Chapter Text
Namjoon shouldn’t be here.
It should be Jimin and Taehyung, if anybody, because—because they’re basically Jungkook’s age, and they all went to school together, and they’re all disgustingly close with each other already, so. So.
But even then, maybe it should just be Taehyung. That would be better, because Jimin is an alpha, too, but Taehyung presented as an omega two years ago and he’d know what Jungkook is feeling, and what to do to help. And then it’d be cute. Even with their dicks out, they could be cute. Two omegas dirtying up a nest with slick and sweat, rutting together without trying to be inside.
Or—he doesn’t know. Namjoon doesn’t fucking know. The only thing he knows for sure is that he shouldn’t be here.
“Alpha,” Jungkook whines, so pretty and sweet and aching. “Alpha please.”
Namjoon’s feet are planted firmly just inside the door to Jungkook’s room and he can’t make himself move. It was so fucking stupid to come here, but Jungkook called and he had please, alpha’d him then too, and Namjoon is weak. Of course he came. But now that he’s here he knows he’s made a mistake. A terrible fucking mistake. He should have called Taehyung. He thinks maybe he still could, his cellphone is in his pocket, it’d be so easy—right in his recent calls, Taehyung’s name would be toward the top of the list. They just spoke last night, a conference call between the two of them and Yoongi, because Taehyung swears he’s working on his music but it’s just so hard. He and Yoongi worked through two verses with him that Namjoon isn’t even sure he wrote down—Taehyung is like that sometimes.
Namjoon’s got his phone in his hand now but he can’t look down at it, because doing that would mean looking away from Jungkook, and he absolutely can’t do that. He’s so beautiful in his nest, all of his soft pretty things touching nothing but bare skin, and he’s got his legs spread wide open, his hands fisting pillows on either side of his hips. There’s slick leaking out of him, dampening the silver-gray mink blanket serving as the floor to his nest, and it’s all over the insides of his thighs, like he’d held them together until he couldn’t anymore.
“Hyung,” Jungkook says, breathy, his eyes half closed. “Namjoon-hyung. Alpha. Please. Please, I need you. It hurts and I—I need you.”
Namjoon sinks to his floor like he’s dragged there by some invisible force, the same one that tugs him forward on his hands and knees until his knuckles brush that silver-gray mink and Jungkook moans and Namjoon freezes.
“Come,” Jungkook says, only it’s more like a whine, this sweet little whine, his legs splaying wider, his fists shoving the pillows away from his body to create more room around his hips, inviting Namjoon in. “It’s okay. Come. Alpha, come.”
And Namjoon’s never been invited into an omegas nest before; he stopped going in his mother’s when he was old enough to walk, doesn’t even remember the way it felt—and Taehyung has never asked him to come into his, although even if he did Jimin would never allow it. It’s so sacred, this special soft place only ever meant for an omega and their alpha if they choose —so he’s never been invited but he knows it’s an honor. And this is Jungkook’s very first one, probably put together by him without him even noticing in the fog of his presentation, just this side of his first heat.
Namjoon bows all the way to the floor, his forehead against the carpet. It’s more surrender than it’s anything else. He was powerless here the moment he slid the key in the lock and opened the front door, when the smell of him hit Namjoon in the face and he propelled his legs forward down the hall to find him.
Jungkook gasps, and he moans, and he whines, he says, “Alpha,” and then his fingers are pushing Namjoon’s hair off his forehead. When Namjoon looks up at him he’s sitting on his knees, so much closer than he’d been when he was all spread out on his back, and his bottom lip is between his teeth. The moment their eyes lock his hand tightens in Namjoon’s hair and it’s—it’s a fucking wrap, after that.
Jungkook tugs one time, firm, and Namjoon’s kissing the next please out of his mouth before it has time to fully form. He tastes as sweet as he smells, hand-spun sugar dissolving on his tongue, and Namjoon groans deep in his chest only for Jungkook to echo it back at him.
Namjoon’s thought of kissing Jungkook a hundred times and never quite worked up the nerve, never worked past the guilt of knowing him at 14, at watching him grow and still wanting to take. Now that he’s here he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stop himself again—and the guilt is still there, through the haze of how good this feels, on the verge of being thrown into a rut, the guilt still gnaws until the teeth hit bone. Jungkook isn’t 14 anymore, but 18 doesn’t seem far enough away from it.
Namjoon should be ashamed—and he is, he is. He lowers Jungkook to his back and pushes up between his legs and he’s ashamed. His hand grips Jungkook’s jaw too tight, skin indenting under his fingers as he licks into his mouth and he’s ashamed. He lets his other hand trail down between their bodies, slides his fingertips against his slick-coated thighs, and ventures further until he’s found the source of it, the tip of his middle finger touching the soft, wet ring of muscle—and yeah, yeah, he’s fucking ashamed. He burns with it, lava in his veins, the flickering of fire for heartbeats.
And all of it for nothing, flames as vital organs and teeth on his bones, only for Jungkook to go pliant and vocal, begging him so sweet his jaw ached, “Yeah, ye’h, hyung, please—it hurts, hurts so bad, hurts for you , alpha, p- please —m’ yours, please take me, please have me, please, please, please—” turning his shame into just another thing he’d have to learn to live with.
Namjoon tells him with a kiss to already bite swollen lips, “Yeah, baby, alpha’s got you,” and down the slope of his neck, “mine now, Jungkook-ah. All for me, now. My baby, my omega,” and across his trembling stomach, down past his belly button, “gonna make it better, sweetheart, gonna take care of you,” and he presses his finger inside to the second knuckle with a slide so easy it makes him whine.
“Oh, o-oh—” Jungkook stutters—in surprise maybe, pleasure definitely, ecstasy ; it looks like that, sounds like that, “ye’h, Namjoon, Namjoonie, ple’se, pl—uhnn,”
“That feel good?” Namjoon asks, replaces one finger with three and gets light headed by the way Jungkook’s body just accommodates him, no resistance, like it knows it belongs to Namjoon now, too, and it’s rewiring and reshaping itself just for him. “Yeah it does, fuck, I know, I know.”
When Namjoon sinks inside, when he finally lines himself up and bottoms out, pushes so fucking deep so fast that Jungkook screams his name—the last coherent thought he has is mine, this is mine, all mine.