Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You can’t cheat off my tests forever. What are you going to do next semester?”

Jimin’s sprawled out on his bed, lying on his stomach with his feet lazily kicked up in the air. His homework is spread out in front of him, notebook tilted to the side as he scribbles answers down. His phone rests on the blanket beside him, speaker on, Taehyung’s voice filling the room.

“Well, easy,” Taehyung says, his tone delightful. “I’ll just make sure we get all the same classes and then I’ll never have to worry about failing.”

Jimin lets out a laugh, pencil pausing mid-word. He shakes his head even though Taehyung can’t see it, smiling to himself. “You’re a lost fucking cause. You’d be nowhere without me.”

There’s a scoff from the other end of the line, followed by the sound of something clattering — probably Taehyung dropping his phone on his desk again. “Please. Without me, your life would be boring. Who else would keep you entertained while you’re stuck in that shoebox of a room doing boring math homework?”

Jimin glances around his room like Taehyung might somehow be peeking in. It’s small, sure, but it’s his favorite place in the world — walls covered in mismatched posters, Polaroids pinned along a string of fairy lights, and the faint smell of fabric softener clinging to the blankets. The soft yellow glow of the desk lamp throws a warm halo across the bed, making the whole place feel like it’s wrapped in a blanket.

“First of all,” Jimin says, drawing out the words as he flips his pencil between his fingers, “this ‘shoebox’ is perfect. Second of all, you don’t entertain me. You annoy me until I give in and help you.”

“Semantics.”

Jimin snorts, turning onto his side so he can rest his chin in his hand. His eyes flick to the candle on his nightstand — vanilla, almost burned down to the wick — and then back to the neat rows of equations in his notebook. “One day you’re going to have to survive on your own, you know.”

“Don’t say things like that. I’ll get separation anxiety.”

Jimin’s smile grows, the corners of his mouth curving. He pushes his hair out of his face, still scribbling answers with his free hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me,” Taehyung says, smug.

Jimin hums under his breath, pretending to be more focused on his homework than the way his chest feels warm at that. “Unfortunately… but I have to go.”

“What? No you don’t.” Taehyung sounds offended, like Jimin’s just told him they’re breaking up.

“I actually do,” Jimin says, flipping his pencil between his fingers. “Some of us have homework to finish, and I can’t do it with you distracting me every five seconds.”

There’s a loud, dramatic groan on the other end, followed by the faint sound of a chair creaking. “Wow. Kicking me out of your life like that. Cold.”

Jimin smiles despite himself, eyes lowering back to the half-finished problem in front of him. “You’ll live.”

Taehyung keeps protesting — playful little jabs about how lonely he’s going to be, how Jimin’s going to miss him within the hour — until Jimin’s laughing so much he has to put his pencil down. Eventually, after one last drawn-out sigh from Taehyung, there’s the sound of him hanging up.

The room feels noticeably quieter without his voice. Jimin stares at his phone for a second before rolling back onto his stomach, elbows sinking into the soft dip of his blanket. His feet kick lazily at the air once before settling. The faint scratch of pencil against paper fills the space again, steady and familiar.

The candle on his nightstand flickers when a small draft slips through the window. Jimin tugs the blanket higher over his hips, nose wrinkling at the faint chill, and bends back over his work until the numbers start to line up again.

He stays like that for a while — pencil tapping softly, pages rustling now and then. Every once in a while, he glances at the clock, but time feels like it’s folding in on itself. His eyelids get heavier with each passing minute.

By the time he blinks and realizes he’s written the same number twice in a row, his cheek is already resting against the paper. He doesn’t remember putting his head down.

He dozes off like that.

It’s the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like real sleep — just a heavy, dragged-under haze. He doesn’t know how long he’s out for. Could’ve been twenty minutes, could’ve been two hours.

When he wakes, it’s to the feeling of cold air. 

His eyes blink open slowly. The candle’s gone out completely, the room now swallowed in deep black. His limbs are stiff, folded weird under him, and the skin on his arms is covered in goosebumps.

He pushes himself up, groggy and off-balance. The blanket slipped off sometime while he slept, crumpled near his feet. He wraps it around himself, but it doesn’t help much. The air in the room is sharp, like it’s been sitting open to the night for hours.

He shivers as he steps off the bed, bare feet pressing flat against the cold floor.

The hallway is darker than usual too — the small nightlight near the bathroom door isn’t on. He rubs at his arms and walks slowly, hands tucked close to his chest as he tries to remember if he changed the thermostat before bed. He doesn’t think he did. He barely remembers falling asleep in the first place.

When he reaches the small panel on the wall, he squints at the glowing numbers. 60.

Jimin frowns. That’s way too low.

He swipes his thumb across the screen to adjust it, teeth lightly chattering as he waits for the heater to kick in. The usual hum doesn’t start right away, which makes the cold feel even more obvious. He rubs his arms again and lets out a shaky breath, the fog of it visible in the dark.

He doesn’t remember setting it that low.

Jimin presses his lips together, thumb still hovering near the thermostat screen. He’s about to turn around, blanket dragging at his hips, when a faint sound cuts through the silence.

The creak of wood.

He freezes. Head snapping slightly to the side, eyes locked on the staircase at the end of the hall. It’s so dark, there’s nothing to actually see — just the vague outline of the banister and the yawning black that stretches downward into the first floor.

His ears strain for another sound.

The house is old. They moved in not too long ago, but it’s always been noisy, groaning in the night when the temperature drops, shifting against itself like it’s settling deeper into the ground. He knows that. He’s use to it by now. 

But the sound doesn’t stop.

It comes again. Then again. Slow, deliberate creaks that space themselves out too evenly, too heavy, to be the house shifting on its own.

Like footsteps.

Jimin’s stomach drops. His hand slips away from the thermostat.

His parents are gone — they told him they’d be away for at least another week. On a business trip. They would’ve called if their plans changed. 

He swallows, his throat tight. His arms wrap tighter around himself, fingertips digging into the fabric of the blanket. 

Maybe it’s nothing. It’s probably nothing. Jimin’s just tired. Still wonky from the weird sleep. 

But the longer he listens, the more certain he becomes that something — or someone — is moving downstairs.

He stands there for a few more seconds, barely breathing. His ears are ringing from the silence, but the sound below doesn’t stop.

Eventually, he manages to find his voice. It comes out smaller than he expected. “H–hello?” His voice trembles at the end.

Nothing.

The house swallows it whole. No response, no movement. Just silence again. Jimin holds his breath, the air too cold in his lungs. The seconds drag long. He starts to think maybe he imagined it. Maybe he was just dreaming with his eyes open. Maybe—

The footsteps explode.

Not just creaking now — not slow or quiet. They’re fast. Heavy. Rushing up the stairs.

His heart stops. He doesn’t even feel it beat anymore. For a second, it’s like his entire body blanks out.

And then he runs.

He drops the blanket without thinking, feet pounding against the hallway floor. His limbs are stiff from the cold, but he doesn’t feel it now. He doesn’t feel anything except the desperate need to move faster. His room isn’t far but it feels miles away.

He gets to the door, throws it open, and slams it shut behind him with so much force the walls tremble. His hands are shaking so bad he fumbles the lock twice before it finally clicks into place.

But it’s not enough.

The door jerks in its frame almost immediately, as if someone on the other side was already reaching for the knob. The force behind it rattles the hinges.

The door flings open — torn free like the lock never existed.

Jimin’s scream finally rips free, high and raw, as his eyes lock onto the figure filling his doorway — someone who is absolutely not his mom or dad.

Jimin doesn’t have a lot of time to really take a good look at the intruder. His eyes barely adjust before the man rushes forward, movement fast and heavy, and suddenly Jimin’s entire body is being hauled off the floor like he weighs nothing at all.

Tall. That’s the first thing his mind registers. Taller than him by a lot. And bigger — shoulders broad, body solid in a way that makes Jimin’s stomach turn.

The man’s face is hidden, swallowed by the black of a ski mask. Somehow that makes it worse — the blankness, the way there’s nothing to read, no expression to latch onto. Just the certainty that there’s a stranger in his house, in his room, with his hands all over him.

Jimin thrashes, but it’s useless. The grip around him is too strong, arms locked like iron bars across his chest and waist. His back collides with a body that feels like concrete. The muscles pressing into him are hard enough that his ribs ache. When the man squeezes tighter, Jimin actually coughs from the pressure.

“Wait—please! Please!” His voice cracks, desperate, tumbling out too fast. His hands claw at the man’s arms but there’s no give. “Take whatever you want, I don’t care, I swear—just don’t—please!”

The man grabs a piece of discarded fabric from the bed—Jimin’s own shirt, crumpled and soft—and stuffs it into his mouth in one smooth motion, pushing it past his lips until the words are nothing but muffled noise.

“Shhhh.”

The sound is quiet, almost gentle — right behind him.

Jimin freezes. His breathing is ragged, nose clogged from crying, mouth gagged so tight it’s starting to ache. His vision’s gone useless now, blurred with tears and swallowed by the pitch-black room. He can’t see a thing.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The voice is deep. Calm. Too calm. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“I just need you to shut up for me, yeah?”

The words aren’t cruel, but there’s no softness in them either. They’re level — like this is a routine. Like the man has done this before. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Jimin is then thrown onto his bed, face-first, chest hitting the mattress with a jolt. Rough hands press into his back, keeping him down, while something soft but thick—maybe a belt, maybe a shirt—wraps tight around his wrists and yanks them behind him.

The knot is fast. Efficient.

Jimin sobs against the fabric, his body trembling under the weight pinning him to the bed. His wrists strain uselessly behind him, tied too tight to slip free.

His heart is pounding so loud it drowns out almost everything else. All he can feel is pressure — the hard press of the man’s body keeping him still, one hand cupping the back of his neck.

He tries to scream again, but it’s swallowed instantly by the gag.

And then—suddenly—the weight is gone.

His body sinks into the mattress with the absence of pressure, but it doesn’t bring any relief. If anything, it makes the terror worse.

He doesn’t hear footsteps right away. Just the faint click of the window being shut. The soft rustle of curtains being pulled closed. Fabric sliding over the metal bar.

Then footsteps again.

Jimin flinches at every sound, wrists burning where the material holds him. His head is still pressed to the side, cheek raw from rubbing against the sheets, and his tears have soaked into the fabric.

The lamp clicks on.

A soft amber glow fills the room, washing over the walls in a calm, warm tone that doesn’t match anything happening.

Jimin doesn’t move. He can’t see the man anymore — he’s somewhere behind him, out of view — and the not-seeing is what pushes the fear higher.

He stares at the wall. Unblinking. Frozen.

He hears a long breath behind him. A sigh, like someone frustrated. Tired. Like this is an inconvenience.

“You weren’t supposed to be home,” the man mutters. His voice is low. Muted. Like he’s talking to himself more than Jimin.

Then louder—sharper:

“Where’s your bitch father?”

Jimin’s whole body seizes up.

He doesn’t know what to think. The question hits like a dart, sticking in his mind in the worst way.

What does this man want?

Who even is he?

And why does he sound like he knows something Jimin doesn’t?

“Right, I gagged you,” the man says after a beat, voice dry. “My bad. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

He almost sounds like he’s joking.

“If I ungag you, are you going to scream, or can you manage to behave?”

Jimin’s brow scrunches tight. His chest still heaves in short, jerky breaths. Slowly—hesitantly—he nods.

“Good boy,” the man mutters, almost offhand.

Warm hands come back, rough against his face, tugging at the damp fabric lodged between his teeth. It’s yanked free, leaving his jaw sore, lips raw.

Jimin gasps before he can stop himself, tongue darting out to lick at the dryness around his mouth. The taste is awful—cotton and spit.

There’s a small laugh from behind him. Not loud. Not mocking exactly. More like the man’s amused.

“Relax. You’re acting like I stuffed sandpaper in there.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, throat tight as he swallows. His whole body trembles against the sheets.

The mattress dips slightly behind him. He can feel the shift of weight but still can’t bring himself to turn his head. Not when he can’t trust what he’ll see.

“See?” the voice goes on, dripping with sarcasm. “Was that so bad? Survived the terrifying sock-in-mouth torture. Brave kid.”

Jimin flinches. The words are so at odds with the situation, it makes his stomach twist. He can’t tell if he’s being mocked or comforted—or both.

“So, answer my question. Where’s your dad?”

The sound of it makes his chest tighten. His lips part, shaky. “I– I dunno—” The lie is clumsy, rushed. His voice cracks halfway through, and it’s obvious even to him. He’s always been a terrible liar.

There’s a pause, thick enough that Jimin’s pulse pounds in the silence. Then a dry, sarcastic laugh.

“Stop lying before I make you regret it.” The words come closer, the mattress dipping as weight shifts again. “Where’s your dad… Jimin?”

His name is drawn out, tilted upward at the end like a question.

He hears the scrape of something being lifted from the nightstand. A faint rustle of pages. The man’s rough hands pressing against the cover.

Jimin can’t see him, but he knows what’s being held. The heavy thump of his textbook being flipped closed, the faint creak of the spine.

“Cute,” the man mutters. “You labeled it and everything. Even doodled on it.” 

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t have to look to know exactly what’s scrawled in messy handwriting across the front:

Park Jimin.

“Gonna ask one more time before I start getting annoyed. Where’s your dad?”

Jimin’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, his eyes burning fresh with tears. He knows he can’t lie again — not after the way the man said his name, not with that voice so close to his ear. His shoulders hunch, body shaking with uneven breaths.

“W-work trip—” he stammers, words tripping over themselves. “I swear. He didn’t tell me where.” The sentence breaks off with a sniffle, nose stuffy, voice hoarse from crying.

There’s a low sound behind him, a groan that tips into a bitter laugh. “Of course. Little fucker tucked tail and ran.”

The bed shifts again as the man moves, and Jimin hears it — the rapid click of typing. A phone screen lighting faintly in the corner of his vision, though he doesn’t dare turn his head.

“Why’d he leave you behind?” the man asks, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Kinda a dick move, Jimin-ah.”

The suffix lands sharp, too familiar, and Jimin’s whole body tenses at it. His fingers curl tight into fists where they’re bound behind his back.

He can’t think of an answer. His mind is too loud, filled with static and the thundering pulse in his ears. All he can do is stare at the wall in front of him, wishing it would swallow him whole.

“Daddy doesn’t give a shit about you, huh?”

The words are spoken softly now, almost thoughtfully,  a cruel observation made in passing.

Before Jimin can process it, he feels the man’s hand again — the same rough grip from earlier. It lands heavy on the back of his thigh, fingers splaying across the bare skin, the heat of it instant and unwelcome.

The squeeze isn’t punishing, but it isn’t gentle either. His skin dimples under the touch.

Jimin’s breath hitches. His whole body jerks on instinct, squirming hard to the side, trying to get away without even thinking. His knees scrape against the sheets, wrists straining against the rope.

“W-what do you w-want?” he stammers, the words wet and trembling. “Please just let me go— I won’t tell anyone, I swear—please—”

His voice spirals too fast, tripping over itself. He’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore. Just begging. Anything to make it stop.

The man sighs, long and almost theatrical, like he’s the one who’s exhausted here.

Jimin hears fabric shift, the scrape of something being pulled off. His throat tightens around a scream, chest caving as he tries to brace himself—

And then, a black ski mask drops right in front of his face. It lands on the floor, rolled onto its side where it stares back up at him with hollow, empty eye holes.

For a second, Jimin doesn’t process it. Just stares at it. His mind is too fogged, too frantic.

Then the man’s voice comes again, pitched low, amused.

“They told me Mr. Park had a son,” he says, casual. “But they definitely failed to tell me he was so cute.”

A pause. Jimin feels the weight of eyes on him, even if he can’t look back.

“This isn’t fair, Jimin-ah.”

The words twist through his body, dragging heat to mix with the cold dread in his stomach. The familiarity of the suffix makes his skin crawl—but also… there’s something else in the way it’s said. Something he can’t place.

The man chuckles low, the sound curling around Jimin’s ears. He doesn’t move much — just shifts on the bed, knees pressing deeper into the mattress like he’s making himself comfortable.

“Well,” he drawls, conversational, “your dad ran off like the bitch he is, and I had a job to do.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, a tremor running through his shoulders.

“But now…” the man continues, dragging the words out with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Now I can’t do said job.”

The silence after makes Jimin’s pulse race harder. He doesn’t dare look back — not when the lamp light casts long, sharp shadows across his wall. Not when every breath feels like it’s caught in his throat.

“What now, hm?”

The question comes soft but pointed, laced with a sarcasm that makes Jimin’s stomach twist tighter.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His lips tremble, breath rattling, the sound of it almost too loud in the deathly quiet room. 

The man laughs under his breath again, like he already knows.

Then fingers return.

Not rough — soft, almost too soft. They trace over Jimin’s bare skin like they have all the time in the world, faint lines across his arms, the slope of his spine, the edge of his ribs. Goosebumps rise wherever the touch goes, his body betraying him with every shiver.

When those hands skim lower, over the fleshy backs of his thighs, they squeeze just enough to make him jolt.

Jimin bites down on his lip, hard. His eyes flutter despite himself, lashes wet, vision blurred. There’s a pit deep in his stomach — small, insistent — whispering that it feels good.

And it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He shouldn’t. He can’t. Nothing about this should feel good. But his body doesn’t care, shuddering under every drag of fingertips, every faint press over the fabric of his shorts. The shame of it is what finally tips him over, tears spilling freely now.

The man notices. Of course he does.

“Aw,” he drawls, voice laced with a mocking sort of sweetness, “look at you. Crying ‘cause you like it.”

Jimin shakes his head fast, words tumbling out. “N-no—no, I don’t—”

“Mm,” the man hums, ignoring him completely. His fingers trail higher, ghosting over Jimin’s waist, pausing just long enough for Jimin to twitch beneath the touch. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You’re squirming like it does.”

Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, face burning. His wrists ache from how hard he pulls against the restraints. His mouth opens, but no words come — only a broken sound caught halfway between protest and a gasp.

“I don’t usually do this,” the man murmurs. His voice is right by Jimin’s ear now, warm and low. “Promise.”

There’s a pause. A shift in the mattress. Jimin feels the air change — heat rising against his side, weight settling more firmly behind him.

“You’re just… such a surprise,” the man goes on, voice laced with something between amusement and hunger. “Almost like the universe is trying to make up for the fact I couldn’t do my job.”

The fingertips that had once ghosted across his skin are gone, replaced by a firmer grip — greedy, unapologetic. One hand skims over his hips, the other dragging down his thigh. And then both are on him, squeezing. Possessive.

Jimin gasps.

His shorts ride up from the touch, and the man doesn’t hesitate. One hand slips beneath the fabric, fingers sliding against his skin and cupping him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

The breath leaves Jimin’s lungs. He bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood.

He can feel the weight of the man behind him — broad thighs straddling one of his, trapping him in place. The pressure is unmistakable. The warmth. The heaviness of it.

The hand on his ass flexes, then squeezes again — slow, like he’s savoring it. 

“Mm,” the man hums. “So soft. Soft everywhere.”

Jimin chokes on a sound — not quite a moan, not quite a protest. His body is betraying him. Heat pulses low in his belly, shame curling hot behind his ribs.

He can’t stop crying.

And he doesn’t know if it’s from confusion, from pleasure, or from how hard he’s trying not to let any of it show.

Without realizing, Jimin’s hips shift upward — just slightly, just enough to lean into the touch. The movement is unconscious, a twitch of his body begging for more even while his mind screams at him to stop.

The man chuckles, low and amused.
“Okay, okay,” he teases, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Jimin wants to say no. He wants to deny it, spit the words out, insist that’s not what he wants — but his tongue feels like sandpaper. His lips part uselessly, throat dry, and nothing comes out. And he’s never… he’s never felt anything like this. Never been touched like this.

He hates himself for the way his chest burns hot, for the ache blooming low in his stomach.

A rough hand grabs at the waistband of his shorts and boxers, and before he can even think to resist, they’re yanked down in one swift motion. Cool air hits his skin and he gasps, squirming forward on instinct.

“Shhh,” the man hushes, almost fondly, like he’s scolding a child.

And then those hands are everywhere — squeezing, kneading, spreading the soft flesh of his ass apart like he owns it. He presses into the meat of him hard, prying him open, exposing him completely. Over and over until Jimin’s head spins, his body turning to liquid beneath the relentless touch.

“Such a tiny little fuckhole,” the man mutters, almost to himself. His voice is low. “It’s so pink. Almost looks wet.”

Jimin whimpers into the sheets, face burning, his tied wrists flexing helplessly behind him as the air hits his bare, stretched hole.

He’s never felt more humiliated.

The mattress dips heavier, weight shifting. Jimin feels it — strong thighs bracketing his, straddling his own thigh and caging him in place. The press is solid, unyielding, a reminder of how little room he has to move.

His breaths come heavy, uneven. His vision is glassy, unfocused, every nerve in his body pulled taut. He feels dizzy. Limp. Like he’s slipping into something he can’t control, can’t stop.

“You’re insane,” the man drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Crying, shaking… and still pushing that pretty ass back at me. All for a guy who broke into your house with not so nice intentions.”

Jimin whimpers, burying his face against the sheets. His body arches on instinct, desperate to get away and yet leaning back at the same time. He wants to tell the man to shut up, to stop talking, to stop reminding Jimin why this is all sorts of wrong. 

“Do you even hear yourself?,” the voice continues, almost laughing. “Making the cutest little sounds ‘cause you like my hands on you.”

The words sting, but they sink deep too, curling hot in Jimin’s stomach. He hates himself for how much his body trembles under the touch, for the way his thighs twitch, for the way his hips keep betraying him.

There’s a shift behind him, weight moving closer—adjusting. The hands spread him again, firm and unyielding. Jimin’s breath catches in his throat—

And then there’s wet— hot, heat. 

A tongue dragging over his hole in one long, deliberate lick. 

Jimin gasps, the sound breaking high in his chest. His body jerks forward, hands uselessly tugging against the restraints, but the shock melts fast into something else—something that rips a sound from his throat he can’t hold back no matter how horrible it makes him feel. 

The man chuckles against him, low and satisfied. “Jimin-ah, I hate to break it to you- but you seem to be a grade A slut.”

Jimin shakes his head, tears streaking down his face, but his voice betrays him. “N-no, I—ahh—”

Another lick cuts him off, firmer this time, teasing, almost cruel in how good it feels. His entire body bows with it, muscles locking, heat flooding every inch of him.

And it doesn’t stop.

The wet drag of tongue comes again, rougher now, sloppier — and it only makes it worse. Or better. Jimin doesn’t know anymore. He can’t think, can’t breathe right. He’s gasping into the mattress, cheek pressed against the sheets, jaw slack as his eyes flutter and roll.

The man holds him steady with both hands, spreading him open, unapologetic and thorough in how he works his tongue over Jimin’s hole. It’s filthy. Messy. Loud.

Jimin finds himself moving — not thinking, just moving — hips pushing back like his body’s desperate to give the man more access. 

It earns him a low chuckle. “Good little slut,” the voice croons, breath warm against his skin. “Finally stopped bitching.”

Jimin whines — a soft, broken sound — toes curling, legs twitching. His body’s going limp under the attention, pleasure pooling deep and hot in his belly, too much and not enough all at once.

Every touch leaves him needier. Every second makes him forget just a little more why he was ever trying to resist in the first place.

He’s trembling—cheeks flushed, forehead damp, mouth parted in soft, helpless moans. His arms are pinned behind his back, wrists bound tight, shoulders tense with every jolt of pleasure he can’t stop from wrecking through him. Jimin’s hips are arched up high, and he looks ruined already—sweet and twitchy, every inch of him begging even if he can’t utter a single coherent word. 

The man behind him keeps going, tongue fucking into him with slow, hungry strokes, wet and shameless. It’s filthy—so much mess between his thighs, so much slick, obscene sound—but all Jimin can do is gasp and choke on each shaky breath. His fingers curl uselessly against the restraints. His body jerks when the man presses deeper, tongue curling just right, making his thighs tremble and his back arch higher on instinct.

He tries to bury his face into the sheets, tries to hide from the heat climbing up his spine, but the man just keeps going. Rough hands spread him wider. A palm pushes down against the small of his back, keeping him still while the other reaches underneath—fingers wrapping around his cock,  stroking slow and mean while his tongue never stops.

Jimin whimpers loud and shamelessly, hips bucking wildly. His toes curl. He’s desperate for friction, but he has nowhere to go—no leverage, no control, nothing but the overwhelming ache growing inside him.

He’s going to need therapy after this. So much therapy.

This is filthy. Letting himself be used like this. By a stranger man he knows nothing about— who has God knows what intentions when he broke into Jimin’s house.

“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” the man pants. There’s a slick noise, lips smacking like he’s tasting something rich. “Taste too sweet not to be.”

Jimin’s cock twitches. His balls ache. His spine bows, another sob ripped from his throat.
And God—it feels so good.

“Answer me, Jimin-ah,” the man chides, voice sharp and amused—right before his hand cracks down hard across Jimin’s ass.

The slap stings. Jimin flinches, a choked whine spilling from his throat.

“Y-y-yes… yes,” he stammers, voice shaky, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to swallow the thick saliva pooling in his mouth. His cock hangs heavy, twitching with every tiny movement—bobbing up and down each time his body jolts or squirms from overstimulation.

“Slutty little virgin,” the man hums with a laugh. “That’s a classic, isn’t it?”

Jimin barely has time to react before he hears sucking—wet, slow—then feels it: two thick fingers, slick with spit, pushing into him in one smooth, unforgiving motion.

He gasps—loud and sudden—his back arching, hole clenching instinctively around the intrusion. The sound that escapes him is wet and broken, high-pitched and raw.

“God—this is such a fucking treat,” the man groans, his voice thick with hunger as his fingers fuck in deep, twisting, spreading Jimin wide. “You’ve made my night, Jimin-ah.”

Jimin’s body jolts forward with every thrust. The stretch is obscene—too much, too full—but he takes it anyway, ass pushing back greedily without his permission.

He can’t think. Can’t speak. Every time those fingers curl just right, he sobs—high and broken, the sound punched out of his lungs like he’s being split apart.

“Fuck, you’re gripping so tight,” the man mutters, pushing in harder, faster. Then he adds a third finger without warning.

Jimin borderline screams.

His hips jerk, cock bouncing, precum dripping steadily now. His body tenses, then melts—hole fluttering around the stretch, trying to take it.

“Look at you,” the man breathes, almost reverent. “Made for this, weren’t you?”

Another finger. Four now.

Jimin’s whole body shudders violently, a garbled sob catching in his throat as his eyes roll back. It’s too much. He’s never felt anything like this—stuffed so deep, so full, every nerve ending raw and twitching. His hole pulses helplessly around the intrusion, as if begging for more, even as tears spill down his cheeks.

Then suddenly—it’s gone.

The fingers pull out with a wet pop, and Jimin collapses forward with a strangled moan. He’s shaking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, arms still pinned tight behind his back. The position he’s in is obscene—ass raised, cheeks spread, skin flushed and glistening with sweat and spit.

Behind him, the man exhales sharply. “Jimin-ah,” he says, voice low and edged with a smile. “You’ve got me all hard now. You should take some responsibility.”

Jimin barely has time to register the words before his ankle is grabbed and yanked. His body is flipped in one rough pull, and he lands on his back with a soft gasp, wrists still restrained and chest heaving. His legs fall open instinctively, and for the first time—he sees him.

And—

Oh.

He’s—handsome.

It hits Jimin like a punch to the gut.

Big and broad, just like he’d imagined from the weight and strength of his hands. He’s dressed in black—long sleeves, thick cargo pants—but the first thing Jimin notices is the ink. Tattoos crawl up the backs of his fingers, curling under his sleeves, disappearing into the fabric. A lip ring glints when he smirks. His eyebrow is pierced too. His hair is long, dark, wavy—cut around his jaw in soft, wild layers.

But then there’s his smile.

Boyish. Almost sweet.

There’s no way. It’s impossible.

He can’t wrap his head around it. He doesn’t even know what he was expecting—some masked creep, maybe. Someone cold, unhinged. Dangerous.

He is a creep, Jimin.

He is unhinged. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His mind feels like it’s being scrambled—shaken up and poured out like dice. Nothing’s lining up right. His body’s still burning, skin flushed and damp, hole aching and twitching from being stretched open. He can still feel the ghost of those fingers inside him.

This is wrong. It’s so fucking wrong.

Jimin’s wrists are still tied, arms sore behind his back.  He’s practically naked now, trembling, soaked with spit and pre-cum that’s leaking obscenely from his cock. He should be panicking. Kicking. Screaming. Trying to call the damn police. 

He hasn’t done any of that.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He wants to blame shock. Wants to pretend he’s paralyzed with fear. But it’s not fear keeping him still—it’s something far worse. Something dark and crawling, twisting up in his chest like shame disguised as want. 

Because this man is insane. He broke into his home. Restrained him. Touched him. Used him.

And Jimin let him.

He fucking let him.

Not a single fight. Not a single real protest since being thrown onto the bed. Just his body—eager and soaked and betraying him with every twitch of his hips.

If this guy is crazy, what the hell does that make Jimin?

He feels sick.

And hard.

And so, so confused.

And the man—he just keeps smiling. Like he knows exactly what’s going on inside Jimin’s head. Like he knows how this is going to play out. How this is going to end. 

Like he’s already won. 

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” he coos, voice syrupy with mock concern. One knee sinks into the edge of the mattress as he reaches down, tugging the last of Jimin’s clothes off his ankles—tossing them aside like they’re worthless. His gaze never wavers, sharp and fixed, a glint in his eye like he’s enjoying this far too much.

He grabs Jimin’s thighs with both hands, spreading him wide without hesitation, exposing everything. Jimin stiffens, cheeks burning, breath catching as cold air ghosts over his flushed cock and glistening hole. The only thing he’s still wearing is his t-shirt—riding up around his ribs, offering no real protection.

“This is quite funny, isn’t it?” the man laughs. That same crooked grin stretches across his face—boyish, playful. So out of place it makes Jimin feel dizzy.

How can someone so cute… be like this?

It doesn’t make sense. That face doesn’t match the things he’s doing. That smile doesn’t belong in a situation like this.

“Mommy and daddy left you all alone…”

The words are soft, sing-song, laced with mockery—but it’s not cruelty that lingers behind them. It’s hunger. Deep and unfiltered. His eyes drag over Jimin’s body again. 

They way he’s being looked at— devoured—it does something to him. Twists something in his gut that he can’t begin to name. His skin prickles under the weight of that stare, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach, still flushed and leaking, like it knows it’s being talked about.

The man grins wider, boyish and pleased, like he sees everything Jimin’s trying not to feel. “Could’ve been anyone,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Could’ve been someone mean. Someone rough. Someone who didn’t think you were cute.”

That grin again—bright and infuriating. And it shouldn’t do anything to him. But it does.

It makes Jimin’s thighs twitch. Makes his chest ache with something too warm, too heavy. It’s messed up. All of this is fucked beyond words. And still—still—his body doesn’t seem to care.

He shifts, unconsciously, thighs spreading wider as if offering more.

“See?” he murmurs, gaze dropping lower. “You like this. Like being used. Played with. Grade A slut yeah?” 

But all that comes out is a breathy, high little sound—needy and wanting.

He doesn’t know what that makes him. 

But Jimin is done losing his mind over it. 

He can’t deny it anymore. He can’t try to. 

“Please..please” Jimin whispers. It’s almost inaudible, but the man hears it loud and clear. 

The man doesn’t say a word at first.

He just pushes Jimin’s thighs further apart, spreading him wide, making sure he stays that way—open, exposed, trembling just a little. He doesn’t even bother undressing himself properly. Just unbuttons his jeans, pulls the zipper down with a slow, intentional drag. 

Then he shoves his briefs down just enough.

And fuck—he’s big.

Thick, veiny, flushed, and so hard, Jimin swears he can see it pulsating. He wraps his hand around the base, pumping himself. It looks almost clinical. Measured. when he wraps his hand around the base, it looks almost clinical. Measured. Like he’s sizing himself up just to watch the way Jimin reacts.

“So soft,” he murmurs, voice dipped low like a secret. He drags his hand up his cock in one smooth motion, letting the head press against Jimin’s entrance without pushing in. “You’re like a little gift. Just for me.”

He leans forward, gaze still locked on Jimin’s face—watching every flutter of his lashes, every subtle shake in his thighs.

“Look at you. Laid out so pretty. All pink and open and begging for it.”

His voice softens even more, almost fond. Like he means it.

“You’re perfect like this. Warm and pliant. Letting me do whatever I want.”

He nudges forward just slightly, enough for the pressure to grow. Enough for Jimin’s lips to part around a breathless sound.

“I don’t deserve you,” the man murmurs, eyes dropping to where their bodies touch. “But I’m gonna take you anyway. Gonna stuff you so full you forget how to think.”

And he smiles—something slow and dangerous. One hand steadying Jimin’s hip, the other guiding himself in.

“Stay still, sweetheart. I want to savor this.”

The man lets his cock rest there for a moment—heavy and threatening, pressed right against Jimin’s hole without entering.

Jimin’s breath comes fast. Shaky. His body trembles under the weight of everything he’s not getting yet, hips twitching upward with the tiniest, involuntary plea.

The man tilts his head slightly downward, before letting a string of spit fall from his mouth—slow and deliberate. It drips right onto the head of his cock, then slides down between Jimin’s cheeks, warm and slick and obscene. He does it a couple more times, each time just as agonizingly slow and erotic. 

“There we go,” he says, almost under his breath. He uses the tip of his cock to smear it in, slow circles against Jimin’s entrance. “You’re gonna take me so well now.”

And then he pushes in.

There’s no warning, but thankfully, it’s not rough, just.. deep. All at once. A single, steady press of his hips until he’s fully seated inside.

Jimin gasps—high and choked—back arching as his whole body clenches. His legs jerk where they’re held open. 

“Oh, baby…” the man breathes, voice low with something like wonder. He pauses there, buried to the hilt. “That’s it. Just like that.”

He moves one hand to Jimin’s thigh, stroking it gently with his thumb.

“Good boy. Such a good little thing, aren’t you?”

Jimin whimpers, eyes glassy, hips rocking up before he can stop himself.

“Look at you,” the man says, pushing in again just a little, like he needs to feel it—needs to remind himself it’s real. “So needy. Can’t even stay still. You like it that much?”

Another slow thrust, deeper this time, drawing a sweet, broken moan from Jimin’s lips.

“You like being filled like this?”

Jimin nods—frantic, obsessed. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a shaky sound, half-gasp, half-moan.

“That’s my boy,” the man murmurs. He leans closer, lips brushing Jimin’s jaw. “So fucking sweet. God— you make me want to fucking ruin you. ”

And then he starts to move—slow and hard. Every thrust dragging against sensitive nerves, every pull making Jimin sob just a little harder.

The rhythm starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way.

The man’s hips begin to roll harder—deeper. Each thrust punches a quiet cry from Jimin’s throat, his whole body rocking forward with the force of it.

A soft, broken, “More—please—more,” pushed out between gasps, between moans.

The man just groans low in his throat. “You want more?”

Jimin nods so fast it’s almost pathetic.

He’s shaking now. His thighs trembling where they’re spread open. His toes curl, and then—

He lifts his legs. Hooks them around the man’s waist without thinking, dragging him closer, like he’s scared he’ll be taken away. Like he wants him deeper, harder, even if he can barely take it.

“Oh, baby,” the man breathes, voice thick with something that’s not quite pity, not quite affection. “You’re really just a little toy, huh?”

He slams in deep—hard enough to knock the breath out of Jimin’s lungs—and watches the way Jimin arches for it, watches the way his whole body begs without a word.

“Don’t even know what to do with yourself,” he murmurs, fucking him harder now, rough enough that the bed creaks beneath them. “Just lay there and take it. That’s all you can do, isn’t it?”

Jimin chokes on a whimper, eyes wide and glassy.

“Shh. You’re doing so good,” the man says, gentler now—soothing even as he keeps pounding into him. He leans down, lets his lips graze Jimin’s temple. “You’re such a good boy for me. So sweet. So easy to break.”

He shifts his weight, pins Jimin down with a hand over his stomach, keeps him still.

“Think I could fuck you until you cry?” he whispers. “Until you beg me to stop and then beg me not to?”

The fear in Jimin’s eyes flickers—but it’s swallowed quickly by something worse. Need. Desire. Awe.

The man smiles at that. Something slow. Dangerous. But almost fond.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Jimin nods—barely able to speak now, his voice lost to the rhythm pounding through his body.

“You just want to be used,” the man murmurs, pressing another deep thrust into him, savoring the broken sound it drags out. “But I’m gonna take care of you. Don’t worry.”

Another thrust. Another.

Jimin doesn’t even think about it.

The man’s so close—breathing into his face, fucking him deep, groaning like he’s losing his mind as well—and Jimin just can’t help it. He leans up and kisses him. Messy and desperate, lips parting instantly, not even thinking about whether he’s allowed.

He freezes.

For a second.

But then the man growls—deep in his chest—and slams into him so hard Jimin cries out, the sound swallowed instantly by the way the man kisses back, open-mouthed and filthy. His grip tightens—fingers bruising into Jimin’s waist—and he ruts in like the flame in his body has been doused in gasoline. 

“Fuck—” the man snarls between kisses. “Should’a just said you wanted a kiss, baby.”

He thrusts again—hard, deep, relentless—and Jimin sobs into his mouth, clinging tighter, wrapping his legs around his waist so he can’t pull away.

“That’s it,” the man pants, dragging his lips along Jimin’s jaw. “Wrap those pretty legs around me—hold me there while I fuck this little hole.”

His hand slides up Jimin’s belly, palm flattening just under his ribs, pressing down—not hard, but firm enough that the stretch becomes impossibly real. Jimin gasps, mouth falling open.

“You feel that?” the man growls, staring down at him. “Feel how deep I am? That’s me, baby. All me.”

Jimin nods fast, whining, breathless and feeling like he’s about to tip over the edge. 

“My boy,” the man coos, a cruel sort of affection in his voice. “My sweet, stupid boy. Look at you. Haven’t even touched your little cock and I can tell you’re about to cum.”

He pulls out halfway—then slams back in, grinding deep until Jimin’s whole body trembles. His cock twitches between them, untouched and leaking against his own stomach, and the man wraps  a hand over it lazily, just to watch him squirm.

“That better? feels good, right?” he murmurs, voice low. “Tell me how good, Jimin-ah.” 

Jimin babbles something—he doesn’t even know what it is. Something like please or more or don’t stop, or all of the above. 

The man fucks him harder in response, snapping his hips in fast and brutal now, sweat dripping down his neck, eyes wild with the way Jimin clenches around him.

“You’re so tight,” he grits out. “Still so fucking tight— and warm. Fuck—“

He kisses Jimin again—sloppy and open, tongue pushing in to claim, to fill, to take. And Jimin lets him. Moaning into it, body arching. 

“Want me to fuck you full? Fill this sweet body up like you’re mine?” He groans, lips still against his. 

Jimin nods frantically, hooking his legs tighter, tilting his hips up to take it deeper.

He doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

He wants to stay like this—shaking, breathless, stuffed full of him until he forgets his own name.

Until all that’s left is his boy.

God— Jimin likes the sound of that too much. 

He strokes Jimin with one hand, slow at first—fingers wrapped around the base, dragging upward in smooth, slick motions. The other hand is still firm on his stomach, pressing down just enough that Jimin can feel every deep grind of cock inside him.

The pressure makes him choke on a moan, thighs twitching under the weight of it, his body hot and trembling and far too close already.

“There you go,” the man murmurs, mouth right by his ear now, his voice deep and ragged. “Can feel you fluttering around me—don’t try to hold it.”

Jimin shakes his head, but it’s not a no. It’s desperate, frantic—his eyes squeezed shut, lip bitten red, skin flushed all over. His hips keep jolting with every thrust, every stroke, like his body’s acting on its own.

He’s drooling a little. It drips from the corner of his mouth where it’s open, panting.

“Poor thing,” he coos, sounding almost fond. “You’re so worked up, baby. Can’t even think straight, can you?”

He strokes him harder now, faster. Thumb swiping over the slick head, palm tight, dragging against the oversensitive skin while his cock punches in deeper and deeper, grinding up against that spot inside him that makes everything go white.

Jimin gasps, a choked cry leaving his throat as his stomach tightens hard under the man’s palm. His cock twitches. Spasms.

“That’s it,” the man coos, “that feel good? Huh? Come all over my hand. All over your belly, baby.”

Jimin comes with a broken, high sound—his body locking up so tight it looks painful. His hips jerk forward as hot ropes of cum spill out of him, coating the man’s fingers, his own skin, sticky and messy and endless.

He keeps twitching long after it’s done. Breath hitching. Legs shaking. 

The man is still grinding in and out of him, his fingers still gently smearing the come across Jimin’s stomach like he’s trying to rub it in.

“Good boy,” he whispers. “Cock feels all good now, doesn’t it?” 

Jimin nods, dazed. Barely able to lift his head. His body’s boneless under him, completely used.

The man slides his hand down to grip his hip—and pulls out slow, deliberately, dragging every inch across Jimin’s oversensitive rim.

Jimin barely has time to breathe before he’s flipped, wrists still bound behind him, his face pressing into the pillows with a small whimper.

His whole body jolts when his weight shifts—his arms aching just enough to make him wince.

“Oh… baby,” he says, soft and cooing like he’s talking to something fragile. “I forgot about those.”

His fingers slide down, not to untie, but to wrap around the knots—around both of Jimin’s wrists, small and trembling in his grip. And then he pulls, using the leverage to lift Jimin’s chest off the bed just slightly, forcing him to arch, to hold himself up by the pressure of that single hand.

The other settles at his hip.

Then he pushes in again.

And Jimin’s mouth falls open in a silent cry.

It’s different like this—so different. The angle is brutal. The man feels massive now, too deep, too thick, like he’s rearranging something inside him. It burns in the best way. Fills him up in a way that leaves no room for thought.

Jimin can feel it. Not just inside, but higher—like the head of it is pushing up against something he shouldn’t even be able to reach. Deep in his belly. His stomach flutters under the pressure, muscles twitching around the intrusion.

The man groans behind him, low and breathy.

“There you go,” he murmurs. Soft, almost distracted, like he’s watching something beautiful. “Look at how good you take it. So deep in there, baby.”

Jimin’s thighs shake, his breath coming out in wet gasps. He’s limp, held up only by the man’s grip on his wrists, body pulled back with each thrust like a ragdoll.

His cheek is pressed to the mattress, eyes rolling, drool slipping past his lips.

“Your daddy abandoned you,” the man says suddenly, voice quiet and strange and sweet, right by Jimin’s ear. “But me?”

He fucks into him harder, deeper—dragging a strangled moan from Jimin’s chest.

“I’m here now.” 

Jimin sobs—his whole body trembling under the weight of it, the depth, the heat. Every thrust punches it deeper, presses up into that swollen, aching spot that has his toes curling and his brain unraveling.

It’s too much.

It’s so much.

He feels full to the point of splitting open. Every drag of cock inside him is thick and punishing, the angle brutal with the way he’s bent—arms yanked back, shoulders sore, spine arched like a bow.

Each thrust slams him forward on the bed, only for the man to yank him back again—tight, fast, deep. Over and over. It knocks the breath from his lungs.

All he can feel is that stretch. That pressure. That obscene, wet slap slap slap every time their bodies meet.

His cock is hard again. Painfully so. Bobbing uselessly against his own stomach, drooling onto the sheets. 

God.

He’s going to come again.

He can feel it, rising quick and hot in his gut, winding so tight it almost hurts. Everything aches. His thighs are shaking. His stomach keeps clenching every time the man grinds in deep, and it’s unbearable—so good he could cry. He might be crying already. 

“Please,” he gasps, voice shredded and wet. “I—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

He leans over him again, chest flush to Jimin’s back, cock still buried to the hilt. He shifts his grip to the base of Jimin’s spine, pinning him down hard with one palm while his other hand fists his bound wrists again—pulling him back, fucking into him even deeper, if it’s even possible.

Every inch of him is burning. His toes are curling, his eyes are rolling back, his body’s seizing and twitching like something’s short-circuited. His cock throbs untouched, leaking all over the sheets.

“Come,” the man whispers, voice suddenly so sweet it’s unbearable. “Come for me, sweetheart. Go on. You don’t have to ask. Just let go.”

Jimin’s body snaps. His mouth falls open around a silent cry as his orgasm rips through him, violent and wet. He comes hard—again—his whole body clenching as his cock spills over the sheets, twitching, pulsing, gushing.

He shudders, eyes unfocused, everything white around the edges. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe right. Just gasps and cries and trembles while the man keeps fucking him through it, not slowing down at all.

“Atta boy,” he purrs, dragging his tongue along the side of Jimin’s neck. “That’s it. Milk my cock, baby. Just like that. Good fucking boy.”

He’s never felt pleasure so blinding.

His vision pulses with it. His muscles twitch with aftershocks, spasming around the thick cock still buried deep inside him. His skin feels too tight, nerves frayed raw. Every thrust now is like a jolt of electricity through his gut—too much, too good.

And the man—he’s not far behind.

His thrusts have turned erratic. Sloppy. He’s breathing hard, dragging Jimin’s hips back to meet each snap of his own with a desperation that feels barely contained. His cock pulses thick inside him—Jimin can feel it—hot and huge and still so fucking deep.

“Fuck,” the man gasps, voice cracking a little. “You feel that? H-holding me so tight— your holes so fucking hungry for it.” 

He whimpers, nodding into the mattress. His voice is gone, but his body says everything—back arched, hole twitching around the cock stuffed inside it, every part of him greedy for more.

A growl, low and broken—followed by a brutal thrust that drives all the air from his lungs.

It floods him all at once.

Thick and warm and so much—he can feel it spill deep, coating everything inside, heavy and wet. It keeps coming, pulse after pulse, filling him in waves. Each spurt pushes further up, so hot it burns.

He hadn’t expected this part to feel so good.

He can feel every drop—how it spills past the seal of his rim and dribbles down the backs of his thighs, sticky and obscene. How the man stays inside him through it, cock twitching, grinding slow as if trying to push it in deeper. As if trying to make sure none of it gets wasted.

“Fuck— fuck— fuck baby,” the man breathes, voice fucked out. “S’full of me. Stuffed so nice, you’re dripping so much.”

He lets go of Jimin’s wrists, just to press a palm over the swell of his lower belly again—low and possessive.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. All of me. Right here.”

He feels swollen and heavy, hot all the way up his gut. The warmth lingers, seeps deeper, and something about it… something about being filled like this—

It makes his thighs twitch again.

The man lets go of his wrists at last.

Jimin falls instantly—limp against the mattress, his chest collapsing into the sheets with a soft thump. His arms drop uselessly at his sides, the material slipping free as the man unties him, careful and unhurried.

He barely feels his arms at all—just a dull, heavy tingle from keeping them behind his back too long.

He blinks slowly, but his eyes keep fluttering shut again.

Every time he tries to open them, they fall closed once more.

If the man says anything, Jimin doesn’t hear it. It sounds like noise behind glass—low and distant and warm.

One strong arm slides under his torso to lift him just slightly—just enough to guide him forward, repositioning him onto his stomach, folding him down gently into the pillows. Jimin lets him, pliant and quiet, his limbs jelly-soft, sliding wherever he’s placed without resistance.

Then something warm—soft—covers him.

A blanket. Soft, warm, tucked up over his bare hips, up to his back and shoulders. It smells like laundry detergent and skin, and it makes him sigh before he even realizes it.

Something brushes against his forehead—fingers, tender and slow. They trace up into his hairline, push the damp strands away from his temple.

He exhales slowly, slack-mouthed, eyes finally giving in to the weight behind them.

And just before sleep drags him under, he hears the soft creek of hinges. The quiet click of his door being shut. 

And then there’s nothing at all. 

-

The following week is all sorts of humiliating for Jimin.

Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Pick a category. He’s checked every box.

He can’t sit properly for two days. His thighs ache in ways he didn’t even think were possible. His arms are sore from being tied up so long, his wrists tender, his back twinging every time he shifts in bed. Which is fine. It’s whatever. That’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is the way he feels.

Like something’s been rewired in his brain. Like he’s not the same person anymore.

He’ll be doing something completely normal—like brushing his teeth or folding laundry or trying to get through his lecture notes—and then bam, it hits him. A phantom ache. That stretched, too-deep, too-full feeling that makes his stomach flutter and his toes curl in his socks. That burn in his hips from being held down. The warmth that leaked out of him for hours afterward.

And God help him if he remembers the way he came the second time. That flash of pressure, the slow fill, the way it wouldn’t stop, how the man whispered, that’s it, take it all, good boy—

Jimin has to physically slap his own cheek sometimes.

He keeps crossing his legs at the worst possible moments. Keeps fidgeting in his seat. Keeps zoning out and blinking at the wall like it personally offended him.

It’s becoming a problem.

Not the zoning out part. Or the way he keeps flinching when people touch his lower back. Or even the mild trauma flashbacks every time he sees a man with cargo pants on. 

No. The real problem is what happens when he’s alone.

Because—apparently—his body has decided to compensate for the psychological damage by developing what can only be described as a mild-to-moderate addiction to being fucked. 

The amount of times he’s fucked himself in the last seven days is starting to border on impressive. Or concerning.

Whatever he can find—whatever looks even remotely close to the size of that man—he’ll try it.

It’s humiliating. A stunning display of loss of dignity.

And none of it works.

Nothing scratches the itch.

Nothing is him.

The weight, the stretch, the voice, the way he pressed in so deep Jimin felt it in his lungs—none of it comes close. Every orgasm just leaves him emptier. Frustrated. Needier than before.

And he still doesn’t even know the man’s name.

It’s been a week. Seven days.

And he doubts he’ll ever see him again.

Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that was all it was supposed to be—a one-night psychosexual spiritual re-alignment.

And yet.

The idea of never seeing him again… it hurts.

He hates that it hurts.

Jimin thinks about that sometimes, when he’s lying awake and shifting uncomfortably in damp sheets. Tries to rationalize it. Turn it over in his head until it makes sense.

He didn’t hurt him. Not really. Not in any lasting way.

He was rough, yes. Invasive, absolutely. Morally questionable? Without a doubt.

But he never hurt him. 

Never slapped him, never called him names that cut too deep. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Kissed the back of his neck. Tucked a blanket around his exhausted body and brushed his hand across his forehead like they were something to each other.

Jimin had fallen asleep to that touch.

And tonight, a week later, he falls asleep thinking of it again.

His fingers curl into the sheets where the man once was, the warmth long gone but the memory still burned into the fabric. He exhales slowly, body sore and limp from yet another failed attempt at satisfaction, and lets his eyes drift closed.

And when Jimin startles awake—he registers that he can’t move—can’t breathe—because there’s a hand clamped over his mouth, palm firm, fingers spread across his cheek, pinning his head to the pillow.

His heart lurches into his throat. Panic hits first. Adrenaline slams through his veins so fast it makes his ears ring. 

But it’s the same feeling as before. 

And just like that, he knows.

His breath stutters against the hand. He blinks hard, pupils straining in the darkness—eyes slowly adjusting—and when they do, he’s face to face with him.

With him.

The man.

He’s smiling.

More of a grin, really—boyish and charming. There’s something else, too—something slick beneath it. Almost malicious. A glint in his eye that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And it makes Jimin burn.

Hot.

Like something inside him flares to life without permission. Like the air itself turned electric, crawling across his skin, sparking in his fingertips. His stomach flips. His pulse roars.

It’s not fear.

It should be.

But it isn’t.

There’s a second—just one—where they stare at each other in the dark.

He should feel violated. Panicked. Angry.

But all he feels is need.

A brutal, curling heat that spreads through him like wildfire. His thighs tighten. His skin prickles. Endorphins rush to his brain so fast he feels lightheaded.

He grabs the man’s wrist, peels the hand from his mouth—and before he can even think, before a single rational thought can crawl through the noise—he surges forward and kisses him.

Hard.

Their lips crash together with no warning, messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Jimin’s fingers tighten around his wrist as the man groans softly into his mouth—surprised, maybe—but then he kisses back with just as much ferocity. His hand slips to the side of Jimin’s face, gripping tight, dragging him closer even though there’s no space left to close.

Jimin moans into him. His whole body thrums.

There’s no talking. No greeting. 

Somewhere beneath them, Jimin hears the soft thud of shoes hitting the floor—one after the other. Careless. Thoughtless. The sound makes his chest tighten, his arms pull tighter.

He welcomes it.

Welcomes him.

The man climbs into the bed like he belongs there—like no time has passed at all. He crowds Jimin instantly, hands and knees sinking into the mattress, caging him in.

His mouth never leaves Jimin’s. The kiss only breaks long enough for breath to pass between them, and then it’s back again—deeper, hungrier. Messy and wet, their lips swollen already, their teeth clicking, too much saliva. 

Jimin feels a hand slide under the pillow his head is resting on—gripping it, using it, like leverage to bear down on him, to kiss harder.

It makes the whole bed shift.

And God, Jimin wants more. He’ll always want more.

He wraps his arms around the man’s neck, pulls him closer, closer, until their chests touch, until there’s nothing left but heat and friction between them. The kiss grows rougher. More desperate. Borderline painful.

It burns.

But that’s what makes it perfect.

Jimin wants the weight. The heat. The crush of his lips against his own, the sting where they bite into him too hard. He wants the mess. The no-talking. The mind-numbing quiet that somehow feels louder than anything they could possibly say.

“Your folks should really invest in a better security system,” he murmurs between kisses.

Jimin doesn’t answer at first—too busy mouthing at his lips again, hungry and distracted. He kisses him once, twice, and then again, mumbling into the curve of his mouth, “They upgraded them a few days ago…”

The man hums like that’s cute. Like he already knows.

“They should really,” he repeats, amused, lips brushing Jimin’s, “invest in a better system.”

Jimin freezes—for just a moment. His hands stay curled around the man’s neck, keeping him close, but he pulls back just enough to look at him. His brows are furrowed now, lips flushed, kiss-bitten, breath shallow.

“You said…” His voice is rough. “That night—before—what’s going on with my dad?”

He’s not sure why he asks. Curiously has been eating away at him. And he isn’t exactly able to ask his dad about it without raising suspicions. 

“That’s taken care of,” he says lightly. One hand slides down to Jimin’s chest, toying lightly at one of his nipples through his shirt. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Jimin will ultimately pretend he hasn’t noticed how strangely pale his father has looked the past few days.

He doesn’t remember how it started. Doesn’t care, but he finds himself stark naked, straddling the man’s thighs, thick cock already stuffed inside him.

His knees are planted wide, hips working slow and desperate as he grinds down, taking every inch. The stretch is brutal. Satisfying. His hole’s raw and slick, rim clinging every time he lifts up, thighs trembling from the effort.

The man leans back against the headboard, arms relaxed—except for his hands, which are tight around Jimin’s waist, guiding him, dragging him down harder, deeper.

There’s sweat on his skin, slick on his thighs, lube and spit and whatever the hell else dripping down to the sheets. The sound of it is obscene—wet and loud every time he drops back down, ass meeting skin with a sharp clap.

Jimin moans. Loud. Sloppy. His mouth stays open, panting. His eyes keep rolling up every time the head of that cock pushes too deep, grinding into the spot that makes his stomach jump.

His whole body shakes. Cock an angry shade of red that won’t stop springing up and down. He bounces faster, more frantic, chasing the way it makes his brain short out.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice wrecked. “Fucking—feels so—”

The man just watches. Breath steady, grin lazy. His hands shift to Jimin’s ass, spreading him wider, pulling him down until his hole’s fully stuffed, stretched open around the thick base.

“Please,” Jimin whines, not even sure what he’s begging for. “Please, just—just don’t stop—”

One hand slaps his ass hard, the stinging pain sending bolts of pleasure up Jimin’s spine. 

He bounces harder, chasing it—fucking himself on it like a toy, The stretch is thick, relentless, just on the edge of too much and not enough. 

“W-w-what’s…” he gasps, voice shaking, “what’s your name?”

The man just grins up at him, teeth flashing.

He grabs a firm hold of Jimin’s ass again, squeezing tight before spreading one cheek apart, then, he brings his free hand to his mouth. Sucks on two fingers, slow and wet, eyes never leaving Jimin’s face.

And before Jimin can even process what’s happening—

Those spit-slick fingers are pushing inside.

Right alongside his cock.

Jimin chokes on a sound, body seizing up, thighs trembling hard where they’re wrapped around the man’s waist. The stretch is unreal. The intrusion too much. His mouth falls open in a silent scream, brain short-circuiting as his hole clenches helplessly around the obscene fullness.

He begins to fuck in and out, pumping in a steady rhythm right alongside his cock. And as if that isn’t enough, he starts thrusting up with his hips too, pounding into Jimin.

The stretch burns. The pressure’s unbearable. It’s too much, too full, too deep, too fucking good.

His cock twitches hard, untouched, and then he’s shooting across the man’s chest in messy, pulsing streaks—some catching on his collarbones, some splattering right onto his lips.

“Jungkook,” he says smoothly, tongue swiping across his lower lip. He pauses only to lick his lips fully clean. “Pleasure to meet you, Jimin-ah.”