Archive of Our Own ^beta

♡♡♡

Jimin has a problem.

He lives with it, too.

The problem is tall, broad-shouldered, unfairly warm, and answers to the name Jeon Jeongguk. An alpha who somehow manages to take up too much space in their shared two-bedroom apartment while moving through it like he has no idea what he looks like. Or sounds like. Or what it does to Jimin when he brushes past him in the hallway and mutters a sleepy, absentminded, “Sorry, hyung,” like it’s nothing. Like Jimin doesn’t have to stand there afterward and remember how to breathe like a functioning human.

Living with Jeongguk isn’t dramatic in the ways people normally warn you about. There are no shouting matches, no passive-aggressive sticky notes, no arguments about dishes or rent or whose turn it is to buy toilet paper. It’s worse than that.

In fact, Jeongguk is easy to live with. He’s gentle without trying to be, considerate in ways that sneak up on Jimin and sit heavy in his chest hours later. He opens jars automatically, lifts boxes without being asked, and carries every grocery bag in one trip without making a show of it like some chest-thumping alpha looking for praise. He refolds Jimin’s laundry if it’s still warm in the dryer. He takes the trash out before it starts to smell. Once, he spent an entire Sunday assembling a bookshelf Jimin bought on impulse, humming softly to himself like this was a perfectly reasonable way to spend his afternoon.

Jimin watched from the hallway longer than he should have.

Not because Jeongguk was hot—although he absolutely was—but because something about the scene lodged under his ribs and refused to sit quietly. The way Jeongguk crouched in a worn muscle tee, forearms flexing as he leaned into the screws, another screwdriver caught between his teeth in concentration, entirely unbothered by the fact that Jimin was hovering nearby with a protein shake and a rapidly escalating sense of doom. At one point, Jeongguk balanced a plank under his arm and asked, casually, if Jimin liked the finish. Jimin had to leave the room before he responded with something along the lines of “I have something else you could finish on”.

That might’ve been the moment things shifted from manageable into whatever the hell this is now.

Because Jeongguk is nothing but attractive—and he’s careless about it. He wanders out of his room half-awake, hair a mess, voice low and scratchy, scratching at his stomach and calling Jimin hyung in the sweetest, sexiest voice like it’s a trivial habit he picked up and never questioned. He forgets shirts exist when he’s doing laundry. He stretches without thinking about who’s watching, arms over his head, shirt lifting just enough to be cruel. Jimin has walked into a door because of this man.

Once.

Okay, fine. He’s done it twice.

He’s had extensive discussions with Taehyung about it—actual, full-length debates trying to figure out why this feels so impossible to power through. And after much deliberation—and zero dignity spared—they’ve come to the conclusion that the problem is that Jimin’s body doesn’t know how to categorize any of it. It behaves like an average alpha at this point, treating kindness like an intent to court, and proximity like an invitation. The week Jeongguk handed him a banana between meetings and told him he should eat something, Jimin nearly cried in the kitchen over it.

Over a banana. Which was both humiliating and deeply concerning. 

Because his omega instincts noticed. They noticed everything.

Every brush of Jeongguk’s hand at his lower back when he passes behind him. Every time his voice drops just slightly when he says Jimin’s name. Every time he steps out of the shower warm and damp and smelling like clean skin and something deeper beneath it—something entirely his. Jimin isn’t starting his heat—he knows that. His calendar knows that. His suppressants know that. His body, however, seems to have opted out of the fucking group chat. Which is insane.

It reacts anyway—low, aching pull behind his ribs that refuses to dissolve, a restless hum under his skin that makes it hard to focus on anything longer than thirty seconds. It’s ancient and inconvenient and deeply unfair, and Jimin has spent an impressive amount of time pretending it isn’t happening. Which worked for exactly zero days.

So instead of doing something normal like flirting or confessing or maintaining even a shred of composure, Jimin copes the only way he knows how.

He writes porn.

Filthy, unhinged, deeply incriminating porn. Starring Jeongguk. Featuring scenarios Jimin has no business fantasizing about, and would likely send him into a coma had he been forced to say them to Jeongguk’s face. He keeps the evidence tucked inside a private notebook in his bedside drawer, hidden within the pages of his daily planner like that makes it less deranged. 

Because he's insane apparently. And horny. And possibly in love.

It started innocently, Jimin swears. It was just a few lines tucked into the back of his planner, the kind of idle thoughts he tells himself don’t mean anything. Vague things and lots of half-formed wondering. A careless ‘I bet his hands feel warm’ scribbled between reminders and grocery lists, a passing note about how Jeongguk smells better up close, written off as observational rather than indulgent. He lets himself believe that for a while.

But somewhere along the way, the writing changes from those few, meek and curious thoughts. It gets longer and far less abstract. The words stop circling the thought and start leaning into it, pushing until there’s no plausible deniability left. What used to be scattered daydreams turned  into something far more deliberate, far more incriminating, the kind of prose that makes his face heat even when he’s alone in his room with the door locked.

He keeps the stories hidden where it’s least suspicious, wedged into the pages of what’s supposed to be his daily planner, tucked behind meal prep notes and the gym schedule Jeongguk helped him put together one evening. That detail alone should probably stop him. It doesn’t. Every night, once the apartment settles and Jeongguk’s door closes, Jimin pulls it out anyway. He tells himself he’ll just write a little, get it out of his system—be normal about it.

Except he’s never fucking normal about it.

The pen moves faster than he intends, thoughts spilling out unchecked, his body warmer than it should be as the fantasy sharpens and runs away from him. Tonight, he's sprawled on his stomach across the rumpled sheets, a pillow jammed beneath his chest for support, scribbling furiously as if the words might slip away into the night if he falters even once. When he finishes, he doesn't glance back at the lines—he knows they're raw, unfiltered, pulsing with a hunger that borders on desperation.

He presses into me with one long, slow thrust, eyes locked on mine, whispering praise in that smooth voice I dream about. “You're flawless,” he breathes, “crafted just for this—for taking every inch of me.”

A soft whimper escapes my lips as he buries himself to the hilt, my thighs quivering uncontrollably while he lets out a low, knowing chuckle, reveling in the power he wields over my body. My ass grips his thick cock like a vice, reluctant to release him, and fuck, I never want to. The stretch burns so deliciously, the fullness overwhelming—his cock feels like pure ecstasy, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside me, hooking me instantly. I crave him embedded deep, pounding relentlessly, claiming territory no other alpha could touch, reshaping me from the inside out. His large hand slides over my abdomen, pressing firm as he slams in harder, growling, “I'm going to fill you up, hyung—pump you full until you're dripping with my seed, marked as mine forever.”

The instant the pen halts, he slams the journal closed and buries his face in his palms, a ragged sound tearing from his throat—half breathless laugh, half tormented moan. His flesh prickles with heat, every inch too sensitive, his pulse thundering as the pent-up arousal coils tighter, demanding release with no outlet in sight.

“Disgusting,” he mutters, though it doesn’t sound especially convincing.

He flips onto his back, the sheets twisting around his hips as he fixes his gaze on the shadowed ceiling, his jaw grinding tight while he battles the insistent throb building low in his gut, a slick heat that refuses to fade. Jeongguk hasn’t changed—not really. He’s always radiated that effortless warmth, that considerate depth, dismantling Jimin’s defenses with a mere glance or casual touch, oblivious to the chaos he stirs.

No. That’s not true. 

But no, that’s a lie he tells himself. The shift isn’t in Jeongguk; it’s in the crumbling walls Jimin once hid behind. Distance. Boundaries. The fragile pretense that kept his cravings at bay, letting him breathe without inhaling the alpha’s essence like a drug.

They hadn’t started out this way. They were classmates first, trading notes in cramped lecture halls, evolving into friends who shared late-night ramen and inside jokes, until circumstance shoved them into the same apartment—both fleeing nightmare roommates, convincing themselves cohabitation would be effortless. Alphas and omegas rooming platonically wasn’t taboo anymore. As long as everyone stayed on top of suppressants and respected each other’s space, it was normal. Unremarkable.

“It’ll be fine,” Jeongguk had promised over the lease papers, his grin easy and disarming, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll be like a ghost—you won’t even know I’m here.”

What a cruel fucking deception, because Jimin senses him everywhere, every pulse of presence etching into his skin. He catches the shift in Jeongguk’s scent post-gym, that rich, musky warmth blooming thicker, seeping into the couch cushions and the air like an unspoken invitation, making Jimin’s mouth water despite the blockers flooding his system. He registers the days Jeongguk lingers in his sweat, that raw alpha tang saturating the space, sharpening Jimin’s focus into something feral, his cock twitching traitorously even when Jeongguk’s just lounging across the room, scrolling his phone.

They’ve managed, so far, cycles staggered just enough to avoid the peak of rut or heat crashing together. They retreat to their corners when the air thickens with unspoken need, never breaching the invisible barriers.

But lately, it’s been getting harder to ignore. Harder to pretend the pull isn’t there,a constant undercurrent thrumming through his veins, tempting him to shatter the facade. What if he surrendered, just once—let Jeongguk’s hands roam, his knot lock them together, flooding Jimin with that hot, claiming seed? The thought alone sends a little dribble of slick gather between his thighs, his hole fluttering with phantom fullness. Admitting the hunger terrifies him; Jimin’s a master at denial, burying wants under layers of restraint until they fester.

So instead, he stays sprawled in the dimness, the journal’s leather still feverish against his palm, a knot of irritation twisting in his ribs as the spiral tightens. In the end, he reaches for his phone like a lifeline, dialing up the one other omega who navigates this minefield without flinching. He angles the device, snapping two hasty shots—the page’s edge blurred by the curve of his thigh, shadows playing over the explicit lines—and hits send before doubt can claw him back.

today’s issue of my thirst…circulation: one (1) trusted adult 

[attachments]

The typing bubble pops up right away, then vanishes. Moments later, his phone buzzes with an incoming call. Jimin lets out a theatrical groan, collapsing back onto the bed with his arm draped over his eyes like a shield as he swipes to answer. “You didn’t even pretend to be busy.”

Jimin barely gets the phone settled against his pillow before Taehyung gasps dramatically, the sound sharp and offended. He barely props the phone against the pillow before Taehyung’s voice bursts through, laced with exaggerated outrage. 

“No. Absolutely not—no way,” Taehyung declares, bolting upright in bed so his blanket tumbles to his waist, forgotten. “You can’t just drop pure alpha temptation in my lap like that and act all innocent, like you haven’t just derailed my entire evening.”

“I warned you!” Jimin fires back, his defense half-hearted at best. “I put a label on it!”

“Like it’s some glossy periodical,” Taehyung retorts, his tone dripping with mock scorn. “Like I’m supposed to sip tea and go,  ‘Oh, splendid, the latest edition of Park Jimin’s Epic Plunge into Down-Badism’.”

Jimin chokes on a laugh, burying his face in the pillow to muffle the sound. “Oh my god, stop it—”

“Not a chance,” Taehyung insists, his voice warm with that familiar teasing lilt. “I’m barely on page two, and you’re waxing poetic about his hands like they’re forged by the gods themselves.”

“They kind of are,” Jimin blurts out before he can stop himself, then goes rigid. "Uh—”

“Caught you,” Taehyung crows triumphantly. “That slipped right out—no take-backs.”

Jimin twists onto his back again, the phone teetering as he fumbles for a steadier hold. His hair’s tousled in wild disarray, a faint flush warming his cheeks, his eyes sparkling with that telltale glint he swears isn’t there. “It’s not on purpose, okay? I kick off all composed and artistic. But then—bam—I’m lost in the weeds, and my pen’s got a mind of its own, dragging me into the deep end.”

“By the spirit of sluttiness past,” Taehyung nods solemnly. “We’ve all been there, darling. It’s the omega curse.”

A beat of silence stretches. Taehyung leans closer to his screen, eyes narrowing as he peers at the text.

“…Did you really write ‘he says my name like it belongs to him’?”

Jimin shrieks and yanks the pillow over his face. “Now why the hell would you read it out loud?!”

“Because it’s pure artistry,” Taehyung drawls in an exaggerated upper-crust accent, his voice dripping with feigned sophistication. “And because it genuinely stirred something in my soul.”

“I’m blocking your number right now.”

“You absolutely won’t.”

Jimin risks a peek from under the pillow’s edge, another groan escaping as he slumps deeper into the mattress. “I feel like I’ve just confessed to a felony or something.”

“You’ve confessed to yearning,” Taehyung counters gently, his tone shifting to something almost tender. “And that’s the most relatable crime out there.”

“It’s just—he’s my roommate,” Jimin murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed, winded whisper. “He’s my best friend. The guy who slides a glass of water my way when I’m too zoned out to remember. Who straightens my laundry without a second thought. And then I spin around and scribble about—” He waves a hand in the air, the gesture loose and helpless. “All of… that.”

Taehyung’s expression softens for a fleeting moment, eyes warming with understanding. But then a wicked grin cracks across his face, shattering the brief sincerity.

“Okay but in your defense,” he concedes with a shrug, “you didn’t dream up that thick, insistent knot of his.”

“Taehyung!”

“I’m merely observing,” Taehyung presses on, all innocence laced with mischief. “You’re just reacting to the vibes in the air.”

Jimin bursts into laughter despite the heat flooding his cheeks, both hands flying up to hide his face. “You’re pure evil incarnate.”

“And you’re simmering with need,” Taehyung replies, his voice honeyed and affectionate. “Which leads me to the million-dollar question.”

Jimin groans in advance, already sensing the trap. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Are you still scribbling away at it right now?”

“Nope. Not a word.”

Taehyung arches a single brow, skepticism etched in the tilt of his head.

“…Fine, I hit pause,” Jimin concedes, his admission laced with reluctant defeat.

“That’s what I figured,” Taehyung murmurs, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. “Because this page—” He scrolls further on his screen, eyes flaring with fresh amusement, “—this page does not end emotionally resolved.”

Jimin kicks his legs beneath the tangled blanket, flustered. “I was gonna stop! I was. I just—needed to get it out.”

“You got it out, alright,” Taehyung teases, his tone dripping with innuendo. “Twice over, by the looks of it.”

“I hate you,” Jimin mutters, though there’s no real venom in it.

“You actually love me, and you’re gonna write more.”

Jimin sighs, long and dramatic,his fingers drifting toward the journal once more. He flips it open with a show of reluctant defeat, the pages whispering against each other. “Fine, just a bit—to settle my nerves or whatever.”

“That’s never how it plays out,” Taehyung counters, amusement bubbling in his voice.

“I’ll keep it tame this time,” Jimin vows, gripping the pen a little tighter. “Something everyday, like him scrubbing the dishes.”

Taehyung lets out a sharp snort. “You’ll twist it into something sexy and deranged before the suds even dry.”

“…Probably.”

A warm, shared silence settles between them, broken only by soft giggles—Taehyung lounging back against his headboard, limbs loose and relaxed, while Jimin gazes at the ceiling, the pen drumming a lazy rhythm on the fresh page.

“Hey,” Taehyung ventures, his voice gentling to a murmur.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not wrong for craving him,” he continues, sincere now. “You’re only human. And cursed with sharing space with an insanely hot and sexy and tempting complication.”

Jimin’s lips curve into a soft smile, pressing into the pillow as affection and inevitability mingle in his chest. “Yeah.”

A pause hangs in the air, comfortable and weighted.

“…But seriously, if he ever backs you against a wall and takes charge,” Taehyung blurts out without missing a beat, “I demand real-time details. Preferably with you two oiled up and—”

Jimin laughs so hard, nearly sending the phone tumbling from his grasp. “Goodnight, Taehyung.”

“Goodnight,” Taehyung echoes, his grin audible through the line. “Try not to write anything too scorching for my fragile sensibilities.”

Jimin’s gaze drops to the empty page before him, the pen hovering expectantly.

“…No promises.”

♡♡♡

The apartment hums with a quiet intimacy, the low jazz notes weaving through the air like a lover's murmur. Jimin's playlist drifts on, saxophone sighs and brushed drums painting the room in shades of amber longing. Without Jeongguk's presence, the space breathes easier—no alpha scent lingering to twist his thoughts into knots, no broad shoulders filling doorways to make his pulse stutter. It's serene, a rare pocket of solitude that lets him unravel.

Saturday night unfurls like a gift. No deadlines clawing at him, no frantic emails about missed cues or that intern's endless parade of idiotic questions. The last two weeks had been hell—endless hours blurring into migraines, and Jeongguk's unwitting sabotage—striding around in those sinfully tight workout shorts that hugged every curve of his thighs, or tank tops that bared the flex of his arms. Jimin had teetered on the edge, heat pooling low in his belly at the mere sight.

But now, liberation. Jeongguk had slipped out mid-afternoon, skin still damp from the shower, that black hoodie slung loose over jeans that molded to his hips like a second skin. He'd leaned into Jimin's doorway, beanie tugged low, eyes crinkling with that easy warmth.

“I might crash at Seokjin-hyung’s place if we stay out too late,” he’d said, voice thick with that lazy, Saturday energy. “Don’t wait up.”

Jimin had managed a nod, schooling his face into casual indifference even as his omega instincts flared at the glimpse of Jeongguk's throat, the subtle pulse there begging to be traced. Now, alone, he lounges on the couch in his threadbare tee that skims his thighs and shorts that ride up with every shift. A half-empty glass of merlot warms his palm, the wine's velvet slide down his throat loosening the knots in his back. His skin tingles, flushed and relaxed, the alcohol a gentle haze that blurs the day's sharp edges.

He savors another swallow, lids drifting closed as a deep breath escapes him.

Tranquility.

Then his mind, that relentless saboteur, conjures Jeongguk's form: collapsing beside him, yanking the blanket's edge with a playful tug, body heat seeping through like an invitation to tangle limbs.

Jimin groans, tipping back the last of the wine in one defiant gulp. He abandons the glass on the table with a clink, snatches his journal from the cushions, and pries it open to pristine paper. The pen nestles in his grip like an old confidant, and the words spill forth, fueled by the buzz and the ache he's buried too long.

He's all heat and muscle pressed up behind me, arms caging me in on either side as his breath skims the back of my neck. My whole body trembles. He says my name like it’s a secret, like it means something. A growl edges his voice, alpha rumble vibrating through my skin, stirring the omega in me until slick gathers between my thighs.

He tilts my chin up and kisses me slow, deep, like he’s starving and I’m the last thing he’ll ever taste. His tongue pushes in, claiming, while his hands roam without mercy. One slides under my shirt, palm rough against my stomach, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks hard and aching. The other drifts low, fingers teasing over the waistband of my shorts, dipping just enough to brush the damp fabric clinging to my hole.

Jeongguk . He says he wants to make me feel good. Says he’s thought about it for weeks, nights when my scent thickens the air during my cycle, driving him mad. Says he’s imagined me like this—writhing under him, begging for his knot to stretch me open.

Jimin's gaze lingers on the journal's cover, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. The pen dangles forgotten from his fingers, ink still wet on the page beneath. A shiver traces his spine, cool against the flush creeping over his skin. He's pushed the boundaries again, teetering on the edge of confession, the words too raw, too revealing—like spilling slick down his thighs in front of a mirror he can't look away from.

Not far enough? Or too much? The line blurs in the haze of his third glass, the merlot's warmth pooling heavy in his gut, loosening inhibitions until his body hums with insistent need. He uncrosses his ankles, thighs rubbing subtly as he shifts, the friction doing nothing to ease the throb building low. The jazz croons on, a velvet undertone to his quickening pulse, the room's air thickening like pre-heat haze.

Head lolling back, he fixes on the ceiling's faint cracks, willing the wild beat in his ears to steady. But it doesn't—Jeongguk's imagined growl echoes instead, alpha command wrapping around his omega core. Minutes stretch, then he snatches the pen once more, the wine's bold surge propelling him deeper into the spiral.

Curled on the couch, one knee tucked under, the other leg slung lazily over the armrest, he drains the glass's remnants, the tart sweetness lingering on his tongue. His script turns wilder—letters slurring into each other, urgency bleeding across the paper in frantic loops and emphatic strokes. The heat escalates with every line, not just the alcohol's fire but the blaze of unchecked craving, scents phantom in his nostrils: Jeongguk's earthy musk overpowering his own budding arousal.

The page devolves into frenzy—crossed-out impulses, phrases bolded in triplicate, as if inscribing them louder might summon the fantasy to life. He skips rereading, lost in the rush, hips twitching faintly as the ache demands friction.

He spreads me open like he’s starved for it, broad hands pinning my thighs wide, tongue delving into my hole with long, deliberate laps that collect every bead of pre-come and sweat. I buck against his hold, whimpering, but he growls low, “Stay still, hyung—let me taste how hard you get for me.” His lips seal around the head of my cock, sucking hard enough to make my vision blur, teeth grazing just to edge the pleasure into pain.

A soft whine escapes Jimin's throat, cheeks scorching as the pen races on, his free hand clenching the blanket to stifle the urge to palm himself.

I beg him to fuck me, voice breaking on pleas, but he smirks against my skin, breath hot. “Earn it first—show me how bad you need my cock.” He works me open with his fingers next, three thick digits scissoring inside my clenching ass, thumb stroking my cock in circles until I'm sobbing, pre-come dripping down his wrist.

The warmth surges hotter, coiling tight in his belly, his cock fully hard now, tenting the fabric noticeably. He doesn't pause—can't, the thrill of surrender too intoxicating.

I want him to ruin me completely. His knot swelling at my entrance, forcing its way in as he thrusts deep, locking us tight while I writhe, ass up and face buried in the sheets. He'd start tender—lips brushing my nape, whispering praises as his hips roll slow, cock dragging along every sensitive ridge inside me. But when I gasp 'harder, Jeongguk, fuck me harder,' his control fractures. Fingers bruising my hips, he yanks me back onto him, pounding relentlessly, balls slapping my skin with each brutal drive until tears streak my cheeks and my prostate throbs under the assault, my own cock leaking steadily onto the sheets.

Pen flying now, ink smudging from the sweat beading on his palm.

He'd claim me utterly—”You're mine, Jimin, made for my cock, my knot.” He's fantasized it too, he confesses in ragged breaths, rut haze turning his eyes feral. Can't hold back anymore, not with my scent driving him insane. He'd knot me deep, pumping load after load until my belly swells with his cum, marking me inside out so I reek of him for days. Jeongguk. Jeongguk. Jeongguk.

The repetition spills out unbidden, his hand cramping as it etches the name like a mantra, jagged and fervent across the margin. Breath hitching, Jimin blinks down, reality crashing in. There it is—Jeongguk, inscribed obsessively, a branded secret no longer veiled in abstraction.

He gapes, jaw unhinged, a rush of vertigo hitting as mortification floods his veins, hot and dizzying. “Oh my god,” he breathes, voice a strangled whisper.

The journal snaps shut with a thud, hurled to the coffee table as if scorched. Palms slap over his face, hiding the blaze creeping up his neck. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He groans into his hands, body sinking deeper into the cushions, curling fetal as if the furniture could swallow his shame. Arousal lingers traitorously—cock throbbing insistently, skin feverish from wine and want—reminding him he's scripted not some faceless alpha, but Jeongguk: the curve of his jaw in that grin, the precise way his thrusts would angle to wreck him.

Jimin scrubs his face, exhaling shakily. “Okay—bed. Now. Or sign up for that monastery Tae keeps joking about.” But even as he mutters it, the pull tugs harder, the empty apartment mocking his solitude with echoes of what-ifs. He glances toward the hallway, half-hoping, half-dreading the sound of keys in the lock—Jeongguk due back any minute from his late shift. The thought sends another pulse through his cock, and he presses his thighs together, biting his lip to suppress a frustrated sound.

Rising unsteadily, he stacks the wine glasses in the sink, avoiding the journal like it's radioactive. In his room, he strips down quickly, the cool air raising goosebumps on his flushed skin. His cock bobs free, still half-hard and glistening at the tip, a testament to the unresolved heat. He avoids touching it—knows one stroke would unravel him completely—and slides under the covers instead, willing sleep to come before the fantasies loop back in vivid detail.

But as the jazz fades from the living room speakers, replaced by the distant hum of the city outside, Jimin's mind wanders unbidden. Jeongguk's scent clings faintly to the shared laundry basket in the corner, a subtle reminder that pulls at him like gravity. He rolls onto his side, punching the pillow, and squeezes his eyes shut.

♡♡♡

The first thing Jimin registers upon waking is the sour tang of stale wine coating his tongue and the dull twinge in his lower back from crumpling into sleep at an awkward slant. His mind feels padded with cotton, thoughts slipping just out of reach, the room's air too stagnant and heated for clarity to cut through.

He stirs slowly, blinking against the early light that filters through his curtains in thin, gold lines. His limbs are heavy, knotted in the rumpled sheets, his baggy shirt hiked up around his waist, exposing the soft curve of his hip. A lazy warmth seeps through his muscles, urging him to burrow deeper into the mattress, savoring the rare luxury of no urgency. Jeongguk's out—about staying over at Seokjin's—so Jimin can drop the facade. No need to school his features into casual indifference, no masking the way his pulse quickens at stray scents or accidental brushes.

Fragments of the night resurface in disjointed flashes.

There was wine—obviously. There was music, a playlist he only plays when he’s feeling dramatic and indulgent. His legs tucked up under a blanket as he wrote filth with the kind of hand-cramping speed only wine and longing can produce. He remembers the thrill of letting himself go fully unfiltered for once—no metaphors, no ambiguous alpha figures—just raw, desperate need scribbled down on paper like a prayer. And somewhere in there, before he dragged himself to bed, he remembers putting the journal on the table. Closed. Bookmarked.

He grimaces.

"Fuck," he mutters, hauling himself upright with the grace of a man nursing regrets. “I need to clean that up.”

Barefoot, he shuffles into the hallway, scrubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of one palm while stifling a yawn behind the other. The loose shirt dips off his shoulder, fabric whispering against his thighs as it rides high, and he vows to chug water and slather on lotion before his skin turns tight and prickly. Another yawn escapes, and he veers toward the living room on autopilot, braced to sweep away the chaotic evidence of his midnight unraveling—the empty glass, the scattered coasters, that damning notebook.

It's only as he rounds the corner that his steps falter, breath catching sharp in his throat.

Jeongguk is there.

Lounging on the couch with effortless ease, one ankle hooked over the edge of the cushion, fingers loosely curled around a steaming mug. Sunlight spills across him in warm, honeyed rays, threading through his tousled hair and tracing the sharp line of his jaw, softening the edges just enough to make him seem approachable—deceptively gentle for the alpha whose mere proximity had fueled Jimin's feverish scribbles, four pages of unbridled, name-specific erotica inked out in the dead of night.

“Morning,” Jeongguk drawls, voice low and velvety, as if the world hasn't just tilted off its axis for Jimin.

Shit.

Jimin freezes mid-step, the rest of him jolting to a halt like a puppet with tangled strings.

“You're back,” he stammers, words tumbling out in a rush. “I thought—you said you were—”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk cuts in smoothly, placing the mug on the coaster with a quiet, deliberate click. “Rolled in around three. Decided against crashing there.”

Jimin's throat tightens, mouth parched—not sure if it’s from the night's wine, or from the sudden thrum hammering in his veins as his gaze snags on the coffee table.

The journal.

Exactly where he'd abandoned it. Shut tight, thank god, with the silk ribbon bookmark fluttering like a taunt from the spine. A ticking grenade, wrapped in velvet.

Untouched, at least on the surface. No signs of disturbance, no flipped pages or stray smudges.

He fixates on it, pulse roaring in his ears, every beat amplifying the silence as Jeongguk's stare lingers, steady and unblinking.

“I, uh, left some mess out last night,” Jimin blurts, lunging forward with feigned casualness, hand outstretched toward the notebook. “Sorry about that. I was a little out of it.”

Jeongguk hums, a deep vibration that resonates through the room. “No worries, hyung. You know I don’t mind a little mess. You were jotting stuff down, weren't you?”

Jimin's blood turns to ice, then fire, a scalding rush flooding his cheeks. He whips his head around, too sharply, fighting the wild panic clawing up his spine. “What—huh?”

Jeongguk gestures lazily toward the journal, his expression unreadable. “You always look focused when you’re scribbling in that thing. It’s kind of cute.”

Cute.

The word lands like a spark on dry tinder. Jimin snatches the journal, pressing it flush against his chest, knuckles whitening on the leather cover. He laughs too high-pitched, too fake, and starts backing toward the hallway like it’s a fire escape.

“Yeah, just random thoughts,” he says, voice cracking a little. “Y'know, everyday nonsense. Boring as hell—nothing to see here.”

Jeongguk lifts the mug again, inhaling the rising steam, his dark eyes pinned on Jimin with unwavering focus.

“Sounds therapeutic,” he says softly, the words curling like smoke. “Good to unload it all. Let it spill out raw.”

Jimin chokes on a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-whimper.

“Right!” he yelps, already pivoting toward his door, salvation in sight. “Super normal start to the day. Gonna... freshen up. Brush my teeth, clothes—maybe incinerate this thing.”

A rumble of laughter follows him, rich and knowing. “Incinerate what?”

“Nothing!”

Jimin bolts into his room, slamming the door before temptation could drag his gaze back for one last, damning glance.

Two whole nights drag by after The Incident, and Jimin is cracking.

Not with theatrical sobs muffled into his pillow—though he's indulged in a few of those—but in the insidious, gnawing manner of what Jimin feels to be psychological warfare, where the quiet stretches like barbed wire. He's tiptoed through forty-eight hours of fragile peace, each moment Jeongguk fails to mention it—a glance, a probe, anything—twisting the knife deeper, turning the unspoken into a battlefield he's steadily surrendering. 

The worst part?

Jeongguk’s routine hasn’t changed at all.

No awkward shifts, no sly jabs, not even a whisper about the journal splayed open on the coffee table like a sacrificial relic to his deepest mortification. It's infuriating.

He’s so composed, so calm, so painfully casual that Jimin begins to cling to the fragile hope that perhaps, against all odds, he hadn't cracked it open.

That's what has him huddled in bed now, spine flush against the cool wall as if it could shield him, knees drawn tight to his chest, phone gripped like a lifeline in his trembling fists. He dials Taehyung on impulse, the ringtone slicing through the dim room like a plea.

Taehyung picks up within seconds, already laying flat on his back with a sheet mask on and a single clip in his bangs. He skips the hello entirely.

Taehyung's voice crackles through the speaker, lazy and expectant. "Spill it, drama queen. What's got you hiding in your cave this time?"

Jimin exhales shakily, his breath fogging the screen as he props the phone against his knee. The room feels too still, the faint hum of the city outside mocking his unraveling nerves. "It's Jeongguk. The journal... I left it out. Open, probably. And he hasn't said a word. Two days, Tae. Two whole days of him acting like everything's fine when he’s usually the nosiest little shit I know.”

A pause, then Taehyung's muffled snort—likely adjusting that ridiculous sheet mask. 

“Wait,” Taehyung says slowly. “The one with all the filthy fantasies? The knotting, the begging, the ‘alpha owns my—’”

“Yes, that one,” Jimin hisses.

“Honey, if he read that, you'd know. He'd have you pinned by now."

Jimin winces, heat creeping up his neck at the blunt recap. His thighs press together involuntarily, memory flashing hot and mortifying.

“No, it was closed when I checked later. But... he's been doing these things. Little touches, looks. It's like he's toying with me, testing how far he can push before I snap."

Taehyung's eyebrows shoot up, visible even through the glow of his phone. "Things like what? Give me details, or I'm hanging up to binge my drama."

Jimin shifts, the wall's chill seeping through his thin shirt, grounding him just enough to speak. "Yesterday, I was at the sink, chugging water after a run—sweaty, parched, you know? He slides up behind me, so close his chest brushes my shoulder, and his hand... god, his palm flattens right on my lower back. Then he murmurs, 'Careful, hyung,' all low and concerned, like I might choke on a sip. But his scent—I swear my knees buckled."

Taehyung blinks slowly, processing. 

“Remember how I wrote about how hot it is when he cooks breakfast shirtless? All those muscles flexing, sweat on his back, that V dipping into his sweats?” 

Even if Taehyung didn’t remember, Jimin did—how could he not? He’d spent an hour that night, completely unblinking as he wrote on and on about wanting to drop to his knees right there, sucking the alpha off while he flips eggs, him grabbing Jimin’s hair and fucking his mouth till he knots his throat. 

“Of course you filthy minx. Go on.”

“Well this morning, he goes back to the stove, turns halfway like he's checking the pan, but he stretches slow, arms up with his fucking abs showing, and that trail of hair leading down. And then he just looks over at me with that little shit-eating grin of his, and says ‘‘good morning’ in that voice, Tae. You know the one.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow. “The morning voice.”

Jimin nods solemnly. “The alpha morning voice. Raspy. Lazy. Slightly smug.”

Taehyung removes the rest of the mask and tosses it aside like evidence. “Okay. That’s hostile.”

“And then he asked if I needed help carrying my laundry basket.” Jimin throws a hand up. “Which, by the way, I have also written about. Extensively.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m good.”

“And?”

“He smiled and said, ‘I know.’ What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re not good, you’re great, and he wants to ruin you,” Taehyung deadpans. “Obviously.”

Jimin flops back onto his bed with a groan. “I feel like I’m being hunted by a wolf in designer loungewear.”

“You’re being softly stalked.”

“And tonight,” Jimin continues miserably, “he made me tea. The chamomile one. The one I wrote about him making when I’m stressed. He didn’t even ask. Just set it next to me and squeezed my shoulder.”

“Oh he wants you dead, huh.”

“And he keeps calling me ‘hyung’ like that’s not also a trigger!”

Taehyung sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Okay well, I can't say much about the 'hyung' part. He kinda has to do that out of respect.”

“I should just burn the journal.”

“You should just get railed and be done with it.”

Jimin stares up at the ceiling, like it's the only thing not spinning out of control. His voice drops, all soft and wrecked. "He's so casual about it, Tae. Makes breakfast shirtless, muscles flexing just like I wrote about—wanting to drop to my knees right there while he flips eggs—and I have to pretend I wasn't fantasizing about him bending me over that counter. He’s doing the dish—doing the dishes, while humming. I’m losing my grip on reality.”

Taehyung tilts his head on screen. "Maybe he's waiting for you to crack first. Bring it up yourself."

“Why would he wait when he could torture me?”

“You think he’s teasing you?”

Jimin nods miserably. “He said something yesterday.”

“What was it?”

Jimin covers his face with both hands. “He said he likes the way I bite my lip when I’m concentrating. And then he smirked. Smirked.”

Taehyung is silent for a moment, then flatly says, “Yeah, I don’t know—you’re being psychologically edged.”

“I haven’t known peace since we moved in together.”

“I’m gonna write him a thank-you card.”

Jimin hurls a pillow at the phone, huffing as it topples over with a thud. Taehyung's laugh echoes muffled as he rights it.

“I’m serious,” Jimin mutters, arms crossed. “I’m one journal quote away from actually combusting. I can’t keep living like this.”

Taehyung flops sideways. “Real talk? This is either the worst-case scenario or the hottest possible one.”

“What?”

“If he has read it and he’s saying nothing… maybe he’s just waiting. Biding his time and planning his next move like a sexy snake.”

Jimin looks haunted. “Do not compare Jeongguk to a snake.”

“A sexy one! Like a python with a python if you catch my drift.”

“I’m going to throw myself into traffic.”

Taehyung props his chin on his hand. “Or—and hear me out—maybe he’s just being respectful. Perhaps he read it, realized how insanely horny and down bad you are, and decided to spare your dignity like the gracious alpha he is.

Jimin groans again, faceplanting dramatically into the pillow. His voice is muffled when he says, “I can’t live like this, Tae. Every time he breathes, I think it’s a setup.”

“Honey, I'm delusional, but there is a huge possibility you’re reading too much into it.”

"Am I?" Jimin peels his head up slow, eyes bugging out. "When he bends to tie his shoe and lets out that moan?"

Taehyung gasps sharp. "Hold up. Moan like what?"

"Grunt-ish, but deep. Real rumble."

"Oh, he knows. For sure."

Jimin shrieks into the pillow, body curling up.

Taehyung scoots closer to the camera, serious now. "You won't survive another week."

"I've barely made it two days."

"Plan time, then. Wait him out, or pin him down and spill."

Jimin jabs a shaky finger up. "Or three: stage my death, bolt overseas."

Taehyung clicks his tongue. "Jimin-ah."

“Okay, okay! I’ll— I’ll wait. A few more days. If he still hasn’t said anything, I’ll…” He trails off, eyes darting. “I’ll spontaneously combust and let the flames handle it.”

Taehyung grins wide. "I'll roast marshmallows over you."

Jimin kills the call with a flop back onto the bed, muttering to the ceiling, "I'm doomed. He'll find my body... and the journal. Double death."

The screen goes dark, but Jimin's pulse hammers on, the apartment's hush pressing in like Jeongguk's waiting just beyond the door.

♡♡♡

The apartment is still and quiet, the way only a home at 2am can be—muted shadows stretching long across the kitchen floor, the refrigerator humming low in the background like a distant warning bell. Jimin pads softly into the kitchen, the soles of his feet cold against the floor, oversized sleep shirt brushing his thighs. He’s half-asleep, groggy and warm from the blankets he left behind, and he doesn’t even bother turning on the overhead light.

He only wants water.

He can feel the dryness in his throat like sandpaper, and it scratches a little more each time he swallows. His fingers are curled loosely around the hem of his shirt as he crosses to the cabinet, only to stop short at the soft sound of water being poured. Someone’s already here.

The dim light under the stove casts a faint golden halo, and in the quiet glow, Jeongguk is standing by the sink in nothing but dark gray sweatpants and a loose tank, hair still damp from a late shower and falling into his eyes in soft, disobedient strands. One hand braces against the counter as he drinks, slow and steady, throat working with each swallow, the kind of thoughtless intimacy that would be harmless if Jimin’s brain weren’t wired to notice everything. A few droplets catch on his jaw before disappearing under the collar of his shirt, and Jimin’s breath catches so sharply it almost betrays him.

Jimin’s breath catches.

He considers turning around briefly, but then Jeongguk turns his head, clearly having heard the soft shuffle of his footsteps. His eyes catch Jimin’s in the low light, and it’s already too late to pretend he wasn’t there.

“Oh, hey,” Jeongguk murmurs, voice gravelly and thick from the late hour, like smoke curling low. No grin, but no retreat either. “Sleep dodging you?”

Jimin shakes his head. “Just thirsty.”

Silence stretches, Jeongguk's stare drifting deliberate—from Jimin's flushed face down the bare lines of his legs, lingering on the shirt's hem riding high, then flicking back up. Heat blooms under Jimin's skin as he yanks the fabric lower, covering more of his  thighs, but Jeongguk's look isn't crude—it's steady, appraising, the low light sharpening the alpha's features until Jimin's pulse skips.

Jeongguk turns back toward the sink, lifts the glass to his mouth, and takes a long, steady sip. His throat works with the motion, the muscles flexing under soft skin, and Jimin has to physically look away, swallowing hard against the dry ache in his own throat.

No words pass. Jeongguk refills the glass straight from the tap—no rinse, no fresh one, no polite flip to hide the side his mouth touched. He steps close, extends it with casual ease, fingers loose but firm around the cool curve. Condensation beads on the surface, water chilling the air between them. The gesture lands simple, unforced, like sharing breath in the night.

But Jimin saw it—the exact lip-print side facing him, untouched by any wash, the faint warmth from Jeongguk's mouth still clinging.

And Jeongguk hasn’t rotated the rim even slightly, hasn’t offered the glass in the socially neutral way that lets you pretend you aren’t sharing anything. He’s holding it out as-is, the condensation beading along the glass, the cold water catching the light, the gesture simple enough that it would be ridiculous to call it intimate—if Jeongguk wasn’t watching him with that quiet patience that feels like waiting for a decision. Or perhaps it really is innocent—exhaustion blurring boundaries, Jeongguk's alpha nature spilling over in casual closeness, unaware of the spark it ignites.

Jimin’s mind starts sprinting.

He could twist the glass—just a quick, casual flip, no big deal, nothing loaded. But Jeongguk's stare pins him in place, those dark eyes steady and inscrutable in the faint glow, making any move feel exposed, like a tell in a high-stakes game.

He could wipe the rim and claim he’s being careful, claim he’s avoiding germs, because that’s a totally normal thing to do—except that would be worse, wouldn’t it? Yeah, there’s no way in hell that he could  do that. 

That'd broadcast rejection louder than words, implying he recoils from Jeongguk's touch when in reality, Jimin’s body seems to have developed a violent, humiliating aversion to rejecting Jeongguk in any form.

But if he drinks from the same spot—if he lifts the glass and places his lips right there where Jeongguk’s just were, won’t that say something, too?

Would Jeongguk notice? Would he care? Would it give him away?

Jimin’s pulse hammers as his fingers finally curl around the cool glass. They graze Jeongguk's—brief, electric, skin sliding warm against skin—and a jolt races up his arm, settling hot and heavy in his chest. Jeongguk releases it, and his gaze never wavers.

He doesn’t turn the glass. No, he doesn’t dare turn the glass.

Jimin hesitates for one more breath—one aching, suspended second where he can feel his dignity wobbling on the edge. Then he lifts the glass without turning it, bringing the rim to his mouth exactly where Jeongguk’s had been. The rim kisses his lips—chilled, slick, imprinted by Jeongguk mere seconds prior—and he sips slowly, fighting the tremor that wants to ripple through him at the intimate press.

Jeongguk leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely over his chest, posture relaxed enough to be believable, except nothing about his eyes are relaxed. They stay on Jimin like he’s cataloguing every breath, every movement. Jimin zeroes in on the water, letting it pool on his tongue longer than necessary before gulping it down, hoping that the glass itself would hide the fire licking up his neck, the itch crawling across his skin, the flush he knows stains his cheeks even in the dark.

Jeongguk's voice cuts through then, low and hushed, nearly lost in the fridge's steady drone.

“You do that,” he observes, like it's just another neutral detail in their night.

Jimin's inhale hitches. “Do what?”

Jeongguk cants his head, a languid roll, his stare dropping briefly to the glass clutched in Jimin's fist before locking back on his features, as if he's already mapped the flinch coming.

“Pretend you're okay with it,” he replies. “Like everything's under control.”

Jimin freezes, body locking up.

Suddenly, the quiet drags heavy between them, the space shrinking with Jeongguk's presence, his own heartbeat spiking without a nameable cause he dares voice.

“I am fine,” he lies, the words tumbling out on autopilot.

Jeongguk hums—not amused or mocking, just… considering. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s deciding how much salt to add to a dish, or whether the laundry can wait until morning, and it lands in Jimin’s stomach like a threat.

“Sure,” Jeongguk says, and he draws the word out just enough that it stops being agreement and becomes something else entirely.

Jimin forces a laugh that comes out brittle at the edges. “Why are you up right now?”

Jeongguk shrugs one shoulder, casual, easy. “Had to help Yoongi-hyung with a huge back piece. It was a heavy black-out tattoo, so it ran late. I got home and—” he pauses, and the pause is so precise it feels deliberate, “—couldn’t sleep either.”

Jimin’s grip tightens around the glass.

He feels absurd, exposed in his rumpled shirt and bare legs, unraveling over a simple drink, but Jeongguk's unwavering eyes strip away any illusion of normalcy, pinning him like he's overdue for a reckoning Jeongguk's long anticipated.

Then, with the same even keel from earlier, Jeongguk tacks on, “You should really stop leaving your journal out.”

The room seems to tilt. Jimin’s stomach drops so abruptly it makes him lightheaded, and he has to swallow hard to keep his voice from cracking as he says, “My—what?”

Jeongguk’s expression doesn’t change. That’s the cruelest part. His tone stays mild, almost absentminded, like he’s talking about dishes or keys or chores. 

Except they’re not talking about some fucking chores.

“Your journal,” he repeats. “The one you write in at night. Imagine if I’d brought Jin-hyung back or other friends instead of staying out? You know he's got that prying alpha streak. Picture him flipping through those pages...”

Jimin can hear his heartbeat now, loud enough that it feels like it’s echoing through the room like a solo drum.

“No clue what you mean,” he denies, because denial is a reflex at this point, a survival instinct, even when it’s pathetic.

Jeongguk watches him for a long moment, eyes dark in the dim light, and something about the stillness of him makes Jimin’s skin feel too tight.

A faint quirk pulls at Jeongguk's lips—not a grin, not a taunt, just a flicker he reins in.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, the syllable dripping skepticism, worse than any outright call-out.

Jimin’s throat goes dry again. He can’t tell whether it’s panic or arousal or raw shame—he can't sort it, because now's when he should press, should demand clarity, should drag the words from Jeongguk's throat.

But pushing means owning it all. Admitting the fevered lines he pens. That they're carved around Jeongguk. That he craves—

Jimin’s thoughts stutter, refuse to finish the sentence, and Jeongguk seems to notice the exact second his composure slips, because his gaze softens into something quieter and far more dangerous than teasing.

“You’re shaking,” Jeongguk breathes.

“I’m tired,” Jimin snaps back, too fast.

Jeongguk's focus traces Jimin's lips once more, then lift back up, slow and deliberate, like he’s making a point without saying it.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he says, and the gentleness in his voice feels like a trap. “I’m not asking you to.”

Jimin’s chest tightens, because that’s not a relief. Jeongguk is clearly squeezing him like the giant snake he is, applying that slow pressure with good manners. Fuck. Taehyung was right —this man is a Python.

Jeongguk stirs, peels from the counter, and for a beat Jimin braces for the advance, for the gap closing in a move and end this in one decisive motion that would either ruin Jimin or save him. But Jeongguk sidesteps it.

Instead, he reaches past Jimin for the cabinet like he’s perfectly comfortable being this close, like the air between them hasn’t changed, like he hasn’t just dropped a match into the gasoline and strolled past the flames. He takes out a second glass, rinses it, sets it on the counter, then looks at Jimin again with that same maddening calm.

“Go back to bed, hyung,” he says. “You’ll drive yourself crazy standing here thinking.”

Jimin can’t move.

Jeongguk’s mouth twitches again, that ghost of a grin resurfacing like he can’t help himself. “And just so you know," he tacks on, voice feather-light. “I didn’t read anything.”

It’s a lie so transparent it borders on cruel.

With that, Jeongguk pivots and pads down the corridor, as though he hasn't just rearranged the entire balance of Jimin’s nervous system, like he hasn’t just made it undeniably clear he knows—without giving Jimin the mercy of hearing him admit it out loud. The door latches with a quiet click.

Jimin stands in the dim kitchen for a long, humiliating moment,  the glass still clutched tight in his fist, pulse hammering, cheeks scorched, mind spiraling in fevered loops. Now he's cornered between twin wrecks. If he confronts Jeongguk, he’ll have to confess. 

And if he doesn’t… Jeongguk will drag this out. Gently. Endlessly. As if eternity's his playground.

It’s nearly three in the morning when Jimin finally shuts his bedroom door and presses his back against it, as if the thin wood might protect him from the memory of the kitchen.

His whole body feels overheated, not just flushed but restless, skin prickling like he’s been plugged into an outlet. His scent is a mess—too sweet, too warm—and the worst part is that he has no idea how much of it Jeongguk could smell when they were standing that close. No idea how obvious he was. No idea whether Jeongguk walked away because he was being merciful… or because he enjoyed leaving him like that.

He collapses onto the bed face-first and groans into his pillow, the sound swallowed by fabric. For a moment he just lies there, replaying it all—the glass, the way Jeongguk didn’t turn it, the way he watched him drink, the quiet comment about the planner, that maddeningly calm “I didn’t read anything” that was so clearly untrue it bordered on cruelty.

Jeongguk hadn’t interrogated him.

That’s what’s wrecking him.

If he’d laughed, teased, outright admitted it—Jimin could’ve reacted to that. He could’ve defended himself, gotten offended, thrown a fit, blamed the wine.

But Jeongguk didn’t push.

He simply… implied.

And waited.

Jimin flips onto his back and grabs his phone from the nightstand, fingers trembling as he types.

[2:56am] Jimin: emergency. call me. right now.

Taehyung FaceTimes him in under a minute, Jimin’s phone buzzing sharply in his lap as the vibration cut through the haze like a lifeline–or a noose. He hesitates, thumb hovering, but the call persists, insistent. With a shaky breath, Jimin swipes to accept, propping the phone against a pillow as he sits up, the dim lamp casting shadows that do nothing to hide the flush staining his cheeks. Taehyung's face fills the screen, all sharp cheekbones and hair flattened on one side, eyes puffy with sleep but already suspicious.

“You better be in an ambulance, because I swear to god if this is about another bug in your room—” 

“I wish it was about a stupid bug,” Jimin whispers harshly, already pacing the length of his room, the bed-side rug muffling his steps but not the frantic thud of his heart. Lying still only amplified the chaos in his head, every thought a replay of Jeongguk's unreadable stare. He shoots a paranoid glance at the door, as if the alpha could phase through it, that piercing gaze stripping away his defenses one layer at a time. "He knows."

Taehyung blinks slowly. “Knows what?”

“The journal," Jimin hisses, the word tasting like ash on his tongue.

There's a slow, dawning shift in Taehyung's expression, his eyes widening as the pieces click. "...What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Jimin shoots back, his pacing quickening, hands gesturing wildly even though Taehyung can't fully see. "That's the problem—I didn't do a damn thing. He did. He just... stood there in the kitchen, all calm and collected, and said I should stop leaving it out on the table. Then he drops this line about imagining if Jin had seen it, like it's no big deal. And then he tells me I don't have to explain myself, and—fuck—he lied."

Taehyung pushes himself upright. "Slow down, Minnie. Lied about what?"

"He said he didn't read it." Jimin's voice drops, laced with certainty born of dread.

"...Well, did he?"

Jimin freezes mid-step, staring at the screen as if Taehyung can see straight into his spiraling mind. "No."

"How do you know?"

"Because of the way he said it," Jimin huffs, raking a trembling hand through his disheveled hair.

Taehyung exhales through his nose. “That’s not evidence.”

“It is when you know him,” Jimin insists. “You know that look he gets? The calm one, where his eyes go all steady and unblinking, like he's already three steps ahead? That's what he had.”

Taehyung studies him more closely now, his teasing grin fading into genuine concern. "What else happened? Spill it all."

"He gave me water," Jimin says, and the absurdity hits him immediately, his cheeks burning hotter. He waves it off, but the words tumble out anyway. "That's not even the point. The point is, he didn't turn the glass around. Just handed it over, same side he'd drunk from, lips right there on the rim. Didn't even pretend it was an accident."

"And you—"

"I drank it," Jimin admits, voice barely above a mutter, shame twisting in his gut like a knife.

A heavy pause stretches between them, the silence thick with implication.

Taehyung's eyebrows lift slowly, his gaze sharpening. "Okay."

"Don't 'okay' me like that," Jimin snaps, resuming his pacing with renewed vigor.

"I'm not," Taehyung replies, though there's a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I'm just saying... that's not nothing. That's intimate as hell."

Jimin drags both hands down his face, fingers pressing into his eyes as if he could block out the memory. "He was watching me the whole time, Tae. Like he was testing me, waiting to see if I'd pull back or lean in. Gauging how far I'd go."

"And what did you choose?" Taehyung presses, his tone gentle but probing.

"I don't know!" Jimin snaps, frustration bubbling over. "I was thirsty, okay? Parched. Out of my mind."

Taehyung snorts, the sound light but knowing. "You were not just thirsty. Don't bullshit me."

Jimin flops back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stares up at the ceiling, phone propped precariously on his chest. "He didn't tease me about it. Didn't corner me or demand to know what I wrote. He just... implied everything. Dropped those hints like breadcrumbs leading straight to hell, then stepped back. Like it's my turn now. My move to make."

The humor drains from Taehyung's face, replaced by a rare seriousness that makes Jimin's chest tighten. "Did he make you feel stupid?"

"No," Jimin murmurs, the word soft against the quiet room.

"Dirty?"

"No."

"Embarrassed?"

Jimin hesitates, the question hanging in the air like smoke, his mind replaying the moment—the weight of Jeongguk's gaze, the unspoken invitation laced with power. His throat works around the truth he can't quite voice, vulnerability cracking through his defenses.

“…Yes. But not because of him.”

That’s the difference.

Taehyung goes quiet for a second, his gaze thoughtful through the screen.

“So he didn’t shame you.”

“No.”

“He didn’t push you.”

“Nope.”

“He gave you space.”

Jimin presses his lips together, the simple truth twisting like a knot in his chest.

“Yes.”

“And that’s somehow…worse?”

“Yes,” Jimin breathes, the frustration spilling out in a rush. “If he had made fun of me, it would make perfect sense for me to get mad or lash out. If he’d confronted me, I could’ve defended myself, turned it into a fight because he basically invaded my privacy. But he didn’t. He just... made it crystal-fucking-clear that he knows, then walked away like he trusts me to handle my own mess.”

Taehyung leans back against his headboard, the movement casual but his eyes intent. “He probably does.”

“Why would he trust me with that?” Jimin’s voice cracks, raw with doubt.

“Because he’s not trying to trap you. Not corner you into something you’re not ready for. Honestly, he’s always been considerate towards you. So, I’m not really surprised he’s like this even when you’ve basically dangled yourself in front of him like raw meat.”

Jimin stares at the ceiling, the shadows playing across the plaster like unspoken secrets. The buzzing under his skin shifts, morphing into a deeper ache, heavier and more insistent.

“He pointed out so easily that I was shaking,” Jimin murmurs, the memory surfacing unbidden—Jeongguk’s voice low, steady, cutting through the dim kitchen light. “Wasn’t even smug about it—and you know he’s always got that little shit-eating grin on, so I’m a little spooked.”

Taehyung nods slowly, his expression softening with understanding. “I’m not so sure this is psychological warfare anymore, Minnie. It’s sounding more like restraint to me. Which is kind of hot, you know? Classic alpha chivalry or whatever.”

Jimin lets out a sharp, bitter laugh that echoes too loudly in the quiet room. “Restraint feels worse.”

“Because you wanted him to push,” Taehyung says, his tone gentle but unyielding, slicing through the denial.

Jimin goes still, his breath catching in his throat.

“That’s not—”

“You wanted him to make it easy,” Taehyung continues, leaning forward slightly. “To just say it outright. Call you out, force your hand so you wouldn’t have to face it alone.”

Jimin swallows hard, the lump in his throat burning.

“…Maybe.”

Silence lingers between them, thick and charged, the kind that presses in on all sides.

“And if you confront him?” Taehyung asks, his voice softer now, laced with quiet encouragement.

“Then I have to admit it’s about him. All of it.”

“And you and I both know it is.”

Jimin closes his eyes, the admission hovering on the edge of his lips like a confession in the dark. 

“Yeah, fuck—it is.”

It comes out softer than he expects, vulnerable and true, hanging in the air like mist. Taehyung doesn’t tease with his usual playful jabs.

“Then you’re not scared he read it,” he says quietly, the words measured and kind. “You’re scared you meant it. Every word.”

Jimin exhales slowly, the release shaky.

“Yeah.”

After they hang up, Jimin lies there in the dark, the phone slipping from his hand to the mattress. He stares at nothing, the ceiling a blank canvas for the whirlwind in his mind. His body is still warm, skin prickling with unresolved heat. Still restless, every nerve humming with the echo of Jeongguk’s presence. But the panic has shifted into something else—something steadier, more uncomfortable, like a weight settling deep in his core.

Jeongguk didn’t humiliate him. He didn’t corner him, didn’t demand answers or wield the knowledge like a weapon. He made it clear he knows—saw through the pages, straight to the heart of Jimin’s desires. And then he left the choice in Jimin’s hands.

♡♡♡

The next morning, Jimin wakes with resolve weighing heavy in his chest, the kind that gleams almost noble until the moment you have to put it into motion. He's done spiraling, done pacing endless loops around the undeniable truth of what unfolded in that kitchen. No more waiting. He's going to speak up, to shatter the silence that's been suffocating him. For once, he'll embody the bravery he's only ever scripted on paper, pretending those words could bridge the gap.

The plan is hazy at best, fueled more by raw emotion than strategy. The plan dissolves the second he walks into the kitchen.

Jeongguk is already there, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, the hood of his sweatshirt draped loosely over his shoulders like he can't quite decide on full commitment. He's humming softly, a low, absent melody, as he flips pancakes with the effortless assurance of someone utterly at ease in his own skin. The air hangs thick with the scent of melting butter, ripe blueberries bursting under heat, and an undercurrent of warmth that seeps from him, unrelated to the stove's glow.

Jimin's gaze snags on the intricate lines of ink curling along Jeongguk's right arm—a sexy tattoo sleeve that Jimin has always secretly adored, the bold patterns twisting like secrets etched into muscle, flexing subtly with each turn of the spatula. It draws his eyes every time, a mesmerizing blend of art and strength that stirs something deep and unspoken.

Jeongguk glances over his shoulder, catching Jimin's stare, and offers a smile—easy, genuine, lighting up his face without a trace of guile. "Morning, hyung. Made yours with extra blueberries, just how you like."

That's it. Pure, uncomplicated warmth.

Jimin lingers in the doorway, clad in his oversized sleep shirt that skims mid-thigh, the fabric soft against his skin but doing little to steady the flutter in his stomach. He eyes the plate Jeongguk slides across the counter, piled high and steaming, as if it might hold some hidden clue if he scrutinizes it long enough. No sly smirk. No loaded silence. Nothing about forgotten journals or those midnight exchanges that warped the air between them into something electric and fraught.

Just pancakes, golden and inviting.

"Thanks," Jimin murmurs, the word tumbling out as he sinks onto a stool, forcing normalcy into his movements. As if this were any ordinary morning, as if he hadn't drifted off replaying every syllable Jeongguk uttered two nights prior, each one a thread pulling him tighter.

By Tuesday, the silence presses down like a weight Jimin can't shake, thick and unyielding, turning every shared breath into a test of endurance.

Jeongguk isn't pulling away. He's not icy or withdrawn. He's the same as ever—helpful in that quiet, effortless way, attentive without demanding anything in return, steady enough to make Jimin question his own unraveling nerves. He folds the pile of throw blankets Jimin left scattered on the couch, stacking it neatly without a word. He waits to  run the vacuum—or make any noise for that matter—while Jimin's on a work call. And when Jimin winces, rubbing at his aching shoulders after hours hunched over his laptop, Jeongguk steps up behind him, inked fingers pressing into the tense base of his neck with firm, unhurried pressure. The touch sends a jolt through Jimin, his breath catching sharp and involuntary, heat blooming under his skin before he can clamp it down. But Jeongguk never pushes. He doesn't let his hands wander lower, doesn't hold the contact a second past what's needed. He steps back as if it's nothing, leaving Jimin adrift in the echo of that warmth.

No lingering stares when Jimin falls silent mid-sentence. No crowding into his space to pin him in place. No sly digs about the journal splayed open on the table nights ago. Not even a flicker of smug satisfaction in those dark eyes.

It would be simpler if he did—if Jeongguk called him out, shattered the fragile normalcy with a single knowing word. Instead, Jimin starts probing the tension himself, deliberate little provocations born of frustration and that gnawing pride. He pauses in doorways, forcing Jeongguk to brush past him in the tight hallway. He angles his body close in the kitchen, hip grazing Jeongguk's as he reaches for a mug, no apology slipping from his lips. He bends at the waist to retrieve a dropped spoon from the floor, movements languid and unhurried, the hem of his shirt riding up just enough to tease. And on a whim one evening, he digs out the tiniest pair of shorts from his drawer—snug fabric hugging his thighs like a challenge he won't voice—and struts through the apartment in them, heart pounding with the thrill of exposure.

Jeongguk looks up from the cutting board once, knife pausing mid-chop as his gaze flicks over Jimin's legs, tracing the exposed skin before lifting to his face. The tattoo on his arm flexes with the subtle roll of his shoulder, ink shifting like it's alive under the kitchen light.

"You look comfortable," he says, tone even and mild, before resuming his rhythm on the vegetables, the blade's steady thunk filling the quiet.

Comfortable.

Jimin swallows the burn of his own audacity, nearly choking on the word lodged in his throat.

By Thursday, he's buzzing under his skin, every nerve alight and frayed, like a wire pulled too taut. Jeongguk's proximity—unintentional brushes in the hallway, the casual drape of his arm over the back of the couch—sends Jimin's pulse racing, only for the moment to dissolve into nothing, leaving him hollow and aching. He's attuned to it all: the rise and fall of Jeongguk's chest as he breathes nearby, the faint shift of fabric when he crosses his legs, the accidental skim of knuckles against Jimin's wrist when they pass a plate at dinner. It's like teetering on a razor's edge, the drop looming but never arriving.

At one point, Jeongguk reaches into the fruit bowl for a banana and extends it toward Jimin without glancing up from his phone, the gesture so offhand, so woven into their routine, it borders on tender. Jimin snatches it from his hand, fingers closing tighter than necessary around the peel.

Jeongguk's eyes lift slowly, brow quirking just a fraction. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jimin bites out, yanking the peel back with a sharp twist, the fruit bending under his grip.

Jeongguk watches him for a beat longer than casual, that steady gaze pinning him in place. "You seem tense."

"I'm not."

"You just murdered that banana."

Jimin hurls the peel into the trash bin with a force that makes the lid rattle, jaw clenched as he turns away, refusing to give ground or explanation. There’s another banana Jimin is thinking of murdering, but he chooses to stay silent.

Friday night finds them sunk into the couch yet again, the horror movie flickering across the screen—a rewatch they've done enough times to mouth the lines in sync. The lights are off, the room bathed in the TV's blue glow, shadows playing along the walls they've both come to know like their own skin. The air hangs heavy, settled from months of shared routines, their breaths falling into that effortless rhythm that makes Jimin's chest tighten every time he notices it.

A jumpscare rips through the speakers, the monster lunging with a snarl. Jimin's hand shoots out on reflex, fingers clamping down on Jeongguk's forearm, the muscle firm under his palm. Jeongguk chuckles lowly, the sound warm and rumbling from his chest, not a tease but something softer, almost fond. His thumb strokes a deliberate path over the knuckles of Jimin's hand, slow and unhurried, the pad of his finger rough from whatever grip he holds in the gym. “You always grab onto me at the exact same parts,” he murmurs, voice pitched quietly against the dying echo of the scream. “I could set my watch by it.”

The contact holds, thumb circling once more before easing away, leaving Jimin's skin tingling, the ghost of that touch sinking into his bones. Jeongguk doesn't pull back fully, his arm staying relaxed under Jimin's fading grip, as if inviting it to linger.

The credits scroll up in white text, the theme music fading to silence. Jeongguk stretches, arms arching overhead, his shirt riding up to bare a strip of toned abdomen, the faint trail of hair dipping below his waistband. Jimin's gaze snags there, stomach twisting with a sharp pull of heat—he knows it's not deliberate, not a ploy, and that's what guts him, the casual exposure hitting harder than any intentional strip.

“I’m going to grab water,” Jeongguk says, pushing up from the couch cushions as he starts to stand.

“Don’t.”

The word snaps out, edged sharper than Jimin means, raw frustration bleeding through. Jeongguk freezes mid-rise, muscles coiling under his tank, then sinks back down slowly, his dark eyes fixing on Jimin's face with that careful intensity. He turns fully toward him, knee brushing Jimin's thigh in the shift.

 “Okay. What’s going on?”

Jimin sits up too fast, the sudden movement making his heart hammer against his ribs, blood rushing hot in his ears. He's done dancing around it, done letting the tension coil tighter without snapping. The words burn up his throat, spilling out before he can swallow them back. 

“I can’t tell if you’re being considerate or cruel,” he says, the frustration finally surfacing in his voice.

Jeongguk’s brows draw together slightly. “Cruel?”

“You brought up my journal. Made it damn clear you knew exactly what was in it. Then you just... stopped. Just went back to normal like it was nothing, like my mess wasn’t worth your time anymore.”

Jeongguk holds his gaze for a beat, steady and unyielding, no defensiveness in his posture, no flicker of amusement—just that quiet solidity that always unravels Jimin a little more.

“I told you to be careful leaving it out,” he says quietly. “That’s not the same as dragging you into a conversation you weren’t ready for.”

“That’s the thing,” Jimin fires back, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands. “You decided I wasn’t ready.”

“You were shaking,” Jeongguk counters, his voice still even. “I wasn’t gonna drop the ball on someone who was literally looking at me like the world was crashing down.”

“I was embarrassed.”

“Exactly.”

Jeongguk shifts forward, forearms braced on his knees, his full focus locking onto Jimin like a tether. The faint scent of him—clean soap mixed with something warmer, earthier—drifts closer, stirring the air between them.

“If I’d pushed you that night, would that have felt good? Or would you have hated me for it the next morning?”

Jimin’s mouth parts, then snaps shut, words evaporating under the logic.

“That’s not fair,” he mutters, heat creeping up his neck.

“I’m not playing to win,” Jeongguk says simply. “I’m just trying not to put you in an uncomfortable position…make you feel pinned down, y’know?”

The raw honesty in his voice twists something deep in Jimin’s gut, sharper than any flirtation could.

“You think I don’t want you to?” Jimin asks, the edge slipping out of his voice.

Jeongguk’s eyes narrow, offering a curious glint in his unwavering gaze.

“I think you want a hell of a lot of things,” he answers carefully. “I just don’t think you want to say them yet.”

The room feels smaller suddenly.

“So you admit it—you read my journal and lied about it.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not upset that I wrote that stuff…about you?”

Jeongguk shrugs, his plush lips forming a pout as he tilts his head in consideration.

“Quite the contrary, hyung.”

“So why,” Jimin pushes, “are you pretending like nothing happened?”

“I’m not—it’s you who won’t tell me anything.”

“And I’m telling you now that I can’t stand this. I can’t stand you acting like nothing changed.”

Jeongguk’s jaw tightens slightly, a subtle shift that Jimin doesn’t miss.

“Something did change,” he says. “You just haven’t decided what you want to do about it.”

Silence swells, thick and charged, but it doesn’t fracture. Jimin’s pulse thuds in his temples, his own scent blooming sharper in the dim room—frustration twisting into a sweeter undercurrent, needy and betraying. He knows Jeongguk catches it, that alpha awareness picking up every nuance, and the thought sends a flush burning across his skin.

“You want me to lay it all out,” Jimin says at last, his voice hushed.

“Yes.” Jeongguk’s response is direct, no smug edge, no pressure—just an anchor in the storm.

Jimin’s throat closes around the truth, the vulnerability of it too stark, too humiliating to unleash. Jeongguk doesn’t fill the quiet. He just waits, patient as stone, his presence a steady hum against Jimin’s fraying edges. And that endless patience—it shreds him more than any demand ever could.

Finally, Jeongguk eases back, draping one arm along the couch back, fingers hovering inches from Jimin’s shoulder without bridging the gap.

“When you can say it without feeling like it’s breaking you,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble, “I’m right here.”

The control in those words hits like a slow burn, coiling low in Jimin’s belly, worse than any possessive growl. Jimin lets out a ragged breath, fury and unraveling desire tangling in his chest.

 “You’re impossible.”

Jeongguk’s lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile. “Yeah, probably.”

He snags the remote and cues up the next film, the opening credits spilling light across the room as if the air hadn’t just crackled with unspoken heat.

Jimin doesn’t budge, his heart still racing, skin prickling with awareness, the knot of pride and hunger so intertwined he can’t separate them. He avoids Jeongguk’s gaze, but he feels every inch of him there, solid and unignorable. For the first time in days, the weight between them doesn’t feel like a dead end.

It feels alive. Poised.

♡♡♡

The water is still trailing down Jimin’s spine when he steps out of the bathroom, steam billowing around his ankles like smoke. He doesn’t even towel off properly. He'd stepped out of the shower still fuming, skin flushed pink from hot water and hotter thoughts, droplets trailing down his chest and thighs as he wrapped the first towel he finds around his waist. It’s half damp, but he doesn’t care. Storming in dripping wet would be too dramatic. As much as he wants to get to the point, Jimin doesn’t feel like shivering like a wet dog while telling the alpha off  .

He rummages through the dryer, fingers closing on the first soft bundle—Jeongguk’s charcoal sweatshirt, radiating residual warmth. He tugs it on, the fabric yielding against his damp skin, carrying faint traces of laundry soap laced with Jeongguk’s unmistakable essence: crisp and grounded, with an undercurrent that hooks into Jimin’s senses. The hem skims his mid-thighs, the neckline gaping loose to bare a sliver of collarbone with any careless tilt. He doesn’t put on pants. Underneath, just his briefs cling to him. The fabric brushes against his skin in a way that makes him acutely aware of how little stands between him and the air.

He meets his reflection in the mirror, jaw locked tight, then forces a slow breath through flared nostrils and pads down the hall. Jeongguk’s door stands ajar, a sliver of warm light slicing the floorboards. Jimin nudges it open wider, no preamble knock.

Jeongguk lounges against the headboard, one leg extended, the other crooked easy at the knee. He embodies ease in a way that borders on provocation—hair tousled just so, black tee hiking up to reveal the taut line of his waist on a subtle flex. He looks up when the door opens, and his gaze settles on Jimin without surprise.

There’s a flicker of recognition. A slow assessment, nothing overt.

“You steal that from the dryer?” he asks mildly.

Jimin shoulders the door shut behind him. “It was warm.”

Jeongguk’s stare holds a fraction longer—taking in the outfit, the exposure, the unspoken purpose—before he dips his chin in quiet acceptance and stretches for the remote on his nightstand.

“Was just firing up that series you mentioned. The one with the twisty plot.”

The offhand invitation strikes deeper than any loaded remark could, pulling the rug from under Jimin’s resolve.

He hesitates, caught in the mundane normalcy, then crosses to the bed and perches on its edge rather than reclining beside him. His spine stays rigid, knees canted away, as if that scant separation could anchor his fraying grip. This ritual isn’t new. They’ve spent plenty of late nights bleeding into dawn, trading spaces—the living room, his room, or Jeongguk’s—bodies lax on rumpled blankets, banter flowing until exhaustion claims one of them mid-thought. It’s always felt safe, unremarkable.

But Jimin has always avoided staying too long in this room. Jeongguk’s bed carries his scent more than anywhere else—sun-warmed linen, clean skin, something darker beneath it that never fully fades even with scent blockers. Out in the living room, it diffuses to a tolerable fog. Here, it presses in, dense and enveloping, stirring the omega instincts he fights to bury.

The episode kicks off, shadows flickering across the walls, a brooding score humming low. Jeongguk begins talking almost immediately, voice relaxed, conversational. He points out camera angles, comments on the pacing, mentions something about the director he read earlier in the week. He’s not performing. He’s just… comfortable.

Jimin murmurs agreements at the cues, but the plot washes over him, indistinct. Each subtle move Jeongguk makes—the bed yielding under his weight, a graze of elbow against sleeve—ignites sparks along Jimin’s nerves. The sweatshirt creeps higher as he fidgets, and he clamps down the urge to smooth it, hyperaware of the vulnerability it teases.

“You’re going to fall off if you sit that close to the edge,” Jeongguk notes during a lull in the scenes, eyes still fixed on the screen.

“I’m fine.”

“You look uncomfortable.”

“I’m not.”

Jeongguk flicks his eyes toward him then, a shadow of something elusive crossing his features before he drags his focus back to the plot. “Alright.”

And he keeps talking. About the plot twist that’s obviously coming. About the soundtrack layering. About how he likes when shows don’t overexplain themselves. The normalcy becomes unbearable.

Jeongguk’s presence saturates the space—the alpha’s scent coiling thicker with each breath Jimin draws, or perhaps it’s just his own heightened senses amplifying it. The borrowed sweatshirt clings too close, trapping heat against his skin. The mattress yields too readily under him. That deliberate gap between their bodies mocks his restraint.

At one point Jeongguk stretches, arms arching overhead, torso flexing broad and unyielding. The motion is idle, uncalculated—yet it bares the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, sending a sharp twist through Jimin’s gut. Jeongguk doesn’t glance over. He simply settles back, resuming his watch as if oblivious.

That casual display snaps something inside Jimin.

“Are you serious?” Jimin blurts, edge sharpening his words more than planned.

Jeongguk freezes the frame mid-action and pivots his head with deliberate slowness. “About what?”

“This.” Jimin waves a hand between them, the gesture jagged with pent-up energy. “You acting like everything’s fine.”

Jeongguk holds his stare for a drawn-out beat, body still lax against the pillows. “We’re watching a show.”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence blooms, deliberate and weighted, though it’s not edged with anger or laced with bewilderment like the omega would’ve expected.

“You’ve been stewing on it all week,” Jeongguk observes at last, voice level, infuriatingly composed.

“Because you won’t say anything.”

“I’ve already made my point about this. I know you want me to, but I’m not the one who needs to speak up.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “You brought it up first.”

“Only to tell you exactly what I expect from you, hyung,” Jeongguk replies. “You’re the one who’s been pacing ever since.”

The mattress shifts slightly as Jeongguk adjusts his position, angling toward him more fully now. 

“If it’s bothering you this much,” he continues, “go get it.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “What?”

“The journal.”

The words are delivered calmly. Restrained. But his gaze betrays the leash.

There’s a heat there now, darker and less patient, pupils blown wider than the lamp light accounts for. His chest rises a little deeper than necessary. His fingers curl slightly against the mattress like he’s holding himself in place.

“Bring it here,” he presses, control woven tight now, a deliberate hold rather than innate ease.

Jimin’s throat works on a dry swallow.

“You itching to flip through it again?” he challenges, voice cracking despite the bravado.

Jeongguk’s lips twitch, subtle and knowing.

“I want you to stop hovering around it like it’s radioactive,” he says. “If you’re going to be this wound up every time I look at you, we might as well deal with it.”

His voice doesn’t drop into anything overt. Yet his thigh flexes beneath the covers. The air between them contracts by inches. That alpha musk swells—dense, heated, impossible to ignore. He reclines against the headboard once more, extending his legs with feigned nonchalance, but his gaze pins Jimin in place, unblinking.

“I can wait,” he murmurs, low and velvet-edged.

It rings serene, and it pulses anything but. The tension in the room has stopped simmering—it’s about to boil. And Jimin feels every pulse of it.

Jimin doesn’t argue back this time. The pause between them drags, pride sparking hot before it fades into resolve. He rises from the bed slowly, then pivots and pads down the hallway, each step pulling the sweatshirt's hem higher along his bare thighs. The fabric skims his skin, barely covering his ass, leaving him feeling exposed to the alpha as he heads to his room for the journal—the one item that might shatter him or finally ease the ache that's clawed at him for days.

He yanks open the drawer, fingers pausing over the notebook's cover for a split second before gripping it tight. The pages feel feverish under his touch, and far too intimate. Hazardous, almost. He skips rereading any part, knowing that one glance at a single page would crumble his determination. Clutching it like a confession, he returns.

'What the hell are you doing, Jimin?' his mind hisses.

When he reenters Jeongguk’s room, nothing has visibly changed—and yet everything has. Jeongguk is still seated against the headboard, but there’s a tension threading through him now. His shoulders are a touch too still. His breathing a shade too measured. The air feels denser.

Jimin strides across the floor and drops the notebook onto the mattress beside him. He doesn’t directly hand it to him—that would feel too much like defeat. He plants it there  and steps back half a pace. Jeongguk eyes the book first. Then Jimin.

“Read it.”

“You’re sure?” Jeongguk asks quietly, as if he hadn’t expected Jimin to actually follow through with this.

“I brought it to you like you asked, so just go ahead and read it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t rush to open it. His thumb runs along the edge of the cover first, feeling the worn paper, and that small delay is enough to make Jimin’s pulse spike. When he finally flips it open, the sound of pages shifting seems amplified in the otherwise quiet room.

“I didn’t get too far the other night,” Jeongguk says as he skims the earlier entries. “Just the beginning. Up to here.”

He turns a few pages with an ease that suggests he remembers exactly where he stopped. Then he continues forward, past what he had read before. His eyes move steadily, not gulping the words, not skimming frantically, just taking them in.

“By the tenth page, I was…distracted, to say the least.”

If Jeongguk was implying that he’d gotten hard, or even jerked himself to Jimin’s fantasies, Jimin chooses to ignore it. His cheeks are already burning bright, and he knows the tips of his ears are red. The thought alone threatens to slick his thighs, imagining Jeongguk’s fist pumping his thick cock while devouring those lines. That’s the last thing he needs to think about right now—he’s already barely clinging to his last thread of dignity.

As Jeongguk reads, the atmosphere changes almost imperceptibly at first. His jaw tightens once. His chest expands with a deeper inhale. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek before he exhales slowly through his nose. The calm remains in his voice when he speaks again, but it is no longer effortless.

“You’re very detailed,” he murmurs, not looking up yet.

Jimin’s stomach is fluttering like crazy, but he can’t look away. Watching Jeongguk read is worse than hearing him tease, because it feels like being peeled open in layers. He shifts where he stands, the hem of the sweatshirt sliding against his collarbone, and only then does the realization strike him fully—he forgot his scent blockers. In his hurry, in his frustration, in his eagerness to confront him, he walked out of the bathroom and into the alpha’s bedroom unshielded. But Jeongguk isn’t wearing his either.

The fact hits like electricity jolting down his spine. The room smells different now—deeper, warmer. The faint sweetness of Jimin’s arousal mixes with the darker, grounded weight of Jeongguk’s. It isn’t overwhelming, but it’s far more intimate than they’ve ever been. The kind of closeness that lingers in fabric and skin.

Jeongguk flips another page, pace dragging now, attention sharpening instead of drifting. The bed creaks faintly as he repositions himself, propping the notebook on his thigh. His thumb scrapes the margin, creasing the edge as he delves deeper than before. A faint, incredulous huff escapes him.

“Who would’ve thought,” he murmurs, eyes still scanning the page, “Park Jimin, the sweetest, kindest little hyung of mine, could write things like this about his dongsaeng.”

The words are light, but Jimin knows the heat behind them isn’t.

His stomach plummets, heat pooling so deliciously low. His face burns so hot he swears the air around him warps with it. The sweatshirt suddenly feels too tight at the collar, too thin at the hem. Jeongguk just resumes his skimming, pressing his lips together briefly as he reads something that makes his breathing deepen.

“You know,” Jeongguk continues, gaze still lowered to the paper, “subtlety’s never been your strong suit.”

Jimin’s breath stutters. “I—”

“I’ve always known there was something between us,” Jeongguk cuts in, finally lifting his eyes. His stare holds steady, the look in his eyes is nothing like the playful one from earlier in the week. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, y’know, us living together and all that jazz. Didn’t want to corner you into anything.”

He pauses, letting that sink in.

“Wanted you to make the first move.”

The mattress creaks a little as he shifts again, angling his body more fully toward Jimin. The scent in the room swells more, Jeongguk’s grounding warmth, laced with a sharper edge that sinks into Jimin’s chest. His own scent surges in response—sweet heat blooming, flooding the gap between them. Jeongguk thumbs ahead, gaze flicking fast through the later pages until he halts near the end. His finger holds the sheet steady. A low hum rumbles from his throat.

“You scatter these scenes everywhere,” he says, voice musing, edged with faint amusement. “Kitchen counters. The couch cushions. My bed. Even yours sometimes.”

He turns another leaf.

“But I’m noticing a pattern, hyung.”

He lifts his gaze gradually, eyes darker than before.

“They all end the same way.”

Shit. 

Shit shit shit shit—

Taehyung’s ribbed him endlessly about his kinks, zeroing in on the breeding one that seeps into every scrap Jimin writes about Jeongguk. He can’t rein it in—Jeongguk embodies the alpha Jimin aches for. Strong, caring, protective, so fucking hot—how could he not? Jimin would have to be insane not to crave feeling Jeongguk in every part of him. He’s totally normal right? It makes more than enough sense that he wants to feel Jeongguk in every way—that he yearns for Jeongguk’s warm come flooding deep, coating his insides, swelling him full.

Jimin clamps his thighs tight at the image. Air thins in his lungs. Jeongguk’s aroma thickens, rolling out in heavy pulses that sink into Jimin’s gut and weaken his stance. 

“You really like that ending,” he murmurs, stare tracing from Jimin’s throat down the bare stretch of his legs and up once more.

The humiliation is dizzying. It isn’t just that Jeongguk is reading it—it’s that he understands it. That he’s clocked the incessant repetition in Jimin’s fantasies. That very craving Jimin always drives home.

Jeongguk snaps the journal  shut, palm flattening over the cover as though claiming it.

“You wrote it like you meant it,” he says, voice lower now, no teasing left in it. “Like you were sure that’s is exactly how everything would go.”

He inhales again, deeper, and this time he doesn’t pretend not to notice the scent in the room.

“You ditched your blockers—or forgot them—one of the two.”

“Could say the same for you,” he weakly shoots back.

“I’m in my room, relaxing before bed, hyung. Why would I need to?”

Fuck. He’s got a point—an excuse—Jimin doesn’t.

Jeongguk tilts his head slightly, studying him with a focus that makes heat crawl down Jimin’s skin.

“I’m starting to think you left it out on purpose,” he says, voice even, unyielding. “That you wanted me to see it.”

Jimin wants to refute it so badly, to fire off a biting denial, but his omega betrays him—scent swelling richer, more desperate, saturating the air with the sharp edge of his lust.

Jeongguk sets the notebook aside with deliberate care, the mattress shifting under his weight as he swings his legs over the edge. He stands, closing the distance in two unhurried steps, his frame looming steady and restrained. Jimin’s shoulders bump the wall in his instinctive backpedal, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat flooding his veins. Jeongguk doesn't touch him—not yet—but he leans in close, one hand bracing against the wall beside Jimin's head, caging him without effort.

"Admit it," Jeongguk murmurs, his free hand lifting to trace the hem of the sweatshirt. His fingers skim bare skin, light enough to tease but firm enough to send sparks racing straight to Jimin's core. "You left that journal out on purpose. Scribbled all that nasty shit knowing I’d find it. Knowing I'd read how you want me to fuck you raw, knot you deep, fill you up until you're dripping with my come."

A whine slips from Jimin’s throat, unbidden and raw before he can clamp it down.  His cock twitches against the fabric, stiffening fast and throbbing, as slick drips from his rim, prepping him for the forbidden urge clawing at his thoughts.

Jeongguk dips closer, their mouths hovering a breath apart, lips brushing in the barest whisper of friction that teases without granting. He nudges his thigh between Jimin’s, pressing firm against the heat pooling there, the muscle solid under his sweatpants. Hot breath fans Jimin’s ear as Jeongguk leans in, words a low rumble. 

“You crave this, don’t you? Being pinned, exposed. Admit you rigged it so I’d uncover every twisted fantasy—how you beg for my cock stretching you, breeding you deep until you’re swollen with it.”

Jimin’s hips jerk on instinct, grinding his rigid length against Jeongguk’s leg for friction, chasing relief amid the haze. But Jeongguk’s hand clamps his hip, fingers digging in to halt the motion, slamming him back flush to the wall. The alpha’s grip holds iron-steady, controlling every twitch, while his thigh stays wedged teasingly close—near enough to torment, far from satisfying.

“Not yet,” Jeongguk growls softly, nose trailing Jimin’s jaw, inhaling the flood of needy pheromones. “Tell me you wanted me reading it. Wanted me knowing you finger yourself at night thinking of my come flooding your womb, marking you as mine.” His free hand slides up, thumb circling Jimin’s nipple through the fabric, pinching just hard enough to draw a gasp. Slick soaks his thighs now, hole clenching empty, cock leaking pre-come into his underwear.

Jimin’s breaths come ragged, chest heaving as the alpha’s scent overwhelms him—musk thick and commanding, stirring his heat higher. Jeongguk’s mouth grazes his earlobe, teeth nipping lightly. “Come on, hyung. Confess. You left it out because you need me to fuck that breeding urge out of you. Need me knotting you until you’re bred full, dripping for days.”

The words coil tight in Jimin’s belly, pushing him to the brink. His body trembles, pinned and desperate, every nerve alight. 

‘He’s right’, Jimin thinks, the realization crashing through the fog of denial like a wave. 

That night, he was so tipsy, head spinning from the wine, forgetting where he even put things half the time. But deep down... fuck, there’s always been this part of him that was screaming for Jeongguk to know. To see the journal splayed open, words spilling out how he aches for him, how Jimin pictures Jeongguk claiming him. He wanted Jeongguk to find it—wanted him to read every desperate line about the alpha’s cock splitting him open, his knot swelling inside, his come painting him from the inside out. 

Without the hindrance of a sober mind, he’d finally left the journal out on purpose, hoping Jeongguk would catch Jimin in his filth, hoping it’d force the alpha’s hand.

“Y-yes,” he stammers finally, voice breaking on a moan. “I wanted you to find it—to read it. Know how bad I need you—please, Jeongguk... I can’t wait anymore.”

Jeongguk's composure cracks—his breath hitches, fingers tightening on Jimin's hip until bruises bloom under the skin. A low growl rumbles from his chest, primal and unrestrained, as he surges forward, capturing Jimin's mouth in a bruising kiss.

Jimin gasps into it, lips parting on instinct, his hand shooting up to tangle in Jeongguk's dark hair, fingers twisting the strands to yank him closer. The alpha's mouth is hot and demanding, tongue thrusting deep to claim every inch with fierce strokes that send heat pooling straight to Jimin's core. Jeongguk tastes like sin—salty-sweet from the faint trace of sweat on his skin, mixed with the lingering bite of mint toothpaste from earlier, a flavor Jimin's craved in secret for months, imagining this exact press of lips against his own. Now it's real, and Jimin devours it back, sucking on Jeongguk's tongue with desperate pulls, his free hand clutching the alpha's shirt to drag their bodies flush.

Their teeth clash in urgency, Jeongguk's hand sliding from the wall to grip Jimin's jaw, tilting his head to deepen the angle. Jimin moans, the sound swallowed whole, his hips bucking forward again to grind against Jeongguk's thigh, chasing the friction that makes his cock throb. Jeongguk breaks the kiss just long enough to drag Jimin toward the bed, his grip iron on Jimin's wrist, pulling him with possessive force. Jimin stumbles after, heart pounding, his fingers still knotted in Jeongguk's hair until the alpha releases him to shove him down onto the mattress.

They collapse in a tangle of limbs, Jeongguk rolling them so he's on top, pinning Jimin with his solid weight. The alpha's thigh slots between Jimin's legs, pressing hard against his leaking cock, and Jimin arches up, rutting shamelessly at the delicious pressure, his hand returning to Jeongguk's hair to pull him back down. Their mouths crash together again, the kiss turning feral—wet, sloppy, tongues sliding and sucking as Jimin matches every thrust, his nails scraping lightly against Jeongguk's scalp to urge him on. Jeongguk's palm shoves under Jimin's sweatshirt, fingers splaying over his bare chest, tweaking a nipple until it hardens into a peak. 

It feels good—almost too good. Jimin whines into the kiss, hips rolling faster, slick easing the slide as his hole clenches emptily.

Jeongguk pulls back slightly, lips trailing fire down Jimin's jaw to his neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin. He latches onto the pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping at the spot as his hips settle fully between Jimin's thighs. Jimin's breath catches, the alpha's clothed erection nudging insistently against him through the thin barrier of sweatpants, the heat of it radiating like a promise. 

Of course the alpha’s cock is huge. Granted, Jimin had already suspected such, considering the countless times he’d taken his very subtle, very smooth peeks at Jeongguk’s dick print that made its heavenly appearance every so often when he wore sweatpants. Still he wants to almost scoff at the alpha. He was so perfect, it was beginning to feel like he was only a part of Jimin’s imagination.

Jeongguk's hands roam lower, one sliding under the waistband to cup Jimin's ass firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh to lift and spread him open. He shifts, angling his hips to slot his hard cock right between Jimin's cheeks, the thick length pressing insistently against the cleft even with the fabric bunching and hindering the full slide.

Jimin's eyes flutter shut, a choked gasp escaping as the pressure hits just right—Jeongguk's cock dragging slow and deliberate along the seam of his ass, the fabric of alpha's sweatpants too thick  against the thin cotton of his briefs, teasing the rim hidden beneath. It's not enough, not nearly, but the friction builds a maddening ache, Jimin's hole fluttering desperately around nothing, slick soaking through to make the material cling. He thrusts against it, grinding down to feel every ridge and vein outlined through the layers, his body screaming for more, for the stretch and fill he's fantasized about endlessly.

"That's it," Jeongguk murmurs against his throat, voice a gravelly rasp as he nips at the skin, sucking another bruise to life. 

His hips roll in a controlled grind, cock sliding between Jimin's plump ass cheeks with increasing pressure, the head catching on the fabric over his entrance with each pass. "Feel how hard you make me? Been dying to bury myself here, omega—split you open and make you take it all." 

He punctuates the words with a sharper thrust, fingers kneading Jimin's ass to hold him in place, forcing the angle deeper. Jimin's cock leaks steadily now, trapped against his stomach, untouched and throbbing, the denial twisting the heat in his gut into something frantic.

Jimin's nails dig into Jeongguk's scalp, yanking his head back harder to expose more of that thick neck. He lunges forward, teeth sinking into the muscle there—not breaking skin, but hard enough to mark, to stake his own claim amid the haze of need clawing through him. A savage whine rips from his throat, muffled against Jeongguk's flesh as he grinds back against the alpha's cock, the fabric dragging torturously over his slick-soaked entrance. It's not enough—fuck, it's never enough—but the pressure stokes the fire in his veins, turning his blood to lava, his omega instincts snarling for the knot he knows is swelling at the base of that shaft.

Jeongguk hisses through his teeth, the bite sending a jolt straight to his groin, his hips stuttering in their grind before he retaliates with a sharp thrust, cock shoving deeper into the cleft of Jimin's ass. The thin sweatpants do nothing to hide the girth, the heat pulsing through like a brand, teasing the rim that's clenching and leaking for invasion. 

“Fuck, Jimin,” Jeongguk growls, voice wrecked and low, his hand squeezing Jimin's ass cheek until the flesh yields under his fingers. 

“You have no idea—been hard for you every goddamn night since we moved in. Watching you bend over in those shorts, scenting your clothes  when you think I'm asleep... I jerked off to the thought of pinning you down just like this.”

Jimin's breath shudders out in a ragged pant, his free hand clawing at Jeongguk's back, bunching the shirt fabric as he arches into the grind, hole fluttering wildly around the phantom stretch. The admission hits like gasoline on embers—Jeongguk wanted him, all this time, mirroring the filthy dreams that haunted Jimin's journal pages. It unleashes something wild in him, a feral edge sharpening his whines into snarls. 

He releases Jeongguk's neck with a wet pop, lips brushing the fresh bite mark as he rasps, “Then why—why hold back? I wrote it all, every fucking time I touched myself thinking of your cock splitting me, breeding me full. You read it, didn't you? Tell me you did, alpha—tell me it made you ache like this.” 

His hips snap back harder, chasing the ridge of Jeongguk's length, slick seeping through to thoroughly dampen the alpha's sweats, the friction chafing his sensitive skin into a throbbing burn.

Jeongguk's last ounce of control frays at the edges, his growl vibrating against Jimin's ear as he nips at the lobe, teeth grazing sharp enough to draw a gasp. He rolls his hips in a punishing rhythm now, cock sliding insistently, the head catching and pressing right over Jimin's hole with each forward snap—close, so close to breaching if not for the goddamn clothes. 

“Yeah, I read every word,” he confesses, breath hot and uneven, fingers spreading Jimin's ass wider to angle the grind deeper, forcing the omega to feel every inch outlined. 

“Snuck it open that first night, saw my name scrawled in your pretty handwriting, begging for my knot. Nearly came in my pants—fantasized about dragging you to bed, fucking you raw until you couldn't walk, filling that greedy pussy with my come. But I waited, omega. Waited to see if you'd break first.” His other hand fists Jimin's hair, tugging his head back to crash their mouths together again, the kiss all teeth and tongue, devouring the desperate sounds spilling from Jimin.

Jimin's denial bubbles up hot and immediate, a reflexive snarl twisting his lips even as his body betrays him, hole clenching emptily at the crude word hanging in the air. Jeongguk's fingers dig deeper into the plush flesh of his ass, spreading him wider over the rigid line of cock trapped beneath sweatpants, the alpha's thumb brushing perilously close to the slick-drenched cleft.

“It's not—fuck, it's my ass, not a—" Jimin's words fracture into a gasp as Jeongguk rolls his hips up sharp, the thick head of his dick nudging right against that sensitive rim through the thin barrier with even more vigor, sending a bolt of heat straight to Jimin's core. His cheeks burn, flushed crimson under the alpha's piercing gaze, but the denial only fuels the fire—his slick gushes freer, soaking the fabric between them, the musky scent blooming thick and needy in the room.

Jeongguk chuckles lowly, the sound rumbling like thunder against Jimin's throat where his lips still hover, nipping at the fresh bite mark. He doesn't let up, grinding slow and deliberate now, cock dragging along the seam of Jimin's ass like he's mapping out his territory. 

"Oh, but it is, omega—your greedy little pussy, clenching and leaking for my cock like it was made for it. Feel that? How it flutters every time I press here?" His thumb circles the damp spot over Jimin's hole, pressing just enough to make the muscle yield, teasing the entrance without mercy. The pressure makes Jimin's vision blur, a whine clawing up his throat as his own cock throbs against his stomach, untouched and aching, pre-come smearing sticky trails on his skin.

"No—Jeongguk, shut up," Jimin hisses, but it's weak, breathless, his hips betraying him by canting back into the touch, chasing the friction that has his nerves screaming. The word pussy echoes in his mind, filthy and possessive, twisting something deep in his gut until feral need surges through him like a storm. He's written about shit like this in his journal—Jeongguk claiming him with the filthiest words spewing from his mouth, stretching that tight heat until he's sobbing, begging to be filled more—but hearing it now, growled in that wrecked voice, shatters his composure. His nails rake harder down Jeongguk's arm, leaving welts that make the alpha hiss, but Jimin can't stop. 

The shame of being called out so bluntly only amps the desperation, his body going liquid with want, thighs trembling as he grinds down impossibly harder, ass swallowing the outline of Jeongguk's length with each desperate roll.

Jeongguk's pupils are blown wide as he watches Jimin's face crumple—flustered, defiant, utterly wrecked. He yanks Jimin's hair back again, exposing the pale column of his throat, and latches on with his mouth, sucking a bruising mark right over the pulse point while his free hand kneads the omega's ass, fingers dipping lower to trace the slick folds hidden beneath. 

“Deny it all you want, but I bet if I ripped these briefs off, you'd spread wide and present, wouldn't you? Let me fuck in deep, knot you until you're bred full, just like you wrote." His cock pulses hot against Jimin, the knot at the base already fattening up, promising the stretch Jimin's craved in every fevered fantasy.

The image hits Jimin like a punch—bent over, ass up, Jeongguk's hips slamming forward to bury that knot inside of him. A guttural moan spills from him, denial forgotten as raw arousal floods his veins, turning his whines feral, edged with snarls. He bucks wildly now, grinding his soaked hole over Jeongguk's cock with abandon, the friction chafing his rim into a swollen, throbbing mess. 

“Fuck—yes, it's yours, alpha, my pussy needs you—needs you to fuck it raw," he pants, voice breaking on a sob as he bites down on Jeongguk's shoulder, teeth sinking in hard enough to draw blood, marking him back in a haze of possessive hunger. His body shakes, slick pouring out in waves, cock leaking steadily now, the edge of release hovering cruelly close without tipping over, leaving him feral and frantic, every nerve alight with the need to be taken, claimed, ruined.

Jeongguk's growl vibrates against Jimin's skin, Jimin's confession hanging raw between them. His hands shift, fingers hooking into the waistband of Jimin's briefs, yanking them down in one swift, brutal tug. The fabric catches on Jimin's thighs before sliding free, exposing the omega's slick-soaked ass and his hard cock, flushed and leaking pre-come onto his stomach. 

Cool air hits the wet heat from behind, making Jimin shudder violently, his hole twitching visibly as more slick drips down his inner thighs. Jeongguk doesn't pause, tossing the pants aside and gripping Jimin's hips hard enough to bruise, flipping him onto his back on the mattress with effortless strength. Jimin's legs splay wide instinctively, cock bobbing against his abs, the desperate ache pulsing deeper now that the barrier's gone.

"Fuck, look at you," Jeongguk rasps, eyes locked on the slick mess trailing from Jimin's ass and the rigid length of his cock, his own dick straining painfully against his sweats. He leans over, mouth crashing back to Jimin's in another messy, teeth-clashing kiss, tongue thrusting deep while his hands roam—palming the omega's chest, pinching at his nipples again until they're swollen and peaked, then sliding down to spread his thighs wider. Jimin's body arches into every touch, feral whines muffled against Jeongguk's lips, his mind dissolving into pure, animalistic need. The world narrows to heat and scent—Jeongguk's alpha musk thick and heady, mixing with his own omega slick, driving him wilder, hungrier.

Jimin's hands claw at Jeongguk's top first, bunching the fabric and hauling it up, nails scraping over the alpha's abs as he yanks it off. Jeongguk breaks the kiss just long enough to let it go, the shirt hitting the floor with a soft thud, baring his broad chest and that tattooed arm Jimin can't stop staring at even now, ink flexing with every corded muscle. 

But Jimin's focus shatters when his fingers dive lower, frantic and trembling, fumbling with the drawstring of Jeongguk's sweats. He tugs them down roughly, shoving the waistband past hips and thighs, the alpha lifting just enough to help. Jeongguk's cock springs free, heavy and thick, veins bulging along the length, the flushed head already beading pre-cum. It's bigger than Jimin imagined from those teasing outlines in the mornings—curved slightly, the knot at the base half-swollen, no longer hinting at—but rather guaranteeing—the stretch that haunts his every fantasy.

A guttural sound rips from Jimin's throat, pure instinct overriding everything. His mouth waters at the sight, that thick cock bobbing inches from his face as Jeongguk kicks the sweats away, fully naked now and looming over him. Jimin's hands reach out without thought, wrapping around the base, feeling the heat sear his palms, the weight of it pulsing against his grip. He's dreamed of this—tongue tracing every ridge, lips stretching wide to take it in, throat working to swallow down until tears stream. The urge crashes over him like a wave unrelenting. 

He needs to taste it, to feel it fill his mouth, heavy on his tongue, sliding deep until he gags and Jeongguk fucks his face raw.

"Jeongguk, please," Jimin begs, voice wrecked and hoarse, eyes glazed as he pumps the shaft once, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the pre-cum. His cock throbs in time with his heartbeat, slick pooling more and more beneath him on the comforter from his ass, but all he can think about is sucking—kneeling, serving, choking on that cock until Jeongguk knots his throat and spills down it. Jeongguk's breath hitches, hips jerking forward into the touch, his own desperation mirroring Jimin's as he grabs a fistful of the omega's hair, guiding him closer without force, just that unyielding pull.

"Go on, omega. Show me how bad you want this," Jeongguk demands, voice low and commanding, free hand stroking himself once more before offering it up. Jimin's lips part eagerly, tongue darting out to lick the head, salty pre-come bursting on his taste buds as he moans around the flavor. 

Jimin's mouth stretches around the thick head of Jeongguk's cock, lips sealing tight as he sucks greedily, tongue swirling over the slit to lap up every drop of pre-come. The salty tang floods his senses, making his own cock twitch hard against his stomach, leaking steadily now that his pants are gone. Another wave of slick oozes out, the tight ring of his hole clenching rhythmically, desperate for friction, for filling. He's bare from the waist down, legs spread wide on the bed, the alpha's body heat pressing close as Jeongguk's hand in his hair guides him deeper.

Jeongguk's hips rock forward slowly at first, feeding more of his length into Jimin's eager mouth, the veins dragging against the omega's tongue. 

“That's it, take it all,” Jeongguk croons, voice rough with restraint cracking, his free hand gripping the headboard to steady himself. 

Jimin's throat relaxes instinctively, swallowing around the intrusion as it pushes past his gag reflex, tears pricking his eyes from the stretch. He gags once, spit spilling from the corners of his lips, but he doesn't pull back—can't, won't. The weight of it, heavy and pulsing, finally in his mouth after all those stolen glances at the bulge in Jeongguk's sweats, drives him feral. His hands clutch at the alpha's thighs, nails digging into muscle, urging him closer, deeper.

The alpha's knot bumps against Jimin's lips with each shallow thrust, not swollen enough to lock yet but still throbbing. Jeongguk groans low, the sound vibrating through his chest, his composure shattering as he watches Jimin hollow his cheeks and bob his head, sloppy and desperate. 

“Fuck, hyung, your mouth feels so good—been dreaming of this tight throat choking on my cock.” His fingers tighten in Jimin's hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head back, making the angle perfect for sliding in balls-deep. Jimin's nose presses against the coarse hair at the base, inhaling Jeongguk's musk, the scent overwhelming his senses and sending fresh slick dripping down his crack.

Jimin moans around the fullness, the vibration pulling another curse from Jeongguk, who starts fucking his mouth in earnest now—steady, controlled thrusts that have Jimin's jaw aching and his lungs burning for air. He pulls back only to breathe, gasping wetly before diving back in, sucking harder, one hand dropping to fondle the heavy balls beneath, rolling them gently. His own arousal throbs neglected, cock slapping against his abs with every movement, but the need to please, to worship this cock that's haunted his fantasies, overrides everything. Jeongguk's breaths come ragged, hips snapping faster, the alpha's control slipping into raw need as he chases the heat of Jimin's tongue.

“Look at you, so fucking eager,” Jeongguk pants, eyes dark and locked on Jimin's flushed face, tears streaking his cheeks. He reaches down, thumbing over Jimin's swollen lips where they stretch around his shaft, smearing the mess of spit and pre-come. Jimin's ass clenches emptily, the slick making his thighs slippery, his body screaming for Jeongguk to flip him over, to claim that hole next. But for now, he surrenders to the rhythm, letting the alpha use his mouth, the primal urge to submit pulling him under completely.

Emboldened, Jeongguk's hands cup the sides of Jimin's head, fingers threading even further through his sweat-damp hair, not forcing but guiding—holding him steady as his hips rock forward, fucking into that wet heat with controlled thrusts that grow sloppier by the second.

The stretch burns Jimin's jaw, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he relishes it, chasing the burn like it's oxygen. His throat convulses around the head when Jeongguk pushes deep, gagging him just right, and Jimin moans brokenly, the sound muffled and desperate. All his focus narrows to this—to serving, to the addicting flavor of Jeongguk  flooding his tongue, to the way Jeongguk's knot nudges his lips with every thrust, swelling fuller now, brushing against his chin. He sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks, one hand braced on Jeongguk's thigh while the other squeezes the base, twisting slightly to heighten the alpha's pleasure.

His hands roam Jeongguk's thighs as he urges him on, hollowing his cheeks to suck harder on the outstroke, tongue swirling the head to lap up every drop. Jeongguk's breaths come in sharp pants, his grip tightening as the heat coils tighter in his gut. 

“God, your mouth,” he growls, voice gravelly and strained, hips snapping sharper now, chasing the edge. Jimin's nails dig into the firm muscle of Jeongguk's ass when the alpha tries to ease back, sensing the build-up, but Jimin won't let him retreat. He's obsessed, lost in the rhythm, the fullness choking him, the raw power of Jeongguk using his throat like it's made for this. He grips harder, pulling the alpha deeper, eyes locked up through watery lashes, pleading silently for more—for the flood he craves down his throat.

It hits Jeongguk like a freight train, the suction too perfect, the defiance in Jimin's hold too much. He wrenches back with a curse, prying Jimin's fingers loose from his ass, the wet pop of his cock leaving that greedy mouth echoing in the room. Jeongguk gasps, body shaking as he strokes himself once, twice, fighting the urge to spill right there on Jimin's face. Slick strands connect them still, Jimin's lips swollen and shiny, and the omega lunges forward instinctively, chasing the cock with his tongue out, whining low in his chest like a pup denied his new favorite toy.

Jeongguk's hand fists in Jimin's hair, yanking his head back just enough to hold him at bay, the pull sharp and unyielding. Jimin settles with a frustrated huff, nuzzling into the alpha's inner thigh instead, nose brushing the damp skin there, inhaling the musky scent of arousal and sweat. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe up the sensitive flesh, but Jeongguk's grip keeps him from reaching higher, from latching back on. The alpha's cock twitches inches away, red and throbbing, knot fully swollen now, but Jeongguk breathes through it, chest heaving as he stares down at the wrecked omega on his knees.

He wants more, craves it all—but from Jeongguk’s heavy breathing, he could tell the alpha had been too close to knotting his mouth. And as much as Jimin would’ve thoroughly enjoyed that, he craves the feeling of Jeongguk’s knot elsewhere.

"You're turning me into a fucking animal, Jimin," Jeongguk rasps, voice thick with barely leashed hunger, thumb tracing Jimin's stretched lower lip. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."

Jimin's eyes blaze up at him, dark and feral, his cock jerking against his stomach as he presses closer into that thigh, teeth grazing the skin in a teasing nip. "Do it—just fucking do it already."

Jeongguk's eyes darken with raw hunger as he shifts lower, strong hands gripping Jimin's thighs and shoving them up toward his chest. He folds the omega in half effortlessly, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Jimin's hips, exposing that tight, clenching hole completely. The cool air hits the sensitive skin, making Jimin twitch, but Jeongguk doesn't waste a second—his broad shoulders settle between Jimin's spread legs, face diving in without hesitation.

His tongue laps flat and broad over the puckered entrance, messy and insistent, coating it in hot saliva from the first swipe. Jimin gasps, back arching off the bed as Jeongguk's mouth seals around the rim, sucking greedily, the wet suction pulling at the muscles until they flutter open just a fraction. Jeongguk growls against the flesh, the vibration shooting straight through Jimin, and he licks deeper, circling the rim before spearing his tongue inside, thrusting it in shallow, teasing pumps. Saliva drips down Jimin's crack, soaking the sheets beneath him, but Jeongguk doesn't care—he devours, sloppy and unrestrained, lips smacking as he alternates between broad licks and pointed flicks over the twitching hole.

Jimin's cock can’t stop leaking all over his stomach that it’s almost pathetic, the pleasure building from Jeongguk's mouth eclipsing everything. It's overwhelming, electric—waves of heat coiling tight in his gut, his body responding like it's been starved for this exact touch. No one's ever eaten him out like this, with such filthy enthusiasm, such perfect pressure that makes his toes curl and his vision blur. Their scents mingle thickly in the air, alpha musk blending with omega slick, and it hits Jimin like a revelation: this is how it's supposed to feel, bodies slotting together as if carved for one another, instincts aligning in a feral rhythm he's never tapped into before.

His omega surges forward, drowning out every rational thought, leaving only desire. Jimin's hands fly to Jeongguk's hair, fingers twisting viciously in the dark strands, yanking the alpha closer as his hips buck up wildly. He ruts against that unrelenting mouth, grinding his hole down onto the probing tongue, chasing more—deeper, harder. Jeongguk obliges with a muffled groan, slipping one thick finger alongside his tongue, the intrusion stretching Jimin just enough to make him whine high and broken.

"Oh my god—Jeongguk, yes," Jimin pants, voice roughening into something demanding, aggressive. "Hurry up and fuck me already. I need your cock inside, just—fuck, do it now." 

But even as the words spill out, edged with frustration, his body betrays him, thighs clamping tighter around Jeongguk's head, forcing that finger—and now a second, scissoring roughly—to plunge deeper. The burn mixes with the slick slide, pleasure spiking so sharp it borders on pain, and Jimin thrashes, heels digging into Jeongguk's back as he rides the alpha's face shamelessly. Jeongguk doesn't let up, his mouth working relentlessly over Jimin's hole, tongue thrusting deep while his fingers, thick and coated with slick, pump in and out with twisting motions. He curls them against that swollen gland inside, rubbing hard, the pressure building a fire in Jimin's core that has him sobbing out loud. 

Saliva and slick mix, dripping down Jeongguk's chin as he sucks on the rim, pulling it between his lips before plunging his tongue back in alongside the digits. Jimin's cock twitches violently against his belly, so much pre-come pooling in his navel that he  can’t tell if he’s already come.  The coil in his gut is winding tighter and tighter until he's right there—teetering on the brink. The omega's pleas turn into snarls, body seizing as the orgasm rushes up to claim him, instincts screaming for the knot, for the breed, for everything Jeongguk can give. He's lost to it, completely, the alpha unraveling him in ways no one else ever could.

But Jeongguk yanks his fingers free with a wet pop, sealing his lips around the fluttering entrance one last time for a hard suck before pulling off entirely. Jimin keens, hips jerking uselessly into the empty air, the denial hitting like a slap. 

“No—no, fuck, Jeongguk, don't stop,” he whines, voice cracking, but the alpha just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming with dark amusement as he rises up on his knees.

“Hold yourself open for me,” Jeongguk commands, voice low and gravelly, grabbing Jimin's wrists and guiding them to the backs of his thighs. Jimin obeys on instinct, fingers digging into his own skin as he pulls his legs up and apart, folding himself wider, his hole exposed and clenching desperately around nothing. The position leaves him vulnerable, ass tilted up, cock bobbing with every ragged breath, and Jeongguk takes in the sight with a predatory hum, fisting his own cock.

He slaps the heavy length against Jimin's rim, the wet smack echoing in the room, making the omega jolt and whimper. Again and again, Jeongguk teases, dragging the tip along the slick crease before tapping it right on the puckered entrance, watching it twitch and wink under the abuse.

“Look at you, so fucking greedy for it, hm?” he taunts, pressing just the fat head inside—barely breaching, the stretch burning sweet—before pulling back out. Jimin gasps, his rim sucking greedily at the retreating crown, muscles contracting to try and drag it deeper. Jeongguk laughs, low and darkly, the sound vibrating through Jimin's bones.

“Your pussy’s trying so hard to keep me in, hyung. Like it can't stand to let go.” He does it again, easing the tip past the ring of muscle, letting Jimin feel the girth split him open just a fraction before withdrawing again, the slide slick and torturous. 

“P-please, fuck—alpha—” 

Jimin's breaths come in short, frantic bursts, his arms trembling from holding himself spread, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the ache builds unbearably—empty, needy, every nerve screaming for more. A few more shallow dips, each one leaving Jimin more wrecked, and fat tears finally spill over, tracking down his temples. Jeongguk's expression softens just a touch, thumb brushing away the wetness even as his hips notch forward. 

“Alright, Jimin-hyung. You've been good.” 

With that, he surges in, cock sinking deep in one unyielding thrust, filling Jimin to the brim—stretching his walls around the invading thickness until the base grinds against his rim, balls slapping heavy against his ass. Jimin's chest heaves, lungs burning as if the air's been punched out of him, that massive cock buried to the hilt inside his ass, splitting him wide and pressing against every sensitive spot. He's never taken anything like this—Jeongguk's girth stretches his rim taut around the base, the veins pulsing hot against his walls, filling him so completely that his insides clench and flutter in shock. 

His fingers claw into the meat of his thighs, nails digging crescents as he hauls his legs higher, straining to peer down between them. There it is, Jeongguk's thick shaft disappearing into his body, the slick skin glistening with his own arousal, his hole obscene and puffy around the invasion. Jimin's jaw hangs slack, a choked gasp escaping as he stares, disbelieving how he's swallowing every inch without breaking.

Jeongguk's gaze follows, dark eyes hooded and fixed on the sight, a wicked grin splitting his face as he shifts his weight. He leans forward, one hand braced on Jimin's knee to keep him spread, and hocks a thick glob of spit right where they're joined—watching it land messy on his omega's stretched rim and trickle down the length of his cock. Jimin's already gushing slick, the wet sounds obscene as it squelches around the fullness, but the added saliva makes it filthier, a blatant mark of possession. Jeongguk's claiming him, owning every inch, and the alpha's low growl rumbles through his chest at the view.

He holds still, hips flush against Jimin's ass, letting the burn settle, but Jimin's done waiting—months of stolen glances, aching nights, the slow torture of living with this alpha who's been edging him without even trying. No more. He tilts his head back, locking eyes with Jeongguk through damp lashes, blinking slowly as fresh tears streak down his flushed cheeks. 

“Please,” he whispers, voice raw and trembling, lips parting in a soft beg. “Make me yours, alpha. I've waited so long... don't hold back.” His words tumble out desperate, hips twitching up in tiny rocks, trying to urge the cock deeper even though it's already seated to the root. He bites his lip, eyes wide and pleading, every fiber screaming for the alpha to snap and take.

Jeongguk's grin fades into something feral, nostrils flaring at the scent of Jimin's desperation—sweet slick and salty tears mixing in the air. 

“Yeah?” He rasps, thumb swiping a tear from Jimin's cheek before gripping his jaw, tilting his face up. “You want it rough? Begging like that, tears and all... yeah, I'll ruin you.”

He pulls back slowly at first, the drag agonizing as his cock withdraws halfway, coated in slick and spit, before slamming forward—hard, balls slapping against Jimin's ass with a sharp crack. Jimin yelps, body jolting, but the alpha doesn't stop, setting a brutal pace, hips snapping in deep, punishing thrusts that punch the air from his lungs each time.

Jeongguk folds over him, one arm hooking under Jimin's knee to pin it to his chest, opening him wider as he pounds in, the head of his cock grinding relentlessly against that bundle of nerves inside. 

“This what you needed?” he grunts, free hand sliding down to slap Jimin's ass cheek, the sting blooming hot as he drives deeper. Slick squirts out with every withdraw, coating Jeongguk's cock and balls in a glossy sheen, every withdrawal pulling strings of it between them before the next brutal thrust shoves it back inside with a resounding squelch. The room fills with wet slaps and Jimin's broken moans, his cock trapped between them, ignored in the frenzy. Jeongguk's teeth graze his neck as he fucks like he's been starving for it—claiming every clench, every sob, until Jimin's world narrows to the stretch and the alpha's unyielding rhythm.

Jimin's ass flutters around the invading length, hungry for more, and the wet sounds are amplified as Jeongguk's pace quickens, his hips slamming forward with enough force to jolt Jimin's body up the mattress. Their moans tangle in the air—Jimin's breathy cries pitching higher, Jeongguk's guttural groans rumbling from his chest like thunder. The alpha's last ounce of control is gone now, his thrusts turning erratic, driven by the scent of omega slick and the vise-like grip milking him dry.

Jeongguk's face twists in a snarl of pure instinct, eyes blown black and sweat dripping from his brow—nothing like the soft, teasing alpha who's always doted on him with easy smiles and gentle touches. This version is wild, teeth bared as he growls low in his throat, hips snapping forward with bruising force, chasing the edge of feral without completely tipping over. Jimin's heart races at the sight. He's glimpsed hints in the alpha before, in heated stares or very rare possessive grips, but never like this—raw and unrestrained, claiming his body and soul. 

Past flings flash in his mind, an ex's clumsy attempt at dominance making him bolt for the door, repulsed by the vulnerability. But with Jeongguk, it ignites something deep, unlocking the omega he's buried under layers of denial. Why now? Why is it him? Jimin’s questions dissolve in the haze of pleasure, irrelevant against the rightness of it all. He craves the surrender, the way Jeongguk draws it out of him like it's always belonged there.

Jeongguk's fingers dig into the soft flesh of Jimin's ankles, holding them pinned beside his head, the position exposing him completely, his cock bobbing helplessly with each impact. Thank fuck for those yoga sessions that now let him take this position without a twinge. The alpha folds over him again, their sweat-slicked skin sliding together, breaths harsh and intermingled. 

"God, you're perfect," Jeongguk rasps, lips brushing Jimin's ear, voice strained with effort. 

"This tight little hole—sucking me in so well. Feels so good omega. So. Fucking. Good." He punctuates the words with a deep grind, circling his hips to drag his cock over Jimin’s prostate, drawing a broken sob from Jimin.

Jimin props himself with his elbows over the backs of his knees, helping shove his legs wider, the burn in his thighs secondary to the fire building inside of him. His fingers tangle in Jeongguk's damp hair, tugging the alpha down until their mouths crash together—less of a kiss and more of a frantic clash of lips and tongues, open-mouthed and sloppy. Jeongguk licks into his mouth with hungry swipes, tasting the salt of tears and the sweetness of pleasure, while Jimin whimpers against him, the words spilling out between breaths.

 "Breed me, alpha," he pleads between licks, voice wrecked and needy. "You're hitting it—right there, f-feels so good. Give it to me, all of you." 

The angle is devastating, Jeongguk's cock spearing straight into his prostate, white-hot pleasure coiling tight in his gut, his own dick throbbing untouched, on the brink but held back by the sheer intensity.

And Jeongguk devours the praise like fuel, his growls turning to snarls as he captures Jimin's lower lip between his teeth, nipping just hard enough to sting before soothing with a swipe of tongue. He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and feral, watching Jimin's face contort with each plunge. 

"That's it—beg for my knot, pretty omega. Tell me how bad you need me to stuff you.”

His free hand slides down, thumb circling Jimin's stretched rim where cock meets body, feeling the slick pulse around him, the obscene gush that accompanies every word. Jimin's body quakes as the pressure builds unbearably, but Jeongguk’s cock never stops, slamming home with a punishing rhythm, balls slapping Jimin's ass cheeks and causing stars to burst behind his eyelids.

Their bodies slam together in a frenzy, sweat-slicked skin slapping with every savage thrust, Jeongguk's cock plunging deep into Jimin's clenching hole as they chase the peak. Jimin's nails rake down the alpha's back, leaving red trails that only spur Jeongguk on, his hips snapping forward harder, faster, the bed creaking under the assault. Jimin doesn’t even have It in him to feel bad for his neighbors. The pleasure is simply too much, overwhelming every other sense he has.

They cling to each other like wild things, limbs tangled, breaths ragged and hot against each other's necks—Jimin's legs hooking over Jeongguk's shoulders in that punishing fold, his arms wrapped tight around the alpha's torso, pulling him impossibly closer. The air reeks of so much musk and slick, every inhale fueling the fire raging between them.

 "Gonna knot you, baby—lock my come inside," he rasps, thumbing Jimin's perineum for extra torment.

Jimin's mouth hangs open, drool slipping from the corner of his lips as ecstasy builds, his eyes glassy and unfocused. 

“Please—please—yes—” he pleads, voice cracking, eyes locked on Jeongguk's, tears spilling from the intensity.

“You want it?” Jeongguk’s voice is a snarl now, hungry. “Want me to knot you, baby?”

“Need it—need it so bad—” 

The pleas spill out unchecked, his omega instincts overriding any shame, hole fluttering wildly around the thick shaft spearing him open. He rocks his hips up to meet each drive, chasing the burn, the stretch, the promise of being claimed completely. Jeongguk groans above him, fingers digging bruises into his skin. 

“You want me to pup you?” he says, low and wrecked. “Fill this sweet little body with so much come it catches?”

Jimin sobs. “God, yes—please—”

He knows he’s not in heat, and that his body isn’t ripe for it. But the idea of Jeongguk using him like that anyway—trying anyway—is so hot it makes his backs tighten tortuously.

“I’ll fuck it in deep,” Jeongguk snarls, fucking him faster, rougher. “Even if it doesn’t take, I’ll stuff you full until you’re dripping every day. Again and again until your body fucking learns.”

Jimin keens, high-pitched and ruined. “Oh, yes—”

“That’s right,” Jeongguk breathes, leaning over him now, voice tight with restraint. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“A-alpha,” Jimin gasps. “Use me, use your omega—fuck—use me how you want—”

Jeongguk snarls at the words, his teeth grazing the tender skin near Jimin's scent gland, not breaking it yet but pressing hard enough to mark with bruises, a tease of the bite to come. His hands roam greedily, one gripping Jimin's thigh to hold him spread wide, the other clutching at his hip, fingers digging into soft flesh until it bruises, drawing the omega completely flush against him. 

“Fuck, yes—take it all, hyung,” Jeongguk growls, voice rough and feral, lips brushing the pulse point as he sucks a mark there. It’s clear that he wants to merge them, bury himself so far inside that nothing separates them, his body trembling with the need to possess every inch.

“Finally gonna lock us together and breed you properly” Jeongguk growls. “You’ll be so full of me, baby, so fucking pretty and round—”

Jimin’s mind spins at ‘Baby’, aching to hear more of the new pet name. He’s never felt so stretched, so claimed, so wanted.

“Do it,” he cries. “Please knot me, stuff me full, I need it—”

The knot at the base of The alpha’s cock swells relentlessly, thickening with each punishing thrust, catching on Jimin's rim on the outstroke before shoving back in with a wet pop. The pressure builds to breaking, Jimin's filthy begs echoing in the alpha’s ears like a siren's call, pushing him right to the brink. 

One final, brutal slam seats the knot fully, locking them together as it inflates, stretching Jimin's hole to its limit. Jeongguk's roar vibrates through his chest, his body seizing as release crashes over him—come erupting in thick ropes, painting Jimin's insides white, pulse after pulse flooding the omega's depths. He doesn't stop, hips grinding in short, frantic jerks, fucking the seed deeper like he’s ensuring it takes root, his grip ironclad on Jimin's body.

The sensation of that warm flood hits Jimin like lightning, his walls clamping down hard on the knot, milking every drop as pleasure explodes through him. His omega sings with joy, overwhelmed by the fullness, the heat, the raw proof of being claimed.

“Yes—alpha, oh god,” he sobs, tears streaking his cheeks, but he locks his arms and legs around Jeongguk tighter, heels digging into the alpha's back, refusing to let go. His cock twitches between them, spurting ropes after ropes of cum across his stomach and chest, the orgasm ripping through him in waves that leave him shaking. Slick gushes around the knot's seal, mixing with Jeongguk's cum to squirt out in obscene bursts with every clench, soaking their thighs and the sheets below.

Normally, the mess would mortify him—coming while squirting like that, exposed and messy—but right now, Jimin couldn't care less. It feels too fucking incredible, the pressure and heat twisting into pure bliss that wipes his mind blank. His body quakes in Jeongguk's grip, aftershocks rippling through his core as he nuzzles into the alpha's neck, inhaling his scent deeply, completely sated and marked as his.

Jimin barely notices when the shallow thrusts halt—the frantic grind of hips easing into the deep, locked swell of Jeongguk's knot buried inside him, throbbing with each pulse of his cock. His limbs go limp, boneless. His thoughts fuzz into white noise. Every inch of him throbs with exquisite ache, from the brutal stretch in his ass to the sticky come cooling on his skin. He’s too wrapped up in it all to even notice the alpha slowly maneuvering him on his front before Jeongguk’s knot officially seals them together for the next hour, only hissing slightly when the movement causes a slight tug at his rim. The alpha whispers light apologies, pressing kisses to Jimin’s nape as they shift to finally lay on their sides.

Jeongguk stays wrapped around him long after their breathing begins to slow, his chest rising and falling heavily against Jimin’s back as the last of the adrenaline drains from his body. The room is quiet except for their breathing and the faint rustle of sheets shifting beneath them. One of Jeongguk’s arms braces beside Jimin’s head while the other settles around his waist, palm splayed over his hip like he has no intention of letting him go. The solid weight anchors him, a reassuring press in the haze. Then, suddenly—

“Oh my god, hyung,” Jeongguk blurts, the concern crashing into his voice all at once. “Are you okay? I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t go too hard, did I?”

Jimin doesn’t move. He can’t. He lets out a broken, breathless laugh into the pillow. “You’re asking now?”

“I got carried away,” Jeongguk admits immediately, pressing a quick, frantic kiss near Jimin’s temple. “You were—hyung, you were so good. I just—shit. I wasn’t thinking.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Right. Okay, let me move us. Careful.”

Jeongguk groans softly, half embarrassed, half overwhelmed. He carefully shifts his weight,  both arms now winding around Jimin’s waist as he gently rolls them to their sides, knot still sealing them tight. He tucks Jimin against his chest once they settle, one arm wrapped securely across his stomach while the other lifts to push damp hair away from his forehead in slow, absentminded strokes.

“You’re shaking,” Jeongguk murmurs, thumb brushing gently through the strands. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jimin says, swatting weakly at his hand. “Still knotted inside me, in case you forgot.”

Jeongguk groans low, hips twitching involuntarily. “I know. Fuck, you're clenching around me so hard—shit. Shouldn't love how that feels this much.”

He presses a kiss to Jimin's brow, then drifts feather-light ones down to the top of his head, inhaling his omega's scent like it's air. His palm glides along Jimin's quivering thighs, thumbs tracing the faint red marks from where he'd pinned them earlier, now soothing the sting. For a while neither of them speaks. Jimin feels boneless, the kind of loose exhaustion that settles deep into muscle and bone, and he lets his weight rest fully against Jeongguk’s warmth. Behind him, Jeongguk presses his face briefly into the crook of his neck and continues to breathe in his scent before he exhales quietly.

“So,” he says after a while, voice low and a little rough, “you’ve been writing about me for quite some time, hyung.”

Jimin groans, though the sound holds more embarrassment than annoyance. “We’re really doing this right now?”

Jeongguk’s hand continues its slow path through his hair, smoothing it back from his temple before settling against the side of his head. “I’m curious,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath ghosting across Jimin’s skin. “You practically handed me a whole journal full of fantasies about me and expected me to just… never bring it up again?”

“You already read it,” Jimin mutters.

“I read part of it.”

That earns him a faint huff of laughter. Jimin shifts slightly against him, the movement small but enough that Jeongguk’s arm tightens instinctively around his waist, anchoring him closer.

“You said you always knew,” Jimin says after a moment, his voice quieter now.

Jeongguk hums in acknowledgment, thumb tracing a slow, idle circle where his hand rests against Jimin’s stomach. “Hyung,” he says gently, “I wasn’t lying when I said you’ve never exactly been subtle.”

“Okay, that’s incredibly rude—I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“You stare.”

“I do not.”

Jeongguk laughs softly under his breath, the sound vibrating faintly through Jimin’s back. “You do,” he insists, pressing another quick kiss into his hair as if sealing the argument. “Like you’re trying to use x-ray vision or something every time we’re in the same room.”

Jimin lets out another quiet breath, though the faint smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.

“You could’ve at least said something,” he says eventually.

Jeongguk grows thoughtful behind him, his fingers stilling for a moment before they resume their slow, soothing motion through Jimin’s hair.

“Well, like I also said before, though you probably were to busy humping my leg—”

“Watch your mouth, Jeongguk.”

“We live together,” the alpha continues, chuckling. “If I was wrong, that would’ve made things really uncomfortable for both of us.”

Jimin considers that. As frustrating as it sounds, it also makes perfect sense.

“You had quite the patience waiting on me,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“Had you not read the journal, I’d probably be in my bed, wishing you were there with me.”

Jeongguk’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer in a way that feels warm and certain.

“You just needed a little push,” he replies. “I was also getting a little tired of wishing you were in my bed too—especially when you were right there, on the other side of the wall,” he adds after a second.

Jimin huffs softly, though the sound holds a note of reluctant amusement.

“Well,” he says after a moment, voice tired but fond, “congratulations. I guess I finally did something about it.”

Jeongguk laughs quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to his shoulder.

“It was well worth the wait,” he murmurs.

The warmth in his voice settles somewhere deep in Jimin’s chest. He reaches down without looking until his fingers find Jeongguk’s, threading their fingers together loosely. The simple contact feels grounding, the kind that makes the room feel smaller in a comfortable way.

“Just so we’re clear,” Jimin says after a moment, his tone dry despite the warmth creeping into it, “this does not mean you get to read the rest of that notebook whenever you want.”

Jeongguk’s laughter returns, softer this time, and he squeezes Jimin’s hand.

“Oh, hyung,” he murmurs, pressing another quiet kiss into his hair, “I absolutely do.”

♡♡♡

Jimin’s phone vibrates harshly against the nightstand, shattering the hazy quiet of the room. He jolts awake, squinting at the glowing screen where Taehyung’s FaceTime call pulses insistently.

“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, shooting a quick glance down at Jeongguk, who’s still out cold—curled half under the rumpled sheets, one thick arm draped possessively over Jimin’s bare waist, the fresh, reddish imprints of alpha bites stark against the pale skin of his throat.

He snatches the phone and swipes to accept, tilting it carefully to frame just his face, keeping the naked alpha sprawled beside him out of view.

“Hey,” Jimin rasps, voice still thick from sleep and last night’s cries.

Taehyung’s face pops up immediately, annoyingly chipper for the early hour, sunglasses perched on his head like a crown and a fizzing mimosa clutched in one hand. “Bitch, where the hell were you?”

Jimin blinks groggily. “Morning to you too.”

“You ghosted my text. I sat at brunch like a total idiot, Jiminie. A full-on clown! I even wore the vest—you know, the cute one?”

Jimin winces, biting back a laugh as he shifts slightly, feeling the lingering ache between his thighs and the warm weight of Jeongguk’s body pressed to his back. “Sorry, I—uh, got distracted.”

Taehyung squints at the screen, leaning in with predatory focus. “Why do you look… glowy? Suspiciously glowy. Like freshly wrecked. Did you do a face mask or did someone rearrange your guts?”

Jimin nearly chokes on air. “Tae—shut up!”

“Oh my god.” Taehyung slams his mimosa down with a clink, eyes bulging. “Did he? No, don’t lie to me. He did, don’t even try to deny it. That’s your ‘I got properly fucked’ face. You did—you absolutely got wrecked.”

Heat floods Jimin’s cheeks, burning hot as he ducks his head, trying to burrow into the pillow—or at least hide behind his arm. “Would you keep it down—”

“You did! Oh my god, was it last night? Was it him? Was it Jeongguk?!”

Jimin groans, mortified, the room’s heavy scent of dried slick and alpha cum still clinging to the sheets around them. “Tae, voice—lower your damn voice—”

Taehyung unleashes a piercing screech, clapping a hand over his mouth as realization dawns. “You got knotted! You sneaky little omega slut—I can’t believe it!”

“Taehyung!”

“I’ve been waiting nearly two years for this tea! I knew it! I told Seokjin-hyung you two would explode eventually. Hell, I was considering writing my own fanfic about it, Jimin! You’re straight-up living my fantasy right now!”

Jimin snorts, the sound bubbling out despite himself, nearly fumbling the phone in his grip.

From behind him, Jeongguk stirs with a low, gravelly groan, voice muffled against Jimin’s shoulder blade. “Who’s... yelling this early...?”

Taehyung goes statue-still on screen. “Was that him?”

Jimin slaps a hand over the mic, twisting to whisper fiercely. “Yes, it was. He’s half-asleep—don’t you dare—”

“Look, I love you, and I'm happy you finally got him to match your freak or whatever, but you missed our date and I'm still pissed.

"Tae—”

"So, I’m gonna kill you. I’m actually gonna kill you both. Put him on the phone.”

“No way in hell.”

“Jimin, put that knotting bastard on the line—”

Jimin jabs the end call button with his thumb, cutting Taehyung off mid-rant.

The phone erupts almost instantly, notifications piling up: a barrage of texts from Taehyung, ranging from eggplant emojis to a string of screaming faces, capped off with one that reads, “Congrats basket incoming—plus a vibrator to keep that alpha honest. Spill details later, you lucky bitch.”

Jeongguk hums contentedly, his arm tightening around Jimin’s waist as he nuzzles deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the lingering omega scent that marks him as claimed. Eyes still closed, lips brushing warm skin. “That Tae-hyung?”

“Yep,” Jimin sighs, relaxing back into the solid heat of Jeongguk’s chest.

“Did you spill about last night?”

“...He sniffed it out like a bloodhound.”

Jeongguk’s sleepy grin presses against Jimin’s pulse point, a soft rumble vibrating through them both. “Good. Let him know you’re taken care of.”