Archive of Our Own

The bathroom’s worse-lit than the alleyway he almost pissed in last weekend, which says something, because Namjoon had literally considered dropping between a dumpster and a broken neon sign that read “COWBOYS.” Here, the bulb flickers like it’s mocking him for trying to make eye contact with himself.

He adjusts the waistband of his jeans. Again. They fit fine when he left the office, didn’t they? Now they feel like they’ve conspired with his body to become a second punishment for turning thirty. 

Wetness soaks the fresh pad he’d changed into twenty minutes ago. Pre-heat discharge again or maybe just age. Who knows? Maybe he has both now. Maybe he’s old and perpetually leaking.

It’s mostly the small matter of his diagnosis. Heat regulation disorder. Or, as the last doctor phrased it, like she was trying to win the empathy Olympics: “Severe omega hormonal dysregulation with rare-cycle volatility.”

In simple words: heat sickness.

The kind that happens to a few omegas, and a rarer few male ones. 

It means when Namjoon gets heats, he really gets heats. Like clock-melting, vision-blurring, body-slick-for-three-days heat. No alpha, no matter how many knots they brag about, has lasted more than two full cycles with him. And those that tried usually ended up ego-bruised and slut-shaming him on the way out.

There was that one who said, mid-heat, “I thought you’d be more grateful.”

And another who told him, “You should be ashamed of how much you need.”

His favorite, though, was the guy who paused in the middle of going down on him to say, “You know this is kind of like… a kink for me. Like a rare porn genre thing.”

As if Namjoon’s overstimulated nervous system was some specialty porn tag and not, say, a medical condition.

It’s a fun pattern, really. The longer they stay, the more the compliments curdle into contempt. His appetite becomes desperation, his honesty becomes shameful, and his autonomy becomes someone else’s fantasy.

And every time, Namjoon ends up holding the door open for another alpha who thinks they’re the exception until they’re not. 

He reaches for a fresh pad from the pack in his back pocket, the kind they pretend is discreet but comes in packaging so loud it could call for a national emergency and presses it into place inside his underwear with practiced fingers. 

The trash bin outside the stall is full of crumpled tissue and receipts and one pair of tights that looks like it died a violent death. He folds the used pad in half, wraps it neatly in toilet paper, and drops it in without looking. 

He exhales and his reflection in the mirror stares back like it wants him to shut up about it.

“Hi,” he mutters to himself. 

There’s that flush in his cheeks. Nothing visible yet, not unless you knew how to read for it, the raw color under his eyes, the soft sweat on his upper lip. 

He rubs a bit of oil-blotting paper over his forehead and reapplies the gloss he impulse-bought in Olive Young during a promotional event. It’s a half-assed attempt, but whatever, it’s a bar bathroom in Hongdae. Not exactly Seoul Fashion Week.

Behind him, the door grinds open with that metal-on-metal squeak. He doesn’t turn, it’s a uni-subgender bathroom, someone’s probably here to piss and mind their business.

“Oh my god, your jeans?” a voice says. A girl, mid heat, judging by the flush on her neck. “They’re perfect on you. Where did you get them?”

Namjoon half-smiles, just wide enough for social survival. “Ah, these? Zara. Like… six years ago, I think.”

“God, no wonder,” she laughs. “The vintage ones always hug your ass right.”

“Mn.” He folds the oil sheet and tosses it in the bin. “You look good too, by the way.”

She waves him off and floats into one of the stalls, giggling, high off her own pheromones or something stronger. Everyone in club bathrooms is always a little drunk. 

He spritzes his scent masking spray next, top notes of vetiver and fire smoke. Two pumps to the collarbone, one to the chest, then peels off the old scent gland patch from the back of his neck. The adhesive tugs, the skin beneath a little raw. He presses the new one on and holds it there. One, two, three seconds.

He rubs at the skin lightly and finds it tender, slight puffiness under the fingers.

Cool. It’s gonna be a fun week.

When he shifts his weight, his heel throbs. Right, that too.

He sits for a second on the edge of the sink counter and slips his shoe off just enough to confirm the squish of it, his sock already damp with blood. New blister, same old problem. The skin must’ve torn on his walk from the station.

There’s no first-aid in sight, but he rolls up a bit of toilet paper and folds it down into a rough cushion. A tiny, pitiful origami pad, tucks it under his heel and pulls the sock back on gently.

It’ll hold…probably. He gets his shoe on with a wince and stands, testing the weight. Painful, but manageable. That’s the theme of the night, isn’t it. 

Back out in the hallway, the air smells like vape juice and scent masking diffuser. He shoulders through the crowd without making eye contact. His body wants to scent someone. But he won’t let it. 

They’re in the back corner booth, naturally. Jimin has a drink in his hand that’s more lime wedge than liquor, and Hoseok’s halfway through a highball.

Jimin spots him first and taps the vinyl seat beside him. “You’re still alive.” 

“I’m in preheat, not dying,” Namjoon says, sliding into the booth beside him.

Hoseok moves his legs to make room and lifts his glass in a lazy toast. “Same thing.”

The bar’s called Bunker, but it’s basically a hole with LED lighting and ₩4,500 beers. It’s always too hot. The speakers hang crooked from the ceiling. There’s one bathroom for all sub-genders and a roped-off “VIP” section that has a broken sofa and the scent of regret. 

It’s perfect. The three of them have been coming here since before their promotions kicked in, since the days when Namjoon would still get ID’d and Jimin thought he could order a whiskey without throwing up in the alleyway. 

Now they work for Samsung, same department, product development. Jimin leads alpha ergonomics testing. Hoseok’s in design UX, mostly liaises between dev and marketing. Namjoon handles documentation, back-end logic, code optimization, and quietly loses his mind.

“So.” Jimin stirs the straw in his half-melted drink. “Have you… decided?”

Namjoon blinks. “Decided what now. Which doomed alpha gets to ruin my week this time?”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “On the app. The heat candidates?”

Namjoon leans back, exhales and groans into the inside of his wrist. “Oh my god, can we not—”

“Okay.” Jimin puts both hands up. “We just thought—since the last one ghosted you mid-cycle—”

“And the one before that said he needed a moment to pray,” Hoseok adds helpfully.

Namjoon closes his eyes. “That one was Catholic. I didn’t even say anything scandalous.”

“You said you wanted him to keep his knot inside,” Jimin says. “Apparently that’s a sin.”

“Why do you remember this shit?”

“You sent us screenshots.”

“Ugh.” Namjoon groans. “I hate it.” 

Jimin leans his chin on one hand, elbow perched on the table. “Okay, so let’s walk through this logically. You’re in your pre-heat—”

Namjoon groans again, louder. “Stop announcing it.” 

“—and it’s only gonna get worse,” Jimin finishes. “And every time we go through this, you say, I’ll just get through it alone, I’m built different, I have my toys and my willpower and my Spotify Premium. And then day three rolls around and we have to take PTO so Hoseok can buy you strawberry  electrolyte jelly while I drive you to the ER.”

“It happened once.”

“It actually happened twice.” Hoseok sips his drink. “Once last summer, once in Q1. You passed out on your bathroom floor and texted me a Google Docs link to your funeral instructions.”

Namjoon swirls the melting ice in his glass. “At least I’m organized.”

“Do you want to die alone in a pile of scented candles and books older than you?” Jimin asks.

“Honestly?” Namjoon says. “At this point, it’s a fantasy.”

They let that hang in the air for a moment. The music from the dance floor is some overproduced remix of a song he only likes when he’s blackout drunk, which is never. A light near the bar flickers. Someone spills a shot glass near the counter and pretends it didn’t happen.

Namjoon scratches at the back of his neck and winces. His skin’s starting to go a little hypersensitive, which means he needs to take this seriously. 

He knows what they’re trying to do. They’ve done it before. They’ll do it again. He used to joke about it. But now he’s just tired.

“Hyung.” Jimin whines. “Take this seriously.”

“Okay,” he says finally, dragging the word out like it weighs something. “Fine. I’ll think about it.” 

Jimin lights up. “Yes!”

“But not now.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I’m drinking,” Namjoon answers in a deadpan. “And if I drink and pick someone, I’ll regret it. And then I’ll still be slicking and pissed off and humping a pillow three days from now because some mediocre alpha with three years of CrossFit and a 4.3 rating decided his refractory period is godly.”

Hoseok shrugs. “Fair.”

Jimin sips his drink and looks at Namjoon like he’s the saddest science experiment on earth. “You deserve so much better, babe.”

“I know,” Namjoon says. “It’s a sad tradition, right?”

Jimin hums. “You’re thirty. Maybe it’s time to break it.”

Namjoon looks at him, then past him, at the bar, where some omega in heat is clearly about to start crying or fucking someone or both. His throat’s dry and his scent glands throb.

But mostly, his heart feels hollow. But that’s something he doesn’t want to look at too closely. So instead, he says, “How’s the lemon soju here?”

Jimin grins. “Terrible.”

“Perfect.”

Namjoon raises his hand for the server. He may not be, but at least, the night’s still young. 

The front door swings open right then and Jeongguk walks in. Big shoulders squared, thick thighs on display in those ridiculous jeans he always wears. He’s in a black shirt, collar popped lazily, sleeves cuffed tight around arms that could probably bench-press both a sofa and Namjoon’s last shred of restraint.

His one arm is completely inked, thick black lines disappear under the fabric. He’s got two piercings in his left ear, a glint in his right, and the smudge of a lip ring that he only wears outside of office hours.

His eyes find them in seconds. Correction: his eyes find Namjoon in particular and it’s like tunnel vision with heart emojis in his eyes. Namjoon’s sure there’s a phantom tail wagging behind him, invisible but very much there.

“Fuck,” Namjoon says under his breath.

Jeongguk beelines to their booth like he’s scent-tracking, which frankly he might be. Namjoon wore a new scent blocker patch but he’s sweating through it, and his glands are getting tender again, and Jeongguk’s nose might just be that good.

He slides into the booth beside Namjoon without a word. He smells like cedarwood, musk, and a little salt. That alpha smell that makes Namjoon’s omega instincts sit up like they’ve heard a clicker training command.

“Namjoon hyung,” Jeongguk says, voice like a puppy even if he looks like a wolf. 

Namjoon’s body jerks in subtle betrayal. “Hey.”

He turns just enough to see Jeongguk’s eyes up close, big, brown and bright. There’s a literal sparkle in them.  

Jeongguk’s face does that thing it does, where he’s smiling without smiling. That gentle look he saves only for Namjoon. Namjoon has to look away before he does something embarrassing like melt into the booth and die.

Hoseok raises a brow. “Wow. You didn’t even stop to order a drink first.”

Jeongguk’s still looking at Namjoon. “I can go in a minute. I just wanted to say hi.”

“You do know we’re your sunbaes too, right?” Jimin asks, sipping his drink. 

Jeongguk blinks, like he just now remembered there were other people present. He leans back a little. “Sorry, hyungs.” He bows slightly, soft and embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Hoseok lies.

Jeongguk’s only twenty three. He’s literally a kid in Namjoon’s opinion. He’s also an alpha, built like someone who  could go headbutting walls, but apparently also coded an entire dynamic UI model for a Galaxy prototype in his first three months. 

He didn’t even come in through the usual hiring rounds, Samsung scooped him straight out of a university hackathon on one of those talent acquisition fast-tracks. 

But then he showed up and it turns out, he’s the kind of alpha who just does things. He learns frameworks in a week, rewrites legacy code without breaking a sweat, presents updates like he’s demoing his skincare routine. 

Everyone wants him on their team, not because he’s charming (he is), or polite (also true), or looks like a one-man thirst trap (deeply unfortunate) but he somehow also makes it look so effortless.

He’s already been vouched for early promotion. The kind that skips you a level and lands you in manager meetings before you’ve even picked a proper office chair.

Namjoon trained him, technically. But now Jeongguk’s one of those employees people refer to in leadership reviews. It’s kind of annoying but his stupid nice guy personality somehow makes up for it. 

They shift into conversation again. Jeongguk politely fields questions about his current projects, answers cleanly when Jimin asks about his workout split, and redirects when Hoseok starts grilling him about last quarter’s sprint review.

For someone that disgustingly competent, he doesn’t brag. He just answers in dull sentences, voice humble, hands folded between his thighs. And when he laughs, full-bodied, his shoulders shake like he’s trying not to bring attention to himself. 

Namjoon’s glass runs dry and Jeongguk notices before anyone else.

“I’ll go get something for you,” he says, already halfway out of the booth.

Namjoon blinks. “You don’t have to—”

But Jeongguk’s gone before the breath lands. The ghost of his scent lingers like a warm palm pressed to Namjoon’s ribs.

“Oh hyung,” Jimin starts, a cheshire grin on his face. “Your lover boy’s so cute.”

“He actually showed up,” Hoseok says. 

Namjoon frowns. “Was he not supposed to?” 

“He said he couldn't make it,” Jimin grins and then shrugs, “until I said you’d be here.” 

Namjoon stares. “What?”

“Group chat,” Jimin provides casually. “I said, hey we’re at Bunker, Namjoon hyung too.”

Namjoon groans. “I’m going to kill you.”

Hoseok slaps the table once, delighted. “How much to say he’s got a Namjoon shrine in his office locker?”

“I swear to god,” Namjoon mutters.

Jimin leans in, like he’s setting the scene. “Oh, wait. The first time he met you, what was it he said?”

Hoseok grins. “Oh, I remember. Department orientation day, we’re in the meeting room, Jeongguk walks in like this nervous gym rat, and he’s holding his onboarding packet. Namjoon walks in right after him—”

“Wearing those pants,” Jimin adds helpfully.

“Right, the pants! And Jeongguk just drops everything. Packet on the floor, pen rolling under the table. And he bends down to get it, looks up and stares directly at Namjoon’s thighs and says, out loud—‘Wow. Thighs.’”

“Just that,” Jimin nods. “And then he turns red, like beet red, the cartoonish kind. I thought he was gonna pass out.”

“I swear I saw steam coming out of his ears,” Hoseok adds.

Namjoon drops his head into his arms. “Why do you even remember this?”

“Because it was adorable,” Jimin says. “Like some sort of perverted imprinting.”

“He’s a kid, you know that,” Namjoon mumbles into his arms. “I don’t date young guys or alphas that look like they’ve had their first knot last week.”

Hoseok snorts. “You keep saying that.”

“He’s not even my type.” Namjoon counters. “He’s way too young. Too shiny. Too nice. It’s just a stupid admiration thing because I helped train him. It’s not serious.”

“He follows you around like a love sick pup.” 

“He’ll grow out of it.”

“You’ve been saying that for a year,” Jimin offers with a smirk. 

“Maybe this year is the year,” Namjoon says, sitting up just in time for Jeongguk to return, carrying a tray with two drinks and a glass of water.

He sets them down carefully, lemon soju for Namjoon, iced whiskey for himself. “You didn’t say what you wanted, so I guessed,” he says. “Sorry if it’s wrong.”

Namjoon takes the drink, but doesn't tell him he guessed right. “It’s fine.”

They slide back into small talk; Jimin asks about the new UX prototype. Hoseok brings up a department party that got canceled. Jeongguk chimes in when asked, listens when he’s not, always looking just a second too long at Namjoon.

Namjoon drinks his soju and tries not to notice the way Jeongguk’s eyes keep returning to him when he talks.

Jimin raises an eyebrow when Jeongguk leans too close to show Namjoon something on his phone. Hoseok kicks him under the table to behave.

Namjoon ignores them both. He’s thirty. His heel blister still stings. His scent patch is probably half-dissolved. His drink’s already halfway gone. And an alpha kid has a crush on him he doesn’t know how to handle. 

The clock on Jimin’s phone hits 9:02. Which, in corporate speak, means get your ass home unless you want to code through a migraine tomorrow.

Jimin stretches his arms over his head and yawns. “Alright, I’m tapping out. UX sync in the morning.”

Hoseok drains the last of his drink and stands too, spine cracking audibly. “Yeah. We’re not young enough to pretend this place is fun past nine.”

They gather their things. Jimin slaps Namjoon’s shoulder. “Hydrate and don’t die.”

Hoseok points a finger at him like a threat. “You better shortlist someone before this weekend or I’m sending Park Seojun cosplay doms to your apartment.”

“I prefer Gong Yoo,” Namjoon mutters, slipping out of the booth.

“See you tomorrow,” Jimin sings, and they both head off down the opposite end of the street, still bickering about some TikTok trend.

Namjoon exhales, tucks his hands into his coat pockets, and turns toward the station.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says softly from behind him. “Can I walk you to the subway?”

Namjoon doesn’t stop walking. “I’m not fragile.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Jeongguk walks along trying to catch up. “I just want to give you company.”

Namjoon sighs. “Jeongguk. Go home.” But his voice cracks a little on the end, because the pad in his shoe is shifting and he can feel the raw sting of blood against fabric. He misses a step and that’s all it takes. His heel catches the sting, his balance tips and the world tilts a little. 

Right when he expects a fall, a hand curls around his waist, a firm grip just above his hipbone. “I’ve got you,” Jeongguk says, voice low and urgent.

Namjoon stiffens at the feel of Jeongguk’s hands on his waist. Why are they so big? He grabs Jeongguk’s wrist on reflex and peels them off his body and flinches. “Don’t.”

Jeongguk’s eyes drop to his shoes, brows furrowing. “Hyung, you’re bleeding.”

Namjoon curses under his breath. “It’s nothing. It’s just a blister.”

“Hold on—” Jeongguk’s already crouching down, the motion so fast and instinctive it’s like his knees skipped the permission process.

Namjoon flinches back. “I can do it.”

Jeongguk blinks up at him, not moving. “Let me help.”

“I said I can do it.”

“I brought a heel patch,” Jeongguk says simply, and pulls it from his coat pocket. “And a bandaid. Just in case.”

What the hell. Namjoon stares at him. “What kind of freak carries heel patches?”

“The kind that knew you’d be wearing dumb shoes in preheat,” Jeongguk says, voice maddeningly calm.

Namjoon wants to argue. But the pulse in his heel reminds him exactly what kind of night it’s been, and if he bends down right now, he might actually fall over. So instead he huffs, crouches slowly beside Jeongguk, and holds his palm out. “Give it.”

Jeongguk reluctantly hands him the patch and bandaid. He’s close now, their knees nearly touching. His scent brushes past Namjoon’s nose and trickles into his lungs, just enough to register as comfort. 

Namjoon peels off the sock slowly. It’s not as bad as it feels, but the blood is definitely there, the skin red and torn. He cleans it up with a bit of tissue from his coat pocket, applies the bandaid, then presses the heel patch gently against the inside of his sock.

It takes maybe two minutes. But it feels like Jeongguk watches the whole thing like he’s seeing an eclipse for the first time.

Namjoon finishes, yanks the sock back on, and stands with a wince. “You happy now?” he mutters, not looking at him.

“Yep!” Jeongguk stands too, quiet for a beat. “Just don’t want you limping home.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t limping.”

Jeongguk smiles, soft and infuriating. “Okay hyung, whatever you say.”

They continue to walk. Namjoon’s steps are uneven, but he refuses to show it. The streets are thinning now, the bars less packed, the air carrying more silence than sound. It should feel awkward, but Jeongguk walks beside him like he belongs there. 

He doesn’t talk much, just lets the rhythm of their steps fill the space. Namjoon’s used to people trying to fill silence like it’s shameful. Jeongguk lets him exist without guilt. 

When they reach the mouth of the subway station, Namjoon pauses. “I can take it from here.”

Jeongguk nods slowly. “Okay.”

Namjoon adjusts the strap of his bag. His scent patch is holding on by sheer will. His body’s humming with an ache he’s been trying not to hear. “Thanks for…” he stops, chews the word down. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “I wanted to.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Yeah fine.”

Jeongguk grins, then sobers again. His voice drops. “Get home safe, hyung.”

Namjoon looks at him for a second too long. The piercings, the stupid hair, the wolf-in-a-cardigan posture. The way he’s holding eye contact like Namjoon isn’t something to be figured out. 

Something in his chest itches. “Night,” he says, and disappears into the station without turning back.

Namjoon wakes up to a dry throat, a sore heel, and the existential dread that comes with realizing it’s not the weekend yet. His alarm reads 07:46, which is, generously speaking, five minutes past when he was supposed to get out of bed.

He considers dying then drags himself out, pads to the bathroom, and glares at his reflection.

The heel bandage is still holding, miraculously. His glands are not. He presses around the edge of his scent patch and winces. The adhesive’s given up and is now folding in on itself like a soggy fortune cookie.

New patch. He goes through the motions, shower, brushing, moisturize, spritz, swipe and stick. One, two, three seconds of pressure. No point in masking it fully; the scent blockers only work so much against biology. He’s already at the edge of his pre-heat cliff and tomorrow, he’ll probably dive headfirst into omega hysteria with a strawberry jelly in one hand and the company emergency contact form in the other. Fun.

His first meeting is with a client from the U.S. which means two things: someone will talk too loud into the call mic, and someone else will use the wrong terminology to confuse the rest. 

Namjoon keeps his camera off and his face blank. He doesn’t say much, just screenshares the API notes, walks them through the proposed framework, answers a question about UX and signs off with a nod.

“Thank you, Namjoon-ssi,” someone says. “That was incredibly clear.”

He gives a thin smile. “Sure.” 

By 10:30, he’s starving. There’s a half-cold bottle of water on his desk. He drinks it but fails to feel full. 

Eventually, he gives up, heads to the convenience store in the lobby, buys one triangle kimbap, and makes a slow walk back upstairs.

He heads to the balcony just outside the 14th-floor cafeteria. It’s where overworked engineers pretend to be main characters, nursing lukewarm coffee and existential dread while scrolling job listings with one thumb.

Namjoon just wants to eat in silence. He pulls the glass door open with his elbow, triangle kimbap tucked in hand, and steps out into the brisk wind. 

It smells like exhaust and burnt espresso and oh… Vape smoke.

He glances to find Jeongguk standing at the far end of the balcony, half-hidden behind one of the steel beams. He’s leaning against the railing with one leg bent, foot pressed to the metal, the vape pen in one hand, the other casually tucked into his hoodie pocket.

Jeongguk looks up. “Hyung,” he greets, smiling. 

Namjoon sighs and walks over. “Vaping before noon.”

Jeongguk shrugs, exhales a puff that smells like grapefruit and ice. “Helps me focus.”

“Helps you rot your lungs too.”

“Yeah. That too.”

Namjoon rests his forearms on the rail beside him. The October wind bites through his sleeves. “You’re going to live to be twenty-five and regret all this.”

“I already regret most things,” Jeongguk says cheerfully. “You’re not limping, though.”

Namjoon glares. “I’m fine.” 

“You always say that and you’re always hurting yourself somehow.” 

Namjoon narrows his eyes. “Are you just listing my issues now?”

“No it’s hard not to notice things about you,” Jeongguk says, deadpan.

What? Namjoon stares, dumbfounded. 

Jeongguk blinks. “Wait. That sounded creepy.”

“You think?”

Jeongguk laughs, scratching the back of his neck, head ducked. “I mean it in a respectful way. Not, like a stalker or anything.”

Namjoon takes a bite, chews softly and indulges the tiny bit of relief he feels.  

Jeongguk keeps his gaze forward. His ears are pink now, pierced cartilage shining in the cold sun. The wind tugs at the hem of his hoodie.

They stand there for another few seconds. Namjoon should leave. He’s got another meeting in fifteen minutes. But Jeongguk’s presence has this annoying effect, quiet and insistent, like a warm coat left on the back of your chair. He clears his throat. “Don’t smoke too much.” 

“I’ll—I won’t,” Jeongguk says, voice soft. 

Namjoon hides a smile and walks out. When he returns to his desk after the meeting. The room’s mostly empty, half the team’s offsite for testing, the rest pretending to be busy.

On his desk, though, is a new development. A small, neat stack of offerings: Three strawberry electrolyte jellies, his favourite brand. One protein bar and a small carton of coffee milk.

An unsuspecting neon yellow post-it, stuck to the top:
              for snacking :) — JK

The handwriting is unmistakable. 

Namjoon stares at it, then looks around the room instinctively. He picks up the electrolyte jelly. It’s still cold from the fridge, strawberry scent faint under the plastic.

He tears the top off with one hand and slides the edge between his lips. The jelly’s cool, sweet and annoyingly hydrating. 

Namjoon sucks the rest of it down, trying not to think about the fact that this is the third one he’s had this month with Jeongguk’s handwriting attached.

He folds it once, then again, fingers moving on autopilot. Then slides it into the top drawer of his desk, where the other ones already live. A quiet, pathetic little graveyard of good intentions. 

Namjoon’s lunch break is thirty minutes long, which is the corporate code for please inhale food and stress simultaneously.

The cafeteria’s half-empty, probably because the UX department had a team lunch and the devs live on protein shakes and nihilism. He takes his tray to the far end of the room, the corner table by the window where no one makes small talk unless it’s raining. 

Today, the sky is aggressively clear. Is that a bad omen?

He opens the heat service app. The screen is intentionally minimal, like it’s pretending not to be for sex. Neutral tones, vague fonts, no trace of the fact that most people use it to arrange bodily ruin and post-nut aftercare.

Namjoon’s already filtered the candidates, local, vetted, reviewed, STI-tested, scent-matched, knot duration logged. He scrolls past the first few until he lands on the ones he short-listed. 

1. Minhyuk, 28.

Personal trainer. Six-foot-two. CrossFit. Good reviews, one of them literally says “held eye contact the whole time” which Namjoon’s not sure is a kink thing or a challenge. 

His scent profile reads as “ocean breeze and sandalwood,” which feels suspiciously like every deodorant commercial ever made.

Namjoon stares at his profile photo which is mostly abs and a smirk. 

Caption: just here to help.

He swipes left. He’s not emotionally stable enough to be knotted by a Nike ad.

2. Sungcheol, 31.

Academic. Teaches comparative literature. Scent profile: “amber, old books, something green.” 

Probably overthinks missionary.

Namjoon scrolls through his info. A message preview says, Hope you’re hydrating today. 

Peak performative alpha. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes and swipes left again.

3. Sunghoon, 29.

Finance. Scent profile: cedar, ink, and cardamom. Every photo is him in a shirt. No mirror selfies, which is good but also could be a psychopath. 

Namjoon taps into his bio: “Prefer discreet arrangements. Experienced with high-intensity heats. Respectful, prompt, and communicative.”

Namjoon sighs. It’s not thrilling, but it is predictable. He hits “Request Match” and adds a message: Hey. I’d like to set something up for the weekend. No strings, just cycle support. I’ll send the location and schedule once confirmed.

It feels like drafting a work email. He re-reads it twice, then hits send. The confirmation screen pops up. He locks his phone, exhales through his nose, and tries to finish the lukewarm soup on his tray.

His phone vibrates less than a minute later.

Sunghoon: I could always change your mind 😉

Namjoon stares, lifts his phone again and types: Pls don’t.

Then he groans under his breath, swipes away the conversation, and closes the app. 

In the evening, the walk home isn’t long, but it’s just enough time to rehash every poor decision he’s made this week and feel bad about none of them. His heel’s only twinging now instead of stabbing. The scent patch is still intact. His glands feel like they’re glowing in but he’s upright, clothed, and not fever ridden. That counts for something. 

The sky’s pinking at the edges when he finally texts Jimin.

[Namjoon]

I messaged one of the alphas. 

It’s handled.

It takes all of eight seconds for Park Jimin to reply.

[Jimin 🍸]

Which one?? Please don’t say the gymbro again.

[Namjoon]

Some finance guy. Respectful. Clean. Probably soul-less. But he won’t talk about feelings so it’s perfect

[Jimin 🍸]

Good boy.

Do we still send you strawberry jelly in case of emergency?

[Namjoon]

I’ve got three.

Plus a protein bar and coffee milk.

[Jimin 🍸]

Jeongguk?

Namjoon doesn’t respond right away. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before giving up. 

[Namjoon]

…he left a post-it.

[Jimin 🍸]

I KNEW IT.

When are you going to let the poor guy dick you down. It’s getting painful to watch.

[Namjoon]

Goodbye.

He puts his phone away before Jimin can send a meme.

Up ahead, the lights of his apartment blink on one by one. The air is cold enough to bite but not enough to cut. He tugs his jacket tighter and tells himself he’s fine.

Which is technically true. He’s got a plan, three jelly packs, and a perfectly boring alpha on standby.

There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. 

Namjoon wakes up at 11:26, stares at the ceiling for five full minutes, and then does the adult thing: gives up.

The inside of his mouth tastes like an expired battery. His scent patch is half-peeled, his thighs are clammy, and the air in his apartment is heavy enough to chew. It’s not even his heat peak yet and he’s already losing the will to pretend it’s manageable. 

He brushes his teeth reluctantly and shoves himself into joggers and a hoodie. 

Outside, it’s aggressively sunny. The walk to the nearest 7/11 takes twelve minutes. He forgets earbuds, so now he’s just raw-dogging his thoughts while his glands throb quietly under his collar.

The store is half full with students, a mom wrangling two toddlers and a man comparing ramen labels. No one looks at him and that must mean his scent is under control for now. 

He sighs. First stop: drinks. 

He throws in three bottles of electrolyte water, a carton of banana milk, and one overpriced glass bottle labeled “Alkaline Infused Recovery Elixir” that he knows is a scam but takes it anyway.

Second: snacks.

Three protein bars. A bag of trail mix, some fancy jellies that claim to have collagen and B12 and “bio-friendly sugar,” whatever that means.

Then he stares blankly at the heat care shelf. It’s tucked behind the feminine hygiene aisle and he picks up one cooling pad, one box of scent wipes, and a heating patch for his back, because his spine always gives out by day two.

At the last second, he grabs a face mist from the beauty section. 

By the time he gets to checkout, his basket looks like the survival kit of someone trying very hard not to die horny in public.

The cashier asks, “Rough week?” and Namjoon smiles without moving his eyes. “The usual.”

He pays, bags everything in one go and heads out.

The sun hits him like an accusation. His hoodie’s too warm. His glands are screaming. His arms hurt from carrying one too many “recovery fluids.” But at least he has some collagen jelly. 

The nesting starts at 1:17 p.m., after Namjoon has finished half a banana, opened but not eaten the kimbap, and sat on his bed for ten full minutes staring at nothing.

Then, like something flips inside his brain, it begins. He starts vacuuming before building the nest, because his omega instincts apparently demand a dust-free battlefield. He drags the vacuum out from the hall closet and does slow, angry circles around his room. It’s not even that dirty. But the corners bother him. The smudge under his desk. The half-crushed leaf by the window that’s been there since September. He gets it all.

Then comes the nest. He strips the bed and yanks off the pillowcases, the fitted sheets fight back at some point but he wins, somehow. Every blanket he owns ends up in a heap on the floor. Weighted blanket, emergency heat throw, old childhood duvet that still smells like a detergent they don’t make anymore. He builds a crater, then gets in and decides it sucks.

He grabs his worn T-shirt from yesterday, the one he slept in, and buries it in the center. He fluffs a body pillow and lays it over and plops on it. “This is stupid,” he mutters, punching the corner into shape. It flops back in protest.

By the time it’s done, the room looks like he pictured it and it satisfies him a bit, if not entirely. 

He opens Spotify and plays his pre-heat playlist: four hours of ambient rain sounds with some Tibetan bowls mixed in for flavor. Track three hits and he gets inexplicably moody halfway through a thunderclap. He groans into his pillow. “No. Absolutely not.”

At 3:04 p.m., Namjoon gives up on trying to keep his image and sends the message.

Me: tomorrow works, right? just checking.

He stares at it for a second. Then locks his phone and tosses it onto the bed. 

The half-eaten protein bar beside him tastes like sawdust. He bites into it again anyway, chewing without interest, like he’s punishing himself for not choosing the peanut butter one.

Outside, it’s October gray, the kind of sky that makes you feel like you’re living inside a desktop background. Inside, his living room smells like dryer sheets and lemon disinfectant. The nest in the middle is still half-formed, lumpy blankets in a vague donut. 

He’d left the apartment door unlocked around noon. The rational part of his brain thinks it’s impractical, maybe borderline irresponsible.

But the part of him that’s already hot around the collar and too aware of his own glands, had whispered: what if you’re too tired later?

So now the door’s cracked open, and Namjoon’s lying across his half-made bed, staring at nothing, a protein bar abandoned on his chest.

At 3:28 p.m., he checks his phone. No reply yet. 

He opens Instagram, scrolls past three reels of omegas making aesthetic tea videos and one of an alpha doing push-ups shirtless on a rooftop. He closes the app with a grimace.

He walks to the kitchen, drinks lukewarm water from a mug that says “I survived another meeting that should’ve been an email.”

At 4:51 p.m., his phone buzzes.

Sunghoon: hey. had to fly out on a work trip. can’t make it. sorry.

Namjoon stares at the message and his jaw tenses. Of course he flaked. Finance bros have the moral compass of a rusted shopping cart. The kind that drifts diagonally through a parking lot and crashes into your car even when you parked far away on purpose.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t throw the phone either, though the temptation’s there, burning behind his ribs.

Instead, he exhales, slow and sharp through his nose, and stares at the ceiling anticipating his demise under silicone dildos. 

By 5:04 p.m., the group chat pings. He wasn’t going to say anything. But the alternative is bottling it up until he combusts and ends up sobbing into his towel during preheat cramps like last spring.

[Namjoon] 

he cancelled.

[Jimin 🍸]

WHAT

did he DIE???

[Namjoon]

unfortunately no.

[Hoseok 🍻]

want me to send a backup?

should i come over?

jimin can bring his knot 

[Namjoon]

NO

ARE YOU CRAZY

i’m fine. i’ll deal with it alone.

it’s not the first time

His thumb’s still hovering over the keyboard when the call comes from Jimin. Namjoon exhales a heavy breath and slides the accept button. 

“Hyung,” Jimin says as soon as the call connects. “Just listen, okay? Either Hoseok hyung or I can come over. We’ll help. It doesn’t have to be weird. I’ve helped so many omegas before.”

Namjoon groans and lets his head thunk back against the wall. “Yeah no, we’re not doing that.”

“Hyung—”

“Nope.” Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I know you and Hoseok just started dating—”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“—and I refuse to be your third-act character development. This isn’t an indie coming-of-age flick. I’m not riding your knot while holding Hoseokie’s hand to learn about the power of friendship.”

Jimin snorts. “Okay. Great visual. Thanks for that.” Then he pauses a second. “Fine, fair. But this isn’t about me and Hobi hyung. This is about you and we’re your friends. Friends help. It’s not a burden.”

“It is,” Namjoon says, more sharply than he means to. “It is a burden. It’s messy. It’s disgusting. I start sweating and crying and I beg too much. I get slick everywhere. And then there’s this moment, always, where the alpha just looks at me. Like they’re over it. Like I’m gross. Like I’m some fantasy they didn’t read the warning label for.”

The silence that follows is long enough to echo. Namjoon blinks hard at the ceiling. “I’ve done it alone before,” he says finally. “It’s harder, yeah. But I’ll be fine. I’ve got knotting dildos.”

Jimin’s voice returns, a little softer, a little gentler. “Okay. I hear you. But—hear me back. What about Jeongguk?”

Namjoon barks out a laugh so sharp it hurts his throat. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” Jimin says. “He likes you. You know that.”

“Exactly,” Namjoon snaps. “Jeongguk likes me. And I don’t want to ruin that by traumatising him. That poor kid would knot me once and pass out on top of me.” 

“He’s not a kid.”

“He’s twenty three with the attention span of a golden retriever and the emotional bandwidth of a damp paper towel.”

“Hyung—”

“Jimin-ah, what have I  told you  about younger alphas?”

“That they’re soft.”

“That they’re soft. That they’re untrained. That they see this—” Namjoon gestures vaguely at himself, “—as a fantasy. And Jeongguk’s the softest of them all. He’s got puppy eyes and he probably thinks knotting is something you do after a soft launch and a three-week situationship. You think he can handle me, mid-heat, asking to get railed hard enough to see God?”

Jimin exhales like he’s had this argument in his head already. “Probably.”

“Jimin—” 

“He’s still an alpha,” Jimin says, voice edged with something that almost sounds like reason. “A pup, sure. But still an alpha. He’s got a knot. Don’t forget that.”

Namjoon makes a face. “Wow, a perfect sales pitch. Real classy.”

“I’m just saying.” Jimin bites, “If you need someone, he’d do it.”

Namjoon rubs his face with one hand. “I won’t need someone. If anything happens, I’ll call you. You have my keycode anyway.”

“You better and hyung?”

“Mn?”

“Just… be a little kinder to yourself. You’re not broken. You just need care.”

Namjoon exhales, something jagged lodged in his throat. “Okay,” he says, and the call ends.

He turns toward the hallway, ready to collapse into his too-warm nest and pretend none of this happened when the door creaks open.

Namjoon’s breath vacuums out of his chest. There, standing in the doorway, plastic bag in one hand, the other raised in a sheepish wave is: Jeon Jeongguk.

Oh. Fantastic. Just when he thought the day was done.

Jeongguk looks like he ran the whole way here, hair pushed back with careless fingers, chest still rising too fast. There’s a disposable heat pack clutched in one hand and a thermos in the other like offerings. His eyes are wide and glassy in a way that makes him look freshly scolded, like someone kicked a puppy and then told him he couldn’t cry about it.

Namjoon bolts upright so fast his vision sparks white. “How—how long have you been standing there?”

Jeongguk winces immediately. “Uh… since ‘he’d knot once and pass out on top of me’?”

Namjoon makes a strangled noise and drops his face into his palms. “Fuck me.”

“Working on it,” Jeongguk mutters automatically, then visibly dies inside. “Wait—shit. I didn’t—”

Namjoon pointedly refuses to acknowledge that. He drags his hands down his face and exhales through his teeth. “Why are you here?”

“I just—” Jeongguk holds up the plastic bag like it explains everything. “I was gonna drop this off. Heat care pack,” he lifts the thermos, “—and I brought soup. I was gonna knock but the door was already open and then I heard you on the phone and you sounded…” He doesn’t finish that sentence.

Namjoon stares at him. “You thought breaking in and eavesdropping was a better option?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Jeongguk rushes to say. “But then you were talking about me. And I didn’t want to—I wasn’t trying to be weird. I’m sorry.”

The words drop like pins in the air. Namjoon says nothing for a long second. His heart is still racing from sitting up too quickly, from being overheard, from everything. Finally he settles on, “Come in,” and regrets it immediately.

The moment Jeongguk steps across the threshold, his scent rolls into the room like a warm hand at the back of Namjoon’s neck. It’s clean, intense, woodsmoke and salt and something sweet like lust curling under it. Comfort wrapped in danger. Instinct clicks in Namjoon’s spine like a trigger. He stiffens. 

“Wait,” Namjoon snaps, sharper than he means to. “Stay back.”

Jeongguk freezes mid-step. “Okay.”

“Don’t come closer.” Namjoon swallows. His mouth is dry. “Your scent is too—” He closes his eyes briefly. “Too much.”

“Got it.” Jeongguk crouches, sets the bag carefully by the shoe rack, hands up like he’s surrendering. “I’ll stay here.”

Namjoon breathes in through his nose and regrets it. His body reacts without permission, heat coiling low in his belly, shame following close behind. His omega wants to move toward Jeongguk’s scent, curl up in it, roll in it like a dog in fresh laundry. 

It's tempting but also utterly mortifying. 

He drags his tongue over his lower lip and mutters, “You’re so—you’re so stupid. Fuck.”

Jeongguk blinks. “What?”

Namjoon shakes his head, more at himself than Jeongguk. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says. It comes out rough, almost hoarse. “You should go.”

“If you want me to go, I’ll go, hyung.” Jeongguk says it easily but doesn’t move. “Do you want me to go?” 

Namjoon glares at the far wall like it asked to be blamed. “I do want you to go. Obviously.”

There’s a pause that feels unnecessarily heavy. 

“Okay.  Jeongguk says quietly. “Then I’ll leave.” He shifts barely, just a turn of his heel like he might be angling for the door and it’s enough.

Namjoon’s entire body reacts like a pulled wire snapping. “Wait,” he says, too sharp, too soon.

Jeongguk stops like he’s frozen, stilling like a deer half-stepped out onto the road.

Namjoon breathes out shakily, scrubs both hands through his hair like it’ll bleed the heat from under his skin. The blanket falls from one shoulder, and the scent he’s been fighting not to drown in curls around him even thicker now. It licks at his throat and hums between his legs. It’s sharp and heady and whatever Jeongguk smells like when he’s worried, all rounded edges.

“Don’t come closer.” He whispers almost like a plea. His spine pulses like it remembers what it means to fold. 

“I won’t,” Jeongguk says, voice small.

Namjoon stares at the floor. “But don’t leave. Not yet.”

There’s the faintest sound of breath catching.

Oh god. What is he doing? 

Jeongguk turns around enough that Namjoon can see his face now, open in a way Jeongguk usually hides, like something’s about to slip free. His eyes are too wide. “Okay. I won’t,” he says.

Namjoon swallows and nods once. Then gestures vaguely toward the edge of the room. “Sit. There.”

Jeongguk listens to it like a command. He crosses the room slowly, settling on the hardwood one full meter from the nest, legs folded underneath him. His hands stay glued to his knees, palms open like he’s praying or trying not to reach. 

“Namjoonie-hyung. You smell—you smell insanely good without your patch.”

Namjoon flinches like the words touch him. He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Jeongguk says, steady now. “I’ve known for a long time.”

Namjoon’s fingers dig into his shins. It’s too hot in the room. Jeongguk’s scent is too much and his body keeps pressing toward it like a tide.

He wants—God. He wants to roll over and present like he was made for it. He wants to feel teeth on his nape, wants to sob into Jeongguk’s shoulder with relief because he doesn’t have to think anymore. Because Jeongguk’s body smells like being taken care of. “I can’t think when you’re this close.”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says, and his restraint frays a little around the edges. “You’re making this so hard. I’m really trying not to lose it.”

“Don’t talk like that.” Namjoon doesn’t lift his head. “You don’t know what I’m like in heat.”

“I’ve imagined it,” Jeongguk says, and his voice doesn’t shake. “Every night. Every single night.”

Namjoon’s breath stumbles. His mouth falls open and stays there. 

“Hyung. I heard you…on the phone.” Jeongguk adds, voice thin. “I could—I can help you.”

Namjoon’s heart does a somersault. “What?” 

“Fucking you. I want to.” Jeongguk wets his lips and looks down at Namjoon’s feet. “I want to help. I want to… be inside you.” His jaw tightens. “I want to knot you.”

Namjoon makes a sound between a laugh and a groan. It comes from somewhere in his throat where disbelief sits.

His whole body is brimming with pre-heat. All hum and ache. Slick dampens the cotton of his stupid fancy panties and he’s hyper aware of it. He wants to tear them off and crawl into Jeongguk’s lap and sob from the relief of it. He wants to be selfish and folded in half and marked so thoroughly he forgets his name. He wants to give in. Instead, he says, “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”

Jeongguk blinks, visibly caught off-guard.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Namjoon adds, like that softens the blow. “You just wouldn’t. I’ve been with younger guys. You’d probably come in thirty seconds and fall asleep on top of me. Which, I guess, is the dream for most alphas.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tenses. His eyes drag down Namjoon’s body like he’s physically restraining himself from moving. His hands flex on his knees slowly. “I wouldn’t,” he says quietly.

Namjoon raises a brow. “No?”

“I can do it. I want to. I want—” Jeongguk cuts himself off, breath hitching, then tries again, softer, like it hurts to keep it in. “I want to help you through this.”

Namjoon hums under his breath. “Help,” he echoes, dry.

“However you need, however you want.” Jeongguk nods, rapid and deadly serious. “I can go slow. Or not. I can do whatever you want me to do.”

Namjoon drags his eyes over him. Jeongguk’s cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy and his knees are starting to shift, like he can’t keep still. He scoffs. 

“Do you even know what helping a heat-sick omega means?” Namjoon asks. “It’s not three knots and a nap.”

Jeongguk makes a helpless noise, soft and humiliated. His head drops, and he sways once, fingertips brushing against his knees like he’s searching for a tether. “I don’t,” he says, and it’s smaller this time. “But I’ll do it right. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”

Namjoon watches the way Jeongguk’s chest rises. How long he holds his breath before letting it out. 

“I swear I’ll be good. I just—I want to—” Jeongguk’s hands dig into the fabric of his own pants now, gripping at nothing. “I want to help you. I want to fuck you. Please let me. Please please please.”

His voice shakes on the last few syllables. His hands ball up in the fabric of his pants. His mouth is parted, breath shallow, so close to panting. He’s all puppy-dog desperation and alpha instinct cranked to the maximum.

The begging is pathetic but Namjoon knows he’s not too far from doing the same.

Namjoon stares at him and laughs under his breath, not harsh but almost fond. “Oh god,” he mutters. “You’re actually drooling.”

Jeongguk swallows and wipes at his mouth instinctively, flustered. His face is flushed down to his collarbones.

Namjoon studies him. The tremble in his hands. The shine in his eyes. His scent is going a little wild now, sweetening with arousal and high-wire tension. It’s fraying at the edges like he’s holding on by a weak thread. “If you knot me and then look at me like I’m pathetic when I’m begging,” he says, measuring his words, “I’m kicking you out.”

Jeongguk sucks in a breath so fast it stutters.

“You hear me?” Namjoon says, voice dipping now, curling low like smoke in the room. 

“I won’t.” Jeongguk nods too fast. “I swear.”

Namjoon snorts, like he doesn’t believe a word of it. But he leans back on his elbows anyway. Slowly, he spreads his knees and his voice softens, “lock the door.” 

Jeongguk scrambles, nearly falling, getting up. The sound of the lock clicking into place is louder than necessary, loud enough to thump in both their chests. “Yes, hyung.”

“Don’t call me hyung while you’re begging to fuck me.”

“Sorry hyung, s-sorry.”

Namjoon rubs a hand down his face. Everything in him is loud and aching. He’s still a little mad, still a lot undone. But Jeongguk’s scent is everywhere now, and he’s trembling with it, and he’s so stupidly sincere, and Namjoon is so, so tired of being alone in this.

He meets Jeongguk’s eyes, hums under his breath and says, “Come here.”

Jeongguk stumbles, drops to his knees like something gave out. He crawls forward, hands shaking, stopping at the edge of the nest like he’s afraid to cross without permission.

“God,” Namjoon murmurs, watching him. “Calm down, you're freaking me out.”

Jeongguk eases into the nest like he expects Namjoon to bolt. Slow and careful. Like if he makes himself less alpha about it, Namjoon won’t spook.

Namjoon doesn’t, he just watches him, spine high and nervous, hoodie hitched around his hips from where he’d curled into himself earlier.

There’s a full second where Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. He just breathes, tries to exist in the same space without sucking all the air out of it.

“Can I scent you?”

Namjoon’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t say yes, doesn’t nod either. Just drops his eyes to the blanket beneath them like he’s checking if it’ll catch him if he tips too far.

“Just your neck,” Jeongguk says quickly, softer now. “Just—only if you want.”

Namjoon’s fingers twitch in the blanket. Then, abruptly, he turns his face and tips his head the smallest fraction.

It’s barely an invitation.

Jeongguk’s breath catches so hard it almost sounds painful. He moves slowly, like he’s inching through fog. Hands to his own lap, posture hunched like he’s apologizing for asking in the first place. He leans in and rubs his nose under Namjoon’s jaw, breathes in and presses in again, lower this time, right over the gland.

Namjoon breathes out through his nose. “You’re worse than a dog.”

“You smell insane,” Jeongguk mumbles, voice a wreck already. He drags his mouth over Namjoon’s pulse. “Wanna bottle it. Sleep with it in my sheets.”

Namjoon snorts. “You sound like you already do.”

“Don’t need to.” Jeongguk presses in again, deeper. “You’re here.”

He licks the taste of him off the corner of his jaw, kisses it, small and dumb. Another one, closer to his cheek. One more. Soft and then again, this time to his mouth.

Namjoon doesn’t stop him. His lips part instantly, like his body clocked out two minutes ago and left instinct behind. 

Jeongguk kisses him slow and greedy, palm ghosting up the back of Namjoon’s neck like he’s afraid to grab. 

Namjoon licks into it then curses against it. “Fuck,” he mutters, breath hot, “your scent’s all over me now.”

“Good.” Jeongguk nips at his bottom lip. “Wanna put it everywhere.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re letting me.”

Namjoon kisses him again. It’s not gentle this time, more teeth and tongue. Like he’s pissed about how good it feels.

Jeongguk’s hands slide down the back of his hoodie. Fingertips splayed like he wants to map Namjoon’s whole body one inch at a time. Then lower, down his back.

“You’re seriously—” Namjoon starts, but Jeongguk slides both hands under his ass and lifts without warning. “Jeongguk—fuck.” He yelps, hands scrambling for balance. “Warn me next time!”

“I’ll give you a two-minute notice next time, promise,” Jeongguk pants, already settling him into his lap like he weighs nothing. “Holy shit.”

Namjoon’s thighs fold around him on instinct. Stiff at first, defensive. His hands land on Jeongguk’s shoulders.

“You’re lighter than you look,” Jeongguk says, grinning like it’s a compliment.

“I’ll suffocate you,” Namjoon snaps. “Put me down if your legs start shaking.”

“They’re not.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hyung.” Jeongguk tucks a lock of Namjoon’s hair behind his ear. 

“Mn.” Namjoon hums, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Jeongguk says, voice oozing honey. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t make an effort to climb off.

“The prettiest.” Jeongguk kisses him again. “God—your lips.” 

Namjoon lets him. Their mouths press wet and open, Jeongguk’s tongue dragging lazy across the seam of his lips before sliding in deeper.

Then Jeongguk’s hands slip up under the hoodie this time. His palms span over the curve of Namjoon’s spine, and Namjoon goes still.

“Gonna take this off,” Jeongguk murmurs against his mouth. “Okay?”

Namjoon huffs softly. “You’re asking now?”

“You’ll scold me if I don’t.”

“You listen?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

“You’re an alpha,” Namjoon says dryly, raising his arms. “You don’t know how.”

Jeongguk grins and peels the hoodie up slowly. The fabric drags across Namjoon’s belly, then his chest, then over his head, hair mussed.

It drops somewhere in the nest with a quiet thump. Namjoon’s breathing doesn’t drop with it.

Cool air hits skin already flushed. His nipples are tight from it. From everything.

Jeongguk stares. His mouth falls open. “Fuck, look at you.”

“Don’t start.”

“You’re—shit.” His hands hover, like he doesn’t know where to land them first. “Baby.”

Namjoon freezes. “Baby?” His brows knit together. “I’m your hyung.”

Jeongguk shakes his head, stubborn and strangely sincere. “You’re my baby.” His thumb comes up without thinking, swipes slowly across Namjoon’s bottom lip like he’s testing the word there. “Baby omega.”

This brat. Namjoon looks at him stunned. 

Jeongguk kisses his chest, right over his sternum, then lower, tilting his mouth to suck just beside one nipple. 

Namjoon jolts. “Jeongguk-ah—”

“You’re so sensitive here,” Jeongguk says, almost giddy. “Pretty color. S’like they’re asking to be kissed.”

“They’re not.”

“They are.” Jeongguk tongues over one nub and Namjoon shivers. “Wanna bite. Can I?”

“Jeongguk.”

“Just softly. Promise.”

He mouths over one nipple again, closes his lips and sucks. The wet pull makes Namjoon’s breath break open. His hips twitch before he can stop them.

“Fuck.”

“Good?” Jeongguk mumbles, trailing over to the other side. “Your nipples are so soft.”

“Stop narrating,” Namjoon groans. 

“You don’t like it?”

Namjoon huffs, bracing his hands on Jeongguk’s shoulders. “Do something or shut up.”

Jeongguk grins into him. He kisses down instead, a slow line from sternum to the dip of his abdomen, tongue flattening, dragging heat in its wake. He stops just above the waistband of Namjoon’s sweats and lingers and then traces back up, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be. “You wanna lie down?”

Namjoon snorts. “What do you think?”

Jeongguk shifts, tilts Namjoon back like he’s cradling something breakable and lays him gently into the nest. Blankets tangle under Namjoon’s spine. Jeongguk’s hands ghost over his waist.

“Gonna take these off you now.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “You get a prize every time you narrate your own actions?”

“You’re the prize,” Jeongguk says. 

There’s a long pause. 

“Just pull the pants off before I change my mind.” Namjoon snaps, heart beating an abnormal rhythm. 

“Yes baby.” 

Jeongguk hooks his fingers into the waistband. He slides them down slowly, dragging the fabric off Namjoon’s hips, baring him inch by inch.

The rest of the world goes quiet. Just the slide of cloth. Just the way Jeongguk looks at him, pupils blown wide.

Jeongguk spreads his own knees wider and draws Namjoon’s legs between them, settling him open without even thinking about it. His gaze moves downward and then stops completely.

His eyes track every inch of naked skin, slow and reverent and then they stop.

He’s staring and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. 

Namjoon shifts, plants one foot flat in the blanket and keeps the rest of himself open on principle. “You gonna stare forever?” he mutters.

Jeongguk’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. “You got it waxed?”

Namjoon’s eyes snap to his. “Jeongguk.”

“No—shit, sorry—” Jeongguk rubs a hand over his mouth, but keeps looking, still fixated on the lack of hair. “It’s just. It’s so—fuck.”

He groans, like the sight alone is punching the air from his lungs.

Namjoon’s ears burn hot. “It was practical. For the heat.” 

Is that bad? Namjoon doesn’t know how alphas think these days, he just knows the aestheticians said it was prettier, better for the glide.

Jeongguk’s voice drops into something heavier. “It’s fucking criminal.”

“Stop looking.”

“Never.”

“I swear to god—”

“Pretty,” Jeongguk breathes, almost like he forgot Namjoon was listening. “So fuckin’ pink here. And the slick—” His throat bobs. “It’s dripping, hyung. I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“Then maybe,” Namjoon snaps, stomach tightening, “try touching me, idiot.”

Jeongguk looks like he’s been given divine permission. His hands slide up Namjoon’s thighs like he’s worshipping at an altar. He palms over the crease where thigh meets hip, then traces in closer.

One thumb glides through the mess at the center. His jaw flexes hard. “You’re soaked,” he whispers, reverent.

Namjoon bites back a curse. His hips buck once, involuntary. “Get on with it.”

Jeongguk spreads Namjoon’s lips with both thumbs and groans. “God, you’re perfect.”

Namjoon whines, hips twitching. It’s too much, too open. “Don’t—don’t stare—”

Jeongguk doesn’t respond, he drops his head, opens his mouth and goes tongue first. 

One slow lick through the center, flat and heavy. Namjoon’s breath punches out of him like he’s been kicked in the diaphragm. 

“Fucking hell—”

Jeongguk groans into him, wrecked. His hands grip tighter around Namjoon’s thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh to spread him wider. He goes tongue back again, licking up everything he missed, tasting the slick that’s already pooling there.

Namjoon has been with alphas. Plenty of them. He knows the drill, the perfunctory foreplay, the way most of them treat this part like a chore they have to get through to stick their dick in. 

But Jeongguk is an eater.

“S’good,” Jeongguk mutters, lips pressed right up to Namjoon’s wet heat. The vibration of his voice against Namjoon’s clit is a dirty trick. “God, you taste—fuck, I could stay here forever.”

“You won’t,” Namjoon grits out, voice tight. He’s gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles ache. “You’ll get one go.”

Jeongguk hums, unbothered. He uses his nose to nudge Namjoon’s folds apart, inhaling the scent of him before his mouth closes over Namjoon’s clit. 

Namjoon chokes on air. It’s too much sensation, too soon. “Fuck, Jeongguk—fuck, you—”

“Say it again,” Jeongguk mumbles, lips dragging slick down Namjoon’s labia. He pulls his face back just an inch to look at the mess he’s made, chin shiny with it. “Wanna hear you say my name like that.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Please?”

Namjoon hisses through his teeth, fists curling into the nest. He’s a hypocrite, he loves this, loves how messy Jeongguk is getting for him. “Just—don’t stop.”

Jeongguk dives back in. He licks and sucks, tongues over the soft parts like they’re his favorite dessert and he doesn’t care who’s watching. He swirls his tongue around Namjoon’s clit, teasing the hood, before latching on again with a suction that makes Namjoon’s toes curl.

Namjoon makes the mistake of looking down, and his heart does a weird, painful flip in his chest.

Jeongguk is going at it like he’s angry at Namjoon’s cunt. His brows are drawn together in a deep, serious furrow, eyes narrowed into slits of pure concentration. His nose is scrunched tight against Namjoon’s mound, lips working furiously to lap up the sensitive skin.

It’s the exact same expression he makes when he’s shoving his favourite food. He looks furious, but Namjoon knows it means he’s enjoying it so much his brain can’t handle it.

It is so stupidly endearing Namjoon doesn’t know if he wants to cry or laugh.

Every time Namjoon twitches, Jeongguk groans louder into his cunt. Every time slick spills, Jeongguk chases it like it’s holy, lapping it up from Namjoon’s taint.

His hands never leave Namjoon’s thighs, just gripping tighter when Namjoon tries to twist away from the overstimulation, pinning him down like he can’t risk him leaving.

Namjoon’s head tips back, eyes rolling. He’s losing the plot. The friction of Jeongguk’s tongue against his clit is blinding. “Shit—shit, Jeongguk—”

“That’s it,” Jeongguk breathes against him, lips wet. “Want you to come on my tongue. Please. You can do it.”

“Fuck you—”

“I will,” Jeongguk says, cheek pressed to Namjoon’s inner thigh. “Come first.”

It hits sharp and sudden like his whole body decided to short-circuit at once.

He gasps a broken noise, legs jerking uncontrollably. His hips buck, grinding his face into Jeongguk’s mouth, and Jeongguk takes it all. He groans and mouths through it, licking up every twitch of it, every aftershock, drinking Namjoon down until there’s nothing left.

Jeongguk doesn’t stop.

Namjoon’s still twitching, oversensitive and breathing like he just ran a marathon, and Jeongguk is licking him like there’s no come-down. Like there’s no such thing as “enough.”

“Jeongguk-ah,” Namjoon warns, voice rough.

Jeongguk just hums. The vibration sinks right into Namjoon’s swollen clit and his back arches off the mattress. It’s instinct, he can’t help it.

“God, fuck—what are you—”

“I want more,” Jeongguk mumbles, licking slow up his folds. “Wasn’t done.”

Namjoon blinks hard at the ceiling. The aftershocks are still rolling through him. “You want—what? You already—”

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to look up at him. His chin is wet, his lips slick. His eyes are dark and too bright at once, high on Namjoon’s spend.

“I’m not full,” he says simply

Namjoon groans. “You’re an animal.”

“Yes. A dog.” Jeongguk smirks, dragging a finger through the mess he just made. “Woof woof.”

Namjoon glares, or tries to, but his legs are shaking too much for it to be effective. “Don’t get cute.”

“I’m not.” His thumb circles Namjoon’s clit again, lazily and Namjoon’s hips twitch. “I’m starving.”

“I’ve been thinking about this since the first time you looked at me like I’m a kid,” Jeongguk murmurs, eyes glued to where his fingers spread Namjoon open. “Thought about it during my workouts. At your desk. In the elevator. Wanted to put my mouth on you and see if you’d still look at me like that once you were dripping on my tongue.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon mutters, head dropping back against the blanket. His chest is rising and falling too fast.

“You still do,” Jeongguk adds, looking pleased. “Still glaring. You gonna tell me to stop?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer and that’s all the permission Jeongguk needs.

He dips back in with his mouth, but this time he brings a finger too. Lets it rest at Namjoon’s entrance, just pressing lightly, teasing the ring of muscle. He licks slow and steady, then pushes in, knuckle by knuckle.

Namjoon chokes. “Wait—”

Jeongguk moans around him, greedy. “So tight. Still so warm, fuck.”

His mouth stays busy, tongue working circles around Namjoon’s clit as his finger curls inside and moves. One slow drag along his walls. He pulls back just enough to whisper: “You can take more.”

Namjoon lets out a guttural sound, that’s half pain, half pleasure but mostly overwhelming. “Jeongguk—fuck, you’re—what are you doing—”

“Wanna make you come again.” Jeongguk’s voice is wet against him. “Wanna taste it this time. Feel it with my fingers, too. Let me, baby.”

Namjoon’s hips jerk, slick noises obscene in the quiet of the room. Jeongguk pushes in a second finger, gently, stretching Namjoon around the thickness, his thumb still circling outside.

Namjoon gasps, legs kicking once against the mattress. “Shit—Jeongguk, I’m—”

“You’re okay,” Jeongguk soothes, voice softer now, even as his mouth keeps working. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

His fingers curl inside, searching. He finds something, a spot that makes Namjoon’s hips jump and his breath catch, and Jeongguk smiles against his clit.

“There it is,” he whispers.

And then he doesn’t let up. His mouth and fingers move in sync, teasing and coaxing and pushing Namjoon right back to the edge again, like the first orgasm never happened.

Namjoon tries to hold on, but Jeongguk’s hand is heavy on his thigh, holding him open, and his fingers are relentless, and his tongue is sliding wet and perfect over every sensitive nerve and…well, he’s only human.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick up again. “C’mon, hyung. You’re already there. Wanna feel you break again. Let go.”

Namjoon’s hands scrabble for something to hold on to—Jeongguk’s hair, the blanket, his own chest. Something, anything. But it’s useless. Jeongguk crooks his fingers just right and Namjoon’s body gives out.

He comes with a broken, strangled sound, thighs squeezing around Jeongguk’s head. The pressure should hurt but Jeongguk groans like it’s his reward, mouth buried in Namjoon’s cunt, drinking him down.

Namjoon’s voice splits in half, high and cracked. “J-Jeongguk—fucking—fuck—”

His body seizes, convulsing in Jeongguk’s grip. His spine bows, his fists beat at the blankets. His eyes roll back and stay there, lips parted, panting and undone.

And then finally Jeongguk slows down. He licks the slick from Namjoon’s folds with long, broad strokes, cleaning him up like he’s licking the bowl. His fingers ease out with care, knuckles sliding against the stretched entrance, and the emptiness that follows feels colder than the air in the room.

Namjoon can’t speak. He can’t even move.

The room spins slowly, a lazy tilt. His vision pulses at the edges, white noise static in his ears. He feels the wet cooling between his legs, the throb of aftershocks deep in his bones, his toes still curled.

His whole body feels like a bell that’s been struck.

Jeongguk kisses up the inside of his thigh, breath warm and heavy on the sensitive skin. “You okay?”

Namjoon huffs something like a laugh. It barely makes it out of his throat.

“That’s not an answer,” Jeongguk murmurs, kissing again, higher this time, right over the pulse point in his groin. “Say something.”

Namjoon rolls his head to the side, eyes squinting open. Jeongguk is peering up at him from between his legs, lips pink and wet and looking incredibly pleased with himself. He looks like a cat that got the cream, if the cat was two hundred pounds of muscle.

“Fuck off,” Namjoon croaks.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop at one.” Jeongguk grins. 

Namjoon groans and throws an arm over his face. “I’m dizzy.”

“You came so hard, hyung,” Jeongguk says, like it’s the best accomplishment of his life. “Think you squirted a little.”

Namjoon moans louder into the crook of his elbow. “Stop talking.”

“It’s all over the nest. And me.”

“Jeongguk.”

“It’s salty.”

Namjoon kicks him weakly. It connects with Jeongguk’s shoulder, but Jeongguk just catches his foot and kisses the ankle.

“Okay okay.” Jeongguk crawls up beside him, sliding a hand over Namjoon’s belly, rubbing gentle circles. “Who would’ve thought I’d get to see Kim Namjoon like this, all flushed and sweet and full of slick.”

“Jeongguk,” Namjoon warns, voice hoarse. “Don’t push it.”

Jeongguk just hums, brushing a kiss to his temple. “Okay. I’ll behave.”

Namjoon peeks out from under his arm, glaring without heat. “You promise?”

Jeongguk leans in close, nose bumping Namjoon’s cheek. “No.”

Namjoon, traitor that he is, laughs, breathless and wrecked. 

Jeongguk beams. His mouth is still against Namjoon’s collarbone, one hand braced against the ground, the other curled just beneath Namjoon’s ribs.

Namjoon’s thighs are still trembling. He tries to settle them flat but they’re doing their own thing, jerking spasmodically.

Jeongguk notices. He holds Namjoon steadier, thumbs pressing into the soft meat of his thighs like he’s checking for aftershocks.

Namjoon watches him through the blur. His eyes are sore, a little damp. He can’t tell if it’s from crying or if he just forgot to blink for the last ten minutes.

Jeongguk sits back on his haunches. He grabs the hem of his hoodie and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it blindly behind him.

Namjoon swallows dryly. He knows Jeongguk works out, obviously, everyone knows, but seeing it up close like this is different. His chest is broad, abs defined in the dim light, muscles shifting under golden skin. It’s intimidating. It makes Namjoon feel a little embarrassed to be the one sprawled out and messy beneath him.

Jeongguk breathes hard through his nose, hand resting on the dip of Namjoon’s tummy. He then toes off his sweatpants and grabs a roll of condoms from the heat care pack he bought. He doesn’t bother with grace, just kicks them into a pile with his briefs and shoves them aside with his foot.

And, well.

Namjoon has to look away when Jeongguk unrolls the condom onto his cock. He stares at the peeling wallpaper in the corner of the room because looking at Jeongguk right now feels dangerous. It’s heavy. That’s the first thing Namjoon registers in his periphery before he turns his head; it looks heavy and angry and ridiculous.

He knows they’re doing this. He agreed to this. But seeing Jeongguk fully bare, seeing the reality of what’s supposed to fit inside him, makes his brain stutter.

“Can I?” Jeongguk starts, but his voice cuts off.

Namjoon tilts his head to meet him. “What?”

Jeongguk doesn’t finish the question, just exhales sharply and moves down to press a kiss above Namjoon’s navel. Then another lower, right over the spot where his stomach pulls in.

His mouth stays there for a second. His breath is hot and uneven. Namjoon can feel the hesitation, nerves and something worse.

Jeongguk lifts his face. “Do you want to stop?”

Namjoon looks at him. His legs are bent and open and sore. He’s already been fingered open twice and came harder than he has in months. Jeongguk is asking now, not before. Not in the middle of things. Not with fingers inside him or a mouth on his chest. Just like this, after everything.

Namjoon lets his head lull to the side. “Don’t make me say it.”

Jeongguk swears under his breath. His hand spreads over Namjoon’s stomach like he wants to steady it. “Okay,” he says. Then again, quieter, “Okay.”

He shifts closer. Namjoon feels the weight of him between his legs.

The first drag of Jeongguk’s cock is too hot, too slick. It nudges up over Namjoon’s hole and slips up his perineum instead. They both pause.

“Sorry—” Jeongguk mumbles.

“You’re bad at this,” Namjoon just exhales again, then reaches down and parts himself.

The air touches where it shouldn’t and his skin prickles. His fingers are trembling a little. He watches Jeongguk reach down to guide it and, wow.

 “Fuck.”

It slips out. He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Jeongguk lines up again. The head presses down. Namjoon isn’t looking anymore—staring at the ceiling—but he feels the hesitation in Jeongguk’s grip first and then the pressure. 

The stretch makes him squeeze his eyes shut. It’s not sharp, but it’s wide. Wider than he’s ever felt. His breath hitches and Jeongguk freezes like a statue.

“Too much?”

Namjoon shakes his head, jaw clenched. “‘s fine.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move. “I can—” he says, and Namjoon cuts in.

“Just go slow.”

His own voice startles him.

Jeongguk nods. He looks like he’s defusing a bomb. He pushes in.

It hurts. It definitely hurts. Namjoon feels the burn of his ring of muscle protesting and then giving up, stretching to accommodate the intrusion. It’s unfair, he thinks bitterly. Jeongguk gets to feel good and warm and tight, and Namjoon has to feel like he’s being split in half.

He wants to complain, maybe tell him to stop for a second, but then he opens his eyes and sees Jeongguk’s face. 

Jeongguk is watching him with terrifying intensity. His lip is bitten red, sweat dripping from his temple, and the veins in his neck are cording. He looks like he’s holding back a flood, like every instinct in his alpha brain is screaming at him to ram it in, to snap his hips and bury himself to the hilt, but he’s freezing himself in place just for Namjoon.

He looks so eager it’s pathetic.

Namjoon sighs and swallows the whine in his throat. He can take it. “You can move,” he whispers.

Jeongguk breathes, a ragged sound, and obeys. He sinks the rest of the way in. It feels like he’s parking a car inside Namjoon’s body. 

Namjoon’s breath punches out of him. He’s dizzy. The stretch is constant now, a dull roar in his lower back.

“You’re—” Jeongguk starts, but gives up on words.

He pulls back. The movement is cautious, testing the friction, then he pushes in again.

Namjoon flinches. His hips try to scoot back and Jeongguk stops dead.

“Baby?”

“I said it’s okay.”

“You’re shaking.”

Namjoon flexes his hands against the sheets of the nest. “It’s fine.”

Jeongguk doesn’t argue. He nods, and moves again, a little faster.

Namjoon exhales through his nose. His body is catching up, realizing that yes, this is happening, and yes, it wants this. He feels stretched around the base, the pressure insistent.

The second thrust hits something deep and Namjoon’s throat tightens.

“Fuck.” Jeongguk mutters.

Namjoon feels his thighs relax, just a fraction. The sheets are a mess beneath them, twisted and damp. He’s slicking again—thank god—but it still aches.

Jeongguk lowers himself, elbows planted on either side of Namjoon’s head. He kisses Namjoon’s cheek. It’s not romantic, it’s grounding.

“Let me know—if you want—”

“Just keep going,” Namjoon groans. “Please.”

So he does.

It’s slow at first, deeper with each thrust. Namjoon adjusts gradually in small shifts, breath held, then released until the stretch becomes pressure and the pressure becomes heat.

He doesn’t know when he starts making noise. Quiet, pathetic sounds. 

Jeongguk kisses the side of his face, then the corner of his mouth. Then deeper, when Namjoon tilts his head.

It’s not desperate anymore, something open-mouthed and grounding. Their sweat mixes. Their chests brush. Jeongguk presses down more, nudging Namjoon’s legs up over his waist, and the angle makes Namjoon gasp.

“Here?”

He nods, eyes shut tight. He reaches up and buries a hand in Jeongguk’s hair to pull him back in. Their mouths meet again, this time messy. 

Namjoon breathes through it somehow, lets his body settle around the pressure and heat. It’s not painful, but there’s no mistaking how big he is. 

It’s also different inside. Jeongguk’s cock has more weight behind it, more fullness, the kind that makes it hard to breathe for a second when it curves deeper.

Namjoon blinks, realizes his fingers have gone from curled to clenched, gripping the fabric like it’s a rope. He relaxes them one at a time. 

“You’re doing good,” Jeongguk whispers, like he’s afraid to break the silence. His voice is hoarse. “Does it hurt?”

Namjoon shakes his head slowly. What’s the point in trying to hold it in? He gives up and nods. 

“It’s a lot,” he says, because that’s the truth. 

Jeongguk leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek and then again, under his jaw. He pulls back a little and rocks forward, just an inch, like he’s testing whether Namjoon will stop him.

Namjoon lets it in, gasping softly when his walls squeeze tighter on instinct. 

Jeongguk groans above him. “Fuck. You’re so tight.”

“Yeah, well,” Namjoon says, his voice thinner than expected. He licks his lips. “You’re not exactly small.”

That makes Jeongguk smile. He presses their foreheads together and pushes the rest of the way in. 

When their hips finally meet, Namjoon exhales like he’s been holding it for minutes. His cunt clenches reflexively around the thickness inside him and Jeongguk shudders.

Sweat drips from Jeongguk’s nose onto Namjoon’s collarbone, mixing with the sheen already there. Jeongguk presses down, and nudges Namjoon’s legs higher, hooking them over his own arms. The angle forces Namjoon’s hips up, exposing him entirely.

Namjoon gasps, his arms coming up to cover his eyes. 

It’s too much.

“Hyung, look at me,” Jeongguk demands. He sounds breathless, but happy. 

“No,” Namjoon grunts. He keeps his arm there. If he looks at Jeongguk’s big, shining eyes right now, he’s going to combust.

Jeongguk doesn’t listen. He snaps his hips forward, a rough thrust that isn’t gentle in the slightest. It knocks an embarrassing, high-pitched noise out of Namjoon’s throat and his arms fall away from his face.

“There you are,” Jeongguk grins, sweat-damp bangs falling in his eyes. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room.

It burns, but god, it makes Namjoon’s toes curl. He feels stuffed, Jeongguk’s girth stretching him open until he feels like a hollowed-out shell. 

Jeongguk isn’t being careful anymore, he’s fucking into Namjoon like he’s trying to imprint himself on Namjoon’s insides.

“You’re so warm inside,” Jeongguk praises, panting. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane.” 

Namjoon’s face burns hotter than where he’s being stretched thin. “Shut up,” he hisses. “Just—focus.”

“I am. I’m focusing on how gorgeous you look when you’re taking my cock.”

It’s pathetic how earnest he is. Younger alphas are usually a nuisance, all posturing and scent-flaring, but Jeongguk is just a puppy with big paws and no idea how to use them. Except, well, he knows how to use some parts.

“Jeongguk-ah,” Namjoon warns, but it lacks heat because Jeongguk hits that spot, and Namjoon’s hips buck off the mattress to meet him.

“See? You like it,” Jeongguk beams. “Tell me you like it, hyung. Does it feel good?”

Namjoon bites his lip so hard it might bleed. He refuses to say it. He just nods jerkily, squeezing his eyes shut again.

Jeongguk seems satisfied with that. He growls, a low rumble in his chest that vibrates against Namjoon’s sternum, and picks up the pace. 

Namjoon tries to keep his face neutral, tries to maintain some semblance of dignity, but Jeongguk keeps kissing his jaw, his neck, murmuring hyung, baby, baby against his skin, and Namjoon cracks. He wraps his legs around Jeongguk’s waist, pulling him closer.

That must do something. 

Jeongguk’s movements stutter and then turn frantic. “I’m gonna, I can’t—”

Jeongguk buries his face in Namjoon’s neck and shakes apart. He pulses hard, once, twice, and Namjoon feels the hot flood of it coating his insides, painting his walls. 

It’s overwhelming, and Namjoon arches his back, riding out the aftershocks.

And then he feels it. The pressure shifts, a thick stretch low at his entrance. It stretches the rim of his hole to an impossible width.

“Wait,” Namjoon chokes out. “Fuck.”

“I can’t—I think I’m—” Jeongguk looks stricken. “I’m gonna knot. Should I pull out? I can try to pull out.”

He shifts, trying to withdraw, and the friction drags against Namjoon’s oversensitive flesh, threatening to tear.

“No!” Namjoon shouts, clutching Jeongguk’s back. “Don’t.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Jeongguk whimpers. “I can knot when—”

“Just… shut up and do it,” Namjoon breathes. “Knot me. Before I kick you off.”

Jeongguk swallows. “Okay. Okay.”

Namjoon’s heart is thudding too loud to hear anything else. It keeps growing, slowly. Inch by inch. 

Jeongguk groans, locks his arms beside Namjoon’s shoulders and sinks deeper. And when it pops in with a blunt stretch, Namjoon’s brain goes white.

His mouth parts but no sound comes out. There’s no word for this, no shape to it, just a flood of sensation that blanks him completely. 

And then, finally, the aftershock. The slow ripple of something easing loose in his chest, followed by a strange, aching stillness.

The second condom wrapper is somewhere on the floor, or maybe under the bed. Namjoon doesn’t know. He lost track of physics and object permanence about two orgasms ago.

He doesn’t know how long the stillness lasts.

It feels like seconds, maybe minutes, or perhaps hours have bled together into one long, hazy stretch of time. The air in the room has turned thick, syrupy with the scent of slick and burnt sugar—the heavy, intoxicating smell of his distress and his heat finally crashing down. 

The weight of Jeongguk over him, the stretch inside him, everything is heavy and slow, the edges of his vision soft like watercolor bleeding on damp paper. His chest rises in shallow breaths, mouth parted, a string of drool wetting the pillowcase.

Jeongguk shifts his hips slightly, sliding out momentarily. 

Namjoon doesn’t mean to whine, but he does. It’s a high, pathetic sound that slips out before he can catch himself. 

“I know I know,” Jeongguk soothes, kissing Namjoon once behind the ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The knot doesn’t catch anymore. It seems to have deflated. He thinks Jeongguk’s voice says something low. He doesn’t catch it. He’s not really hearing things clearly anymore. Maybe the heat has set in completely. 

What he feels is Jeongguk pulling back just enough to let his cock move. 

Namjoon gasps. The air sticks in his lungs like honey.

“Still with me?” Jeongguk murmurs, voice rough.

Namjoon swallows and nods. He’s trying to keep his body from tensing up again, but the friction is raw now. Every pulse of movement makes his arms shake. 

And then Jeongguk pulls out just far enough that Namjoon feels the tip catch at his entrance, thick and straining. Then his hands slide under his thighs, and the next thing he knows, he’s being maneuvered. Gentle enough to make Namjoon feel like he’s malleable. 

Namjoon’s shoulders hit the sheets, briefly, before Jeongguk guides him onto his side, then up and on his front so he’s on his hands and knees. 

His cheek presses into the nest, the fabric warm against his flushed skin. His legs spread wider automatically, ass in the air, exposed, and he knows he’s dripping, a mess of fluids running down his thighs.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk breathes from behind him. “Look at you.”

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t look.”

“I have to. You’re… wow.” Jeongguk’s hand lands on his lower back, pushing down. “Arch for me? Just a bit.”

Namjoon shudders, the curve of his spine deepens and his hips lift. 

He feels Jeongguk shift behind him and the next second, Jeongguk’s hands land on Namjoon’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. 

Jeongguk grips Namjoon’s hips and slams him back onto his cock so hard it jars Namjoon’s teeth.

“Ah—!” Namjoon cries out, his head throwing back.

Stars burst behind Namjoon’s eyelids, white and blinding. His mouth opens in a silent scream, his arms buckling under him until his chest hits the mattress. It’s too deep, hitting a spot inside him that feels like Jeongguk is rearranging his guts.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk groans above him. 

“Too—too deep,” Namjoon gasps into the sheets.

“Good deep?” Jeongguk asks. 

Namjoon nods, too fast. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“Fucking hell. You’re a vision, hyung,” Jeongguk’s voice borders on a growl. “Swallowing me so good, fuck.”

Jeongguk slams into him with a rhythm that is entirely instinct. 

Namjoon is reeling. The heat makes everything sensitive and needy all at once. Every time Jeongguk bottoms out inside him, a jolt of pleasure zips up his spine, making his toes curl.

“You like that?” Jeongguk pants. He leans down, biting the sensitive skin of Namjoon’s shoulder. “You like having my cock in your tummy?”

“Shut up,” Namjoon whines, but he pushes back. He can’t help it, his body betrays him, craving the fullness.

“My pretty hyung,” Jeongguk groans. He pulls almost all the way out and then slams back in, harder than before. “So honest down here.”

Namjoon keens from sensory overload.

Jeongguk sets a rhythm that is punishingly good. He grips Namjoon’s hips like handles, steering him into every thrust.  

“Do you like it?” Jeongguk asks. He reaches under Namjoon’s stomach to stroke the flat plane of his belly, right where his cock is bumping against the inside wall. “I can feel me in there. Can you feel me?”

“Yes,” Namjoon sobs. “Yes, yes.”

His legs are shaking again, thighs twitching under the weight. His cunt clenches down hard and Jeongguk curses. 

“Don’t do that—” Jeongguk says through his teeth. “I’ll come, I’ll—fuck, I’ll knot again—”

A knot sounds fantastic. “Knot, gimme knot,” Namjoon bites out, throat dry.

Jeongguk swears again. He thrusts again deeper and that’s when Namjoon feels it bump right against his cervix. 

Something inside him snaps.

His heat slams into him like a sucker punch. Namjoon gasps, head lifting sharply from the blankets. “Fuck—fuck, Gguk—”

Jeongguk sounds panicked. “What? What is it—did I hurt you—”

“You—” Namjoon pants. His voice breaks on the end of it. “I feel like you’re in my throat—fuck.”

“Oh my god,” he breathes, hips locking up tight. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Namjoon’s orgasm hits him so suddenly, he feels like he’s floating.  

Jeongguk’s name leaves his mouth over and over, more slur than a word. He doesn’t even know he’s crying until his cheek sticks wet to the blanket beneath him. His hips jerk, and his body goes taut, then limp.

“Joon,” Jeongguk whispers like he’s barely holding back. “Baby—baby, I’m—I’m coming, I’m—”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence.

His cock rams him and then locks in so tight Namjoon feels like he’s going to break open. The swell slams right up against his cervix, sealing him full, and Jeongguk spills.

Namjoon moans like it’s being punched out of him. His cunt pulses around it all. 

The first knot was thick. This one’s hungrier and Jeongguk forces him to feel every pulse, his forehead pressed to Namjoon’s back. 

Namjoon whines weakly and reaches back blindly.

Jeongguk grabs his hand and laces their fingers tight.

Namjoon presses his forehead to the blankets and shuts his eyes.

Their hands are still tangled. Namjoon’s body feels like it’s gone liquid, like there’s nothing solid in him anymore but the ghost of the knot Jeongguk just spent twenty minutes pressing into his spine. His cunt is still clenching helplessly around the memory of it, his thighs twitching with aftershocks. He’s not even sure he could lift his head if he wanted to.

Jeongguk exhales shakily, wired with something unspoken and tries to pull out. 

Namjoon feels the slide of it, the way the pressure recedes, and panic claws at his throat.

Don’t go. Please don’t go.

He wants to say it. The words are right there on his tongue. Knot me again. Don’t leave me empty. But he bites down on his lip until it tastes like iron. He remembers the last alpha, the heavy sigh, the way he was told he’s too much, too needy, it’s over, stop clinging.

So he stays quiet. He lets the sob catch in his chest, a wet, humiliating hitch of breath.

The drag of it is torture. His cock slides slowly, catching at the entrance, and Namjoon makes a broken noise. It feels like he’s being hollowed out.

He expects Jeongguk to stop. To roll away, wipe himself off, and maybe to say he needs a breather because surely, surely he’s done.

He doesn’t.

Instead Jeongguk shifts behind him, pulls out all the way with a wet, pop that makes Namjoon’s toes curl, but he doesn’t move away.

He flips Namjoon over.

“Wait—wha—” Namjoon slurs, limbs flailing weakly.

Jeongguk handles him like he weighs nothing. Big palms grip Namjoon’s waist, maneuvering him until Namjoon is on his back, splayed open on the soaked sheets.

Namjoon blinks up at him, dazed. The world is soft around the edges.

“Look at me,” Jeongguk whispers, voice gutted. “Please, Hyung, baby, look at me.”

Namjoon tries. His eyelids feel weighted with lead but he forces them open.

Jeongguk is hovering over him, and his eyes look ravenous. His chest is heaving, pupils blown so wide they swallow the iris.

But it’s his cock that catches Namjoon’s attention. It’s bobbing in the air between them, red and still terrifyingly hard.

Namjoon’s brain short-circuits. It’s been hours. They’ve done this, how many times? Three? Four? Five? Namjoon has lost count of the knots, lost count of the orgasms, but Jeongguk looks like he’s just getting started.

“You’re still…” Namjoon breathes, staring at it.

Jeongguk follows his gaze, then looks back at Namjoon’s face, eyes wild. “I can’t—I’m sorry, hyung, I can’t go down. I look at you and it just—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “Can we…” He swallows hard, looking at Namjoon like he’s terrified of the answer. “Can I go again? I want to but—”

Namjoon stares at him.

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He spent the last minute terrified he was too much, and here is Jeongguk, begging for scraps.

“But?”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk says, voice strained. “We’re out.”

Namjoon blinks, trying to focus. “Out?”

“Condoms. There’s… there’s none left.”

Namjoon follows Jeongguk’s gaze to the floor. It’s a graveyard of foil wrappers. Silver and gold glinting under the dim light, a dozen of them—no—maybe more, scattered like confetti around the nest.

God. How long have they been doing this?

Jeongguk looks back at him, and he looks pained. His hips twitch toward Namjoon’s cunt, but he holds himself back. His cock is leaking, a clear drop of pre-cum pearling at the tip.

“I want to,” Jeongguk whispers, sounding like he’s confessing a sin. “I want to go again so bad, but I can’t—I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t I’m so sorry but I—”

He’s hesitating. He’s actually hesitating, trembling with the effort of not taking what’s right in front of him because of Namjoon, because he needed to hear it from Namjoon. 

Namjoon looks at the pile of wrappers, then at Jeongguk, who is shaking apart at the seams.

He wants the heat. He wants the skin.

“Do it without,” Namjoon says. His voice is a croak, but the words are clear.

Jeongguk freezes. “What?”

“Just do it,” Namjoon begs, hips lifting off the mattress. “I don’t care. Put it in.”

Jeongguk’s eyes go round, shock warring with delight. “Really? You’re sure? I’m gonna—I’m gonna fill you up for real.”

Why does he have to phrase it like that? Namjoon swallows and nods, too embarrassed to look Jeongguk in his eyes. 

Jeongguk doesn’t need to be told twice.

He hooks Namjoon’s legs over his hips, dragging him down the mattress until they’re chest to chest, and then drives back in.

It’s different.

It’s hotter, wetter. The sensation of skin on skin is electric, searing Namjoon’s insides in a way the condoms never allowed.

His cunt seizes around the intrusion, but it yields. It knows this shape. It wants this shape.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk gasps, burying his face in Namjoon’s neck. “You feel—god, so much better. You’re still so tight. How are you still so tight?”

“‘Cause of you,” Namjoon babbles, delirious. “You—you’re too big, s’too much—”

“Good,” Jeongguk groans. “You’re perfect.”

He starts to fuck him, and it’s frantic. It’s not about pleasure anymore.

Namjoon is gone. He’s just a sensation, a live wire shorting out. He clings to Jeongguk’s shoulders, sobbing wet, nonsensical things.

“Knot,” Namjoon chokes out, the fear replaced by a blinding need. “Gguk-ah, knot. Knot me.”

“I will,” Jeongguk pants against his skin. “I will. I want to plug you up so bad.”

He pulls back almost all the way and slams harder.

Namjoon feels the shift instantly. The base of Jeongguk’s cock flares, that familiar, heavy pressure building at the entrance.

“There,” Jeongguk hisses. “There, feel that?”

“Yes,” Namjoon sobs. “Yes, yes.”

Namjoon comes with him, dry-heaving through the orgasm because he has nothing left to give but the spasms of his own exhausted body.

They stay like that for a long time, Jeongguk twitching inside him and Namjoon floating in the haze.

“Thank you.” Jeongguk kisses his temple, barely holding it together. “Thank you for letting me do it again.” 

Namjoon blinks, staring at the ceiling through wet lashes. His body is wrecked, his hole is stretched around a knot the size of a fist, and this kid is thanking him.

“You…” Namjoon breathes, but the words fail him. How is this kid real? “You’re an idiot.”

Jeongguk just nuzzles his neck, happy. “I know.”

Namjoon must black out between bathroom breaks and hydration and being mounted.

There’s a stretch of blank in between and when he stirs again, the light in the room has changed. It’s not the bruised purple of dawn anymore; it’s the golden slice of noon cutting through the gap in the curtains.

Jeongguk is still inside him and his mouth is latched lazily around one of Namjoon’s nipples. 

Namjoon makes a sound, a croaky hoarse thing. 

Jeongguk lifts his head. He looks… unfair. His hair is a mess, but his skin is glowing like he’s just come back from a light jog, not a fourteen-hour marathon sex.

“Hi,” Jeongguk whispers. He looks delighted that Namjoon is awake. “Thirsty?”

Namjoon tries to answer, but his tongue feels like sandpaper. He nods weakly.

Jeongguk shifts, and god, the drag of it. He’s still hard. How is he still hard? It’s been hours. It’s been a day. Goddamn monster.

“Here.” Jeongguk brings the straw to Namjoon’s lips. 

Namjoon drinks greedily, water spilling down his chin. Jeongguk catches the spill with his thumb, wiping over Namjoon’s bottom lip.

“Good boy,” Jeongguk praises. 

He puts the bottle away and his hand instantly goes to Namjoon’s hip, squeezing the bruised flesh.

“One more,” Jeongguk whispers then. “One more knot, hyung. Please.”

Namjoon tries to say wait, tries to say enough, but his thighs twitch in reflex. His chest is flushed and oversensitive. It shouldn’t feel good anymore; he should be raw, he should be done but his body betrays him. 

It keeps happening like that. 

He wakes up later on his stomach, face mushed into the pillow. The room is quiet except for the wet, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick of skin meeting skin.

Jeongguk is fucking him.

He’s bent over Namjoon, one hand braced on the small of Namjoon’s back, the other holding Namjoon’s thigh open. He’s moving fast, and it feels ravenous.

Namjoon moans. His cunt clenches without meaning to. It aches but the friction is blinding. 

Jeongguk feels huge, stretching him open like he’s trying to wear Namjoon like a second skin.

“You feel so good—fuck,” Jeongguk breathes, voice shot. He doesn’t sound human anymore. “So fucking—so warm inside.” 

Namjoon groans. It barely escapes his throat. His legs kick weakly, but Jeongguk only pushes deeper. 

“You’re okay,” he says, panting against Namjoon’s nape. “Still with me. Just relax—let me—yeah, that’s it. Let me have you.”

Namjoon wants to say stop, wants to say I’m tired, but the words dissolve into a keen when Jeongguk hits that spot that makes his vision white out.

Another time, maybe minutes later, maybe hours, he's not even sure anymore. He’s half-curled in Jeongguk’s lap, arms wrapped up around Jeongguk’s neck and bouncing. 

Jeongguk is feeding him an energy jelly pouch, squeezing it into Namjoon’s mouth between deep thrusts.

“Eat,” Jeongguk murmurs. “You need the sugar.”

Namjoon swallows, choking a little and kisses back when Jeongguk leans in, sloppy and open mouthed.

“Fuck—you’re so pretty—hyung, I can’t stop—” Jeongguk pants against his lips, frantic. “Let me give you everything—want you full of me—always, always—”

“You’re so—oh fuck—you’re crazy,” Namjoon slurs against Jeongguk’s mouth, clawing at him. 

“I can’t stop—I'm sorry,” Jeongguk groans. He bucks his hips, forcing a deeper angle and Namjoon screams into the kiss.

The heat usually feels like a chore, a sickness he has to sweat out alone in the dark. With Jeongguk, it feels like drowning in warm honey.

Then it’s dark again.

At some point, he feels hands under his thighs, then behind his knees. The nest shifts around him as Jeongguk lifts and moves him, setting him down gently.

When he comes to, he’s empty. He whines, reaching out blindly.

“I’m here,” Jeongguk’s voice comes from the foot of the nest. “I’m here, baby. Look.”

Namjoon cracks one eye open.

Jeongguk is between his legs. His hair is a bird’s nest, he looks like he’s been hit by a truck, but somehow he’s smiling. He presses a kiss to Namjoon’s knee, then the inside of his thigh.

Namjoon twitches when he feels breath against his cunt. “Wait—” he croaks. “Jeongguk-ah, it’s… it’s a mess.”

“It’s my mess,” Jeongguk says simply.

He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers stroke over Namjoon’s folds like he’s memorizing them. His tongue dips in, lapping through the mess, and Namjoon cries out softly.

He doesn’t even remember being unknotted. He just knows it’s starting again.

Time folds in blurry repetitions of touch. 

Namjoon had a theory. A cute, patronizing little theory that Jeongguk—sweet, round-eyed Jeongguk who blushes when their hands brush—would last exactly two rounds. Maybe three if he drank Gatorade.

He’d thought he was doing charity work, really. He’d figured the kid would knot him once or thrice, maybe cry from the intensity of the heat pheromones, and then pass out for twelve hours like a good little puppy.

Now, with his face pressed into the mattress and his ass in the air, while Jeongguk’s hips snap against him with the force of a pile driver, Namjoon realizes he is a fucking idiot.

Another knot from behind, Namjoon’s knees are under him this time. Jeongguk’s weight covers him fully, teeth scraping over his shoulder.

“Fuck!” Namjoon sobs into the pillows. He tries to kick back, a weak, snippy protest. Get off. Enough! 

But his body is traitorous; his hips push back to meet the thrust instead. He’s so overstimulated he doesn’t even know if he’s coming or crying. 

“Baby—baby hyung. Look how well you suck me in,” Jeongguk groans, sounding heat drunk. “I’m gonna keep going. You want that, don’t you? Tell me I can.”

Namjoon can’t. He wants to tell Jeongguk to shut up, wants to tell him he’s a monster, but his lips form nothing.

He wakes up again sometime in the evening. The room is darker now, all the gold washed away.

Namjoon blinks, gritty-eyed. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck. Surely, Jeongguk is tired now. The kid has to have his limits, right?

He looks down. His legs are still spread open, one bent, the other over Jeongguk’s broad shoulder. Jeongguk is on his knees, fucking him like he’s trying to mold Namjoon’s insides.

Fucking hell. 

Namjoon lets out a high, frustrated whine. He’s so done. 

“You’re awake,” Jeongguk whispers, dragging his cock out and pounding into him deep. “You’re so soft baby—so—ung—warm.” 

He presses Namjoon open, thumbing the folds apart to watch the stretch in fascination. Namjoon moans, too tired to resist, too fucked-out to care. 

He feels like a ragdoll, limp and used. 

The heat blooms again and he’s mounted with another knot. Namjoon doesn’t remember how many they’ve had now, doesn’t want to know. He just tilts his head back and accepts his fate.

Nuisance. Absolute nuisance.

He thought he’d be the one begging. Instead, he’s the one praying for a water break while Jeongguk looks like he’s just getting started.

His last memory before the dark is Jeongguk’s teeth grazing a nipple, whispering into his skin with a bottomless hunger. “Please let me—let me…once more.”

Namjoon wakes up like he’s been hit by a truck or dragged under it. Or—no, that’s too generous—hit by the truck, then knotted by it multiple times.

The ceiling is too white. He blinks at it a few times, then tries to shift and immediately regrets being alive.

Everything hurts. His hips, his thighs, the base of his spine, his knees and his jaw. What the hell did he do with his jaw? It clicks when he opens it. 

His nest is obliterated. What once was a carefully layered haven of worn shirts, soft throw blankets, and one extremely overpriced scent diffuser is now the aftermath of clean sheets, rolled-up towels, and—oh—Jeongguk’s hoodie.

Right.

He exhales, which is mostly a groan, and drapes the blanket over his chest. Nothing about this feels dignified.

When he finally turns his head, Jeongguk is sitting shirtless on the edge of the nest like some dreamy prince, chest marked in scratches that Namjoon definitely does not remember inflicting. 

His smile is shy and innocent, like they held hands for the first time. Like they shared a chaste kiss behind a middle school.

“Good morning,” Jeongguk says, soft and hopeful.

Namjoon stares then closes his eyes again.

“Are you okay?” Jeongguk adds, a little more cautious now.

Namjoon sighs, deep from the pit of his ruined stomach. “I think I saw God.”

“Oh,” Jeongguk says, visibly flustered. “I—uh—was it a good experience? Like spiritually, or…?”

Namjoon lifts one arm and rests it dramatically across his eyes. “Don’t say spiritually.”

There’s a beat of silence. Jeongguk scratches the back of his neck.

Namjoon lifts the blanket and peers down at his own legs, as if he can assess the internal damage just by looking. “Jeongguk.”

“Yeah?”

“How the fuck can you knot ten times in a row?” He turns his head and looks at him properly now. “Are you okay? Like is something wrong with your dick? Do you need to see a doctor?”

Jeongguk bites his lip and tries not to look proud, but fails anyway. “It was twelve, actually.”

Namjoon almost blacks out. “Twelve,” he repeats, deadpan.

Jeongguk nods. “Yeah. And then I took a break to, um…” He gestures vaguely at Namjoon, his inner thighs and the absolute wreckage of it. “You know. Yeah.”

Namjoon just stares. A vein in his temple pulses with an oncoming headache. “You used me as a cum dump during my heat and now you can’t even say the word pussy?”

“I—I didn’t mean it like that,” Jeongguk flusters. “It was just, I was overwhelmed. You were—” He cuts himself off and rubs his palms on his thighs. “Really soft. Really pretty.” 

Namjoon drops his arm back over his eyes. “You are a child.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Don’t argue.”

Namjoon hears the nest shift, soft cotton rustling as he moves closer.

“I brought you water,” Jeongguk says. “And a banana. For potassium. You said once that post-heat nutrients matter.”

Namjoon lifts the blanket again. “Do I look like I can hold a banana right now?”

Jeongguk nods solemnly. “I can feed you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Silence stretches awkwardly. 

Namjoon closes his eyes again, letting himself exist in the quiet. His body still feels occupied, carved out in the shape of Jeongguk’s hands. 

He should’ve kicked Jeongguk out. That was the whole plan. Heats are heats. You pre-vet your partner, set the rules, get what you need, and return to your life. That’s the whole thing.

No strings, no sleepovers, no bananas and sitting at the edge of the bed like a hopeful golden retriever.

Namjoon had a rule. No younger alphas. They’re too soft, too eager, too loud, too careless and bright eyed. Too much and too little of the frontal lobe. 

He had one rule. Just one. Don’t get looked at like this, like you’re breakable and brilliant and somehow beloved, all at once.

The problem is: he made those rules when he was lonely and they worked. They worked perfectly.

He looks again and Jeongguk’s still staring at him, looking like he’s about to say something he’s not sure he’s allowed to.

“What?” Namjoon finally says, dry as his mouth.

Jeongguk fidgets, then blurts, “So, um… can I take you out on a date?”

Namjoon blinks, then laughs once, humorless. “A date?” he echoes.

Jeongguk looks like he might actually melt. “I mean, only if you want to…I—”

“Jeongguk. There’s a ninety percent chance I’m pregnant. A very high chance you bred me last night. I need an after pill or three. What the hell do you mean, a date?”

Jeongguk winces a little, but doesn’t back down. “I mean—yeah. But I’d want to take you on a date even if you weren’t.”

“You’re out of your mind if you—”

“I like you.” Jeongguk cuts him off. 

Of course. Namjoon groans and covers his face again. “You’re so young.”

“I’m not,” Jeongguk says, earnest. “I mean—okay, maybe to you. But I know what I want.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond.

Jeongguk shifts on the nest, closer now. He says it softer this time, more afraid. “I really like you, hyung. I think it’s way past liking now if I’m being honest.”

“I know,” Namjoon says.

Jeongguk shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at Namjoon. “You know?”

“Jeongguk-ah.” Namjoon peels his eyes open to look at him. “You ‘accidentally’ buy two of that weird canned latte I like every morning and leave one on my desk before I get in. You bought me that limited edition miffy keychain and claimed you ‘found it on sale.’ And you stare at my ass in the reflection of the breakroom window every time I bend over to get water.”

Jeongguk turns a violent shade of pink. “I do not.”

“I think the entire office knows,” Namjoon says dryly. “Jimin and Hoseok bet on how long it’ll take for me to give in.”

“Oh.” Jeongguk looks mortified, then shyly pleased. “So… you don’t hate me?”

This kid is smart, he knows how to get Namjoon to fess up. Namjoon sighs. “Stop that. I know what you’re doing.”

“But you don’t hate me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then say it,” Jeongguk insists, moving closer. “Please, hyung. I really like you. You’re kind of… it for me.”

“It,” Namjoon repeats, not moving.

“I mean, yeah. I—” Jeongguk scratches his neck. “Ever since I saw you the first time. You just… You’re so smart, and so good at everything, and you never let anyone push you around. I always thought… if I could just prove I was good enough, maybe you’d look at me.”

“I did look at you.”

Jeongguk smiles, a little crooked. “Not like this.”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He feels that one settle under his ribs like an anchor.

It should be terrifying.

It should make him laugh.

It should make him shut it all down, gently, the way he always does when someone wants too much.

But instead, it just lands in a part of him that’s been cold for a long time. Somewhere inside where he’s spent too long building fences, setting boundaries, telling himself you don’t get that, you don’t need that, you know better.

Namjoon’s not romantic. He’s practical. If something hurts, you avoid it. If something cracks you open, you build around it.

But maybe that’s not living. Maybe that’s just surviving in a straight line.

Maybe Jeongguk is the chance he said he’d never take, and now it’s already too late not to.

“You’re twenty-three and I’m thirty,” Namjoon points out. It’s a weak defense. 

“I’m turning twenty-four in September.”

“You’re a baby.”

“I knotted you twelve times, hyung.”

Namjoon groans and covers his face with his hands. “Shut up. Go to sleep.”

“No, look at me.” Jeongguk pulls Namjoon’s hands away. His grip is firm. “Age is just a number. It’s stupid. You liked it. You liked me inside you. I know.”

“Jeongguk.”

“Say it. Tell me I did good. Tell me I can take care of you.”

Namjoon stares at him. The kid is relentless. “You’re annoying.”

“Please, hyung. Let me date you properly. I’ll be good.” Jeongguk’s voice softens. “Please? Let me have you. I promise I won’t mess it up. Even if I do, I’ll always make it right. I’ll wait until you’re ready for the knot next time.”

“Next time?” Namjoon scoffs, but his heart does a weird, fluttery thing in his chest.

“Please?” Jeongguk repeats, insistent. “Please, Namjoon-hyung? Don’t make me beg.”

“You’re already begging.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk admits shamelessly. “I am. Please.”

Namjoon doesn’t speak.

He just looks at him.

Jeongguk, with his dumb puppy dog eyes and his open heart. The same kid who used to take notes during orientation and say thank you after every session. The same kid who held his hand too gently when he was shaking through the end of his first build fail. The same kid who ripped him apart last night and is now asking for permission to stay.

It’s so stupid. It’s so real.

It’s so much warmer than the cold logic Namjoon’s lived by for years.

Namjoon sighs, long and defeated.

“Please,” Jeongguk adds. 

“Stop begging,” he mutters and looks away. “Fine. Yes. You win.” 

The change is instantaneous.

Jeongguk’s face drops the act. The soft demeanour evaporates, and his eyes go wolfish dark and ravenous in a heartbeat. 

“What’s with the crazy eyes?” Namjoon asks, his hackles rising. He starts to scoot back. “No. Wait. Stay there. I’m sore. Don’t you dare—Jeon Jeongg—”

His protest gets muffled by Jeongguk’s mouth crashing into his. 

Jeongguk kisses him hard. It’s not sweet at all, it’s  teeth and tongue and a hand gripping the back of Namjoon’s neck to keep him still.

Namjoon tries to push him away, but his hands betray him. They dig into Jeongguk’s shoulders, pulling him closer instead. A million alarms go off in his head but Jeongguk’s tongue swipes against his and he melts. 

He kisses back, messy and desperate, his body wanting the heat even if his mind is trying to protest.

He should’ve known.

He thinks about the tiny snacks Jeongguk used to leave on his desk. The post-its. The little chocolates. The coffees. 

Namjoon could never bring himself to throw them away. They’re still in the top drawer of his desk, buried under his pens.

He’s been keeping them. He’s been keeping him this whole time.

Nuisance to his heart. What a fucking idiot.

Maybe Namjoon’s always been this stupid. Maybe he’s always liked him too.