Chapter Text
── ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
By the time the last round of kids finally logged out, the café was humming like a machine catching its breath. Fans inside the towers purred unevenly, each rig with its own faint timbre. Monitors blinked off one by one as Jimin worked down the rows, tugging chairs back under desks with his hip, peeling damp mousepads from the laminate to wipe beneath, shaking empty chip bags so crumbs wouldn’t glue themselves to the mats. The smell of disinfectant wipes lingered over the older scents—ramyeon broth, cheap cologne that came in swinging at dinnertime and never quite left, the saline edge of sweat dried into headphone foam.
“Closing time,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the desk of three holdouts. “Out, before I throw you back to spawn myself.”
The boy groaned, muttered something about his SR tanking, and logged out anyway, shoulders dramatizing the tragedy as he shoved cords into his backpack.
One of them “accidentally” kicked an empty can that lay on the floor near an abandoned desk on his way past. The aluminum rattled and rolled, froth puckering out of the mouth and skittering across the tile.
Jimin bent to pick it up. As he did, the guy leaned in, an ugly, casual sniff—like scent was public property. Jimin’s skin tightened over his spine. Before he had to say anything, Yoongi’s voice cut clean from behind the counter.
“You spill it, you mop it. And you’re done for the night.”
The alpha huffed, hurrying to follow his friends out into the night.
When the glass door finally clicked shut behind them, Jimin stayed there, palm flat to the cool pane, breathing in the hush. The street outside glowed with Gangnam neon; rain had started, and traffic sighed by in slick waves. Inside, only the rigs hummed and the blue strips along row three buzzed in a tired, insecty way.
Yoongi emerged from the back office, hood up, a paper cup of barley tea steaming between his hands. He blinked at Jimin like a cat caught half-asleep and too dignified to admit it.
“You’re staying.” Not a question.
“Only for a bit.” Jimin’s tone came out sugary, just a notch too fast. He was already drifting toward the corner station with his favorite keyboard—the tenkeyless with smooth caps and the exact spring weight his fingers liked. “Wi-Fi’s wasted if I don’t.”
Yoongi’s mouth curved. “Your little gremlins don’t know where you stream from, right?”
“They’ll never know.” Jimin pressed a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “Anonymous until the end.”
Yoongi grunted, sipped his tea, and jerked his chin toward the station. “Don’t scream loud enough to wake the landlord.”
“I don’t scream,” Jimin lied.
The café after hours was his sanctuary: rows of silent rigs like sentries, neon bleeding across the front windows, the soft crackle of rain beginning to thread the night. Jimin slid into the corner chair and let ritual do the rest. Mouse. Pad. Keyboard. Headset. No camera, no face, no scent. Just his voice—his one show of self that no one could pin to a body in this room.
“Mic check, one, two,” he murmured, letting his tone sink into the smooth, steady register he saved for streaming. It always made him smirk when he heard it back: soft as honey even when he laced it with venom. The chat loved the dissonance—sweet sound, sharp teeth.
The overlay blinked awake; notifications popped as chat trickled in, then flooded.
[sugarsoju]: HYUNG U LATE AGAIN
[mercysimp]: i was about to queue qp alone
[alpha4sure]: facecam when
[pogpatch]: ur voice is alpha coded idc
“Hello, my little degenerates,” Jimin cooed. “Sorry for the delay, some high schoolers decided to scrim on my machines. I evicted them personally. Say thank you.”
[sugarsoju]: THANK U
[1ClipKookie]: u scare them but not us
[mimi64]: no omega could flame that sweetly
Jimin grinned. “Keep guessing. Maybe if you behave, I’ll let you know what I am when the dev comes back with patch notes.”
Emotes spilled like confetti. Jimin rolled his eyes and clicked into comp.
King’s Row loaded in on attack. Team VC flickered on—five random voices overlapping like everybody was trying to talk through the same straw.
“Do we have heals?” someone asked immediately, already annoyed.
“Don’t pick Hanzo, man, we need hitscan.”
“Just don’t trickle, please.”
Jimin leaned back in his chair, voice sugary and sharp in the same breath. “Relax, children. It’s the first fight. Nobody’s SR is on the line but mine.”
“Who made you shotcaller?” a DPS scoffed.
“Skill did,” Jimin said sweetly, and locked Tracer.
The chat went wild.
[GenjiIRL]: TOXIC KING
[UltSync]: voice like syrup, words like knives
The doors opened; the world snapped to speed. Jimin blinked, blinked, skimmed a wall by centimeters, felt stone and rain and momentum in his fingers. He stuck a bomb on their Ana, popped it, and zipped out again before Rein’s hammer could touch his shadow. Ana fell; the kill feed lit like an arcade.
“Pick on Ana,” Jimin called, already smirking. “Push it before their Mercy pockets.”
They capped A clean.
He was already watching the feed, eyes narrowing as the same name kept appearing with unnerving regularity: gldn_jjk. Crisp eliminations, coordinated ult timing, positioning that left nothing free. Cassidy one fight, Widow the next—swaps perfect, sight lines threaded like a needle. No chatter from him. No wasted motion either.
Jimin couldn’t help himself. “God, gldn_jjk, you’re disgusting. Carry me harder, why don’t you.”
Chat spammed hearts like they were getting paid.
A teammate snorted into comms. “Yo, zip up gldn_jjk’s pants when you’re done sucking him, pjm_95.”
Jimin didn’t miss a beat. “At least I’d be using my mouth for something useful, unlike you feeding their Rein every fight.”
Comms cracked up; someone wheezed. Chat howled.
[alpha4sure]: he’s actually alpha coded i swear
[pogpatch]: gldn_jjk has to be blushing rn
Jimin leaned into his mic, smug. “Don’t be jealous. Some of us were born talented.”
The final push was chaos—the kind that scrapes your nerves clean and leaves them singing. Overtime burned hot; ults flew; the payload stuck inches from the checkpoint like it was glued there. Jimin was one clip from death, no blinks left, tunnel vision white around the edges—and still he found a sticky on their Soldier and detonated as he bailed. The explosion blew their defense apart just long enough for his team to muscle it through.
Victory banner flared. Jimin sagged back, chair creaking, breath tearing out of him hard and triumphant. The team erupted.
“Tracer diff, tracer diff!”
“Holy shit, that was clutch.”
“Actually GG, not gonna lie.”
And then, beneath the noise, a voice cut in for the first time. Low. Calm. Velvet wrapped over steel wire.
“…nice save.”
Two words.
They didn’t come with a laugh or a pat. They came like a measured verdict from someone who didn’t speak unless he meant to. The tone sat perfectly in Jimin’s ears—no static, no rush—just even warmth shaped into consonants, the kind of deep and steadiness that lands in your chest before your head can name it.
Jimin’s brain silenced like a headshot. His hand slipped on the mouse. The little hit of panic that followed wasn’t about the mouse; it was about the way his body reacted to sound. Heat climbed up his spine. His wolf, caged and quiet all night under scented cotton, went alert—ears forward, not frightened so much as focused—that. again. more of that. The place at the base of his skull prickled like fingers had pressed there in approval.
The chat went feral.
[mercysimp]: WHO WAS THAT VOICE
[sugarsoju]: HYUNG DID U JUST MISS LMFAO
[WidowBite]: HIS VOICE IS ILLEGAL
Jimin swallowed, trying to compress the riot under his ribs into something cool. “Uh—yeah. Thanks.” He cleared his throat too fast, layered sugar over it like glass. “Good game, team.”
Commendations screen flickered up. On the edge of his HUD, a notification pinged, neat and quiet as if it didn’t know what it was doing to his pulse.
[gldn_jjk has sent you a friend request.]
Jimin froze. His mouth moved before he let his face do anything. He smiled into his mic, lazy and sharp as a blade that you don’t show until it’s already in play. “Well. Apparently our mysterious sharpshooter wants another round.”
The victory screen blinked away; lobby silence rushed in, thick after the chaos. He slid his headset down to his collarbones, let the hush stretch—until chat flooded his second monitor like a tide breaking the sea wall.
[UwUHeadshot]: ACCEPT ACCEPT ACCEPT
[pogpatch]: WHO WAS HE WHO WAS HE WHO WAS HE
[HanzoDiff]: god his voice. hyung ur cooked
[alpha4sure]: queue duo. i need the BL romance arc
Jimin tilted his head, lazy smile tugging even as his pulse still thrummed. “Tch. You’re all so nosy. It’s just a friend request.”
[mercysimp]: ur acting different rn :P
[NanoPoggers]: he said nice save and u whiffed ur shot
[ReportRein]: OPEN FACECAM FOR A RED CHEEK CHECKK :DDD
“I did not whiff—” he started, then stopped himself and clicked the corner notification again. gldn_jjk has sent you a friend request. The name sat there, clean and quiet, like it wasn’t responsible for the way his chest wouldn’t settle.
Normally, he didn’t even look at requests after comp. Could be trolls. Could be fans who’d pieced together too much. Could be weirdos. He had rules.
But this guy… those mechanics, that positioning, and those two words—nice save—still rolled through his head like thunder that hadn’t found its horizon yet.
He leaned close to the mic, voice sweet as honey and sharp as glass. “Alright, you know what? Let’s make it interesting. Poll time.”
Click. Poll overlay popped in the corner of the stream.
Should I accept the friend request from our mystery DPS?
[ Yes, duo queue, coward. ]
[ No, rules are rules. ]
[BabyDvaEnergy]: RULES ARE RULES (but like…yes)
[ShadowPulseX]: imagine not queuing w ur soulmate
[VortexShift]: accept or ur omega coded actually
Jimin snorted. “Ban that guy, what is he even on about? Mods, I don’t care if he subbed.”
Chat blew up laughing. The poll timer ticked down; a little green bar ate the red alive.
“Wow.” He feigned boredom even as his palms sweated against the mouse. “Democracy has spoken. Eighty-five percent of you want me to throw my privacy in the trash.”
[mercysimp]: WE WANT LOVE STORY
[HexedCrossfire]: better not be a smurf. better not be a fan
[ArcaneUlt]: better be hot
He clicked accept. A soft chime sounded immediately after.
[gldn_jjk has invited you to a party.]
The little ding spiked Jimin’s pulse. His mouse hovered over the green check long enough for chat to smell blood.
[CursedLatency]: yO HE’S HOVERING
[MomSaidPause]: do it do it do it
[VoidCircuit]: pjm never accepts requests LMAOO what’s going on
[HexShift]: mr. “fuck off don’t add me” has CLEARLY left the chat
“Y’all need to relax,” he muttered, mouth quirking. “Man can’t hover for two seconds without a goddamn conspiracy. Don’t you all have parents to disappoint or something?”
His finger twitched. He clicked accept.
Another ding. Invite accepted.
[EclipseViper]: HES SO FAST WTF
[SilentRecoil]: bro was WAITING
[PeachLagoon]: PJM_95 DUO ERA LETS GOO
“Shut the fuck up,” Jimin hissed to chat even though it was barely audible. He accepted the party.
The lobby went quiet for a beat that pressed warm against his ears. Jimin sat up straighter, headset snug, breath shallow without meaning it to be.
“…Hey,” the voice slid into the channel—deeper in the hush, cleaner, smooth in a way that felt unstudied. A smooh voice with weight, vowels rounded, consonants precise. It carried the softness of a room without echo: a desk, a chair, maybe a fridge motor somewhere off to the left.
Jimin jolted. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting. Heat spilled up his throat like someone had tipped a kettle there. His wolf went electric—ears pricked, tail up, attention pinned. A press at the base of his nape that wasn’t a touch and felt exactly like one.
“Uh. Yo,” he covered, forcing casual into place like armor. “Didn’t think you’d be so desperate for a carry.”
[PetalRespawn]: oh my god his voice cracked HELP
[CloudPacket]: DESPERATE FOR A CARRY? NICE SAVE LOL
[LofiCrits]: pjm why do you sound shy
He cleared his throat loudly and hit queue before his mouth could betray him again.
First Game: King’s Row.
Team comp was trash—two DPS instalockers, no shields. Jimin sighed like a martyr and flexed onto Ana.
“Alright you little shits, let’s try not to embarrass ourselves. And by ‘ourselves’ I mean me, because I actually have dignity.”
“Copy,” came the reply—gldn_jjk already locking Zarya. Not the flash pick. The knows-what-he’s-doing pick.
The first fight went predictably: their Genji dove early and fed, and Jimin swore like an exorcist while triaging.
“Jesus Christ, I’ve seen toddlers cross streets with more awareness. Back the fuck up, you absolute—”
A bubble snapped over him like a seatbelt. Perfect timing. Saved him from being carved up by a hungry Tracer.
“…Shit,” Jimin muttered before he could stop himself. “Nice bubble.”
“Mn.” A quiet, satisfied hum. It shouldn’t have been anything. It felt like untying a knot behind his ribs.
[MoonSync]: HE SAID NICE BUBBLE??
[0PingWarrior]: he NEVER compliments anyone like this wtf
[FrostbyteX]: clip clip clip
Midway through second, Jimin landed a clutch sleep on Blade that saved the team from a wipe. The comms were noise until the voice cut clear through it.
“Clean.”
Low. Certain. He said it like a fact in a ledger.
Jimin’s mouth went dry. “Tch. ’Course it was clean. What, you expect me to miss?” His voice wobbled a hair; chat smelled it.
[AimAssistWho]: PJMS VOICE CRACKED AGAIN. ALERT.
[PetalRespawn]: he’s blushing rn i just know it
[LaggingLegend]: bro ate that praise UP
Final round. Overtime. Jimin nano’d gldn_jjk as he beamed down both tanks and shoved the payload home.
“Good timing,” came the verdict.
Jimin’s ears went hot. He scoffed so he wouldn’t purr. “Shut the fuck up.”
[ChairAimBot]: LOL THE WAY HE SAID THAT
[SilentRecoil]: thats not a shut up thats a PLEASE PRAISE ME MORE shut up
[RankedAndTilted]: mark my words chat, he’s whipped already
They won by inches. Jimin ripped his headset half off one ear and dragged in air like it had to be paid for.
“Alright, relax, it’s just one win,” he told both himself and chat. “Don’t get sentimental.”
[ScuffedSetup]: sentimental = him saving every compliment like a love letter
[ChatPlsBehave]: poll poll poll do we force him to duo again??
His fingers were already pulling up the poll. “Fine. You degenerates want input? Should I queue again with gldn_jjk? Yes or no. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
Votes skyrocketed. Yes: 92%.
He groaned. “…Guess I’m cursed. One more. Then I’m muting you assholes forever.”
In his ear, the voice rumbled soft: “Let’s win again.”
Jimin’s wolf wagged like a traitor while the chat combusted.
[AltTabDisaster]: ohhhhhhh my god
[TeabagSymphony]: LETS WIN AGAIN???? sir pls
[MochiByte]: pjm your ears are pink admit it
He hit queue before he could combust.
Dorado. Jimin hovered Widow out of spite.
“Relax,” he told his stream as the timer ticked down. “I’m not throwing, I’m expressing myself.”
[FilteredAim]: HE’S ABOUT TO TROLL
[GoldenHeadshot]: widow??? bro pls
[BunnyClutch]: you can’t aim for shit lmao
“Y’all doubters are loud as hell for people who can’t hit a bronze-tier shot,” he fired back, rolling his shoulders. Spawn doors creaked; rain hissed outside; on his right:
“Left flank’s weak. We push main.”
There it was again—deep, even, smooth like warm honey poured low and unhurried. It seated itself under his ribs before his brain could form the thought, I like that.
“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” Jimin said a little too quickly. His ears felt hot under foam. “Don’t boss me around, I already know what I’m doing.”
The match was rough. Enemy hitscan sharp, tanks aggressive. Jimin cursed through streets phase and kept them in it by sheer spite. Through it all, gldn_jjk spoke sparingly, the comms equivalent of a scalpel.
“Group here.”
“Wait for my bubble.”
“Nice shot, Widow.”
That last one almost made Jimin whiff his next grapple. He caught it by reflex, heart thudding stupidly.
He’d heard plenty of voices across years of streaming—shouters, peacocks, creeps who oozed. Some had been technically “nice.” None of them had made his stomach flip and his wolf perk up like this unshowy, grounding voice that rarely bothered with more than four words at a time. This was steadiness distilled. This was… unfair.
They pulled it out in overtime with a headshot through the enemy Ana’s visor. Victory flashed. Comms thinned.
“Well played,” came low and close, like it had leaned in to say it just to him.
Two words. Simple. Something in Jimin’s chest tightened as if his name had been wrapped around them silently.
“Y-yeah, whatever,” he snapped too fast. “Don’t get used to it.”
[NoScope97]: LOLOL START A VOICE CRACK COUNT
[UltBound]: bro is actually flustered HELP
[SeraphSync]: he SOUNDS like he wants to crawl into the floor
[SilentRecoil]: pjm you’re cooked. completely cooked.
He should end stream. Just unplug the headset, go home and let his fan click him sane. Instead, when the voice asked “Queue one more?”—unassuming, velvet—the word yes was clicked by his finger before his brain could even process an answer.
[LaggingLegend]: ONE MORE ONE MORE ONE MORE
[UltSync]: pjm ur whipped and it’s only been 2 games
[BabyDvaEnergy]: we are WATCHING HISTORY
Jimin scowled, or at least he meant to. The grin that broke through kind of ruined it. He cracked the joints in his fingers and tried not to think about the way his wolf had settled, smug and alert, as if it had finally found a sound to lean against.
He could log off. He should log off. Rank up secured; clips folder fat; ass numb; reasonable night finished.
Instead, his cursor hovered over “Queue Again.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, glancing at the second monitor where chat scrolled like a riot.
[cowboyjim]: you’re hovering over it aren’t you
[omega2lover]: bro he’s WHIPPED already
[xxhotpot]: ONE MORE FOR OUR SAKE
“Whipped? For what? You all are out of your damn minds,” he snorted, clicking anyway. “It’s research. Wanna see if lightning strikes twice. Can’t have some random come in here and make me look average.”
Chat flooded with clown emojis. Jimin ignored them, flexed his fingers, and didn’t register the map until the voice, warm and even, slid into place again like it lived there.
“Left flank’s still weak.”
Jimin smiled at nothing. “Yeah,” he said, and the word came out softer than he meant. “I see it.”
By the time the payload rolled in on Dorado, Jimin’s hands were slick against his mouse, his throat hoarse from swearing, and his pulse was still hammering from the way that velvet-rich voice had cut through his headset.
“Victory,” the screen announced, but his focus snagged elsewhere—on the warmth in his ear that said, low and deliberate, “Well played.”
Two words. That was all it ever took with him. Jimin’s chest gave a stupid little lurch, like someone had pressed against it from the inside. His wolf prowled tight circles, unsettled.
“Y-yeah, whatever,” Jimin snapped, too fast, sharp where he usually sounded lazy. His voice cracked at the edges, and he hated that his chat caught it instantly.
[NoScope97]:OKAY someone seriously start a voice crack count so I can take shots
[UltBound]: bro is actually flustered HELP
[SeraphSync]: he SOUNDS like he wants to crawl into the floor
[SilentRecoil]: pjm you’re cooked. completely cooked.
“Yep, banning all of you,” Jimin muttered—not to them, not to anyone really, just to cover the heat flushing over his ears. He tugged his headset slightly askew, letting cool air touch the sweat-damp skin there. He should end stream. He needed to end stream before his voice betrayed him again.
But then the voice was back, smooth as velvet, calm like it wasn’t a question at all.
“Queue one more?”
Jimin’s hand twitched. His cursor clicked accept before his brain could lecture him.
Chat lost their collective minds.
[LaggingLegend]: ONE MORE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
[UltSync]: pjm ur whipped and it’s only been 2 games
[BabyDvaEnergy]: we are WATCHING A LOVE STORY
“Shut up,” Jimin hissed as he rolled his shoulders like it was just another match, like his body wasn’t humming with restless energy.
The map spun up. Eichenwalde. Stone streets, rain, the sound of bells tolling in the distance. His favorite.
The doors creaked open; the team scattered like roaches; and the voice threaded in again, just three words:
“Group left. Push.”
Simple. Steady. It slid down his spine like a finger tracing bone.
“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” Jimin fired back, flippant. He was smiling at his monitor though, teeth biting down on the corner of his lip. “Don’t boss me around. I already know what I’m doing.”
The match was hell—long, dragged out, every fight tight. Jimin cursed himself hoarse, insulted his teammates six different ways, and still couldn’t stop the way his chest thudded whenever that voice slipped in to anchor them.
“Good pressure.”
“Nice timing.”
“You saved that fight.”
Compliments that weren’t flowery, weren’t even really compliments—just observations said with a certainty that made them land like praise anyway. His wolf sat smugly under his ribs each time, preening.
By overtime, they were both alive on point, throwing everything they had into the last desperate push. Jimin clipped two supports by sheer miracle; gldn_jjk bubbled him through the storm; and together they dragged it across the line.
Victory.
For a long moment, the comms were silent except for ragged breaths. Then, that quiet rumble again:
“You play smart.”
Not loud. Not flirty. Just solid recognition, weight behind the words.
Jimin froze, heart tripping over itself. He’d heard voices like this before—boastful alphas, slick smooth-talkers, assholes who thought they could sniff him out. But none of them had sounded like this: so certain, so even, like they didn’t have to puff themselves up to be heard. It was infuriating how much his body liked it.
“…Tch. Finally, someone notices,” he muttered, forcing a scoff. His tone cracked anyway, just enough for chat to go rabid.
[starfruit]: DID HE JUST GIGGLE??
[sexybeom]: nahhh no way
[PJMmod]: CLIP THAT RIGHT NOW
“Oh my god I'm going to mute all of you,” Jimin said quickly, cheeks blazing. “I didn’t giggle. Focus up. We’re not throwing this round because you’re all nosy little freaks.”
They didn’t throw. They won.
When the final victory screen burned across his monitor, Jimin’s mouse hovered indecisively between Stay as Team and Leave Game. His pulse thrummed too fast, like it was trying to write something on the inside of his chest.
“Nope. Nope, I’m out.” He clicked fast, almost defensive, like running away could erase the heat in his ears. “That’s it for me tonight, chat. Show’s over.”
[xxhotpot]: oh he’s DOWN BAD
[omegalicious]: he hesitated SO hard help
[clutchclipper]: gldn_jjk better come back next stream fr
Jimin ignored them all, shutting down the stream with a sharp click, like a gavel hitting wood. The monitors dimmed. The café hummed low and blue around him again, the smell of disinfectant and rain still ghosting through the air. But as he packed up, sliding his headset off and tucking cords back into their places, the voice lingered. Clear. Certain. Anchored somewhere in his head like it had been carved there.
He stepped out into the Seoul night, neon bleeding down wet sidewalks, the city buzzing and breathing around him. His wolf paced tight inside his chest, restless and alert. No matter how many times he told himself it was just another game, just another random with good aim and good comms, Jimin knew the truth the whole way home. That voice was stuck in him now.
And he already wanted to hear it again.
── ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
Jimin’s place was the definition of compact comfort — a loft-style studio tucked into a quiet street near Mapo. The apartment wasn’t huge, but it didn’t need to be. It had character. White walls caught the Seoul glow spilling through the window, where his desk sat facing the night-lit street. A narrow set of blonde-wood stairs led up to a glass-walled mezzanine, his bed tucked neatly behind sheer curtains. Down below, the kitchenette barely stretched a few steps wide, but it was lined with jars of tea, mugs stacked like little soldiers, and the clunky rice cooker Yoongi had bullied him into buying secondhand. A low couch pressed against the wall was buried in throw pillows — some shaped like animals, stream gifts he pretended to grumble about but never put away.
It wasn’t luxury, but it was exactly what Jimin needed. He could afford this place because he never spent the gifted subs or donations. Because every café paycheck, every sponsor read, every “love you pjm hyung” donation got folded into a quiet pile until it became a deposit and then a key. Privacy. A door he could close. A den his wolf trusted enough to unclench.
He toed off his shoes, padded across the glossy floor in socks, and set a mug beside his keyboard. It smelled like green tea he’d already let go lukewarm. He wasn’t going to stream tonight—the second monitor stayed black, no rolling ocean of degenerates to provoke—but when he tapped his trackpad and the desktop woke, Discord bloomed like it had been waiting.
[gldn_jjk]: Queue?
His mouth betrayed him before his brain could- an automatic tug at the corner, heat at the back of his tongue that tasted a little like a laugh. Under his ribs, his wolf pricked its ears, tail flicking once, twice—cheap tell, dead giveaway.
[pjm_95]: You stalking me?
The reply showed up too fast to be anything except deliberate.
[gldn_jjk]: Maybe. Or maybe you just log in when I do.
“Tch.” Jimin typed it out of habit and didn’t send it, because his finger had already betrayed him too, clicking Join Call.
“Evening.”
The voice spread through his headset with a clarity that made him sit up. It was rich without trying to be, smooth but not slick, steady in a way that didn’t need to announce itself. In Overwatch VC it had been good; here, on clean audio, it was dangerous. His wolf went very still and then very awake, ears forward, as if something larger had stepped to the mouth of the den.
“Yo,” Jimin said, and tugged his hoodie strings until the cotton bit his fingers, because his throat did a stupid little catch. “Before we start—you’re using Discord from now on.”
A beat. “Am I?”
“Yeah, your in-game mic is crunchy as fuck.” He rocked back in his chair so it creaked, aiming for lazy. “I’m not trying to hear you shot-call through a bag of chips.”
A quiet laugh stirred his earcups, warm as a hand cupped there. “Guess I’ll take the upgrade.”
He clicked ready before his chest could admit what it was doing. Queue spun. Busan loaded: lights over water, neon fighting the dark.
They spawned in the MEKA bay’s cool blue. Pick screens fluttered. Jimin locked Tracer mostly because someone in spawn always made a face when he did, and irritating strangers was free. The rest of the team installed their mess like usual—two DPS arguing, no main tank, a support who announced they couldn’t heal stupidity.
“Don’t worry,” Jimin said into team voice, syrup over razor wire, “I’ve already lowered my expectations to the floor.”
A random scoffed. “Who put you in charge?”
“Skill did.” He adjusted his mousepad. “Don’t get dizzy trying to keep up.”
He expected gldn_jjk to stay silent, the way it had in their first matches, surfacing only when it mattered. He got what he expected.
“Rotate left,” the voice said when the doors slid open. Not loud. Not bossy. Like a compass pointing north.
The first fight blew apart the way they all do, pretty for two seconds, ugly for ten. Jimin blinked through a gap in cover, clipped the enemy Ana so fast her name was only half on the killfeed, and unspooled a stream of profanity at his own Genji who had decided to solo blade into the skybox for no reason on earth or in patch notes.
“Jesus—do you even know how to touch?” he growled as they regrouped. “I’ve seen hamsters with better pathing.”
“Backline short one,” gldn_jjk murmured, and the cool of it ran under Jimin’s heat like water. He checked angles without thinking, fell into the cadence of it. “Tracer’s playing wide. I’ll peel if she touches you.”
“Bite her,” Jimin said. It came out sharper than he meant. “Break her teeth.”
“Copy.”
He didn’t expect the promise to land anywhere in his body. It did, anyway: a small, traitorous jolt low in his belly that felt like a tripwire going off. His wolf lifted its head and watched the map with him, keen.
They won point one ugly. They lost point two completely. On Sanctuary, where the bell tolled like a heartbeat inside stone, he was at his most mouthy—insulted three people in ten seconds, told a Reaper to uninstall, and barked at their Lucio until the guy snapped “muted” like it was an achievement. Jimin laughed in his face and then almost died to a flank he should’ve anticipated. He blinked out with two health and a mean prayer, breath sawing.
“Clean,” the voice said, calm as ever. “Good patience.”
There was no one else on earth who could call him patient and make his ears go hot. It wasn’t a compliment so much as a read, spoken like he was being seen, not flattered. His wolf preened so shamelessly he wanted to swear at it.
“Of course I’m patient,” he snapped to even himself out, because it would have been humiliating to say thank you. “I’m a saint. You should build me a church.”
“I’ll start with a candle,” came back, dry as stone warmed by sun.
He snorted. “What kind?”
“Whatever burns the slowest.”
He almost laughed. He almost did. Instead, he took high ground and killed two supports and a Genji who had been playing like he’d glued his W key down, and when the last overtime thread burned to gold, they dragged it over the line.
They stayed in voice. They didn’t say much. It would’ve been easy to leave it at that, a good match, another queue. But the quiet was comfortable in the way the loft was comfortable, filling corners without pressure.
“You always this calm? Or is it the crunchy mic that makes you sound like a proper human?” Jimin said at last, and spun a pen between his fingers until the plastic wrote a dent into his skin.
“Always,” the reply came, and then, with the kind of pause that suggested accuracy over modesty: “Usually.”
“You realize you talk like a professor?”
“Do I?”
“Mm. Without the fluffy bullshit.” He flopped deeper into his chair, let neon climb his cheekbones. “You say three words and act like it’s Scripture.”
“That a complaint?”
He didn’t like admitting it; his wolf hated lying. “I like my callouts when they come with vocabulary,” he said, and winced at how defensive it sounded. “If you’re gonna mansplain, at least do it in full sentences.”
“I only mansplain under duress.”
“Oh, so this is duress?”
“Feels like it.”
He laughed then. It, too, betrayed him. Too bright, too pleased, teenager-light in his throat.
The next game, he doubled down on being impossible. He told a Cassidy to be brave enough to miss somewhere else, told a tank to stop feeding like it was a hobby, told a Mercy that if she pocketed anything besides their throw-happy Reaper she had a future. He didn’t shut up for three fights straight. He didn’t have to. The voice kept being the counterweight—low, precise, unemotional even when the match wasn’t.
“Wait for speed.”
“Swap right if they split.”
“Stick after Kiriko’s bell; she’s getting greedy.”
Jimin obeyed because it read like a mirror of the things he’d have said if he weren’t busy swearing. He didn’t like that either. Or he liked it too much, which was worse.
“Nice pulse,” the voice said after he sent an entire fight to the respawn screen with one sticky plastic surprise.
“Obviously,” Jimin snapped, and stared out his window at the wet street below like the asphalt would give him his composure back. “I’m incredible. Try to act shocked.”
“Noted.”
“‘Noted,’ he mimics. Say thank you to your carry.”
“Thank you to my carry.”
He rolled his eyes. He bit down on his bottom lip, because it was easier than admitting that two words in that voice felt like someone sliding a warm palm down the tense rope of his spine.
They lost the next one to a comp he couldn’t fix with a mouth or a stick. He made sure to say it wasn’t his fault; he made sure to make a case for the defense; he made sure, absolutely sure, to be relentless enough that no one would look too closely at the way his mouth softened when the voice bent around his ear.
“Queue again?” he asked, already hovering mouse over the button like he was being dared to click it.
“Queue again,” the voice echoed, the faintest smile riding the bottom of it.
Jimin clicked. The fan in the corner clicked back. His wolf quit pacing the den and sat down at last, like it would listen as long as that voice kept talking.
He told himself the call had moved to Discord because crunchy mics made him violent. He told himself they’d queued again because he hated ending on a loss. He told himself the heat in his chest was residual adrenaline. He didn’t tell himself that every time the velvety-smooth and warm voice slid into his headset, something inside him leaned toward it the way flowers lean toward sun.
On Midtown—crowded platforms, flicker of subway lights—he was at his meanest again, and it felt good, the way it always did to sharpen himself on strangers who would forget him. But the edge kept rounding every time the voice nudged, and that drove him crazier than the team.
“Left angle’s free,” it said. “Your timing’s better if you bait first.”
Jimin baited like he invented it, drew two people into a choke, and then laughed when their supports fell out of position like dominos.
“Clean,” came again, approving in that un-ornamented way that felt more dangerous than sugar.
“Stop saying ‘clean’ like you’re proud,” Jimin muttered, as if he couldn’t hear the thread of plea in it. “We’ll have to sign adoption papers.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“It is if I say it is.”
“Noted.”
He should not have liked being “noted” that much. He did anyway.
They finished the night two-and-one, not a bad ratio for SoloQ chaos with a side of mouth. The third victory banner washed the room in gold. He didn’t realize he had gone very quiet until the voice came again—gentle for the first time, less callout and more check-in.
“Still alive?”
“I don’t die,” he said, automatic, then softer, because the loft did that to him when he remembered he could: “Yeah.”
“Good,” the voice said. “You play smart.”
It wasn’t praise so much as a statement of fact, witnessed. His hands stilled on the keyboard. Somewhere in his chest, something he kept on a short leash stood up, shook rain from its coat, and looked around like the world had changed while it was asleep.
He swallowed. “And you're still talking like you’re writing my epitaph.”
“Am I?”
“‘Yeah. Here lies pjm_95. He played smart.’ Put ‘prettiest legs on ladder’ at the bottom if you’re going to chisel it.”
There was a pause—a hitch, a laugh half-swallowed, like he could almost hear teeth flash before the mouth closed again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You better,” Jimin said, and closed the victory screen because if he left it up the gold would keep living in his bloodstream. “One more.”
“Mm.”
If he’d been streaming, chat would have been screaming about how he sounded different; they would have accused him of blushing; they would have spammed hearts and knives. Without them, the loft sounded like his breath and the soft whirr of fans and the low rumble in his ear that had started to feel like it belonged in this room as much as the couch or the stairs.
He tilted his chair back and watched his reflection in the window—blurry, neon-edged, mouth curled as if he were sharing a secret. It wasn’t a secret. Not to him. Not to the animal under his ribs that had stopped prowling and settled into a listening crouch.
The queue popped. The doors slid open. The voice said, “Main in five.”
His body answered before his mouth did.
── ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
It didn’t stay a one-off. One night became two. Two became four. A week later, Jimin’s Discord history looked like a shrine. The same username was stamped over and over, every message short and neat, every call lasting longer than he meant it to.
He told himself it was practical. Easier than wading through crunchy in-game VC. Cleaner audio, fewer randos, less chance of someone clipping his voice mid-rant and spreading it around. Just sensible.
But sensible didn’t explain why his wolf started pricking its ears every time the little green phone icon lit up. Didn’t explain why he’d come home from a café shift with his chest still tight from holding his scent down all day, dump his bag, and head straight for his desk like the loft wasn’t complete until JK’s voice filled it.
It was routine, the kind of thing you didn’t notice forming until it already had. Like breathing, like slipping shoes off at the door. Café, loft, headset, queue. JM and JK, every night.
The nicknames happened the way nicknames always did—an accident, shrugged into permanence.
“Nice pulse, JM.”
“Lazy,” Jimin muttered, tucking his knees up into his chair. “Can’t even say the whole thing?”
“Three syllables is a lot of commitment,” JK said, calm as a stopwatch.
“Fine. JK. You’re so lazy it hurts.”
“You don’t carry me anyway.”
“Semantics.”
That was it. JM and JK. Easy. Familiar. The way JK wrapped his voice around 'JM' made Jimin’s skin prickle every time, like the name belonged to him in a way his username never had.
On Havana, Jimin blinked into a backline with overtime bleeding down, tagged their Ana with a last-second pulse, and lived long enough to cackle about it.
“Perfect patience, JM,” JK said. Not loud. Not flirty. Just certain, like fact.
Jimin whiffed his very next blink into a wall and spent the rest of the round swearing. His wolf, traitor that it was, rolled belly-up, pleased.
On Rialto, he kited out three ults before dying, laughing into his mic about how the team should be sending him flowers.
“You bought us the fight,” JK said, voice steady as ever. “Beautiful.”
Jimin pressed his sleeve to his face like it could hide the way his breath stuttered. His wolf yipped, smug.
King’s Row nearly broke him. JK praised him three times in as many minutes, and Jimin snapped, “Stop weaponizing your fucking voice.”
“Weaponizing?” JK hummed. “I’m just talking.”
“Fuck you.”
“…You could only wish.”
The smile that broke across Jimin’s mouth nearly bruised his own gums. His wolf yipped and preened, tail wagging so hard he wanted to punch something just to settle it.
The more they played, the more the games turned into something else.
Queue times stretched long, but neither of them hung up. Jimin sprawled across his couch with his laptop balanced on a pillow, headset loose, while JK’s voice filled the loft like a second light source. They argued about pineapple on pizza until Jimin bullied him into giving up. They compared kimbap stalls. They picked apart music stuck in their heads.
“You sound different when you’re not streaming,” JK said once, thoughtful.
Jimin froze, wolf tilting its head sharp inside his ribs. “Different how?”
“Softer,” JK said simply. “I like it.”
Jimin hurled a pillow across the room. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Because—shut up.”
JK laughed then, quiet and warm, and the sound clung to the loft’s walls even after the queue popped.
── ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
Some nights were worse than others.
It wasn’t supposed to hit him this hard—not over voice comms, not from someone he hadn’t even seen. But his body didn’t care about logic. His wolf didn’t either. Every time JK spoke, it felt like something tugged low in his belly, instinct wrapping around instinct until heat prickled under his skin.
He caught himself thinking, Is my heat coming early? It had to be. There was no other explanation for the way slick dampened his boxers just because a man said ‘nice shot’ in a voice too smooth for its own good.
But then the days passed, and nothing shifted in his cycle—except the way his reactions to JK kept getting worse.
It happened on Rialto first. Overtime, tight as a wire. Jimin threaded through their supports, blinked out with one HP, and managed to stick their tank with a pulse that won the round. His desk shook when he slammed his palm against it, laughing breathless.
“Beautiful, JM,” JK said, low and deliberate. “The way you timed that—fuck. So perfect.”
The curse did him in. Jimin jolted, cock twitching against his sweats, a hot rush of slick leaving him shifting in his chair like he could hide it. His wolf yipped, ears flat as it pressed hard, needy.
“Y—you’re so dramatic,” he snapped, but his voice cracked, ruining the bite.
“Not dramatic.” JK chuckled, quiet but certain. “I like watching you work. You’re sharp. Precise. You make it look easy.”
Jimin bit his lip so hard it almost hurt, because his cock was throbbing, leaking, hips shifting against the cushion of his chair without his permission. He clamped a hand over his lap like he could stop himself.
Fuck. Oh my god. I’m actually rutting like I'm a teenage pup again.
Another night, Havana. He baited two ults, dragged the fight out long enough for their team to regroup and steamroll. His pulse was still racing when the payload locked.
“You always play like that?” JK asked, voice gone low, almost husky now. “Dragging them around, making them dance for you?”
Jimin’s breath hitched. His cock pressed hard against his sweats, leaking slick enough he could smell it faintly, humiliatingly. He shoved his thighs together under the desk. “W-what the fuck, don’t—don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” JK’s smile was audible. “Like you’re irresistible when you play?”
Jimin let out a noise—half laugh, half whimper—that had him slapping a hand over his mouth, mortified. His wolf howled anyway, pleased beyond reason.
By the third week, it got bad. Really bad.
King’s Row. Back-to-back fights, JK’s Zarya saving him with perfectly timed bubbles. Jimin racked up kills like it was nothing, every stick landing, every reload smooth. And after the final wipe, JK’s voice slid into his ear like velvet:
“God, JM. You’re gorgeous when you play like that.”
Jimin sucked in a breath so hard it hurt. His hips bucked forward against the chair cushion, cock leaking a fresh streak of precome into his boxers. He froze, horrified. I’m humping my fucking chair —again— over a voice.
The match ended, but Jimin couldn’t hear the victory music over the blood in his ears.
He scrambled for cover, cursing loud and fast, spewing venom into the mic just to mask the sound of his ragged breathing. JK laughed quietly, like he knew. There was no way he knew—he wouldn’t still be on a call with Jimin if he did.
Queue times stretched longer after midnight like usual, and their matches thinned out. Jimin sprawled back in his chair, headset crooked around his neck so one ear stayed free. His studio hummed with the soft buzz of the fan, the glow of neon from the street bleeding against his blinds. On his monitor, the queue timer ticked up.
“There he is,” JK said suddenly, voice low, warm in the quiet.
Jimin blinked. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
A pause, deliberate. “My soft JM is here. You’ve put bratty JM away for the night, so now I can enjoy the real you.”
Heat prickled down Jimin’s neck. He forced a laugh. “Don’t get sentimental. It’s just because I don’t have five thousand degenerates spamming ‘Pogchamp’ in my ear.”
“But you know I like it,” JK said simply. “I like hearing you like this.”
A spark of arousal twisted low in Jimin’s stomach, his wolf curled smug against him. He clenched his thighs under the desk. “…God, you say things that—” He cut himself off, biting his tongue.
“Say things that… what?”
He should’ve stopped. He should’ve swallowed it. Instead, the words slipped like water through his fingers. “My chat keeps calling you the NSFW audio guy. And honestly? You keep talking like this, they’ll think I’ve got a fucking praise kink or something.”
Silence. The static from both of their mics wavering— waiting. Then JK’s laugh, deep and pleased. “Really? Me? You think I sound like an NSFW audio?”
Jimin froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. “Wh—what? No, I didn’t mean—I mean, it’s not like that—”
“You just said it.” JK’s tone dropped, richer now, coaxing. “So tell me. What exactly do I say, JM, that makes you think of that?”
Jimin’s cock twitched, humiliation and arousal tangling until he wanted to crawl out of his skin. “Fuck off—don’t—”
“Or maybe…” JK drew the word out, velvet and heat. “…it’s not what I say. Maybe it’s the way you hear me.”
The sound alone curled through Jimin’s stomach like smoke, hot and heavy. His thighs pressed tight, slick dampening his boxers. His wolf whined, shameless.
He buried his face in his hands. “You’re disgusting.”
JK chuckled, clearly delighted, like he’d found a lever he wasn’t planning to stop pulling.
“Disgusting?” JK’s voice slipped lower, the kind of register that vibrated through Jimin’s headset and went straight to his spine. “That’s harsh. All I did was talk.”
Jimin made the mistake of lifting his head. The queue screen spun on his monitor, neon blue light washing his flushed reflection. He looked wrecked already, lips bitten red, hair falling loose from the pen at his crown. He tugged his hoodie strings so hard the ends brushed his mouth, trying to anchor himself.
“You dropped your voice on purpose,” he accused, sharp as he could manage through the wobble in his throat. “And don’t—don’t play dumb.”
“Dropped it?” JK hummed. “Like this, JM?”
It wasn’t a hum anymore; it was a caress. Thick with intent, vowels pulled like taffy, consonants curling at the edges. Jimin’s cock twitched helplessly against his thigh, slick dampening the cotton of his boxers. His hips shifted, shame flooding hot across his skin when he realized he’d just… pressed down.
A whine clawed its way up before he bit it back with a curse. “F-fuck. Stop that. You sound—god, you sound—”
“Like what?” JK pressed, amused and hungry all at once. “Like the kind of thing your chat was asking for? Or was it really you who was asking for this?”
Jimin wanted to slam his head against the desk. His wolf, traitorous, was all ears pricked and tail high, soaking in every word. His body buzzed like a live wire, heat curling low in his belly until it was unbearable.
“You’re weaponizing it,” he hissed, knees pressing together, trying to stop the subtle rut of his hips against his chair. “You’re literally—fuck—you’re disgusting.”
A laugh, warm and pleased. “I thought you liked it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Jimin shoved his sleeve over his mouth to smother the broken noise that slipped out anyway, something between a groan and a whine.
On the other end, JK chuckled softly, like he could hear every twitch in Jimin’s body. “You sound so cute when you try to lie, JM.”
Jimin slammed the mute button for three whole seconds, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to his palm. When he unmuted, his voice cracked with leftover heat. “You’re—god—you’re so fucking annoying.”
“Mm,” JK hummed, satisfied. “Maybe. But you didn’t leave the call.”
Jimin didn’t leave the call. He should have. He knew it. Every nerve screamed that he was in dangerous territory, heat curling in his stomach, wolf prowling smug under his ribs.
Instead, he forced his hands back to the keyboard, queuing up another game like nothing had happened. “You’re not worth the drama,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Sure,” JK said, easy, steady. Too steady. “Whatever you say.”
The bastard didn’t even need to sound smug—his tone wrapped around Jimin like a leash anyway.
The next match blurred by in a haze of missed shots and frantic swears. Jimin’s movements were jerky, unfocused; his wolf wouldn’t settle. Every time JK said his name—JM, warm and low, like it belonged only to him—heat pulsed through his chest, through his cock. By the end of the round, his chair was squeaking faintly from how often he shifted in it, thighs tense, trying to hide his body’s betrayal.
They lost. Jimin didn’t care. He yanked his hoodie strings tighter, staring hard at the desktop as the match ended.
“Night, JM,” JK said softly. Nothing more, nothing less.
Just his voice—low, smooth, fond.
It gutted him.
“…Night,” Jimin muttered back, too quick, too thin. He hung up before the silence could drag, ripped his headset off, and slumped against his desk.
The little studio glowed in the dim light of his monitor, fan whirring steady in the corner. His wolf prowled restless, smug in his chest, whispering mine in a way Jimin couldn’t stand.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, furious with himself. There was no reason—no reason—to be leaking slick over a voice.
No reason at all.
Jimin tore his headset off and shoved back from the desk, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted a mile. His room was too small, too hot; the fan only pushed the thick air around. He stared at his hands—sticky palms, trembling fingers—and cursed under his breath.
It wasn’t a heat. It couldn’t be—he’d double checked his calendar twice now. His cycle wasn’t due for weeks. There was no reason he should be leaking slick into his sweats just because of a voice.
A voice that curled molten in his ears. A voice that praised him like he’d hung the stars. A voice that made his wolf arch its back and bare its throat in the same breath.
He pressed his forearm to his mouth and groaned, half in fury, half in something he didn’t dare name.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
Still, when he finally killed the light and lay on his mattress, the dark hummed with it—deep and steady, velvet over steel. That voice, echoing in his head, as if it had been carved into his bones.
── ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──
Closing had been hell.
Three alphas had sprawled across the back row of PCs like they owned the place, stinking of beer and cheap cologne. They’d spent the night making everything louder—voices, footsteps, the scrape of chairs—and every time Jimin asked them to quiet down, they only grinned wider, like it was part of the entertainment.
Yoongi had already shifted once from behind the counter, mug of barley tea in hand, shoulders squared. He’d been two steps from stepping in. But Jimin caught his eye, shook his head once—don’t. They’d had that talk before. Jimin didn’t need saving; he could fight his own battles.
And then came the comment.
“A pretty little omega like you should be serving drinks, yeah? Instead you’re nagging us like an old hag.”
The words landed like a blow. Jimin’s wolf bristled, ears flat, claws pressing under his skin. His smile sharpened, sugary venom on his tongue.
“Serve you?” He laughed, low and cutting. “Why would I waste my time on three jobless disappointments who can’t even rank properly in the one thing they waste their sad lives doing? If I wanted to serve, I’d at least aim higher than you. Now log out.”
One of them bristled, chair scraping. Another fixed his hand, getting ready to knock a cup of ramen broth onto the floor like a dare. Yoongi’s voice cut across the room, sharp as a whip: “You fucking dare, and you’ll be cleaning the floor with your goddamn tongue.”
The alpha straightened with a scoff, letting his hand fall back to his side. Their laughter was thin now, meaner around the edges, but it faltered when Jimin’s glare didn’t break. The look on their faces—half-snarl, half-flush—was almost worth the headache. Yoongi’s presence at his shoulder made them think twice, and within seconds the glass door had swallowed their silhouettes.
When the door clicked shut behind them, Jimin leaned against it for a second, breathing in the hush. The street outside glowed with Gangnam neon, traffic sighing by in waves. Inside, only the rigs hummed and the café lights buzzed low and blue. His wolf still paced restless under his skin, but at least the silence was his again.
Still, Jimin’s wolf had bristled, ears flat, tail snapping under his skin. The walk home was a blur, paired with the crunch of gravel under his sneakers, tension coiled tight in his chest. The studio apartment should’ve felt safe. Warm lamp light pooled across the desk, the soft buzz of his ancient fridge hummed in the corner, and the city outside his window sang its usual late-night lullaby—horns, scooters, the shuffle of feet on pavement. Normally those sounds settled him. Tonight, they scraped.
Jimin tossed his keys into the bowl by the door harder than necessary. His hoodie still smelled faintly of disinfectant from wiping down the rigs, and worse, of alpha cologne he couldn’t quite scrub out of his lungs. His wolf paced restless under his skin, ears flat, tail thrashing. Every muscle in his body was tense, teeth aching from how hard he’d clenched them on the walk home.
The monitor blinked to life when he sat, Discord already glowing with the last message he’d ignored earlier.
[JK]: Queue tonight?
Hours old. He hadn’t answered then—too tired, too bitter. But now the sight of it uncoiled something sharp in his chest, enough to let out a long breath. His fingers hovered before he typed.
[JM]: yeah. give me five.
The headset felt heavier than usual when he slipped it on, but the second the call connected, JK’s voice threaded through, husky and even.
“Evening, JM.”
Just that. But Jimin’s wolf stilled instantly, ears flicking forward, tail lowering. Like it was listening to something worth listening to. His body hated how easily that voice cut through the leftover stink of the café, hated how it soothed. He wanted to scoff, to shove the feeling off.
“Yo.” The word came out flatter than he meant, stripped of its usual sugar. His wolf bristled at the edge of it, wanting more, wanting warmth.
A pause. Then JK hummed low, not pushing. “Long day?”
Jimin leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, hoodie strings wrapped tight around his fingers. “Something like that.” His tone was dismissive, but the wolf pacing under his skin slowed at the sound of JK’s voice, like it couldn’t help but listen.
“Mm.” Another hum, calm, certain. “We don’t have to queue if you don’t want to.”
Jimin scoffed, sharp out of habit. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
But even as he loaded the client, the edges of his frustration eased, the static in his chest softening just from the way JK spoke—as if it was the most natural thing in the world to care how his day had gone.
The match loaded. Jimin flexed onto Tracer, but his hands weren’t steady. First blink—off timing. First clip—missed half his shots. His jaw tensed.
“Jesus Christ,” he cursed under his breath. “My fucking aim—”
He fumbled a sticky bomb, landing it too wide to matter. His wolf snarled, restless, embarrassment and anger crawling up his throat.
“Relax,” JK’s voice cut in. Calm. Firm. “Next fight.”
It should’ve helped. It didn’t. Each mistake stacked heavier, his pride twisting, heat building sharp in his gut until it was all he could do not to slam his fist into the desk.
The payload lurched forward, his team staggering into another push. Jimin blinked onto the high ground, pulse bomb primed—only to whiff the stick entirely. It clattered uselessly against the wall, exploding into nothing.
“Dammit!” His palm slammed the desk. His wolf snapped inside him, restless and ashamed. You’re better than this. You don’t miss those.
He respawned, storming back into the fight, only to get picked mid-blink by a Widow he should’ve scoped out three times already.
“You’ve got to be kidding me—” His voice cracked, thin with frustration. “What the fuck is wrong with me tonight?”
“JM.” JK’s tone was level, unshaken.
“Don’t—” Jimin growled into the mic. “Don’t JM me. I’m fine. Just queue me back in.”
“You’re clearly upset.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Another match, another disaster. He over-extended on Eichenwalde, blinked right into a shatter, and died before his bomb could detonate. His chair squeaked from how violently he shifted, thighs tight, chest tight.
“Log off,” JK said when the defeat screen rolled. Calm. Final.
Jimin barked a laugh, sharp, bitter. “No. I’ll do better. Queue again.”
“No.”
The word hit him like a slap. Not sharp—low, steady, absolutely certain.
“I’m not asking, JM,” JK said, voice a velvet anchor in his ears. “Log off the game. Stay in the call.”
Jimin froze. His wolf stuttered—bristle on one side, whimper on the other, caught between fight and fold. His hand hovered over the mouse, twitching.
“Don’t boss me around,” he spat. But his voice was thinner now, defensive.
“I’m not.” JK’s tone softened, coaxing now, warm in the places Jimin’s chest ached. “You sound tired. Just… stay with me.”
The words unspooled something inside him. His wolf whined, tail tucking, tension easing despite his pride’s protests. His hand fell away from the mouse.
The blue of his desktop flooded the screen as he clicked out, headset heavy against his ears. His pulse still raced, but it wasn’t the same—less anger, more something else, something heavier.
“…Fine,” Jimin muttered, dragging his hoodie strings tight against his chin. “But just this once.”
A quiet chuckle hummed warm through the line. “Good.”
The call hummed, comfortable for JK, unbearable for him. Finally, the man’s voice came again, coaxing.
“What happened tonight?”
“Nothing.” Jimin’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Just idiots.”
“JM.” The way JK said it — steady, patient, like he’d wait all night if he had to — tugged again at Jimin’s chest. His wolf huffed, restless, wanting to be soothed. Against his better judgment, words spilled.
“…Three alphas,” he muttered. “Loud as hell, stinking up the café like it was their den. Didn’t respect the rules, didn’t respect me. I told them to shut it, they just laughed.” His mouth twisted. “One of them called me a pretty—they called me pretty, a-and that I should be serving them drinks instead of nagging like a hag. Like I was—” He cut himself off, throat tight. He catches himself, making sure to omit his subgender. “Whatever. Not worth it.”
His wolf bristled at the memory, ears flat, pacing sharp under his skin. Jimin dug his nails into his palm.
On the other end, JK hummed low, thoughtful. “And you didn’t snap?”
Jimin’s laugh scraped bitter. “What’s the point? Guys like that… they don’t hear you unless you scream, and then they just call you a bitch on top of it.”
A pause. Then JK’s voice, slow and certain:
“You didn’t snap. That’s strength, Jimin.”
The praise felt like a warm palm pressed against his nape. His wolf melted instantly, ears pricked. The tension in his chest slowly began to release on a sharp exhale.
“I—” Jimin shook his head fast, defensive. “No. That’s just self-preservation. Don’t give me too much credit.”
“No,” JK said again, firm without being hard. “It’s restraint. It’s composure. That’s harder than yelling could ever be.”
Jimin’s breath caught. His wolf preened, ears high, pride curling hot in his stomach despite himself.
Jimin slouched in his chair, trying to scowl at the desk, but his wolf was shamelessly wagging under his skin, soaking up every word like sunshine. The bastard wasn’t supposed to sound so sure, wasn’t supposed to make him feel seen. His pride hissed at him to argue more, but his body… his body was already giving him away.
“…Doesn’t feel like strength when they treat you like you’re invisible,” he muttered, hoodie strings twisting around his fingers until they cut into the skin.
“You’re not invisible,” JK said immediately, voice dropping low, steady as bedrock. “Not to me.”
The words cracked something open in his chest. His wolf stilled, ears tipped forward, a soft whine catching in Jimin’s throat before he bit it back with a cough.
“You—” He faltered, heat crawling up his chest. “You can’t just… say shit like that.”
“It’s only the truth, and you know it.”
Jimin buried his face in his sleeve, half to hide, half to keep his wolf from spilling any more humiliating noises into the mic. He hated how much he wanted to believe it, how desperately his body was leaning toward the sound of that voice.
Silence stretched, thick. Then JK spoke again, gentle but certain.
“Tell me your name.”
Jimin blinked, thrown. “…What?”
“Not JM. Not your tag. Your name.”
His stomach flipped. His wolf pressed at his ribs, ears perked, tail twitching. “Why?”
“Because it’s you I want to talk to,” Jungkook said slowly, deliberate, like he was laying each word down with care. “Not JM. Not pjm_95. You.”
Jimin’s heart thudded loud, hard. His pride hissed at him to dodge, to laugh it off. But his wolf whined, aching for it, desperate to hear his name wrapped in that voice.
“…Jimin,” he whispered, so soft he almost hoped the mic wouldn’t catch it. “My name is Jimin.” A cable brushed Jimin’s jaw as he spoke, the headset suddenly too big, or he was just too small in it.
The pause was brief, then Jungkook’s smile was audible. Warm. Certain. “Of course it is.”
Jimin’s chest tightened. “Of course what is?”
“Your name. It’s pretty. Like you.”
Heat flooded his body, dizzying, shameful. His thighs pressed tight together under the desk. “Wh—what the fuck—you don’t even know—”
“My name is Jungkook,” he said easily, like it had always belonged to him. “So you know me too. Not just gldn_jjk. Me.”
The name sat heavy, dangerous in Jimin’s mouth. “…Jungkook.”
A hum, low and pleased. “I like the way you say my name.”
Jimin’s whole body trembled, wolf howling under his skin.
“…Jimin.”
His own name hung in the air like he’d never heard it before. Not from his chat, not from Yoongi, not from a stranger ordering a drink. Jungkook had said it differently—low, steady, like the syllables meant something. Like he’d been waiting to use it.
Jimin swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, but his palms were damp where they clutched his hoodie strings. He tried to hide behind sharpness, muttering, “…You’re insane.”
But his voice betrayed him, softer than it should’ve been.
Jungkook chuckled low, the sound curling warm through his headset. “Maybe. But I meant it.”
Jimin squeezed his eyes shut, leaned back in his chair. His wolf was pacing again, but slower this time, tail twitching high, ears going still every time Jungkook spoke. The pull in his chest wasn’t sharp anymore—it was warm, heavy, settling low in his stomach.
He wasn’t slicking yet, but the thought of it scared him. Because his cock had given a treacherous twitch the moment he’d whispered Jungkook’s name back, and now every low hum, every deliberate syllable just made the heat inside him coil tighter.
He pulled at the drawstrings until they nearly strangled him. “You can’t—just say things like that to people.”
“There's no reason for me not to,” Jungkook responded quickly, voice maddeningly calm. “I like the way my name sounds in your mouth, and I want you to know that.”
Jimin bit the inside of his cheek, a nervous laugh bubbling up, sharp around the edges. “God, you’re so—so fucking annoying.”
But the truth was, he wasn’t annoyed at all. His body was restless in a different way now, energy buzzing under his skin. His wolf was preening, pressing against his ribs like it wanted to be pet, soothed, praised again. The shift was unbearable.
Jimin fiddled with the pen he’d now stuck in his hair, tugged it out just to twirl it nervously between his fingers. The silence in the call wasn’t empty—it pulsed, full of his own heartbeat, full of the memory of Jungkook saying his name like it meant something.
He cleared his throat, aiming for casual. “Well. I could’ve gone off on them. Said something worse. But I didn’t.” He laughed, sharp at first, then softer. “Guess that’s… restraint. Right?”
There was a pause, then Jungkook’s voice wrapped warm around his ears. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is. You showed strength.”
Jimin’s wolf thumped its tail. His chest went loose. He bit back a smile, twirled the pen faster. “So… I didn’t mess it up? Completely?”
“You didn’t mess up at all,” Jungkook said immediately, like the answer had been waiting on his tongue. “You handled it better than most would’ve. Better than I would’ve, probably.”
Heat crawled up to Jimin’s cheeks. His wolf preened, smug and needy. “Mm. Yeah, I guess that was smart of me then.” His voice tilted upward at the end, transparent, like he was dangling bait and waiting for it to be taken.
Jungkook took it without hesitation. “Not just smart. Impressive. The way you kept control, even when they pushed? That’s rare. That’s…I’m so proud of you.”
The words sank in deep, low, curling heavy in Jimin’s stomach. His wolf growled softly, too close to his mic—he coughed to cover it, cheeks burning.
He tried again, quieter this time. “You really think I did good?”
There was no teasing in Jungkook’s reply, no amusement. Just warmth, steady and sure. “I know you did.”
The compliment was comforting, like a hand stroking through his hair, palm placed firm at the small of his back. Jimin sagged a little in his chair, the pen slipping from his fingers to clatter against the desk.
Jimin’s wolf lifted its head, smug, tail thumping against his ribs. He bit down on his smile, stretching his legs under the desk.
A beat later, he tried again, softer. “Didn’t lose my cool… not once.”
At this point, it was clear they were virtually talking in circles. Jimin couldn't help it— not when Jungkook was seemingly allowing Jimin to continue indulging in recieving praise. It was as if he knew this is what Jimin really needed from him—what he craved, deep down.
“Mhm, and that’s not easy,” Jungkook said. “You kept your composure the whole time. Beautiful work, Jimin. Outstanding, even.”
The word crept up like a stroke along his spine. Jimin shivered, trying to cover it with a scoff. “Outstanding? You sound like a teacher writing report cards.”
Jungkook chuckled, unbothered. “Then come take this A+.”
Jimin pressed the heel of his hand into his thigh, heat prickling under his skin. His wolf yipped happily at the image. He hated how much he liked it.
He let silence hang for a moment, then murmured, “Could’ve said worse things to them. Had some sharp comebacks ready. But I didn’t.”
“That shows control,” Jungkook replied instantly, firm but warm. “Not many people can do that. I respect it.”
Jimin’s chest went loose, a tremor of pride slipping through. His wolf all but preened, ears high, pressing against his bones. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until his lips twitched.
“Mm. Respect, huh?” He fiddled with his pen again, spinning it fast between nervous fingers. “I’m glad you’ve finally realized I’m worth respecting, then.” The tilt in his voice gave him away—he was dangling bait.
And Jungkook took it, calm and certain. “Without a doubt, Jimin. You’re worth every ounce of respect I have to offer.”
Jimin’s throat felt tight. His wolf gave a pleased whine he nearly let slip into the mic. He shifted in his seat, thighs pressed closer together, and muttered, “…You’re too good at this.”
“At what?” Jungkook asked, voice dipping lower now, velvet-smooth.
Jimin licked his lips, chest hot. “…Making me want to fish for more compliments, just so you’ll tell me I’m good.”
Silence hummed in his headset, thick and warm. Then Jungkook’s voice came back, quiet and sure:
“Then push for more. I’ll keep telling you.”
His pride wanted to scoff, to make a sharp remark. But all that came out was a softer mutter, almost embarrassed: “…Say it again.”
“Say what again?”
“Tell me,” Jimin’s breath hitched, his cheeks practically on fire as he struggled to even make eye contact with the desktop. For a long moment, it was quiet, heavy, his wolf restless under his skin. Jimin shifted again, thighs brushing tight, fingers tangling in his hoodie strings until they bit into his palms. His chest rose and fell too quickly.
“Tell me I was good.”
Jungkook didn’t even hesitate. His voice dipped low, deliberate. “You are—you did so, so good, Jimin.”
Jimin’s cock gave a sharp twitch yet again in his sweats, heat curling deep in his stomach. His wolf was practically wagging itself raw, shameless in its greed.
The sound of his name—low, certain—had his breath catching with every inhale. His wolf keened, shameless, curling up against him like it wanted to crawl into the sound. Jimin swallowed hard, heat licking at his throat.
“That’s—fuck—that’s not fair,” he muttered.
“What isn’t?” Jungkook asked.
“You.” Jimin clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm. “Saying things like that. You know what it does.”
“I know what it does to me,” Jungkook admitted softly, voice dipping lower. “Hearing you like this. Needing more. It’s… addictive.”
Jimin’s cock jumped again, a hot pulse against his thigh. His wolf whined loud enough he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep it from carrying through the mic.
“Jungkook…”
“Mm?”
His pride was drowning, his wolf clawing to the surface. The words tumbled out, small and cracked. “…More.”
The chuckle that came back was low, wrecked, like Jungkook had been waiting. “More what, baby?”
The pet name made Jimin’s whole body jolt, hips twitching helplessly against the seat of his chair. Shame and heat tangled thick in his throat.
“I—don’t—” He stuttered, breath shaky. “I just—say something. Anything.”
Another pause, deliberate, stretching long enough to make Jimin’s skin buzz. Then Jungkook’s voice came dark and warm, dipping lower than before:
“You’re beautiful, Jimin.”
Jimin’s breath punched out of him. His wolf howled under his skin, tail thrashing, ears going still with alert.
“Your voice drives me crazy,” Jungkook went on, calm but fraying around the edges now. “The way you laugh. The way you argue. I’ve been imagining what you’d sound like if I pushed you like this.”
Jimin’s cock pulsed hot, precome dampening his sweats. He squeezed his thighs together, gasping softly into his sleeve. “Fuck—don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Jungkook coaxed. “Don’t tell you the truth? That you’re everything I’ve been wanting since the first night we played?”
Jimin let a moan slip without much thought, high and broken. His wolf yipped, greedy, pacing frantically now. He couldn’t pretend anymore—his body was already betraying him.
“…Where are your hands, Jimin?” Jungkook asked suddenly, voice slipping into something darker, hungrier.
Jimin froze, chest heaving. His hands were clenched uselessly in his lap, strings twisted so tight they burned his skin.
The line went static-quiet.
Not empty, not awkward — charged. Jimin could hear Jungkook’s breath, low and steady in his ears, syncing with his own erratic inhales. His wolf froze, ears pitched forward, body taut like it was standing at the edge of something vast.
He stared at the blue glow of his desktop, fingers twitching uselessly in his lap. His heart thundered against his ribs, each beat like a warning: too far, too far.
“Jungkook…” His voice cracked, caught between plea and warning.
“Yeah.” The answer was quiet, hoarse around the edges.
They both hesitated, the weight of what they were doing settling between them. This wasn’t banter. This wasn’t playful praise tossed across a match. This was different. Dangerous.
Jimin’s pride told him to laugh, to back out, to drag the walls back up. But his wolf — his shameless, grasping wolf — pressed hard against his skin, whimpering, begging. It wanted. He wanted.
And then Jungkook’s voice slipped through, molten steel and certain, shattering the stalemate.
“…Tell me where your hands are, Jimin.”
The words hit harder this time. Jimin’s whole body jolted, breath catching. The hesitation fractured into heat, into need.
His pride lost. His wolf won.
“On my desk,” he lied, wrecked.
“Where do you want them?” Jungkook pressed, voice steady but low, as if he already knew.
Jimin’s cock throbbed, slick heat curling in his gut. He squeezed his eyes shut, shame burning, and whispered, “…On me.”
“Then put them there,” Jungkook murmured.
Jimin’s chest heaved. His hand trembled as it dragged upwards, slipping under his waistband, cupping the heat straining against the damp front of his sweats. The relief of contact made him gasp, biting it back too late.
“That’s it,” Jungkook coaxed. “Slow. Feel yourself.”
A whimper slipped free before Jimin could choke it down. His wolf keened in his chest, ears sharp, pacing frantically. His cock was hot and slick under his palm, precome smearing sticky across his skin as he stroked shallow, testing.
“Fuck,” he hissed, trying to hide the edge of desperation in his voice.
“Mm. You sound so good like this,” Jungkook murmured, his tone warm but frayed at the edges. “I’ve been imagining it since the first night we played. Wondering how you’d sound if I pushed you just a little further.”
Jimin groaned, breathless. His hips jerked into his fist, needy. “You—fuck—you’re insane.”
“Insane for you,” Jungkook countered, no hesitation. His breath hitched faintly against the mic. “Stroke faster. Let me hear you.”
Jimin squeezed, pumping harder now, his thighs trembling under the desk. The slick sounds were humiliating, obscene in his quiet apartment. He bit into his sleeve, but the noises still slipped out: soft gasps, broken whines.
“That’s it,” Jungkook coaxed. “God, I wish I could see you right now. Bet you’re beautiful like this.”
Jimin choked on a groan, stroking slowly, his hips twitching up to meet his palm. His wolf whined, pressing desperately under his ribs. “Don’t—don’t say shit like that—”
“I mean it,” Jungkook interrupted, voice rougher now. “You’d be so good for me. Taking me so well. Letting me hear every pretty sound you make.”
And then he heard it — faint, but there. Wet, slick sounds from Jungkook’s end. A groan, low and rough, breaking free.
“You’re—fuck—you’re jerking off too,” Jimin panted, voice wrecked.
“Couldn’t help it, baby,” Jungkook said, strained, ragged. “You think I could hear you like this and not?”
The thought made Jimin’s cock twitch hard in his fist. His wolf yowled shamelessly inside him as he whimpered out in tandem.
“Good boy.” The praise snapped down his spine like fire. Something creaked on Jungkook’s end—the faint give of a chair, the catch of breath that didn’t make it to a word.
“You like that? Stroking yourself while I tell you how perfect you’d feel?”
Jimin whimpered, fist moving faster. “Please—”
“Please what, Jimin?” Jungkook asked, tone velvety and coaxing. “Tell me what you want.”
Jimin’s head tipped back, breath ragged. “Want you—fuck—I want—” His words collapsed into another moan, muffled against his sleeve.
“God, you sound wrecked already,” Jungkook groaned. Jimin heard slick strokes on the other end, quick and wet. “You’d look so good spread out for me. So pretty and desperate, begging to be filled.”
Jimin’s thighs shook, hips jerking into his palm. “Please—please don’t stop—”
“Jimin—fuck—your voice…” Jungkook groaned, guttural. “It’s better than I imagined. So fucking beautiful. I want more.”
Jimin keened, hand moving faster, his whole body tight with want. “Oh my—Jungkook—”
“Yeah, baby. Say my name.”
“Jungkook—”
“God, yes. Keep saying it.”
Jimin titled his head to the side, neck bared to the ceiling, wolf submitting without thought. His voice cracked on another moan. Jimin’s wolf howled inside him, shameless. Tension bled through his whole body, little whines breaking free no matter how hard he bit down. “Ju-Jungkook, please—need it—”
“That’s it,” Jungkook growled, wrecked. “You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Sit down on my cock and ride me until you can’t breathe?”
Jimin whimpered, thighs clenching, slick wetting his palm. “You’re—you’re killing me—”
“I’ve got a knot for you—just for you, Jimin,” Jungkook growled, his voice breaking feral now. “Wouldn’t you love to sit on it? Feel me lock inside you, fill you until you can’t take any more?”
The word detonated inside him. His body arched, his wolf howling at the confirmation that the man on the other side of the line was an alpha, his orgasm ripping through him so hard he nearly sobbed. Hot slick spilled out from his clenching hole, covering his inner thighs as hips jerking helplessly against his palm.
On the other end, Jungkook let out a deep moan, guttural and broken. “Fuck—Jimin—fuck, fuck—” He cursed, low and rough, before groaning his release, the slick sounds frantic until they slowed, the silence after thick with wrecked breathing.
Jimin slumped back in his chair, wrist loose, sticky hand limp against his thigh. His chest heaved like he’d sprinted a mile. His wolf curled small and smug inside him, tail wagging, ears flicking forward toward the headset.
Jungkook’s mic carried only breath for a moment—low, steadying. Then a quiet laugh, wrecked but warm. “Hey. Are you still with me?”
Jimin swallowed hard, throat raw. “…Yeah.” His voice cracked embarrassingly, softer than he meant. “You?”
“Mhm.” Jungkook exhaled again, like relief. Then, gentler: “That was a lot. You did so well for me, Jimin.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks all over again. His wolf purred, melting into the sound. “…Don’t say that,” Jimin whispered, curling forward with his forehead in his hand.
“I will,” Jungkook said, steady, unshaken. “Because it’s true. You were perfect.”
And again, the words comforted like a palm at his nape, firm and soothing. Jimin’s chest loosened despite himself.
“Didn’t think I’d—” He cut himself off, ashamed of the way his voice cracked again. “…Didn’t think I’d let it go that far.”
“I didn’t either,” Jungkook admitted, quiet, honest. “But I’m glad we did. I’m glad it was you.”
Jimin’s wolf purred, ears flat with pleasure, soothed and spoiled. His eyes stung. “You’re insane,” he muttered weakly, but it came out almost fond.
“Maybe.” A pause, soft. “But you’re safe with me. Always.”
That wrecked him more than the orgasm had. He had no comeback, only a shaky laugh that trailed into silence.
“Go sleep, baby,” Jungkook murmured, tender and low. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Jimin shut his eyes, letting his body sag into the chair, warmth washing over him. “…Night, Jungkook.”
“Sweet dreams, Jimin.”
The call ended with a soft chime. His apartment was quiet again—fan ticking, neon humming through the window—but the echo of Jungkook’s voice lingered like a blanket wrapped around him. His wolf curled up and finally stilled, content.
Everything had changed.