Archive of Our Own

The door slams behind Jeongguk as he steps into the empty apartment.

It’s quiet, no running shower, no music bleeding through cheap speakers. The place smells faintly like laundry detergent and whatever fruity candle Jimin insists on lighting. Jeongguk’s roommate is supposed to be out of town, and Jeongguk hates how relieved that makes him.

It’s not like he hates the guy. Jeongguk isn’t a hater. He can be civil. He can even be friendly when he tries. But Jimin has this way of getting under his skin without doing anything that’s technically wrong.

Like the showers. Jimin takes forever—steam creeping under the bathroom door for ages, the mirror always fogged when Jeongguk finally gets in. It’s made him late for dates more than once, and the worst part is that Jimin always looks so innocent when Jeongguk complains, blinking up at him like he can’t possibly understand how time works.

And the clothes. Or, more specifically, the lack of them. The short shorts, the soft shirts that hang off his shoulders like they’re trying to fall. Jeongguk isn’t a prude. He’s not even always covered up himself. But he also doesn’t need to walk into his kitchen at midnight to see his roommate’s bare thighs and—unfortunately—asscheek when Jimin bends to pick something up.

So yeah. Jeongguk doesn’t hate him. He just… doesn’t know what to do with him. And he’s glad—ridiculously glad—to have the apartment to himself for once.

He kicks off his shoes and drops his bag by the wall, already imagining a night of uninterrupted peace: his own music, his own food, the bathroom free whenever he wants it. Then his gaze catches on a familiar pair of sneakers by the door.

Jimin’s.

Jeongguk pauses, frowning. Maybe the dude forgot them in the rush. Maybe he bought new ones. Whatever. He doesn’t overthink it.

He heads for the kitchen anyway, fingers already reaching for the fridge handle—until a sound cuts through the silence.

A soft, rhythmic noise. Not quite music. Not quite a TV. Something muffled, almost like… a distant buzzing.

Jeongguk freezes.

For a stupid second his brain offers up the most random explanations. A cat? No—he definitely doesn’t remember bringing a cat home. An appliance? The fridge? But it’s coming from down the hall.

The noise continues, steady and persistent, and irritation sparks in his chest. Of course. Jimin must’ve left something on. A speaker, a stupid gadget, something. Jeongguk can already picture the electricity bill.

Then he notices Jimin’s bedroom door.

It’s not shut.

It’s cracked open just enough to let a thin line of warm light spill out onto the carpet.

Jeongguk’s irritation flares, familiar and easy. “Did that fucking bastard leave his TV on?” he mutters, striding toward the door as if he has every right to storm in and turn it off.

And as he pushes the door open, he’s met with a sight he’ll never forget.

There’s Jimin—very much not out of town—sprawled on his bed, lit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Naked. Bare skin against rumpled sheets, flushed with his hair sticking to his face.

And Jeongguk’s brain, traitorous and stupid, catalogues everything in a single awful heartbeat: the slick sound he wasn’t supposed to hear, the way Jimin’s chest heaves, the tense line of his stomach—and the vibrator in his hand, buzzing with a muffled, relentless whirr.

“What the—fuck.” The words tear out of Jeongguk before he can swallow them down.

Jimin jolts like he’s been shocked. His head snaps toward the door, eyes blown wide and unfocused for half a second as the realisation hits him. The toy slips from his fingers, hits the mattress, and tumbles to the floor with a soft thud, still humming like it’s eager to betray him.

“Jeongguk!” Jimin’s voice breaks on the name. “What the fuck are you doing—get out!”

Jeongguk should move. He should slam the door. He should evaporate.

Instead he stands there like an idiot, rooted to the spot, staring. His pulse is a drum in his ears; his mouth has gone dry. He’s aware—vaguely, uselessly—of Jimin scrambling for the blanket, of the fabric twisting around him as he yanks it up to his chest like it can erase what’s already been seen.

“I—” Jeongguk’s throat locks. He tries again, voice catching. “I thought you were out.”

“I don’t care!” Jimin’s face is bright red now, furious and mortified all at once. His fingers clutch the blanket so hard his knuckles pale. The vibrator keeps buzzing on the floor between them, obscene and ridiculous, like a metronome counting down the seconds until this gets even worse. “Get out of my room!”

Jeongguk finally remembers how legs work.

“Shit—sorry. I’m sorry.” It comes out in a rush, half-choked. He stumbles backward, fumbles the door like it’s suddenly too heavy, and all but bolts into the hallway.

The door slams.

Jeongguk presses his back against it, breathing like he ran a mile. His hands fly to his hair, gripping hard enough to sting.

Fuck. What the fuck was that.

Why is Jimin home? Why was he—

No. Don’t think it. Too late; the image has already burned itself behind Jeongguk’s eyelids, sharp and humiliatingly vivid. His stomach flips, hot and sick. He tries to focus on literally anything else—the wallpaper, the distant hum of the fridge, the way his lungs refuse to settle—but his body is already betraying him, heat pooling low in his gut.

How is he supposed to face Jimin after this? With this imagine stuck in his head. The imagine of his roommate fucking himself with a vibrator. No. He’s not going to think about it. He’ll forget this ever happened.

He swallows hard, forcing the lie down like medicine.

It’s fine. He’ll act normal. He’ll pretend it didn’t matter.

He’ll pretend he doesn’t feel himself getting hard—because he’s not gay, and what he saw definitely didn’t turn him on. He’ll pretend it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

~

It’s not fine. Nothing is fine.

Jeongguk lies on his bed staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. His chest still feels tight, like he’s holding his breath even now. Every time he blinks, the scene replays in humiliating, crystal-clear fragments: the warm lamp-light on bare skin, the muffled buzz, Jimin’s sharp inhale when Jeongguk spoke. The thud of the toy hitting the floor. The way Jimin’s voice cracked on his name.

Jeongguk drags a hand over his face and squeezes his eyes shut, as if pressure could erase memory. It doesn’t. The image sits behind his eyelids, stubborn and vivid, and his body keeps reacting like it has a mind of its own. Heat coils low in his stomach, unwanted and dizzying. He swallows hard and tries to think of anything else—laundry, grocery lists, the electricity bill—anything that isn’t the sound Jimin made.

Last night, after he’d stumbled out into the hall and slammed the door, he’d fully intended to grab his keys and disappear. A friend’s couch. A motel. The street. Anywhere but here.

But he couldn’t move.

He’d locked himself in his room like a coward, the doorknob cold under his palm, listening to the apartment settle back into silence. At some point—maybe an hour later—soft footsteps padded down the hall. Jimin, probably. Jeongguk heard the hesitant pause outside his door, the quiet shuffle like Jimin was arguing with themself.

Then, muffled through the wood: “Jeongguk… it’s fine.”

A beat.

“Just—forget it ever happened, okay?”

Jeongguk hadn’t answered. He’d stood there holding his breath, spine pressed to the door, heart hammering like it was trying to break out of his ribs. A moment later, the footsteps retreated.

Now it’s the next day, and forgetting is impossible. Jeongguk can barely breathe around the memory, can barely look at the hallway without feeling that sick, hot twist in his gut.

And the worst part—the part that makes his stomach drop even further—is that Jimin is acting like it really is fine. Like nothing happened at all.

He stirs his tea like he has all the time in the world, spoon clinking softly against the mug. The radio murmurs some easy, upbeat melody in the background—one of those songs that’s meant to make mornings feel lighter. Jeongguk can’t even tell what it is. It could be the national anthem for all he cares. His attention keeps snagging on Jimin’s hands instead: long fingers, relaxed grip, the casual way he brings the cup to his mouth as if nothing in this apartment has changed.

Jeongguk stands a few feet away, his hand has been on the handle for too long. The kitchen smells like citrus dish soap and the cheap vanilla candle Jimin insists makes the apartment “homey.” Jeongguk’s stomach twists anyway, because none of this should feel normal.

Jimin is acting normal.

Like Jeongguk didn’t see him yesterday—skin flushed, thighs spread, that buzzing sound that still won’t leave Jeongguk’s head. Like Jeongguk didn’t stand frozen in the doorway, staring like an absolute creep. Like the word Jeongguk didn’t break in Jimin’s throat.

Maybe this is Jimin’s way of pretending. Maybe if Jimin plays it off hard enough, the whole thing will evaporate.

It doesn’t.

Jeongguk’s mind keeps snagging on stupid details: the way Jimin’s fingers look around the spoon, slim and delicate; the soft curve of his mouth when he hums; the little sigh he lets out after a sip, eyes half-lidded like he’s genuinely comfortable.

He forces his fingers to finally move, yanking the fridge open just to have something to do. Cold air hits his face. He stares at the shelves without seeing them.

“So,” Jimin says, voice light—too light—as if he’s making small talk with a classmate instead of the guy who accidentally walked in on him masturbating. He takes another sip, the mug hiding half his face for a second. “What are you doing today?”

Jeongguk’s head snaps up. Sweetly? Jimin—sweet?

They barely talk. When they do, it’s about rent, the mess in the sink, and the goddamn showers that always run too long. Jeongguk’s mouth is used to forming complaints around Jimin’s name, not… whatever this is.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens.

Don’t think about yesterday. Don’t think about the toy. Don’t think about the sound.

His brain immediately does all three.

“I—” Jeongguk clears his throat, mortified by how thin his voice comes out. He grabs the nearest thing—an apple from the fruit bowl—just to keep his hands busy. His fingers dig into the skin a little too hard. “I have a few classes. Then soccer practice?”

It comes out like a question, like he’s asking Jimin for permission to have a routine.

Jimin hums, eyes on the window. Outside, the street is gray and wet, droplets sliding down the glass. Jimin’s reflection is faint in it—soft expression, relaxed posture. Like a person who hasn’t been ruined by embarrassment.

“Hm. Fun,” Jimin says, and there’s something almost careful about it, like he’s choosing each word to be harmless. Like he’s giving Jeongguk an easy out.

Then Jimin just… turns back to his tea, stirring again. The spoon taps, taps, taps—a steady little rhythm that makes Jeongguk’s nerves itch.

Jeongguk can’t tell which part is worse: that Jimin is pretending, or that Jeongguk is the only one falling apart.

Because Jeongguk isn’t used to this.

He isn’t used to Jimin speaking softly instead of snapping back. He isn’t used to the quiet between them feeling loaded, like there are words hovering in the air that neither of them can touch.

And he definitely isn’t used to the way his mind keeps drifting, traitorous, back to the bedroom doorway—back to warm light on skin—back to the sound that still pulses in his memory like it’s coming from the walls.

The most they ever spoke was about the long showers Jimin took, with Jeongguk throwing curses like they were shields.

Now Jimin is being polite.

Now Jeongguk can’t stop thinking about him.

He bites into the apple too hard. The crunch is loud in the quiet kitchen. He swallows, jaw tight, and tells himself—again—that this doesn’t mean anything.

It has to stop meaning something.

~

He gets home hours later with sweat dried cold on the back of his neck and the taste of cheap beer still clinging to his tongue.

Practice had been brutal, but Taehyung had been worse, all elbows and grins, dragging him to a bar like Jeongguk couldn’t say no even when he tried. Jeongguk barely drinks—usually he hates the way it loosens his thoughts, the way it makes everything feel too loud and too close—but tonight he’d let it happen. Tonight he’d needed something to drown out the memory.

It’s 1 a.m, the hallway outside their apartment wobbles a little, the floor tilting under his sneakers as he fumbles with his keys. He gets the door open on the second try and slips inside, shoving it closed with his shoulder. The lock clicks, sharp in the quiet.

It’s dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through the blinds.

He doesn’t see Jimin.

But he knows Jimin is home.

It’s stupid, the kind of certainty that has no proof, only instinct; the same way you know when someone’s staring at you even before you turn around. Jeongguk hates that he can tell.

He kicks his shoes off crookedly, one heel catching on the rug, and lurches to the couch. The cushions swallow him when he falls back, a soft whump that sounds too loud in the empty room.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring up at the ceiling like it might spin into something else.

The alcohol was a bad idea. It makes him dizzy, yes, but worse—it makes him honest. It brings everything he’s been trying not to think about creeping back in through the cracks.

That night.

Jimin on the bed. Naked skin flushed under warm light. The startled look on his face when he saw Jeongguk. The way Jimin said his name.

And the vibrator. The damn buzzing that had filled the room wont leave his mind.

Jeongguk swallows, throat dry. He tells himself again that it didn’t mean anything. That bodies do weird things. That his own body is reacting to shock, to embarrassment, to… anything but want.

He doesn’t like Jimin.

He doesn’t like men.

So why does his hand drift lower anyway, heavy and slow as if the alcohol is pulling it down? Why does his palm settle over the front of his jeans, feeling the heat there, the uncomfortable, unmistakable throb that’s been haunting him for days?

His fingers hook at the waistband of his boxers.

He exhales shakily.

But then he hears it.

A muffled, familiar buzz—soft at first. Jeongguk freezes so hard it’s like his spine locks into place. His hand stops mid-motion, heartbeat stuttering.

No.

There’s no way.

His head turns toward the hallway without him deciding to move. Jimin’s door is closed, but the sound slips under it anyway, persistent, obscene in its steadiness.

Jeongguk sits up straighter, the room tilting again, his hard-on forgotten for half a second under the wash of shock.

Jimin must’ve heard him come in.

If Jimin heard him come in, why—

The buzzing continues.

And then, faintly, a sound that makes Jeongguk’s stomach drop.

A breathy little moan—cut off, swallowed, like Jimin is trying to be quiet and failing.

Jeongguk doesn’t move. He can’t. He just listens, every muscle strung tight, because his brain is short-circuiting and his body is betraying him all over again.

Another sound—higher this time. A soft whimper that punches straight through Jeongguk’s chest.

He realises he’s holding his breath. He realises he’s choosing to hold it, like if he’s silent enough he can steal the noises without being caught.

Why is he listening?

If someone put a gun to his head he still couldn’t tell you.

“Mhmm—please—” Jimin’s voice drifts through the door, broken and needy, and something in Jeongguk snaps.

The thought of stopping—of standing up and walking away and being a decent person—flickers and dies in the same instant.

His hand slides under his boxers, palms his already-hard cock, and he squeezes once, breath shuddering out of him as he stares at Jimin’s door like it’s the only thing holding him upright.

Jeongguk’s breath catches the moment the sound slips under the door again. He slowly strokes his cock getting into the feeling as he continues listening to Jimin who’s getting louder by the second. He can hear his moans loud and clear now, and that turns him on even more.

A stifled whine breaks through, and Jeongguk’s stomach twists with something hot and sick.

Stop.

His mind throws the word up like a warning sign. His body doesn’t listen.

He knows its wrong, he knows he shouldn’t do it, but when he hears Jimin’s broken whine he just squeezes his cock and lets his mind wander to places, lets himself think about those noises being for *him.*

And then he feels it before he hears it.

“Fuck- Jeongguk” Jimin moans. He moans his fucking name. He completely stills his movements and sits up in utter disbelief. Did he hear it right? Is his mind playing with him now? He stares at the door, waiting for reality to correct itself.

It doesn’t.

Another breath, another helpless sound, and again clearer this time, unmistakable.

“Jeongguk please-” He can’t fucking believe this. He grabs his fully hard cock now pumping it so fast his arm starts to strain. He couldn’t care less about that now.

Jimin just fucking moaned his name.

His own name on Jimin’s lips shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t make his whole body respond like a struck match. It shouldn’t make his thoughts turn ugly with want, turning into images he doesn’t let himself have in daylight.

He’s so turned on he’s going crazy. He’s never felt like this, stroking his cock to a man’s moans. Jeongguk’s completely lost it.

He thumbs at the head collecting pre cum making the slide easier when all he can imagine is fucking Jimin. He should just go to his room. Fuck him dumb and make him cry, like he’s crying out for him now.

He presses his knuckles to his mouth to keep from making a sound, to keep from giving himself away, and his whole body trembles with the effort of staying silent.

“Ah- Gukk please fuck me” Jimin whimpers. He fucking whimpers and Jeongguk is losing his mind.

His name again ruined, messy, real.

And Jeongguk, half drunk and fully unraveling, realizes he’s never wanted anything the way he wants to open that door and also never been more terrified of what would happen if he did.

His self control is hanging by a thread, and he’s going to do something he’ll regret forever, he can feel it building in him, a reckless, inevitable forward lean toward that door.

But then his body turns traitor all at once.

His breath stutters and then breaks completely as he comes so hard it steals the air from his lungs. It hits him in uncontrollable bursts, hot and humiliating, splattering his stomach.

His whole body locks and trembles, for a second he can’t even move, can’t even think just squeezes himself and rides it out with a strangled, silent gasp, knuckles pressed to his mouth so he won’t make a sound.

Fuck. He’s never finished that fast in his life. Never like this, never to a man’s voice, never to Jimin, never with Jimin’s needy, broken sounds still leaking through the door like they’re meant for him.

He’s still shaking when he hears it, one last breathy gasp from the other side cut off and ragged, like Jimin’s bitten it back too late. Then the buzzing stops. Silence drops heavy and sudden, thick enough to make Jeongguk’s ears ring.

Jimin must’ve finished too.

The realisation slams into him harder than the orgasm did. His stomach turns, hot with panic. He can’t stay here, can’t be caught like this, half-drunk and messy with cum on the couch with his hand still down his pants.

He fumbles, yanking his boxers up with clumsy fingers, skin too sensitive. His heart is still pounding at his ribs as he staggers to his feet.

He moves too fast, too loud. He practically runs down the hall, breath held, terrified the bedroom door will open. He makes it into his room and slams the door shut behind him like it can erase what just happened.

He twists the lock. Drops his weight against the wood.

Then he slides down to the floor, shaky and slick with sweat, staring blankly at nothing while his pulse finally catches up with him

What the fuck has he done

~

It’s been a week since it happened. Since Jeongguk jerked off to the sounds of Jimin. To the sound of Jimin moaning his name.

If he thought walking into Jimin masturbating was bad, he could have never been prepared for this.

He regrets it badly. But he regrets not barging into Jimin’s room more.

Jimin is still acting the same, careless like nothing happened, like Jeongguk didn’t see him spread out under that warm lamp-light, like Jeongguk didn’t sit there a week ago with his hand dow his pants, shaking and wrecked, listening to Jimin say his name like a prayer.

Fine Jeongguk can pretend too.

He can pretend he doesn’t hear phantom buzzing in the walls at night. He can pretend he did almost break his own teeth biting back a sound on the couch.

But now. He needs to get laid. Fast.

The lights flash as he enters the club. Bass slams through the floor and up his legs, rattling in his ribs, turning his thoughts into something simpler. Something stupid. Something manageable.

Good he wants stupid. He wants loud and careless and easy. He wants to drown out the memory of Jimin’s voice with anyone else’s.

He’s already buzzing with the anticipation already heading straight for the bar.

The plan is to get drunk, find a nice girl he can fuck, and the most important; forget Jimin, and the way he sounded. Yeah he’s not gonna think about that.

He leans onto the sticky counter, nods at the bartender. “Whatever’s strongest,” he says.

The bartender slides him something dark. Jeongguk knocks it back like medicine. It burns down his throat and lands heavy in his stomach, warm and spreading.

Then he orders another.

And another one.

His plan is simple. He’ll flirt, he’ll fuck, he’ll wake up tomorrow with someone’s lipstick on his mouth and nothing of Jimin on his mind.

That’s the plan.

So why?

Why every time he catches a sweet, fruity perfume does he think of laundry detergent and that stupid candle?

Why when a girl leans in close to say something in his ear does the sound of it get swallowed by a memory of breathy, broken moans through a closed door?

Jeongguk swallows, jaw tight, and forces himself to focus.

A girl slides up beside him at the bar, pretty, confident, glitter on her eyelids catching the lights. She looks him over like she knows exactly what she wants. Jeongguk tries to let that be enough.

She says something, he doesn’t catch all of it over the bass, but her mouth curves like she’s teasing.

He should tease back

Instead his mind goes traitor again, offering up the wrong image at the worst time: Jimin on rumpled sheets, flushed, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes blown wide when Jeongguk opened the door.

Jeongguk’s stomach flips.

He grips the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles whiten, and he tells himself again that this is why he’s here.

To forget.

He takes another drink, forcing the burn down, and smiles at the girl like he means it.

“You’re cute,” she says, leaning in so her mouth is at his ear, breath hot against his skin.

Jeongguk’s pulse jumps stupidly, automatically. This is good. This is what he came for. He turns his head, letting his lips brush the shell of her ear as he answers, voice low on purpose.

“Yeah?” he says. “So are you.”

She laughs, and it’s a nice sound. Her hand slides up his arm, fingers curling lightly around his bicep like she’s already decided she likes what she’s holding.

Jeongguk lets her pull him off the bar and into the crowd.

The dance floor is all bodies and sweat and lights that flash too fast to think. The girl moves with him, hips rolling against his, hands settling at his waist. She looks up at him like she’s waiting for him to take the lead, waiting for him to make this simple.

Jeongguk tells himself: Do it. Just do it.

He puts a hand on her hip. Pulls her closer. Tries to let the friction and the noise and the alcohol make it easy.

But his brain is a bastard.

Because the moment she presses into him, his body doesn’t focus on her—it focuses on the feeling of someone close, the idea of heat and breath and sounds you’re not supposed to hear through walls.

A flash of warm lamp-light in his mind.

A muffled, familiar buzz that isn’t in the club at all.

A voice saying his name like it hurts.

Jeongguk’s jaw tightens.

The girl’s mouth finds his neck. She kisses just under his ear, slow and deliberate, and Jeongguk’s skin prickles he should shiver for this. He should want this.

Instead, annoyance spikes hot and sharp in his chest, because all he can think is: Jimin would sound different.

He jerks back a fraction without meaning to.

The girl pauses, pulling away to look at him. “You okay?” she asks, brow lifting like she’s half amused, half checking.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk lies instantly. Too fast. Too bright. He forces a grin. “Just—had a lot to drink.”

She laughs again, forgiving. Her hand slides up his chest, fingers splaying like she’s claiming space. “Then drink some water. Or come with me outside for a second.”

Jeongguk nods, because he’s not going to mess this up.

They push through the crowd toward the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and the back exit. The music dulls slightly, replaced by the slap of shoes on sticky tile and the loud, drunken chatter of people leaning against the walls.

The girl turns to him, close enough that her perfume fills his lungs. She’s smiling like she’s about to kiss him properly this time.

So Jeongguk leans in.

The girl turns to him, close enough that her perfume fills his lungs. She’s smiling like she’s about to kiss him properly this time.

And then his mind does it again.

A breathy whine. A closed bedroom door.

Jeongguk’s stomach drops.

He pulls back. Not subtle this time

She just blinks at him confused “What’s your problem?”

Jeongguk opens his mouth, but nothing comes out that isn’t either a lie or the truth he can’t say. Sorry, I can’t stop thinking about my roommate moaning my name. He swallows it down hard.

“Im sorry” he forces out, voice rough. “I just—can’t.”

She scoffs, folding her arms like she’s done being patient. “Okay. Then don’t waste my time.”

Jeongguk nods once “Yeah. Sorry.”

He turns and walks away before she can say anything else, before his face can show how humiliated he is by his own body. By the fact that he came here with a plan; simple, stupid, normal and still managed to ruin it.

He pushes back into the main room.

His chest is tight with irritation, but underneath that there’s something worse something restless and desperate, a pressure building like he’s about to do something stupid just to get it out of his system.

He came here to forget. He can’t forget.

Fine

Then he’s going to make it impossible to think.

He heads straight for the bar again. “Another,” he tells the bartender before the glass from earlier has even left his stomach.

The bartender raises a brow. “You good?”

Jeongguk gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Great.”

The shot hits his tongue and burns going down. He barely tastes it. He orders another before the warmth can settle, before his brain can sneak in with images and sounds he doesn’t want.

One becomes two. Two becomes four.

The world starts to soften at the edges. The irritation stays, but it turns blurry. His thoughts get slower.

Good. This is good

Because the truth he won’t say out loud is sitting in his throat like a stone: if he goes home sober, he’ll just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and hate himself for wanting something he shouldn’t want.

Eventually the clock on his phone doesn’t make sense anymore, and his body feels loose and heavy, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. That’s when he decides it’s enough.

He stumbles out into the cold night air and it sobers him just enough to make the walk home feel like a mission. Streetlights smear into soft halos. His breath fogs. The city feels too quiet after the club.

By the time he gets to the apartment door, his hands fumble with the keys twice before the lock finally gives.

Jeongguk kicks the door shut with more force than he means to. The click of the lock is loud in the silence.

He stands there a second, swaying slightly, listening.

Nothing.

And then; movement.

Soft. A shift from the living room, like someone adjusting on the couch.

He moves toward the living room without thinking it through, shoes still on, heartbeat thudding too hard. The hallway feels longer than it should.

And there on the couch—Jimin.

Asleep. Curled into the corner under a throw blanket, hair messy, face turned into the cushion. The TV is off, but the streetlight leaks in through the blinds and paints Jimin in soft silver stripes, bare thighs, eyelashes dark against his cheek.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens.

He’s never been gentle with Jimin. Not really. He’s always been sharp-edged around him, all complaints and irritation, like being mean is safer than being honest.

But drunk, standing there watching Jimin sleep, something in him loosens.

Something breaks.

He takes a step closer.

His shadow falls across the couch, and Jimin stirs just a little. A quiet sound, barely there, like a soft hum in the back of the throat.

Jeongguk should turn around. He should go to his room. He should leave Jimin alone.

Instead, he drops onto the edge of the couch too fast, the cushions dipping under his weight.

Jimin shifts again, eyes fluttering, still fogged with sleep. “Guk…?” The name comes out ruined and soft.

Jeongguk freezes.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk whispers, like it’s the only word he knows.

Jimin blinks slowly, trying to focus. “You’re… home.”

Jeongguk nods, swallowing. His mouth tastes like alcohol and regret. “I’m home.”

Jimin’s gaze drifts over him taking in the rumpled hair, the still-on shoes, the way Jeongguk’s breathing is too heavy. “You’re drunk,” Jimin murmurs, not accusing. Just stating it like a fact.

Jeongguk lets out a shaky laugh that sounds wrong in the quiet. “Yeah.”

Jimin shifts under the blanket, pulling it up a little, suddenly self-conscious even in sleep. “Are you okay?”

Jeongguk stares at him. He is not okay.

This close, Jimin looks softer. Less like an annoyance and more like… a person. A person Jeongguk has been obsessing over in the dark like a creep.

Jeongguk’s hands curl into the couch cushion so he won’t do something stupid.

But the alcohol in his blood is pushing at his restraint, turning all his thoughts into impulses. Turning fear into heat.

He leans forward before he can stop himself.

Jimin’s eyes widen a fraction, sleepy confusion sharpening into awareness. “Jeongguk—?”

Jeongguk pauses just enough to give Jimin a chance to pull away.

Jimin doesn’t move.

So Jeongguk does it.

He cups Jimin’s jaw with a clumsy hand and kisses him—messy, out of nowhere, too desperate to be pretty. It’s not a careful kiss. It’s not a sweet one. It’s the kiss of someone who has been fighting themself for days and finally lost.

Jimin makes a small sound into Jeongguk’s mouth, surprise first, then something that turns it into a breath. A soft inhale, a split-second hesitation.

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to see Jimin’s face, to see if he’s about to shove him off the couch.

Jimin’s lips are parted. Eyes wide. Breathing uneven.

“What—” Jimin whispers, voice cracking.

Jeongguk’s forehead drops toward Jimin’s, their noses almost touching. His voice comes out rough. “Tell me to stop.”

It’s the only decent thing he can manage.

Jimin swallows. His gaze flickers—Jeongguk’s eyes, his mouth, his shaking hand—and then Jimin’s fingers grab the front of Jeongguk’s shirt, not pushing him away.

Pulling him in.

“Don’t,” Jimin whispers.

Jeongguk’s whole body goes hot.

He kisses Jimin again—harder, hungrier like he can’t believe he’s allowed. Like he’s terrified if he slows down, reality will catch up and he’ll remember what kind of person he’s supposed to be.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, drowned under alcohol and want, one thought pulses loud and wild:

This is so out of character. This isn’t me.

But Jimin’s mouth opens under his, and Jeongguk doesn’t care.

Not tonight.

Jeongguk kisses Jimin like he’s starving.

It’s clumsy too much teeth, too much desperation, the taste of alcohol still sharp on his tongue, but Jimin doesn’t pull away and it’s perfect. Jimin makes a quiet sound, almost a whine, as his fingers tighten in Jeongguk’s shirt.

Like he’s keeping Jeongguk from running. Jeongguk would never run away.

Jimin’s lips are warm soft in a way Jeongguk hates noticing, because it makes his chest ache with something that doesn’t match the way he’s treated him for months.

Jeongguk breaks the kiss only to breathe.

Jimin’s eyes are glossy with sleep and something else—something dark.

Jeongguk swallows. “You’re—” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. You’re real. You’re here. You’re letting me.

Jimin’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I’m what?”

Jeongguk huffs a laugh that sounds more like frustration. He leans back in, kisses him again, slower this time, like he’s trying to learn the shape of Jimin’s mouth by memory.

Jimin’s hand slides up into Jeongguk’s hair, fingers curling at the base of his skull. The grip isn’t gentle.

It’s guiding. It’s a quiet claim.

Jeongguk’s whole body reacts to it, heat rolling up his spine.

He’s never seen Jimin like this. Never felt Jimin like this. Jimin is usually soft in a way that reads as harmless, easy to dismiss, easy to get annoyed at.

But this version—half sprawled under a blanket, eyes steady, hand firm in Jeongguk’s hair—this version isn’t harmless at all.

Jeongguk pulls back a second, staring, like he’s trying to make sure he’s not hallucinating. “Jimin…”

Jimin hums, and the sound is low enough to be a tease. “Yeah?”

Jeongguk’s throat works. He looks down at Jimin’s lips again, then back to his eyes. “Are you… awake?”

Jimin blinks slowly, the faintest tilt of amusement in his gaze. “You tell me.”

It hits Jeongguk then—how present Jimin is. Not confused, not resisting, not panicking.

Waiting.

Waiting for Jeongguk to take this further.

Jeongguk’s breath catches on that thought, and it makes him do something reckless: he shifts closer on the couch, crowding Jimin’s space. His knee presses into the cushion near Jimin’s thigh, caging him in.

Jimin’s eyes flicker down—tracking the movement—and his lips part again, but this time it’s not surprise.

It’s anticipation.

Jeongguk’s voice comes out rougher. “If you want me to stop—”

Jimin cuts him off, calm as anything. “I don’t.”

He kisses him again, and Jimin meets it properly this time, mouth moving with purpose, the kiss deepening until Jeongguk forgets the club, forgets the walk home, forgets the whole last week of trying to be normal.

Jeongguk’s hand slides from Jimin’s jaw to his neck, feeling Jimin’s pulse jump under his fingers.

Jimin moans quietly, and the sound goes straight to Jeongguk’s cock.

Jeongguk pauses, suddenly way too aware of the tent in his pants. “Fuck.”

Jimin’s smile turns sharper, enjoying this way too much. “Language.”

Jeongguk kisses his jaw, trails wet kisses down his next wanting to mark him. But Jimin’s hand in his hair tightens again, tugging just enough to make Jeongguk look at him.

Jimin’s gaze is steady now awake, clear, and hungry.

“You’re really doing it,” Jimin murmurs.

Jeongguk’s stomach flips. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Jimin asks, so innocent it’s obviously fake.

Jeongguk stares at him, baffled by the audacity. By the fact that Jimin is teasing him now, when Jeongguk feels like he’s balanced on the edge of a cliff.

“You’re…” Jeongguk searches for the word, swallowing. “You’re not… scared?”

Jimin’s brows lift. “Should I be?”

Jeongguk’s face burns. Jimin watches it happen like it’s entertainment.

Then Jimin shifts under the blanket, sitting up more, closing the distance until their knees bump and the air between them turns thick.

Jimin’s voice drops into something softer. “Jeongguk. Look at me.”

Jeongguk does, instantly, like his body hears the tone and obeys.

Jimin’s fingers slide down from Jeongguk’s hair to his cheek. It’s gentle—too gentle compared to how sharp Jimin’s mouth has been.

“I’m not scared,” Jimin says quietly.

Jeongguk’s throat tightens. He leans into the touch before he can stop himself.

And Jimin’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that tiny betrayal.

Then—because Jimin is cruel in the prettiest way—Jimin smiles again.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do this,” Jimin says, like it’s a joke. Like it’s obvious. Like Jeongguk is late.

Jeongguk freezes so hard his heart seems to stutter.

“What?” he says, dumb as a rock.

Jimin hums, eyes shining. “You heard me.”

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to stare at him properly. “Waiting—” He shakes his head like it’ll reset the conversation. “For what?”

Jimin tilts his head, studying him. “For you to finally stop pretending you don’t want me.”

Jeongguk’s mouth opens. Closes. His brain is lagging behind the words. “I don’t— I mean—” He swallows hard, eyes wide. “You can’t just say that.”

Jimin’s smile widens, and it’s all teeth now. “Why not?”

Jeongguk’s pulse pounds. “Because—because it’s not—” He looks away for half a second like he can find sanity on the floor. He looks back at Jimin, voice going quiet with disbelief. “You knew?”

Jimin’s eyes dip to Jeongguk’s crotch . “You’re not exactly subtle, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk’s face goes hot again, humiliation and heat tangling. “I literally— I’ve been losing my mind.”

“I noticed,” Jimin says, and the smugness is so casual it’s infuriating.

Jeongguk’s brows knit. “Then why would you—” He stops himself, drags in a breath. “Why would you do… any of this?”

Jimin’s gaze holds his, steady as a dare. “Because I wanted you to stop being mean to me just to make yourself feel safe.”

Jeongguk goes still.

That lands somewhere deep and ugly—because it’s true, and they both know it.

Jimin’s expression softens just a fraction, like he can see the hit he’s made. Then the softness disappears again, replaced by a bright, playful cruelty.

“And,” Jimin adds, voice turning sweet, “because I wanted to see how long it would take before you broke.”

Jeongguk stares at him, dumbfounded.

“You—” Jeongguk breathes, laughing once in disbelief. “You did it on purpose.”

Jimin’s eyes flicker with satisfaction. “Mm.”

Jeongguk’s chest heaves. His whole body feels electrified—desire, humiliation, need, relief, all of it at once.

“You’re insane,” Jeongguk says, like it’s an accusation.

Jimin’s smile turns slow. “Are you going to punish me for it?”

Jeongguk’s breath catches—hard. Fuck.

His gaze drops to Jimin’s mouth again, like he can’t help it.

And Jimin watches him do it, pleased, like this is exactly the reaction Jimin wanted.

Jeongguk leans in, voice rough. “You’re really telling me you’ve been waiting.”

Jimin’s lips brush Jeongguk’s as Jimin answers, a whisper right against him: “I have been waiting. So do something about it.”

Jeongguk’s eyes close for half a second.

Then he kisses Jimin again—less clumsy now, more deliberate—like he’s decided if he’s going to fall, he’s going to fall all the way.

“Fuck- I can’t believe you.” Jeongguk groans as their kissed get more heated. Jimin’s hands are on his chest, feeling him up. Meanwhile Jeongguk is losing his mind over everything.

“Mm I know Baby.” Jimin moans as the nickname rolls like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Carry me”

Jeongguk’s eyes dip to Jimin’s mouth, then back up, a slow sweep that makes Jimin’s breath hitch. “Yeah?” Jeongguk murmurs. “That what you want?”

Jimin’s chin lifts like a challenge. “Yes.”

“Good.” The word lands heavy.

Jeongguk slides an arm behind Jimin’s back and the other under his knees and stands like it’s nothing—like Jimin doesn’t weigh anything, like Jeongguk hasn’t been holding himself back for weeks.

Jimin’s hands grab at Jeongguk’s shoulders at first—automatic—then shift, one sliding up into Jeongguk’s hair, fingers curling at the back of his head .

Jeongguk turns toward the hallway and Jimin leans in, mouth brushing Jeongguk’s jaw.

Jeongguk pauses mid-step just long enough to look at him. “You’re distracting me,” he murmurs.

Jimin’s lips curve. “That’s kind of the point.”Jimin leans in close, voice low. “You’re showing off.”

Jeongguk grins, satisfied. “You told me to.”

Jimin makes a small sound at that and immediately kisses him.

It’s not careful. It’s hungry and close and just controlled enough that Jeongguk can still move. Jeongguk kisses back needy. He takes two steps, then another, their mouths still chasing each other in short, heated kisses.

Jimin’s fingers tug at Jeongguk’s hair like Jimin wants him closer than physics allows. Jeongguk’s mouth drops to Jimin’s cheek, then the corner of his lips again, quick and relentless.

“Watch it,” Jimin whispers, breathless, as Jeongguk turns the corner.

Jeongguk’s smile is sharp against Jimin’s skin. “I am.”

He slows at the bedroom door, because he has to—because he’s not an idiot—and shifts Jimin slightly in his arms so he can free his shoulder. Jimin immediately takes advantage, kissing down Jeongguk’s neck like Jimin’s trying to make him lose focus on purpose.

Jeongguk lets out a low sound through his teeth, then shoulders the door open.

The moment they’re inside, the door swings partly closed behind them on its own, cutting off the hallway light. The room is darker, quieter, and that privacy makes everything feel more intense.

Jeongguk doesn’t rush to set him down.

Instead, he takes one slow step in, still holding Jimin, and kisses him again—deeper this time—until Jimin’s hands tighten hard on his shoulders.

Jimin breaks it just enough to breathe, lips swollen. “You’re being so—”

“Confident?” Jeongguk finishes for him, voice low.

Jimin’s eyes flash. “Annoying.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, then leans in, brushing his mouth over Jimin’s again like he can’t help it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “And you like it.”

Jeongguk carries Jimin to the bed and drops him down at the edge.

But Jeongguk stays standing between Jimin’s knees.

Jimin looks up at him, lips swollen, eyes bright. Waiting.

Jeongguk braces one hand on the mattress beside Jimin’s hip, leaning in until Jimin has to tilt his head back. “You’re still sure?” Jeongguk asks, voice calm, he already knows the answer, he just wants to hear Jimin say it.

Jimin’s gaze flicks over Jeongguk’s face, then drops to his mouth. “Stop asking like you’re going to be talked out of it.”

“Okay,” he says, voice low. Honest. “Then tell me what you want.”

Jimin’s smile is small and sharp, like they’re both finally speaking a language Jimin’s been fluent in the whole time. “I want you to stop hovering.”

Jeongguk exhales a laugh through his nose—soft, almost disbelieving and then he leans in, closing the distance with purpose instead of hesitation. He kisses Jimin again, slower than before, but no less hungry—like he’s taking his time because he can.

Jimin makes a quiet sound into his mouth, pleased, and their hands find each other at the same time: Jeongguk’s palm sliding along Jimin’s jaw and down the side of the neck, feeling the pulse there jump hard beneath his touch; Jimin’s fingers hooking into the front of Jeongguk’s shirt and tugging, insistently, until Jeongguk has to brace himself more firmly on the bed.

“See?” Jimin murmurs against his lips, smug and breathless. “You don’t need to ask every second.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to Jimin’s mouth, swollen, pink, wrecked and then back to Jimin’s eyes. “You like being in control,” he says, like he’s only just realized.

Jimin’s eyes glitter. “You like it when I am.”

Jeongguk’s throat bobs. For a second, the air feels too thick, too charged. Then he shifts his weight forward, crowding closer, and Jimin doesn’t back up.

Jeongguk kisses the corner of Jimin’s mouth. A line of kisses that turns into something warmer, more deliberate, traveling down the jaw.

Jimin’s head tips back, exposing more skin without even pretending not to. Confident. Inviting.

“You’re not talking me out of it,” Jeongguk warns, but it lands like a promise.

Jimin’s laugh is quiet and satisfied. “Am I not?”

Jeongguk shifts, finally climbing onto the bed properly—one knee on the mattress, then the other—until he’s over Jimin enough that Jimin has to look up at him. Jeongguk’s hand slides down Jimin’s side, fingers spreading at the waist, not grabbing, not rushing—just claiming space, like he’s done being unsure where he’s allowed to touch.

Jimin watches him do it like it’s a reward.

“Look at you,” Jimin murmurs. “All brave now.”

Jeongguk’s eyes narrow, but there’s no bite in it—only heat. “Don’t act like you didn’t want this.”

Jimin’s hands slide up Jeongguk’s chest, slow, fingers splayed, feeling the tension there. “I did want this.”

Jeongguk’s breath stutters when Jimin’s touch lingers, when it turns into a firmer grip, a little possessive, like Jimin’s making a point.

“Then,” Jeongguk says, voice rough, “stop talking.”

Jimin’s brows lift, surprised for half a second—then Jimin smiles like Jeongguk just gave the right answer.

Jeongguk kisses him again, deeper this time, and Jimin meets it without hesitation—mouth open, hands steady, pulling Jeongguk closer like he’s done waiting for permission. Their bodies shift together on the bed, a messy slide of blankets and knees and breath, and Jeongguk feels it everywhere—how Jimin presses in, how Jimin doesn’t flinch, how Jimin wants.

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes dark. “Still sure?”

Jimin’s gaze holds his, steady as a dare. “Jeongguk, stop asking or I’m walking out” Jimin says softly, almost impatient, “I’ve been sure.”

Jeongguk decides to stop teasing and cups Jimin’s face again, thumb brushing the swollen lower lip, and Jimin parts his lips without thinking, eyes half-lidded.

Jeongguk swallows, then leans down, kissing Jimin’s mouth once—slow—then again, lower, at the throat, where Jimin’s breath catches.

Jimin’s fingers slide into Jeongguk’s hair, tightening, guiding him down his body. Jeongguk groans, and Jimin smiles against his skin like that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Good,” Jimin whispers.

Jeongguk lifts his head, eyes burning. “Good?”

Jimin’s gaze flicks down, then back up—calm, shameless, confident. “You’re listening. Now stop thinking and fuck me.”

“Fuck- Jimin” The next second he’s rushing to pull Jimin’s shorts off, cursing at the sight in front of him. “Shit you’re so pretty.”

“Mm thank you Gukk-ah, now fuck- please touch me” Jimins moans lightly.

He surges forward, pressing Jimin back into the tangled sheets. His hands, which had been hesitating at Jimin’s hips, now slide with purpose over the smooth, heated skin of his thighs.

Jimin arches into it, a silent encouragement. He lets his legs fall open, an offering, and Jeongguk’s breath hitches. He’s seen this before maybe in flashes, maybe in dreams he pretended weren’t real, but this is different. This is real.

This is Jimin, smelling of clean sweat and his own citrusy lotion, watching him with those hooded, knowing eyes that say *I’m here, I’m yours, now what will you do?*

“I’m…” Jeongguk starts, the word catching in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. I’m scared? I’m overwhelmed? I’ve never wanted anything so much?

Jimin’s fingers come up to trace the line of Jeongguk’s jaw, a gentle, grounding touch. “Shh,” he murmurs, and it’s not a command, it’s a comfort. “Just feel. Just feel me.”

Jeongguk just nods. He lowers himself, bracing on one elbow, and lets his other hand wander. He traces the crease of Jimin’s thigh, skims up over the curve of his ass. The skin here is impossibly soft, and Jimin shivers when Jeongguk’s thumb brushes over his rim, a quick, searching gesture.

“Good” Jimin breathes out. “Right there.”

Emboldened, Jeongguk presses closer, the heel of his hand fitting against the swell of Jimin’s ass.

Jimin makes a soft, pleased sound, a hum deep in his chest that vibrates through Jeongguk’s own bones.

He experiments, dragging the flat of his palm up Jimin’s spine, feeling the muscles shift and tense under his touch, then back down, over the dip of his waist.

“Jeongguk,” Jimin says, and it’s a warning and a plea all at once. His hips lift, a tiny, searching movement. “Don’t be shy now. Not after all this.”

Jeongguk curls his fingers, dragging them down the cleft of Jimin’s ass, and Jimin’s whole body goes taut. A sharp gasp. Jeongguk freezes.

“Please don’t stop Gguk” Jimin rasps, his fingers tightening in Jeongguk’s hair, a sweet, stinging pull.

He can feel the heat here, that makes Jeongguk’s head spin. The hesitation is gone, burned away by the raw need in Jimin’s voice. Jeongguk presses his finger forward, a dry pressure that has Jimin arching off the bed.

“Lube,” Jimin manages, the word fractured. “Nightstand. Hurry.”

Jeongguk scrambles, fumbling with the drawer, his hands clumsy with a sudden, shaking urgency. He nearly knocks over a lamp before his fingers close around the small, familiar bottle.

He’s back over Jimin in a second, popping the cap with a click that sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.

The cool liquid on his fingers is a shock. He warms it between his thumb and forefinger, watching Jimin as his chest is rising and falling in shallow pants.

“Do it,” Jimin whispers, spreading his legs wider, an open invitation.

Jeongguk leans in, kissing him sloppily, desperately, as he reaches down. He touches him again, slick this time, and the slide is effortless.

His finger breaches the tight ring of muscle, and the world narrows to this single point of entry: the way Jimin gasps into his mouth, the way his body clenches then gives way, the incredible, searing heat that grips him.

It’s not just warmth; it’s a clenching, living pull that makes Jeongguk’s own cock throb, trapped painfully in his jeans.

He pushes deeper, slowly, mesmerized by the way Jimin’s body accepts him, by the choked-off moan Jimin tries to swallow.

“Again,” Jimin demands, his hands scrabbling at Jeongguk’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Gguk, another one. Now.”

The urgency in Jimin’s voice is a direct line to Jeongguk’s own need. He fumbles for more lube, coating a second finger, and presses in alongside the first.

The stretch is tighter, more intense, and Jimin’s back arches, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.

“Fuck, yes,” Jimin keens, grinding down on Jeongguk’s hand. “Right there. Like that.”

There’s no more room for fear, for anything but the feeling of Jimin around him, the sound of Jimin’s wrecked voice, the sight of Jimin falling apart because of him.

He scissors his fingers, stretching, searching, and when he crooks them just so, Jimin jolts, a sharp, broken shout punching out of him.

“Jeongguk!”

He found it. He brushes that spot again, and again, watching in awe as Jimin writhes, his cock leaking against his stomach, his hands fisted in the sheets.

He’s beautiful like this, completely undone

“I can’t—Jeongguk, please,” Jimin begs. “I’m ready. Fuck me. Now.”

Jeongguk pulls his fingers free, the loss of contact making both of them groan. He shoves at his own jeans, his movements clumsy, desperate, the denim catching on his knees. He kicks them off, not caring where they land.

He fumbles with a condom, his fingers shaking so badly he can’t tear the packet.

“Let me, you’re so big baby” Jimin says, his voice a low. He sits up, swatting Jeongguk’s hands away and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolls it down Jeongguk’s length with quick, practiced movements, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head, and Jeongguk sees stars.

“Jimin, I—”

“Inside me,” Jimin cuts him off, falling back against the pillows and pulling his knees to his chest, opening himself completely. “Now, Jeongguk. Or I swear to god—”

The threat dies on a gasp as Jeongguk lines himself up and pushes inside.It’s a slow, agonizing burn of pressure. Jimin’s breath catches on a sob, and Jeongguk freezes, terrified of hurting him, but then Jimin’s hands are on his hips, pulling him deeper, urging him on.

“Don’t you dare stop,” Jimin pants, his face buried against Jeongguk’s neck. “Move. Fuck me.”

And Jeongguk does. He pulls back and snaps his hips forward, a shallow, experimental thrust that punches a groan out of both of them.

“Shit Jimin- you’re so tight” Jeongguk nothing, but moans.

“Fuck that’s it,” Jimin praises, his lips brushing against Jeongguk’s earlobe. “Just like that. You feel so good, Gukk-ah. So fucking good.”

The praise just spurs Jeongguk on. He finds a rhythm, a deep, steady roll of his hips that has Jimin crying out with every thrust.

He looks down at Jimin, at the sweat beading on his temples, at the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan, and something primal and possessive rises in him.

“You were so sure, weren’t you?” Jeongguk grinds out, the words scraping his throat. He shifts angles, hitting that spot inside Jimin that makes him see stars, and smirks when Jimin’s back arches off the bed. “So sure this was what you wanted.”

Jimin whimpers, high and broken. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

“Tell me,” Jeongguk demands, punctuating the words with a sharp, deliberate thrust. “Tell me how much you wanted this.”

“So much,” Jimin sobs, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Jeongguk’s back. “Wanted it for so long. *Wanted you.*”

The confession, so raw and honest, makes Jeongguk’s breath catch. He buries his face in Jimin’s neck, mouthing at the sweat-slick skin, and picks up the pace, driving into him with a desperate, needy rhythm.

Jimin’s body is a tight, slick furnace around him, pulling him deeper with every roll of his hips, every breathy whimper that escapes his lips. The words—*wanted you*—echo in Jeongguk’s head, a dizzying, intoxicating mantra.

He’s trying to hold on, trying to make this last, to memorize the feeling of Jimin trembling beneath him, the way Jimin’s nails dig into his shoulders, the desperate little “please, please, please” he’s chanting against Jeongguk’s skin.

But Jimin’s body clenches around him, a deliberate, milking pull, and that’s it. The coil in Jeongguk’s stomach snaps violently, too soon, before he can stop it.

“Fuck, Jimin, I—” he gasps, his rhythm faltering as the orgasm crashes over him, a blinding, overwhelming wave. He buries himself to the hilt, shuddering as he spills into the condom.

For a second, there’s only the sound of his own ragged breathing.

He starts to pull back,, but Jimin’s legs lock around his waist, holding him in place.

“Don’t you dare,” Jimin whines, his voice raw and wrecked. He tugs Jeongguk’s head up from the crook of his neck, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Jimin’s eyes are dark, feral, and there’s a burning intensity.

“Did you think that was it?” Jimin asks, a smirk playing on his swollen lips. He shifts his hips, a slow, deliberate circle that makes Jeongguk, still oversensitive, whimper. “You don’t get to come that hard and then just stop. You’re not done.”

Jeongguk stares, dumbfounded. Jimin is still hard, leaking against his stomach, and he’s looking at Jeongguk like he’s a feast he’s about to devour.

“I—” Jeongguk starts, but Jimin cuts him off by surging up and kissing him, a filthy, punishing kiss that steals the air from his lungs.

“You wanted to hear how much I wanted this?” Jimin pants against his mouth. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name. I want you to make me feel it for days.”

The words are a lightning strike, jolting straight to Jeongguk’s groin.

Jeongguk pulls out just long enough to rip off the used condom and grab another. His hands are steady this time, sure. He rolls it on, his eyes locked on Jimin’s the entire time.

Then he’s back, lining up and pushing in with one, hard thrust that punches a cry from Jimin’s lungs.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jeongguk snarls, setting a brutal, driving pace. He hooks Jimin’s legs over his shoulders, folding him in half, going deeper than before. The slick heat is a brand, a claim. “This? My cock inside you, ruining you?”

“Yes,” Jimin sobs, his hands twisting in the sheets. “Fuck, yes. Ruin me.”

“You look so good like this,” Jeongguk grits out, his hips snapping forward. “So fucking beautiful, falling apart on my dick.”

He reaches between them, wrapping a hand around Jimin’s neglected cock, slick with pre-come. He strokes once, hard, from base to tip.

Jimin’s entire body seizes, a silent scream tearing from his throat as Jeongguk’s thumb swipes over the head, smearing the slickness there.

“Look at me,” Jeongguk commands, his voice a low, vibrating growl that seems to resonate right through Jimin’s bones. “Open your eyes and look at the person who’s making you come.”

Jimin forces his heavy eyelids open. The room is a blur, but Jeongguk is crystal clear—his face flushed, a dark sheen of sweat on his brow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration. His eyes are burning, black coals of pure, unadulterated want.

“You’re mine,” Jeongguk breathes, the words a promise and a threat. He tightens his grip on Jimin’s cock, stroking him in perfect, punishing counterpoint to the violent thrusts of his hips. “Say it.”

Jimin can’t. The words are lodged in his throat, choked back by the overwhelming crest of pleasure building in his gut. He can only shake his head, a frantic, pleading motion.

“Say it,” Jeongguk demands again, angling his hips and grinding deep, hitting that spot with devastating accuracy. “Say you’re mine.”

The command is the final push. The coil in Jimin’s stomach snaps, and he’s coming, hard, white-hot pleasure flooding every nerve ending. A long, broken cry tears from his chest as he spills over Jeongguk’s fist, his body shaking uncontrollably.

His vision whites out, and the only thing he can feel is the relentless pulse of Jeongguk inside him, the slick heat of his own release, the grounding weight of Jeongguk’s body pinning him to the world.

The sight of Jimin completely lost to it, head thrown back, a string of curses and praises falling from his lips, is what sends Jeongguk over for a second time. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, his rhythm breaking as his own release tears through him.

He collapses forward, his forehead resting against Jimin’s heaving chest, both of them slick with sweat and gasping for air.

Jeongguk shifts, the aftershocks of orgasm making him shiver. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Jimin’s neck as the other exhales softly.

At some point the room goes quiet again—not empty quiet, but the kind that feels heavy with aftermath. The streetlight still stripes the walls through the blinds, but now it catches on bare skin and tangled sheets and the slow rise and fall of two chests trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Jeongguk lies on his back, one forearm thrown over his eyes like he’s hiding from the ceiling. Like he’s hiding from the fact that this is real.

Beside him, Jimin shifts, unhurried. Confident even now. Jimin props themself up on an elbow and looks at Jeongguk’s face like it’s something worth studying.

Jeongguk exhales, shaky. “Don’t say it.”

Jimin’s mouth twitches. “Say what?”

“That you told me so.” Jeongguk’s voice is rough, half warning, half prayer.

Jimin hums, amused, and drags lazy fingers down Jeongguk’s chest like he’s always had the right. “I wasn’t going to.”

Jeongguk’s arm drops from his eyes. He looks at Jimin, and whatever he expected to feel—guilt, panic, the urge to run—doesn’t land the way it should.

He feels… quiet. Wrecked. Still keyed up in his bones, but softer in the center, like something unknotted.

Jimin’s gaze holds his, steady and bright. “You’re thinking too hard,” Jimin says, gentle in the most infuriating way.

Jeongguk lets out a breath that turns into a weak laugh. “I’m always thinking too hard.”

“I know.” Jimin’s fingers pause, pressing lightly over Jeongguk’s heartbeat like he can feel it. Like he wants to. “That’s why I had to get you to shut up.”

Jeongguk’s face heats, and he turns his head into the pillow like it’ll help. “You’re insufferable.”

Jimin smiles, pleased. “You like it.”

Jeongguk’s glare is half-hearted at best. “I don’t know what I like.”

Jimin’s expression softens. “You like this,” Jimin says quietly, like he’s offering Jeongguk an easy truth. “You just hate that you do.”

Jeongguk’s throat tightens. He swallows. For once he doesn’t reach for sharp words. Doesn’t reach for a way out.

Instead he shifts, turning toward Jimin fully, close enough that their knees brush under the sheets. His hand finds Jimin’s wrist—gentle.

“What happens now?” Jeongguk asks. The question comes out too honest to be casual.

Jimin studies him for a long moment, eyes flicking over Jeongguk’s face like he’s deciding whether to tease or to be kind.

“Now,” Jimin says, “you stop acting like we’re enemies in the kitchen.”

Jeongguk huffs. “You’re the one who starts it half the time.”

Jimin’s brows lift. “And you finish it every time.”

Jeongguk’s grip tightens slightly around Jimin’s wrist, not hurting—just holding on like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll become the person he was an hour ago again. “I don’t want this to be… a one-time thing,” Jeongguk says, and his voice drops like he hates that he’s saying it first.

Jimin’s eyes widen just a fraction. Surprise, quickly masked by satisfaction.

“Yeah?” Jimin murmurs.

Jeongguk’s jaw flexes. “Yeah.”

Jimin leans in, slow, deliberate, and kisses him—soft this time. Not hungry. Not proving anything. Just real.

When they pull back, Jimin rests their forehead against Jeongguk’s for a second, like he’s letting him have closeness without a fight.

“Okay,” Jimin whispers. “Then don’t make me drag it out of you tomorrow.”

Jeongguk’s laugh is small and wrecked. “Tomorrow.”

Jimin’s smile turns warm at the edges. “Tomorrow.”

They settle again, limbs finding a shape that makes sense—messy, not practiced, but strangely natural. Jimin shifts closer until Jeongguk’s arm goes around him without thinking, and Jimin makes a satisfied sound like this was always the outcome.

Jeongguk stares at the ceiling for a minute, then quietly, like a confession he can barely stand: “I’m sorry.”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. His fingers trace idle patterns against Jeongguk’s ribs.

“For what?” Jimin asks, voice soft.

Jeongguk closes his eyes. “For being mean. For acting like you were… nothing.”

Jimin’s hand stills. The silence stretches, thick and full.

Then Jimin exhales—slow—and presses a kiss to Jeongguk’s shoulder, barely there. “Try again,” Jimin says. “That’s all.”

Jeongguk’s arm tightens around him, and Jimin relaxes into it like he’s been waiting to be held just as much as he’s been waiting to be wanted.

Outside, a car passes, headlights briefly washing the room in white before it falls back into silver-dark.

Jeongguk’s voice is almost inaudible. “You’re going to be unbearable about this.”

Jimin’s smile curves against his skin. “I’m going to be happy about this.”

Jeongguk swallows, and the words that come out are quiet and certain in a way that scares him a little:

“Good.”

Jimin’s fingers curl into his side—tight, possessive, content. “Go to sleep, Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk closes his eyes. For the first time in a long time, he does what he’s told.