kissed Taehyung’s cheeks when he finally roused around noontime, and got him tea and kongnamul bap for breakfast. Just as good, if he’s honest.)
“Tomorrow, then,” Jimin says. His hand swathes around the back of Taehyung’s neck. Taehyung’s hair tickles his knuckles.
“It’s no good if it’s not a surprise.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re right, it’s not.”
Taehyung’s hand presses harder. Jimin’s hips twitch again. He’s hard. He’s been hard.
“You could do it now, though?” Taehyung says.
“Hmm?”
Taehyung shoves the blankets away. His fingers trace the line of Jimin’s boxers.
“Gonna make me say it again?”
Jimin nods.
“Fine. Just because your dick’s that good. I’ll say it again, that I want you to put it in my mouth.” Taehyung says it casual, easy. Straightforward, just like when he looks down at the stretch of Jimin’s body across the bed, and then cups the whole of Jimin’s crotch through the soft fabric. When he looks back up, his eyes are wide. He’s more hoarse when he speaks again.
“Please, Jimin-ah, look at you. Want it. Want you.”
Jimin exhales. Long and drawn out through his nose, and then he says, voice tilting down to let Taehyung know they’re playing at something different now: “no, I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No.”
“No?” Taehyung repeats. His eyes are even bigger now.
“I think,” says Jimin, and he uses all his strength to pull his hands away from their grip on Taehyung’s wrists, from the softness of the fine hairs on his forearms. He props them behind his head, tries not to falter and reach out for Taehyung before he’s even got his own fingers interlocked.
(It’s hard to change things up anytime they’re already happening— to decide Jimin really wants to ride Taehyung when he’s already on his back, got his legs trapped around his waist and Taehyung’s lips in his hair; to decide that he wants to stop blowing him so he can breathe for a second, and then have one set of Taehyung’s fingers mimic the drag he’d made with his dick inside of Jimin’s mouth, while the other slips down his newly abandoned cock, every part of him dripping with Jimin’s saliva, “good boy, Jimin-ah, good boy”—)
And right now, Taehyung is, quite literally, on his knees for Jimin, and begging Jimin to let him stay there.
“I think,” Jimin says, because he has different plans, better plans, “you gotta show me how much you really like my thighs.”
Taehyung’s mouth twitches. Not a smile, not a frown, not a gasp and not a word. Not jumping for Jimin’s dick, either, even though he’d been doing that seconds before, and Jimin is still hung up on that, still feeling a little giddy over it when he tacks on, just for emphasis, “I don’t think your praise to the world is sufficient.”
Jimin drawls, but he’s got this pitch to his words that lets Taehyung know that he’s teasing. Taehyung gasps like he’s been punched in the stomach anyways: a high-pitched wheezy thing, and then he’s saying, very seriously, “Jimin-ah. Jimin-ah.”
He looks like he’s about two seconds away from putting his hands on Jimin’s shoulders and shaking him, begging for him to say it isn’t so. But Jimin purses his lips, fights back a grin, and opens his legs. Taehyung is already crawling in between.
“Show me, Taehyung-ah.”
Jimin doesn’t know how long he’s laid here, let Taehyung lap at him, skim his hands along the same stretches of skin, but it’s dark outside now. Much darker than before.
Taehyung murmurs something into the bend of Jimin’s knee. His breath is hot on the thinner skin there. A weird feeling. He’s not usually kissed there, much less spoken to with spit-slick lips at the root of his leg hairs.
“I’m sweating,” Taehyung says, and Jimin would laugh but Taehyung doesn’t sound like he’s complaining.
“You’re so fucking hot, Jimin-ah, you know what you do to me.”
He’s not saying it to prove Jimin that he means it. The first two minutes between Jimin’s legs took that intent out of his system, wrung it out, got rid of the teasing and the joking and the banter in the air, and now Taehyung himself is dripping, drying out. He’s just talking, just saying shit, rambling and going on and on, and this is what Jimin had wanted anyway, where he knew they’d end up. Why he switched gears in the first place, even though this is where they usually crash, no matter where the ignition first gets flipped on.
“Yeah? What do I do?”
Taehyung’s been saying it. Jimin wants to hear it again.
“Fuck me up, Jimin-ah. Make me all stupid and horny and only able to think of you. These legs. Fuck.” He grips Jimin from the ankles, up to his calves, then higher until his wrists are so close to Jimin’s dick that they almost brush. Jimin shivers.
“Want them around my head. My neck. Everywhere. So fucking- ungh.”
“That’s not a word, baby,” Jimin says, but when Taehyung moans some more, he lets him. His hands thread in Taehyung’s hair, guide his mouth back down to the scattering of marks on his right thigh. A few birthmarks dotted around circles of red and purple, the faintest of teeth marks and fingerprints, and Jimin wants. Wants him to touch him harder, tighter, with more tongue and lips and dirty words, everything Taehyung’s got, all for him.
“Fucking perfect, so beautiful, so strong,” Taehyung talks to the side of Jimin’s leg. Almost his hip. Mouth brushing over the faintest waves of white, lines of stretching and shrinking and stretching again, and Jimin doesn’t falter over it. Just watches. Appreciates.
“You can do whatever you want, to me and to the world. So good at everything you do. And everyone loves you, you know. Everyone. But only I get to have you like this. See you at your prettiest. So fucking breathtaking, pretty- good, good, good, Jimin-ah-”
(Jimin doesn’t say it, but Taehyung knows. Years ago, about the hours in the gym, the studio, more hours than he needed— and there were already too many hours for all of them, and never enough sleep in the nighttime, not a chance for any in the daytime even if he’d paid money for it, because there was never quite enough money, not really. Jeongguk had been fainting from the exertion alone, eating four meals a day just to keep his body going. And Jimin was eating nothing and staring everywhere, in floor to ceiling mirrors and dinner spoons and car windows, and squeezing tighter every other week. Smaller. Smallness focused downward, onto two legs that needed to have more definition, more endurance because if he was going to be short, going to be past his growing peak then at least he had this length, and he had to use it to his advantage, had to suck it up and find a way to make it work, to look longer and leaner, had to—)
Taehyung’s teeth pinch another kiss into his hipbone.
“Jimin-ah, Jimin-ah,” he mumbles, and Jimin smiles.
(Lets himself take up space. Doesn’t think about the past, at least not the heavy parts, at least not right now.)
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
It knocks the wind out of Jimin, just for a second. He doesn’t expect it, not with the way Taehyung’s hands are coaxing closer to his dick, the swipes up against it more intentional this time. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised—
(“I love you,” Taehyung will say to him in the middle of soundcheck, when Jimin’s in the middle of a vocal run and Taehyung’s got his arm around Yoongi, swaying off-kilter but together as the the pitchy in-ear tuning of the song finds its rhythm.
“I love you,” Taehyung said after the third Los Angeles show, when Jimin was crammed up against Hoseok, sharing the same seat in the van ride home, talking about the signs he saw in the audience, the funny ones in English that he could only sort of make out. He’d been on his phone, only paused to say it once in Jimin’s direction, quiet but undeniably not reciting something he’d read on a purple painted picket, and then he’d continued scrolling.
“I love you,” Taehyung says all too often when Jimin pushes in too deep, hits him straight in the back of the throat and both of them are gasping, Jimin’s dick pulling away, brushing against his cheek.)
“Jimin-ah, fuck,” Taehyung says, when his lips trip back up to the cut of his hip, scratching through the trimmed hair there, and that’s kind of the same thing as “I love you,” too.
Jimin can feel every part of himself throbbing, shifting closer to him, giving in. Coming home. He’s missed this, Jimin thinks for the hundredth time in the past hour or so. But then Taehyung’s fingers scrape over a bruise from last week— he’d bumped into a table on the plane ride home when they hit a patch of turbulence— and Jimin’s breath catches in a different way. Taehyung’s eyes narrow.
“Sorry, baby.”
His tongue laps against the skin above Jimin’s kneecap. Jimin thinks that no one before Taehyung has ever kissed him there. Thinks that no one besides Taehyung ever will, if he’s lucky, and he is. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
And then Taehyung’s babbling again.
Well, he’s not. He’s silent actually, aside from these little gasping breaths that leave his parted lips, and his jaw works like he’s trying to speak but can’t get anything out, but Jimin knows what he’s thinking. Knows what he means when he nudges Jimin’s thighs as wide as they can go, hands on the underside of his crimson dotted thighs. He’s saying things in a language only Jimin knows how to decode.
Taehyung’s tongue flicks out of the corner of his mouth. He thumbs at the width of Jimin’s dick like it’s his first time seeing it— first time seeing any dick, and they’ve played at this before—
“You’re so big,” Taehyung says. He stares at Jimin’s dick, at the way it lurches and jerks against his stomach. He drips precome onto his abdomen.
“Yeah?”
Jimin’s toes tingle. Taehyung looks like he could drool. Jimin wants him to.
(Because the first time Taehyung had seen his dick, and then the first time Taehyung had sucked his dick, which was all in the same night in the same span of about fifteen minutes, if even that long, Taehyung had drooled. He’d gagged and choked and they had laughed, and he’d used mainly his hand to get Jimin off, and mainly his hand to get himself off too, because he teased that Jimin’s hand was too small, but. When Jimin had pressed it to Taehyung’s cheek when he kissed him afterward, Taehyung had held onto it, held onto him. Kissed Jimin with his tongue and his teeth and didn’t mind the taste of his own dick in Jimin’s mouth, or the way that Jimin held onto him closer, stayed by his side more after that. Didn’t mind that Jimin wanted to try again and again after, because he fell asleep with the rushing memories of that spongy texture of dick pressing against his cheeks, his tongue, and the desire to do it again, the desire to do it again with Taehyung.)
Jimin knows Taehyung’s remembering it, too.
“You think I can take it?”
Jimin tuts. “You tell me,” he says, but his hand is ghosting over Taehyung’s cheek again and they’re twenty years old again, except they’re not, they’re looking back, and they know everything they thought they did before, but this time, it’s true.
“Think I can,” Taehyung says, muttering to himself like he’s got to gear his willpower up, and then he’s wrapping his lips around the tip of Jimin’s dick, sinking down so painstakingly slow that Jimin is the one who’s babbling now, for real this time. When Taehyung pulls off, he’s smiling.
“Take it,” Jimin says anyway, like that isn’t already what Taehyung's doing when his nose is pressed to his pubic bone, his tongue licking up the side of him, his hands gripping Jimin’s thighs. Putting more marks for later, and Jimin will be painted purple for days, maybe a week if he’s lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Purple has always been Taehyung’s color.
It’s too much, suddenly: the sight of Taehyung’s, eyes half-mooned, peaceful while he blows him, fast and seamless and like something out of Jimin’s dream. And of course, he is— “a dream,” Jimin tells him, labels him, gets out amidst his rambling— with his forehead beaded with sweat, his hair dark and mussed, his neck the slightest bit red from Jimin’s own suckling. Not too much, just enough to be easily covered by makeup (because even though they’re on a hiatus now, it’s never really a hiatus.)
It’s that thought that circles Jimin around, reminds him why they begun and how he planned to finish. He’s dizzy again, especially when Taehyung gives him those little kitten licks at the base of his dick, traveling up to the top until he’s downright kissing his cockhead, painting it a prettier shade of red with every impending dose of desperation.
“You’re mine,” says Jimin. “I’m yours.”
He comes in dribbles. Fast and then slow, and Taehyung drinks it up, lets some coat the side of Jimin’s dick. His stomach, too, and then a few dots land on the sheets so Taehyung bends forward again and drinks that up too. Until Jimin is clean and Taehyung is impossibly dirty, looking up at Jimin at the same time that the muscles in his neck move, swallowing.
“Mine,” he repeats. He squeezes Jimin’s hips, then his thighs again, then kisses both of them in succession. His lips linger there. Linger, too, on the corner of Jimin’s mouth when he kisses him, long and slow. His nose tickles Jimin’s, his breath hot on the corner of his jaw. “Yours.”