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“All right, look …” Yoongi says, after twenty minutes spent cooking under the Seoul sunlight without any sign of Jimin’s costar.
In many ways, Min Yoongi is like a chrysanthemum: unable to bloom without at least twelve hours of uninterrupted darkness to prepare. The chrysanthemum is considered a long-night plant. Nocturnally motivated. For floral development to begin, it requires continuous darkness. There's a word for this.
Photoperiodism: an organism's response to seasonal changes in light and length of day.
Jimin picked that up in a biology 101 class during undergrad and for reasons beyond him, it’s currently floating around in the back of his brain while he endures hair touch-ups on the set of his first official erotic film. If you had told Professor Byun that his star pupil would be doing porn within the decade, he probably would have locked Jimin out of his lecture hall and never looked back.
Fortunately, there are discreet avenues for this sort of thing. Unfortunately, Yoongi does not care about discretion, despite being a chrysanthemum with adverse reactions to too much light.
“I should point out …” Jimin begins, as his blond bangs are gently parted with a comb.
“Should you? Ask yourself this question carefully, Park Jimin,” Yoongi says and uses the tome-sized contract he’s carrying to shield his eyes from the sun. It dulls the effect of his glare. “You are part of the talent, not the production. You’d do well to remember that.”
Jimin bites back a snarky, You’d do well to remember your sunscreen, since Yoongi’s face has gone tomato-bright, two spots of color splashed right across either cheek. The shade is made more lurid by his platinum blond hair.
“You’re the one who chose this location,” Jimin says, unmoved. “And call time.”
Again: chrysanthemum. Jimin can and will crush Yoongi underfoot.
“I signed off on a location,” Yoongi says, “for which I felt the ambience was fitting. You should be glad I rented this place out or we’d likely have a peeping tennis club to contend with.”
“I mean, clearly I’m already a bit of an exhibitionist.”
“That is not something you need to disclose to me.”
Jimin nods. “Because it’s basically been written across my ass.”
“No, because I didn’t ask, nor do I care about your ass.”
“You have to care about my ass. You’re the producer,” Jimin points out. “You waved me over to wardrobe this morning and said, ‘Have your pick of the pleated skirts and the booty shorts. Up to you what you wear. Talk to the stylist.’ Then I said, ‘Does Kim Taehyung also have such varied style options, hyung-nim, or is it just the omega with the fat ass?’ and you replied, ‘So you’re aware’ in your driest voice.” Jimin pauses. “I’m still not sure if you meant the omega part, or the fat ass part.”
Yoongi’s stare is flat. “The omega part,” he says, with deliberate slowness.
“I couldn’t get the first skirt option past my right cheek,” Jimin says, though that’s beside the point.
Earlier, wardrobe had shown him to Kim Taehyung’s collapsible garment rack, which included a variety of sheer mesh polos, three pairs of tiny tennis shorts, and a squat-proof skort.
How forward-thinking! Jimin wanted to crow, only he was a little puzzled by the fact that their asses were receiving equal treatment on set. Special consideration had always been given to Jimin on the basis that he had an ass worth emphasizing (and accommodating). He's used to hogging all the wardrobe malfunctions and waistband reductions. Twenty-seven inch waistline measurements in male silhouettes usually leave stylists stumped, not to mention all the bottom-heavy adjustments they're always forced to submit to whenever Jimin enters a dressing room.
(He grew up theater kid-adjacent. Dance majors are a similar breed, just less annoying and more clear about their sexual character.)
Yoongi sighs. “Kim Taehyung’s ass is also quite generous.”
“Hah! So you admit it’s fat!” Jimin exclaims.
“Taehyung’s … ?”
“No, mine! ‘Also’ is an admission,” Jimin says. “It implies an addition to a previously established noun.”
“The noun being your ass,” Yoongi guesses, looking dismayed by his findings.
“Yes,” Jimin says, with satisfaction.
Jimin has never met Kim Taehyung in the flesh, though he’s sure his ass is a worthy enough competitor. Jimin’s is just exceedingly well-trained. Media trained, some might say. He has his jiggle down pat. Bounce-jiggle-bounce. It’s why he’s amassed such a large, loyal following online.
“Okay,” Yoongi says. “Let me amend my original statement then. Beyond color and composition, I do not care about your ass.”
“Comfort, too.”
Yoongi pauses to blink, once and slowly, at Jimin. “What?”
“Color, composition, and comfort,” Jimin lists out, checking them off one by one on his fingers.
Yoongi’s glare grows daggers. “Beyond color, composition, and comfort, I do not care about your fat little omega ass. My camera operators? They care about your ass. Your ass is the magnum opus — the crowning achievement, even — of their careers right now. They bow to your ass. They kiss the floor your ass drips on. Me? I would like to order samgyeopsal to go and take a nap.”
The camera operators in question pause mid-equipment assembly to throw Yoongi a few harried looks. They have been harassed — hunted — by Jimin’s ass all morning. Which is part of their job description, to be fair. Capture Park Jimin’s ass on tape as it is obliterated by Kim Taehyung’s monster dick. Jimin has never been filmed in such high-definition video modes before, and from five separate angles no less! His little handheld Sony and laptop webcam could never hope to compare.
Still, Yoongi’s poor film crew could probably do with a reprieve from all the omega ass. At least for now.
“You should let your camera operators speak for themselves,” Jimin says primly, because he respects basic human boundaries and would not presume to call his ass the magnum opus of anyone’s career.
Except his own, obviously. He knows his strengths. Ass, thighs, pout. Occasionally, pinky. His ass and his pout remain tied for biggest moneymaker. All of Jimin’s filthiest fan requests — focus cams, object insertion, heat role-play — are concentrated on those two key features. That might seem obvious to some, but his largest male solo competitor in East Asia pulls an obscene amount of tips with feet pics and cock-stepping, so.
It's all about acquired taste.
On cue, Yoongi holds up a hand, calls, “Camera operators?”
There is a flurry of movement and indistinct murmuring as they all go about their business, polite stalling from the same film crew who had diligently danced around Jimin’s ass, eyes averted, through the series of test shots he’d posed for thirty minutes ago, skirt snapped on, hip cocked coyly.
He doesn’t know if that had more to do with the quality of the ass in question or the cloud of agitated pheromones one camera operator in particular started kicking up as soon as Jimin arranged himself against the chain-link tennis court fence — the only camera operator who Jimin really cares to hear from regarding his ass. The very same camera operator who's been giving Jimin the wide expanse of his back ever since he shut his Camcorder off to wait out the rest of the talent.
Those trapezius muscles have seriously tripled in size since …
Anyway.
“Do we need to play around with exposure at all? The natural lighting is a little intense here. I was under the impression that there would be more trees,” Yoongi had said two hours into call time, to which Jimin’s unnamed camera operator replied, “Nope,” without reviewing a single file.
Not one.
Jimin takes great offense to that. His ass may not be the magnum opus on set, but it still deserves better. If he finds out that someone in the immediate vicinity is intentionally sabotaging his ass — unimpressive though it may be — Jimin will be having words with him. Them. That person, specifically. And those words will not devolve into furious making out like his omega would like him to believe.
It should be stated that Jimin’s omega is delusional and prone to bouts of ex-inspired yearning. They have not been in contact with — that camera operator in over three years. That's practically three centuries to an inner wolf. Jimin hadn’t even known ‘porn camera operator’ was a stop on this person’s career path until two and a half hours ago exactly.
Today’s inciting event only made matters worse, but he absolutely refuses to go into detail about that.
(Jimin had been doing toe touches in his pleated tennis skirt when it occurred to him that he should probably double-knot his laces while he was hanging out down here, since Kim Taehyung was going to be fucking him within an inch of his life very soon, and Jimin had been in the middle of doing just that when he remembered about the pleated skirt part and glanced through the spread V of his legs to check that he wasn’t accidentally flashing anyone on set, and that was when he discovered his ex-boyfriend Jeon Jungkook gawking down at his ass with Min Yoongi’s coffee order in hand.
Jimin knew because the cup was steaming and read Min Yoongi in black marker. He knew it was Jeon Jungkook because his omega had been agonizing over that light liquid fabric softener scent for nearly thirteen hundred days without stop. Otherwise, he probably would not have known, given that Jungkook had grown almost a head taller, gotten himself an eyebrow piercing, and tattooed the entirety of his right arm. And also hand. And his hair was now about shoulder-length, by Jimin’s estimate.
Not that he was. Estimating. Since half of it was pulled back in a bun, and! More importantly, he didn’t estimate about those sorts of things anymore! And so he obviously treated the situation with the dignity it deserved by straightening up and saying something supremely clever, like, “My eyes are up here, you dog.” And not by letting out a horrified yelp and almost tripping over himself in his rush to snatch up a pair of shorts from his garment rack. Never that.)
It’s just not fair, is all. That Kim Taehyung got the skort option. And Jimin got the pleated tennis skirt and skimpy thong. If he’d had the skort, he would not have accidentally flashed his entire ass at Jeon Jungkook and Jimin’s omega would not be tending to their wounds over a hypothetical reality where their ex-boyfriend is perfectly comfortable peering up random wolves’ skirts.
Never mind the fact that Jungkook is entirely too tall to look up skirts without first crouching down and cricking his neck. Logic doesn’t matter to a distressed wolf. Neither does the knowledge that this specific ass had belonged to Jimin and not some random wolf.
Who could say whether Jungkook had known that at the time and not right when Jimin yanked himself upright to briefly make his horror known? With that awful yelp? And the hand he slapped to his skirt? Except a conveniently timed breeze chose that moment exactly to blow the flimsy fabric up his back so that he instead landed an open-palmed slap to his left ass cheek? With a terrible smack! sound effect and a fatty jiggle? And probably also a bright red handprint? And then Jungkook’s huge eyes had shot up to Jimin’s face, like he needed visual confirmation that Jimin consented to accidentally spanking himself in front of his ex-boyfriend? Like Jungkook could not believe that fate had orchestrated this moment nearly four years after they’d broken up?
No, Jimin wanted to say. This is not fate. This is something far worse.
Free will.
Only what came out was, “You can’t look at that anymore!” at an embarrassingly high volume, and then he’d yanked the tail of his skirt down and fled for the hills, and Jeon Jungkook had not looked at him once since.
Not once. He hadn’t given Jimin’s ass so much as a second glance. Not even through the LCD screen display of his camera. Especially not then. He’d closed the flip screen with a decisive click, then turned to help a pretty omega with his tripod assembly a meter away. Just like that. So cold! And Jimin! Scorned again!
Which is why! There is no justice in this world! At all whatsoever!
Jimin imagines his omega throwing themself at his feet in a pathetic, whining heap. Put us out of our misery. Please. Why prolong our suffering like this?
Thankfully, his omega chooses not to communicate in Korean. Just devastating stabs of emotion.
“See,” Jimin says now, “your camera operators could not be more indifferent to my ass if they tried —”
“That was unnecessarily crude,” Jeon Jungkook cuts in, turning so that the sun catches the glint of his eyebrow barbell like he’s a returning manhwa love interest who has somehow gotten even hotter during the time-skip.
Holy shit, Jimin thinks. That’s exactly it!
He whips his head around to confirm, but Jungkook is staring straight at Yoongi. His boss, presumably. Jimin isn’t one-hundred percent sure about the chain of command here. Still, he thinks it's safe to assume 'camera operator' falls well below ‘producer’ on the team totem pole, so how is Jungkook getting away with that shamelessly informal tone?
Jimin whips his head back around again, to face Yoongi.
Yoongi is currently raising his eyebrows at Jimin’s ex — unnamed camera operator. Currently named. In bright bold hangul. 전정국. With three exclamation points, at least. Jeon Jungkook!!! And a fade to black text animation. Or a manhwa cliffhanger.
Jimin is growing increasingly confused about the medium they’re meeting under in his head. Manhwa, or major motion picture. Whatever. The drama is there.
“We’re shooting porn,” Yoongi says, desert dry.
Back to Jeon Jungkook!
“Still,” Jeon Jungkook mutters, sounding vaguely grumbly, and returns to his work without further comment.
Huh — ? What the hell had that meant! Jimin’s heart wants to beat its way out of his chest like a tiny baby bird. Which is all his omega, of course. Jimin is made of stronger stuff. He is immune to big grumbly alphas with pierced eyebrows and soothing scents.
To distract himself, he changes the subject. “You know, a locker room would have sufficed,” he says to Yoongi. It comes out a little breathless. He quickly clears his throat.
“Locker rooms are an industry cliché,” Yoongi replies.
“We’re shooting porn marketed at knot-popping alphas,” Jimin says, with a gesture at his outfit: tennis jacket zipped up to the throat, pleated tennis skirt, booty shorts beneath (added after a certain unnamed inciting event), and a pair of embroidered sneakers to match. He’s in head-to-toe ivory, with interruption from the occasional red and green accent, a decadent bumblebee insignia or two.
“Our target audience is constantly expanding. According to recent demographic research, omegas will also be tuning in. They currently make up thirty-eight percent of our subscription base, and forty-two percent of one-time buyers.”
“Tuning in … to watch me get my ass pounded by a born-and-bred alpha.”
“And?”
“And this isn’t exactly highbrow art, hyung-nim, no offense,” Jimin says, then thinks to add: “All credit to wardrobe, though.”
“Thanks!” he hears from somewhere down the tennis court.
“What I do requires great virtuosity,” Yoongi says, so that Jimin can’t tell if he’s being deathly serious or deadpan.
Recent (unexpected) developments in Jimin’s professional life have forced him into a foul mood — namely, the presence of a certain someone on set — or he wouldn’t be acting like such a brat. He’s usually a media darling during the filming process. Mostly solo livestreams up until now, granted, with DMCA-safe instrumentals playing over Jimin presenting himself to the camera at increasingly enticing angles, although pre-recorded content is responsible for his steadiest stream of income, his edited uploads with eye-catching titles like TWINK TAKES FOUR FINGERS (AND SQUIRTS!!).
Jimin had to pick up iMovie for that, and then teach himself how to pirate Final Cut Pro X, because no way was he paying ₩300,000 for a six year license. That was nearly half of his rent at the time. He wished he had still been in contact with Jungkook then. Jungkook could figure out how to pirate anything, including nineties manga from childhood that Jimin hadn’t even known was digitized.
But Jimin found his own way eventually and that’s when his films started getting real good. He’s worked out a careful system since then, offers content at various tiers, all of it meticulously tagged. Cutie, Sexy, Lovely — the most general categories for convenience, though things can be further distilled from there. (C) tier content typically includes low-effort aegyo and camera preening, (S) hooded eyes and softly spoken dirty talk, and (L) mood lighting and lingerie. Predictably, (C) tier teasers do the best on Twitter and Instagram. (S) tier stuff is always the victim of serial reposters.
Only in the last six months or so has he figured out how to truly diversify his content. Kneels and squats for those who crave submission or facial POVs, low-to-the-floor full body shots to lengthen his legs dramatically, and, most popular of all, backshot dirty talk that requires complicated camera-rigging to simulate Jimin getting fucked from behind, as he shoves back on his wall-mounted dildo of the day and whines, asking for more, please, Alpha, I need it deeper.
Said aloud, that kind of thing can be excruciatingly embarrassing. When Jimin can’t get out of his head about it, he always calls upon Jeon Jungkook as a last resort and just like that, his omega snaps into order, embarrassment out the window. It is a curse and a crime.
He’s been making porn for a while — almost a combined two years, although he’d taken a brief eighteen month hiatus to complete his military service — and he’s done it all by now, everything under the sun and then some. Hour-long home movies, private viewer chats where he fulfills the more out-there kink requests for premium subscribers, lewd photoshoots with store-bought props like scented lotion and belled collars. Even erotic ASMR.
Jimin has done it all and he’s never had an adverse reaction “on set.” Not to ultraviolet light or nasty comments or even the barbed knotting dildo he’d tried that one time. Not until now.
Being embarrassed by himself doesn’t count; he’s experienced plenty of that. The first time he’d tried his hand at heat role-play, right when he got into sex work, Jimin had been dumb enough to hit record during his actual cycle. He’d thought maybe authenticity would be lost otherwise, so he’d propped his laptop up on a pile of pillows a safe distance away and let the camera roll, fascinated by the idea of sifting through the footage once the delirium broke.
Later, he learned — humiliatingly — that he’d spent two of four hours furiously humping his pillow and moaning Jungkook’s full name. In broad daylight. Jimin was lucky he’d decided against livestreaming that first wave, or word probably would have gotten back to his ex-boyfriend somehow.
He promptly trashed the file and has faked every single heat role-play scene he’s filmed since, slathering himself in synthetic slick and pretending to be inconsolably horny. And even that porn set-up sounds more appealing than today’s newest horror.
“The script could use some work,” Jimin says to Yoongi, though that hadn’t been what he was thinking when he reviewed it for the first time over kimchi ramyeon in his squat studio apartment.
He’d liked it, the soft inner nature of the alpha lead and the omega gaze it seemed to be filtered through, how the stage directions lingered on what would become his costar’s body before anything else. He’d felt a genuine burst of excitement when his agent came to him with a name, had been gagging to get Kim Taehyung’s expert dick in his ass as soon as possible.
All the better to divert his omega hindbrain from ancient exes who appeared to be doing better without Jimin anyway, at least according to secondhand accounts of Jungkook’s Instagram feed. Jimin still has him blocked. His number one breakup rule has always been, ‘Don’t stoop to stalking.’
Asking their mutual friend Jung Hoseok for annual ex updates does not count, since Hoseok is closer to Jimin than Jungkook and has always been relatively receptive to gossip. And, in all fairness, these ex updates would probably be a lot more frequent if it seemed like Jungkook posted on social media more than twice yearly.
As it is, Jimin reserves Christmas coffee dates with Hoseok for all things Jeon Jungkook, and since Jimin has only experienced three Christmases since the breakup, he has only broached the subject thrice. Does that even constitute a pattern? It’s completely normal to feel curious about your ex when the holiday season rolls around and all those cuddly couple’s ads start circulating everywhere, with the rings and the gift-wrapping!
Completely! Normal! Especially in coffee settings! A sigh, maybe some distracted fiddling to make the subject matter seem absentminded, and then —
“Ah,” Jimin will say, eyes wandering around the cafe. “And by the way, about … you know …”
That’s when Hoseok usually stops steeping his tea to say, “He’s good.”
Jimin nods, exuding disinterest, absolutely unaffected by news that, once again, Jeon Jungkook has not suffered some unlucky stroke of fate and ended up in another country for work-related reasons and/or found himself a long-term partner, for example.
He's still within arm’s reach. Still romantically available. And after three years, too! Is that normal? Possibly, he’s doing the casual dating thing on the down-low, cycling through sexual partners with no need for a permanent omega. Or maybe he’s just very busy. Who can say what he does for a living now (Hoseok could, probably … whether he will is another question entirely)? Perhaps he’s raising litters of bunnies and/or making boba tea. There’s no telling.
“Good, good. That’s good,” Jimin says. “And his … ?”
“Instagram? He posted recently, I think,” Hoseok says, tipping his phone screen down distractedly to tap at some unseen social media feed away from Jimin’s prying eyes. “He looks good.”
Good? Good … ? What’s with all the vague adjectives! Jimin thinks.
Good could mean anything from golden retrievers to ear gauges. What if Jungkook has adopted a dog! What if his earlobes are all stretched out now! What will Jimin do! He’ll have to rearrange all the furniture in their fictional apartment somehow! A whole evening wasted! Wah — !
Jimin puts his face in his hand. “Another gym selfie?”
Hoseok reaches over to pat Jimin encouragingly — pat-pat-pat, like he’s a brooding kitten who’s been abandoned in a cardboard box. “He’s wearing a shirt this time, at least.”
“Oh, at least there’s a shirt,” Jimin mocks under his breath. “What would the people do otherwise!”
“The people would riot. The people would line up outside of FitClub Seoul, single file, for a signature.”
“A signature!” Jimin scoffs. “Like he’s — ! Some kind of idol!”
“Golden maknae for sure,” Hoseok agrees and sucks at his tea bag like a heathen.
“The people should shut up,” Jimin says in a tone that suggests he is seconds out from whining.
“The people would ship you two.”
“Huh?” Jimin has lost the plot somewhere. “Where is this hypothetical going … ?”
“I don’t know,” Hoseok says, staring into the middle distance with a sage eyebrow furrow. “For some reason, I think you’d both be K-pop sweethearts.”
Jimin pulls his beanie down over his face. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
“It’ll get easier,” Hoseok says then. “Just wait it out a little longer. Someone new will fall into your lap eventually.”
“That is not reassuring, hyung, but thank you,” Jimin says, and means it. “If I wanted someone new, I’d seek them out and I’d have them. I’m a twink with a tight ass.”
“Cheers, I’ll drink to that,” Hoseok says and hoists his teacup into the air, pinky raised.
Against his better judgment, Jimin starts giggling into his arm. “I hate being single.”
“It adds a little something extra to your personality.”
“Yeah, it’s called wrath.”
“Of the seven deadly sins, you are most likely to be lust, Jimin-ah.”
Jimin snaps his fingers in Hoseok’s direction, as if to say, point.
“You know, there is always a second option ...”
“I won’t hear of it.”
Hoseok hums noncommittally into his tea.
“So anyways,” Jimin says, leaning into his satoori now. “Um, has he asked about … ?”
But, of course, that information is off limits. As always.
When Jimin tilts him a look, Hoseok only shakes his head, nearly unhappy enough to frown outright. “You know I can’t tell you that,” he says. “And if it’s eating away at your little head the way I think it is, you should ask him yourself.”
“I hate option two.”
“I know, but it’s the healthiest after option one.”
“Option three?”
“Down some somaek and cut your bangs in your bathroom mirror.”
“Not happening.”
“Dye your hair back to black.”
“I am a natural blond,” Jimin says, without missing a beat.
“Hm,” Hoseok says, because he is clearly content with life as a brunet. “Until your scalp starts weeping.”
“Exactly.” Jimin leans forward to cup Hoseok’s cheek, leaving behind his own little pat-pat-pat. “See, you understand me, hyung.”
“I like option two,” Hoseok says.
“Of course you do. You’re a third party observer with no stake in the matter!”
“Hey! I have many steaks, some of them medium rare!” Hoseok objects. “If you two get back together, that’s way more bar-hopping for me! Which means shaking ass in leather pants! Lots of good group photos. I’m sick of all the solo selfies!”
“Pah — !” Jimin yells, incensed, and two American tourists glance up sharply three tables down, blue eyes blinking. “Back together!”
“You are being a Taylor Swift about this, Park Jimin.” Hoseok takes a breath, then makes a sound into the rim of his teacup, like a hum or a cluck. “And you’re maiming your green tea waffle.”
“I am no longer a natural blond! And it wasn’t even that good anyways!” Jimin yanks his fork free and thunks his head into the crook of his arm, back to hiding. Quietly, he whispers: “Jungkookie’s waffles were way better.”
Hoseok shakes his head, pitying. “Frozen dorm waffles?”
“Made with love!”
Hoseok makes another sound, more alarmed now, like Jimin is a flea-infested kitten who’s been abandoned in a cardboard box behind a hot chicken place, no longer brooding, just alone. Or something. Jimin is not abandoned. He is in self-inflicted solitary confinement and his rotating collection of dildos and massage wands goes a long way, frankly. December is his designated Think About Jungkook Month (TAJM), that’s all. He conducts himself more strictly the other eleven.
Jimin is doing just fine. He has a companion alpha on speed dial and everything. It’s just that sometimes during the worst of the heat delirium, he’s too stubborn to hit the call button and suffer through another round of clinical, doctor-approved knotting, so he rolls over into his pillow and cries out for Jungkook in a mortifying whimper and when no one hurries to the door for him, his omega tries to release a perfume counter’s worth of sex pheromones to entice him home. And then Jimin has to reach back through the fog and shake himself. Has to say, He’s not coming home, you stupid wolf. You sent him away.
I sent him away.
“What did I do,” Jimin says into the crook of his arm.
“What you thought was right at the time,” Hoseok answers. “Which is more than most can say at that age.”
Jimin lets that sink in, slowly. “And now?”
“And now,” Hoseok says, “you stop dwelling on the word did and ask yourself what you plan to do. Present tense.”
What Jimin had planned to do at the time: move past the subscription-based porn model, kickstart a studio career by taking a dick up his ass in his first ever filmed collab, maybe order takeout from Itaewon afterwards. He’d secured a costar. He’d gotten his updated STD screening. He’d even upped his leg workouts a little bit beforehand, since his calves were very likely going to be on display during the filming process. Then Jimin walked out onto the tennis courts and it all came crashing down around him in a burst of metaphorical flames.
“You didn’t like the script?” Yoongi says now.
“I didn’t say that,” Jimin says. “Just that … I have some suggestions for future projects.”
Yoongi waves that away at once. “Take it up with our writers’ room.”
Jimin softens his facial expression into something more apologetic and turns in Kim Namjoon’s direction. “It just … seems a little overly complex, next to the simplicity of the set. Sorry,” he adds lamely. “I really enjoyed your approach to the trope.”
Namjoon laughs where he’s picking at the craft services table, unoffended. “Ah, you’re fine. I welcome any and all criticism and am more than happy to make script adjustments with you whenever you might have new ideas. Now or in the near future.”
Jimin smiles and gives a bow of gratitude. “It’s a date.”
The sudden silence on set is absolute.
It plunges Jimin into ice cold water. “I mean, haha,” he says, hurrying past his faux pas, “not a date-date, obviously. A writing date! I don’t even know your relationship status! Or sexuality! And I’m not interested. Not that you’re not interesting! Just that … that I’m off the market. Spiritually speaking.”
Somehow, the silence deepens.
“I’m single,” Namjoon volunteers eventually. “Spiritually and sexually speaking.”
“Oh,” Jimin says. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
Namjoon bows and returns to his roasted seaweed plate. “It’s a writing date. Hypothetically.”
“Yes, hypothetically!” Jimin says. “I’ll see you then!”
A sigh sounds. “Please,” he hears Yoongi say with palpable annoyance, “stop seducing my employees, Park Jimin.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Jimin cries. “Really, I didn’t! I’m a twink with a tight ass!”
Yoongi levels him with an unimpressed stare. Over his shoulder, in general tennis court territory, Jimin thinks he sees Jungkook splutter around a swallow of bottled water, almost choking, before turning around to muffle a quiet coughing fit.
Jimin ignores that. He will not stand idly by as his ass is scorned a second — third? — time! Actually, on second thought, he will stand idly by! He will stand idly by, and he will look the other way!
(He would really rather not cause a scene on set.)
“Hyung-nim, it’s only been one employee,” Jimin says once he's regained his composure. “And even the one I’m not sure of!”
“That,” Yoongi says, “is blatantly untrue.”
Jimin shakes his head. “What? Who else, then?”
“You said the script was overly complex,” Yoongi says, plowing right past Jimin’s question. He’s still blocking out the sun with the film contract; he fumbles his other hand free to consult his phone, squinting down at the screen. “Remember that this is supposed to be at least two or three steps above bedroom fingering.”
Jimin flushes, shooting an incriminating look at the camera operators idling on the other side of the tennis net. All but one is currently busy switching out memory cards and snapping tripods into place, and Jimin only notices because his shoulders are sitting so stiffly. He frowns at Jungkook’s back, then turns his attention back to the matter at hand: his dignity.
“My bedroom fingering is very popular, thank you,” he says at a volume he’s sure can’t be overheard, even by modern wolves with evolved senses. “And raking in upwards of fifteen thousand retweets weekly.”
“Namjoon slaved away over this script.”
“Actually —” Namjoon tries and fails to interject.
“It’s nine pages of escalating dirty talk,” Jimin says, forgetting about any former attempts at sparing Namjoon’s feelings.
“It’s slowburn star-crossed lovers,” Yoongi retorts.
“It’s two college rivals getting their dicks wet by the tennis courts.”
“Is that not what I just said?”
All at once, Jimin is laughing, thrown too far forward to do anything but catch himself against the net separating him from his unfortunate doom, his tennis skirt swishing against the tops of his thighs.
It’s not his porn-approved laugh — the one he pitches precisely, a sweet, playful sound designed to appeal to a curated alpha following. It’s something more free, helpless laughter buoyed by the absurdity of his day so far. It makes him gasp, has him muffling his embarrassing noises against the palm of his hand.
When he’d signed a one-time contract, to start, with Yoongi’s production house, it had been the lure of negotiable rates and guaranteed royalties that pulled him in. Agust D could promise predetermined salary installments, on top of a small sum for every paid download that Jimin’s films received — a rarity in the world of alpha-produced porn.
It has sated his agent, to finally be able to wade through official scripts rather than Jimin’s self-produced solo films, the English translations required for all of his edits, the Twitter detritus of his omega porn persona. People asking for his hand in marriage, and also his home address. Hundreds of replies speculating about the size of his asshole and whether an alpha’s been anywhere near it in the last thirty days.
Now she can sit pretty while someone else does all the heavy-lifting for her. Most of her responsibilities these days amount to drafting up a list of off-limit sex acts and performers to send to production in PDF format before a shoot.
It’s too bad they didn’t account for Jeon Jungkook while they were at it.
Jimin pulls himself up from his laughter, still shaking just a little, and catches Jungkook watching him for the first time since they crossed — clashed? — paths on the tennis courts of his studio porn debut. His gaze is locked on Jimin’s face (not ass) and when he catches Jimin looking back, he returns to his Camcorder at once, studiously preoccupied all of a sudden. Evidence that the look had meant anything more than passing interest in a familiar sound has been wiped clean, if it ever existed at all.
Jimin straightens his spine with an indignant huff. He turns his head to hide the surprise he can feel spilling past all of his carefully controlled edges.
The last thing he ever wants to live through is a reunion with his ex-boyfriend on the set of his first full-blown porn shoot. The second to last thing he ever wants to live through is a reunion with his ex-boyfriend on the set of his first full-blown porn shoot after his costar Kim Taehyung leaves him high and dry while he’s in a pleated tennis skirt and platform sneakers.
It’s bad enough having to break the news that he now does porn to a guy he dated seriously for most of his college career, never mind finding out that the guy in question will be behind a camera for the duration. Watching Jimin come undone beneath a flood of natural light. Making cuts, adjusting angles, zooming in on the slippery slide of a cock disappearing inside of him.
For just a moment, Jimin at least had the safety of the scenario to fall back on. There had even been a sliver of smug pleasure to the thought, the animal display, the principle of porn behavior.
Jeon Jungkook would have to stand there and watch while Jimin took another alpha, unable to object. Unable to show even an ounce of negative emotion. To do so would be to admit defeat. It was the perfect way to wave goodbye — the end of an era. Now even that’s gone, and all because Jimin’s been abandoned at the altar.
“Okay, I think Taehyung’s officially a no-show,” Yoongi announces right on cue, and Jimin winces internally. “An unexpected family emergency is keeping him in Daegu a day longer. The earliest flight out he can manage leaves for Seoul at twelve tomorrow. He apologizes for delaying the shoot — to you in particular, Jimin. Apparently, he’s a big fan of your work.”
“Oh,” Jimin says, ears pleasantly warm. “Please send him my thanks, hyung-nim.”
“And number, I’m assuming?”
“No! Because I am not seducing your employees!” Jimin swipes hurriedly at his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Ah, I’m seriously sweating buckets …”
Kim Seokjin, Jimin’s favorite of the stylists by far, darts forward to say, “No buckets here.” He blots at Jimin’s hairline with a hand towel, then holds up a spray bottle and releases a cascade of cool mist right into Jimin’s face. “You’re just naturally dewy.”
Jimin lets out a soft noise, eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you, Seokjin-ssi.”
“So polite! I thought I told you hyung was fine,” Seokjin says, rewarding Jimin with a few more face-spritzes.
“I think I’d better not, or Yoongi-hyung will assume I’m trying to seduce you with my omega wiles,” Jimin says.
He can see how that might be popular opinion about someone who moves through the world in the way that he does: beaming and bright-eyed, with a bushy tail to boot.
Jimin has been told before that he makes it look natural — even easy — but loving has never been the hard part. It's letting go that's most difficult, and that's a lesson he's still trying to drill into his brain, with little success so far. So ever.
It's true that Jimin has never encountered someone he couldn't convince. Someone he couldn't cradle in his small hands, if he really wanted to. Someone to turn up to the light, like a little glass figurine. Resistance is rare, he's found, in the face of his moon-eyed smile.
He recognizes that this is a delicate balancing act. In the wrong hands, it could even hurt others. But though Jimin is capable of collecting people like trinkets, it has never been his preference. He doesn't like using his powers for evil. He would much rather funnel all his warmth and greed into the small but special group of people he's accumulated since childhood.
Jimin saves his grabby hands for that group and for the most part, they've followed him through life's messiest milestones. He's lost very few along the way. Those who have fallen through the cracks he sometimes still catches himself flexing his fingers for, when his mind is at its most unguarded and he's ambling aimlessly through the aisles of history.
One person, in particular.
Contrary to Min Yoongi's beliefs, however, Jimin is terminally single and in no rush to change that. Probably. Definitely. Undeniably.
Well, up until three hours ago, it had been extremely low on his list of priorities. So low as to sit at an unassuming simmer, like a tea kettle burbling in the background of his little studio apartment. Then Jeon Jungkook came along and threw everything good and normal off course and now the kettle is shrieking and Jimin is at risk of starting a grease fire and his smoke detector would be beeping but he needs to replace its batteries and keeps forgetting and also his tea is almost certainly burned, so what will he have with his Choco Biscuits now? Sadness, that’s what!
Jimin is not going to examine the emotional wreckage of his life any further. Not until he’s back home and has two fingers shoved up his ass, most likely. And also a scented candle lit. Ass play and scented candles, in that order, always make him more honest.
Beside him, Seokjin snorts indelicately and aims his spray bottle’s nozzle into the air, letting the mist rain down from above. “Who cares about that old man?” he says. “Ignore him. You and I, Park Jimin, we are strapping young men rejuvenated by the fountains of youth. Fossils like Min Yoongi are beneath us — literally. As in, we’d need an archaeology crew and several pieces of heavy machinery to unearth him.”
“That is tap water filtered through a Han River treatment plant,” Yoongi says, from outside their little circle of mist. “And you’re like one year my senior.”
Seokjin spritzes him.
Yoongi blinks, once, like a drenched cat. Jimin tries his very best to school his expression, but a moment later he’s hiding a hysterical laugh behind Seokjin’s (generous) shoulders.
“Stop flirting on the clock!” Yoongi barks.
“I’m not flirting! I’m fraternizing! There’s a difference!” Jimin barks back.
“You two, yapping like little puppies.” Seokjin shakes his head. “Enough. You’re too young for me anyway, Jimin-ah. I mean, really, you look like you just graduated yesterday.”
“Summa cum laude,” Jimin says, with a deliberately comedic bow. “Thank you.”
“Cum, you say,” Seokjin says gleefully. “The Romans are a wanton bunch, I’ll give them that. But you know, I would not have pegged you for the top student type.”
“Pegged, you say.” Jimin then pauses. “Wait, was that a top/bottom joke?”
Yoongi groans and sets off to fetch one of his assistants.
“I can see now that it was,” Jimin says.
“My humor,” Seokjin says, “is like an onion.”
“Makes people burst into tears,” Yoongi says on his way back over, assistant in tow.
“Shut up. You stole that punchline from Shrek. Okay, okay, fine, I instigated the thievery. DreamWorks can take it up with my lawyers!” Seokjin turns pleading eyes on Jimin. "That my lovely coworkers will help me pay for ... ?"
Jimin holds his hands up. "Don't look at me! Like you said, I'm a recent college graduate and this is my first professional studio gig. The contract check hasn't even hit my bank account yet."
"Ah, so I was right, then?"
“Well, I didn't graduate as recently as yesterday, but,” Jimin says and brushes his skirt flat. He tries not to let his mind venture too far into all of the memories now bubbling up. One mention of college is all it takes. “I finished my degree at Seoul National University a few years ago, then enlisted a little while later.”
“Oh, SNU!” Seokjin says, tucking his spray bottle into his makeup belt. “Another alumnus on our roster! What did you major in, being cute?”
“Applied life chemistry and mathematical sciences double major, actually."
Seokjin whistles, eyebrows inching up his forehead. “Huh …” he says faintly. “What’s two plus two?”
“Five,” Jimin says, supremely sardonic.
Seokjin laughs, a high, happy sound. “Fair enough. Just don’t let Namjoon hear you recite your majors or he really will try to take you out to dinner.”
“Porn is certainly an interesting way to go about improving your STEM career prospects,” Yoongi breaks in, and begins signing the sheaf of papers his assistant holds up to him.
“Don’t listen to him,” Seokjin says to Jimin. “He hates higher education.” Then, to Yoongi: “You, shut up and sound impressed. I bet you can’t even do long division!”
“Long division or sucking dick.” Yoongi holds two hands out and pretends to weigh them like tipping scales. “I know which skill I’d prefer to cultivate.”
“How are those at all comparable!” Seokjin says.
“In a life-or-death situation, which do you think is getting you out alive?”
“Well, that really depends on context, doesn’t it? If your assailant is out a calculator and desperately needs an answer to their equation in the next five seconds — bang, you’d already be dead.”
Yoongi shakes his head, back to signing with his ballpoint pen. “I wouldn’t let it get that far in the first place.”
“Are you saying … !” Seokjin says, sounding strangled. “You’d just! Offer to suck your assailant’s dick right there! On the spot and everything!”
“Hm,” says Yoongi.
Jimin says, “Some of us can suck dick and do long division. Not that it matters.”
Yoongi pauses, lips compressed. It’s the closest to laughter Jimin has seen from him all day. Then he’s clicking his pen and reaching over to clap Jimin on the shoulder. “Color me impressed, Park Jimin.”
“Yes, you are certainly a very decorated SNU graduate,” Seokjin says, with just enough humor to make it clear that there is a sexual innuendo buried in there somewhere.
Jimin ducks his head, eyes curving. “Me and Namjoon-hyung both.”
“And Jeon Jungkook,” Seokjin says, shattering everything. “Or, well, I suppose you can’t call him a graduate, technically. Not yet, anyways.”
Jimin feels his face do — something. He tries to push the reaction back like a wave of rising nausea. Unsuccessful, he stands there in his white sneakers and pleated skirt, staring out at the sprawling tennis courts and crisply cut rose bushes. At Jeon Jungkook behind the nearest net, squatting over a dark camera bag and saying something inaudible to the omega from earlier.
“Jeon Jungkook?” Jimin hears himself say, soft and gut-wrenching.
“Yeah, you don't know him?" Seokjin says.
Jimin says nothing, feeling flayed open, and Seokjin continues on as though nothing is amiss.
"Alpha with the thighs trying to burst their way out of his jeans? Covered in tattoos? Has eyes that ‘sparkle like Busan’s brine?’ You can’t miss him. Has he not introduced himself to you yet? He’s usually very conscientious about that kind of thing, so that’s strange, although … I think he might be feeling a little under the weather. He tried to call in sick today but didn’t sound at all congested like he claimed and then he said something about parakeet-sitting for his neighbor, to which I responded, ‘If you sit on that poor parakeet, it will very likely die!’” Seokjin chatters, seemingly oblivious to Jimin’s inner turmoil. “Please excuse any impropriety from him for now! I think he’s going through a personal crisis along the lines of canceled gym membership or possibly Valorant losing streak …”
“I was very adamant that he be here today,” Yoongi agrees, “since he acts as lead director on most of our projects. If nothing else, I asked that he oversee Hanbin for the first hour of filming. Otherwise, Hanbin will be filling in for Jungkook while we work with you and Taehyung. Once I'm finished signing off on these, we can discuss plans for the rest of today.”
You can miss him, actually, Jimin thinks, with the kind of ferocity he's tried to grind into oblivion since the breakup.
It’s never worked with Jungkook, despite the distance. Despite the yawn of time, gaping open between the Jungkook of then, tender to the touch in washer-worn college crewnecks, and the Jungkook of now, with the long hair and the huge thighs and the strange, inscrutable staring. With the darkly averted eyes, so quick to slip past Jimin, like he’s become a creature beneath notice.
Even when Jungkook was just another no-name alpha ducking into their lecture hall, Jimin could read the cues coming from those eyes crystal clear, the heat and the embarrassment, the ripple of violence whenever his gaze landed on Jimin and found him less than cooperative, still as shameless as ever. Jungkook had been so much like a puppy — sulky, predisposed to pouting, hanging off of Jimin’s wrists to intercept another bite of microwaved noodles without asking for permission first.
But he’s new now. And if it’s true that he’d tried to call out of work today, he must have known. There was no way he could have avoided it, Jimin reasons. Directors are briefed beforehand, on script and setting and cast of characters, aren’t they? They understand the intimate details of the filming process. So he’d seen Park Jimin listed somewhere in the script, maybe over coffee at a conference table in Gangnam-gu, and he’d tried — and failed — to politely withdraw from the project, without tipping his hand.
To what? To … spare Jimin the reunion? Fend him off, maybe, like Jungkook knew or at least suspected Jimin of his unrequited feelings, even from very far away? Could he smell it coming off of Jimin? Was that why he’d been making that face when Jimin peered through his legs and found Jungkook staring openly at him?
But no, that’s not physiologically possible. Not beyond detecting notes of arousal in another wolf’s scent profile, and Jimin hadn’t had time to get aroused before he’d cut and run.
“Fill in?” Jimin echoes hollowly.
“Jungkook thought this would be a good opportunity to let one of the other camera operators step up to the plate,” Yoongi says, without any inkling that he’s probably playing into a clever little cover story.
Ah, I just think Hanbin would make a great fit for this project! No need for me to be there! Why don’t I leave all the filming to him? Call me if you have any questions. Or something along those lines.
Jimin grabs Seokjin's wrist with something almost panicked. “Wait, sorry, did you say he’s not technically an SNU graduate?”
“Hm?” Seokjin half turns to face Jimin, gaze inquisitive. “Oh, he attended for about three years before dropping out his senior year. I think he wanted to enlist early, get it over with and such. You’d have to ask him for details, though.”
No. That can’t be right. Jimin had met Jungkook during the first of those three years — and that's its own meandering love story.
The Jungkook of before — of then — could be called lanky, even lean, like a sapling tied to a wooden stake, still growing into itself. His eyes were very wide, doe-like, and his bangs fell across his forehead at a slant. It was clearly a high school haircut he had yet to effectively phase out. Jimin would help with that later, in the dorm showers on their floor, a damp towel draped across Jungkook’s bare shoulders, his head lowered over one of the small sinks while Jimin took a pair of scissors to his terrible (endearing) bowl-cut.
An atypical alpha, at least at first glance, but still Jimin felt himself hooked from that first moment their eyes met across the SNU lecture hall.
They had elective overlap, despite their difference in age — The Elements and Structural Principles of Music, taught by a Professor Sung, funnily enough, which Jimin had enrolled in on a whim as he was listening to a 2008 TVXQ! album while wine-drunk and thinking very deeply about washboard abs. So, less than noble motives.
The same could not be said of Jeon Jungkook, the baby-faced freshman who was secretly self-producing an EP during his studio time on campus. It would take Jimin quite a while to find this fact out and only after they’d started dating seriously. Jungkook was a not-so-secret romantic in that regard, and had assembled a Jimin-specific bucket list a few weeks into their relationship with bullet point items like:
- first scenting @ Han River under the stars? bike back? BBQ to go?
- play Jimin title track during sex. will make come (cum?) at 2:27 exactly. loop song until successful.
- bullet train back home — meet family. sleepover swap? chuseok or christmas? Jimin’s house or mine first? maybe Jimin’s for chuseok (food) and mine for christmas (gifts)? decide on train seating positions. i will give up window, for a price (hand-holding? bathroom blowjob?). make sure he falls asleep on shoulder.
Another secret Jimin would discover at a later date, after wrestling a red-faced Jungkook for the dreaded Jimin Notebook. Jungkook had thrown Jimin off his scent this long by scribbling public diplomacy in the age of globalization across the front of the notebook — “Boring!” Jimin cried upon discovery, with shouted delight. “So boring, Jeon Jungkook-ah, you’ve been keeping your dirty, filthy sex secrets in here all along! What have you written about hyung!” — and the only reason the notebook had been revealed at all was because Jungkook was trying to win an argument by proving with dated evidence that he’d always planned on saying ‘I love you’ first, his hands shielding every bucket list item from view but #13, written two and a half months into their relationship: tell Jimin i love him the next time i see him, circumstances permitting (consider scenery, time of day, current outfit).
“Two months in!” Jimin couldn’t stop yelling, his omega over the moon. His volume levels were going to inspire noise complaints for sure. “Yah, is my ass really that great!” and then Jungkook tackled him into the sheets again, teeth snapping while beneath him Jimin giggled uncontrollably, flailing limbs and choked gasps, and on and on this went until finally Jungkook capitulated to Jimin under offers of sex — “I’ll let Jungkookie knot if I can look … can come inside and everything, Alpha …”
It had been a mad dash then, Jungkook scrambling out of his basketball shorts and pinning Jimin to the bed belly-down, so that he was fucking in with help from his haunches, deep, rhythmic strokes that rocked the bed into the wall, fists white-knuckled against the creaking headboard. Jimin panted and whined and canted back for it, ass in the air, his leaking cock chafing against the sheets, occasionally reciting items from Jungkook’s bucket list and cooing over cuteness, mostly enjoying Jungkook’s giant dick like a lazy, sunbathing cat. He’d been flipping between pages when Jungkook’s knot flared to life and stuck, swollen bigger and harder than Jimin had ever felt it, and then his concentration crumbled and he came untouched, notebook landing on the floor with a thump, pages flapping, his alpha’s teeth set gently against the blade of his shoulder as he was pumped full to bursting.
But that had all been later — much, much later. Before that, they’d been nothing more than classmates seated on opposite sides of the room. Jimin always sat on the left, as it afforded him the best view of the grassy quad and the rare fat hare, Jungkook on the right, directly beside Professor Sung’s baby grand, so that he could peer curiously at her fingers during a live demonstration.
For the first two weeks of the semester, neither uttered a single word to the other, although Jungkook was prone to zoning out in Jimin’s direction. Jimin briefly flattered himself that his omega was just that sweet-smelling, irresistible to doe-eyed alphas even at a distance. Then he realized it was his food — hastily heated up convenience store junk, sometimes leftovers from the student cafeteria — that Jungkook was gazing at in the middle of lectures.
It became a bit of a game after that, showing up to class toting a new spicy Nongshim noodle cup, mixing loudly — audibly — with his chopsticks while his classmates glared, stirring up the scent of steaming food until he could feel Jungkook’s gaze boring into the side of his face. Jimin was a hungry omega. He had exactly ten minutes of downtime between his Tuesday/Thursday classes, which meant scarfing down an early lunch or going hungry until dinnertime, so.
Okay, and, yes, he could admit that he found the idea of corrupting a cute face personally appealing. All of his previous boyfriends had been older, brawnier, more experienced, which wasn’t unenjoyable, per se, but it was also nothing to write home about. And, yes, it was also true that Jimin liked to lap up most kinds of attention like a kitten with a bowl of cream. But Jungkook’s attention was uniquely belly-tightening, like he was unaware of his own power or even the effect his heavy gaze had on others, his fists curled tight around the edge of his desk. He had big knuckles, too. They’d look good tattooed.
It was all well and good, this little private game of Jimin's, except a week later, Jimin was fumbling to finish his summer melon salad outside of the lecture hall before class started — he could not justify making a public spectacle of a meal this unsexy — when Jungkook pulled to an abrupt stop less than a meter away, like he'd decided to take an unexpected detour. Jimin had been trying to fit a chunk of cantaloupe between his lips, jaw unhinged, mouth half-stuffed, when he felt that sudden shadowy presence and his brain lit up under fragrant notes of warm fabric, fresh from the dryer and everything.
Jimin blinked up at the alpha, cheeks bulging around his unchewed melon. He felt himself beginning to blush.
Jungkook sighed and readjusted his backpack by its straps, like Jimin was keeping him. Wasting his time or something. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
Jimin made an indecipherable noise — an mmrph? — trying his best to phrase it like a question.
“Eating like that.”
Jimin chewed quickly and swallowed, almost choking in his haste to continue their conversation. “Eating like what?” he said innocently. Perfect. Totally convincing.
Jungkook lifted a hand and gestured at Jimin’s body, a sweep from head to toe.
“What does that mean?” he said, preemptively affronted and not sure why. Was that a comment on his weight?
“Have you ever heard of food porn?” Jungkook asked, expression solemn.
“I.” Jimin paused to regroup. “Like … the Instagram videos with the drizzled chocolate sauce and fluffy pancakes? Slow-motion and sweet music? I love watching those.”
Jungkook didn’t comment to confirm or deny. He just said, “You belong in one,” like a knife coming down. Shick-shick! Onion sliced. Tears incoming.
Jimin sat with that a moment, then decided he liked the tone and delivery both. “Thank you,” he said, smiling.
“It wasn’t a compliment,” Jungkook replied and started for the classroom. “Stop eating so erotically. It’s distracting.”
“Well — I’m taking it like one!” Jimin shouted after him. “And who do you think you’re talking to like that! I’m your upperclassman!”
That night, when his roommate was out for drinks at his departmental Membership Training, Jimin opened up an Incognito tab and typed food porn into his search bar. The results were abysmal. Too many food influencers trying to sell him cookware and restaurant menus. He went to Agust D dot com and tried his luck one more time, then buried his face beneath his pillow when the first result displayed an alpha eating whip cream out of his partner’s asshole, his nipples partially hidden behind strategically placed strawberry slices.
Jimin blindly clicked play and went cold with shock as enthusiastic slurping noises immediately filled his dorm, followed by a moan of ecstasy and an, “Eat me harder, baby!”
Surely that was not what Jungkook had been referencing.
Jimin broke out the Nongshim black noodle bone broth cups the following Thursday, daring Jungkook to ignore him now. He was ready to be indignant about it and everything, kicking his feet under his desk like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but as soon as Jimin peeled the film back and watched a waft of steam go up, Jungkook’s head had turned inexorably in his direction.
Jungkook had his chin on his desk, face tilted sideways. His mouth was not quite pouty, but neither was it pleased to find that Jimin had not, in fact, let up on all the food eroticism.
Jimin raised his eyebrows from across the lecture hall and slurped his first bite down, cheeks hollowing obscenely. He made a little moan — totally innocuous, not at all erotic — as it went down, and gasped against the heat, leaning back to pant away the spice. Then Jimin tipped him a sultry look, throat bared, mouth red and wet, which got immediate results, because the beta sitting beside Jungkook glanced up sharply like his scent profile had just changed.
She scooted away a little on her plastic seat, nose wrinkled.
Jimin smirked and crossed his legs at the ankles, raising his eyebrows as if to say, you want a bite? Of what, he would not specify.
Jungkook looked away abruptly and the line of his jaw got very defined, like he was grinding his teeth down hard. And then! Best of all! He unclenched his hands, flexing them so that the tendons stood out in sharp relief, and his mechanical pencil clattered to the desk in two pieces. It had been snapped down the middle.
Jimin’s omega was jubilant.
“Hey, Jimin-ssi,” whispered Jimin’s omega neighbor, “if you’re gonna spend the rest of class flirting, can you go sit by the alpha you’re trying to bone? You smell like an open buffet and it’s making my head throb.”
“Oh,” Jimin said. “Thank you, I think? And sorry about the smell.” He gathered his things with grace, cup of noodles in hand, and clicked his way over to Jungkook’s side of the room in his little heeled boots.
Jungkook's shoulders stiffened as Jimin’s scent drew nearer, until they were almost by his ears. He swept his broken pencil into his bag with one swift hand gesture, stubbornly avoiding eye contact.
Jimin took the empty seat on his other side, away from the beta. Then he leaned forward until he was forcing his way into the alpha’s line of sight and said, “Did you like my food porn today? I made it just for you.”
Jungkook whirled him a look, nostrils flaring incredulously.
Jimin beamed and held out his chopsticks and bone broth noodles.
Jungkook stilled at once, like a deer caught in headlights. A second passed, syrupy-slow. Then his eyes were narrowing in suspicion. They lingered at Jimin’s face, searching him for cruelty or comedy, some clue as to his unspoken intentions. When Jungkook found nothing worth noting, his gaze flicked down to the noodle cup. He sighed, a quick exhale of defeat, and reached over to take the food off of Jimin’s hands.
“You’re welcome.”
Jungkook grunted into his first bite.
“What’s your name? I’m Park Jimin, but you can call me sunbae or hyung since I’m both smarter and older than you.”
Jungkook scowled at the empty lectern positioned at the front of the room and said into his noodles, “Jungkook.”
“Last name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why do you always stare at me like you want to eat me?”
Jungkook let out a rough noise — almost a growl — and said, “Jeon.”
“Jeon Jungkook,” Jimin said, legs swinging happily, “do you really find me all that erotic? And which part of me specifically? My mouth? Hands? Eyes?”
“All,” Jungkook replied and scooped another bite into his mouth without looking over.
Jimin preened at once, folding his hands over the desk to contain his excitement. “Ah, so that’s what you meant, when you gestured to my whole body. I thought you were calling me chubby!”
“No,” Jungkook said during a pause between bites. Then, like it pained him to do so, he sent Jimin a sideways glance, mouth turned down at the corners. “You need to eat more.”
“Will you feed me, then?” Jimin said and laid his head to his desk, widening his eyes imploringly.
“You’re feeding me.”
“Only for now!” Jimin said. “And don’t get used to it! Hyung isn’t made of money. I only buy food for good puppies. That means you need to behave if you want any more noodles from me, okay? And you absolutely without exception have to call me hyung at all times. So you always know your place!”
“Sure,” Jungkook said, in a tone that indicated he wasn’t going to make this easy for Jimin.
Except Jungkook wasn’t a slow thaw. As soon as Jimin started doubling up on snacks, he was warm and willing with him, not so silent and unapproachable anymore, a total flip-flop in terms of aura and general scent profile, and he even did things like hold his hand out when Jimin got to their seats before class or turn his head where it was pressed cheek-first to his desk and open his mouth expectantly. He really was like a puppy, tail thumping.
He shared his writing utensils and notes with Jimin in return, since Jimin had recently decided that the Principles of Music were a bit lackluster beside Jeon Jungkook’s side profile and long-fingered hand, working its methodical way across his notebook.
Sometimes Jungkook caught Jimin in the act, would cut him a glance without warning, holding Jimin hostage under the heat of his dark, glossy stare. Jimin was always unrepentant about all the eye-fucking until it was returned, during which point things got a little hazy in his head. That was usually when his belly dropped out from underneath him and his scent started sweetening invitingly, and then Jungkook’s throat got very red and he looked away, tapping out a harsh, disjointed rhythm with the butt of his mechanical pencil.
Jimin hadn’t just known Jungkook. He’d loved him, loudly, in every direction. Enough to skip to the clinic together hand-in-hand and forsake condoms their very first time, enough to check off bucket list items alongside Jungkook, enough to take a train back to Busan that first year, earlier than Jimin had ever dared to do so with a boyfriend before.
They’d been inseparable right up until the very end, when Jimin had broken things off his senior year. Jungkook, still baby-faced, much brawnier, hadn’t looked back once, which had been answer enough for Jimin at the time. There was a saying among his parents — what’s meant to be won’t bleed — and Jimin and Jungkook had bled badly those final few days.
Jungkook, for his part, kept his head down during that last week of his junior year. He’d finished strong. Then Jimin melted away the following summer and they lost contact forever. Or, for right at that moment.
But … dropping out? Out of the question. As far as Jimin had been aware, Jungkook’s grades were near perfect and he was going to secure himself an internship that summer as a directorial assistant with an established production house and — oh.
“Min Yoongi!” Jimin says at an unseemly volume.
Yoongi blinks in Jimin’s general direction, nonplussed.
“Did Jeon Jungkook drop out of college for an internship with your porn production house?” he says, almost vibrating with rage.
“What? No?” Yoongi says, eyebrows raised. “He took an internship with a production house that specialized in animation and idol music videos. I just so happened to know the director he was working under at the time.”
“So you later seduced him into filming porn for you!”
“Jimin,” Yoongi says calmly. “I told him he had a full-time job waiting for him here once he completed his military service. So he had that cushion to fall back on, if he wanted it. He enlisted as soon as his initial internship ended.”
Jimin feels himself deflate, mouth closing on a hundred new questions. “Oh.”
“Should I ask why you’re personally invested in one of my employee’s pasts?”
“No,” Jimin says and crosses his arms defensively. “You should not. It’s just … I wanted to know more about why he'd dropped out. I … didn’t know it was that easy to find work without a degree.”
“So you heard college drop-out and made an immediate leap to directorial internship … ?”
“I am a deductive thinker, hyung-nim. People fear me for this reason precisely.”
“Uh-huh,” says Yoongi. “Well, Jungkook is a jack of all trades, if that’s what you’re worried about. He does a lot of commissioned work for different companies on top of all the porn production. Music production, too. I think he also did a brief comic run sometime last year — drawing variant covers for a popular webtoon series.”
“I’m not worried,” Jimin interrupts, in such a way that it is immediately apparent he had been worried, just a moment ago.
“Your posture says otherwise.”
Jimin consciously unlocks his shoulders, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides. “Hm? What do you mean?”
Yoongi gives him a long, penetrating look.
“I heard V-hyung is stranded on a Daegu farm with a pregnant goat? Apparently he’s the leading expert on goat labor among his family,” comes a low, sweet voice, and when Jimin turns, Jungkook is leaning his weight on the tennis net a meter away, tattooed fingers tangled in the mesh.
That is highly improper tennis etiquette — deliberately nonchalant and frowned upon by the tennis establishment, too — but who could complain with a view like this? From this angle, Jungkook's jaw is sharp enough to slice someone open. His biceps are bulging and he's slung his camera bag across his chest, a diagonal slash that only serves to further emphasize how prominent his chest has gotten since Jimin saw him last.
The shirt is partly to blame for all the pec emphasis; the fabric is entirely too tight to be appropriate for a public setting. This fact has not deterred Jungkook in the slightest, but he's at least added a jean jacket on top since their earlier ass debacle, so.
Small victories, Jimin thinks, sadly.
Bigger losses: Jungkook isn't looking at him at all, gaze held fast on Yoongi.
Yoongi grunts in acknowledgment. "I didn't ask him for details."
"Luckily, you have me for that," Jungkook says. Jimin can see now that taking up a deliberately nonchalant pose had been intentional. He's trying not to telegraph his unrest. A second later, though, he's cracking his neck — left and then right — and fussing with the tennis net's vinyl headband. "So I'm guessing we're postponing the shoot then? If that's the case, I think I'm gonna head out early. Got a parakeet to kill."
Seokjin gasps, appalled, where he's been pilfering from the craft services table for the last several minutes. "You take that back right now, Jungkook-ah!"
“You put the idea in my head, hyung,” Jungkook calls, grinning easily. The expression slides off of his face as soon as his eyes return to Yoongi and he re-registers Jimin’s presence beside him.
Jimin can tell because his jaw pulses and his knuckles begin to blanch against the tennis net. That, and his stare gets even more laser-focused, like he is pouring all of his energy into not looking at Jimin. It must be quite the task, if he’s almost popping a vein in an effort to keep his eyes averted.
“I’m running through our options in my head,” Yoongi answers.
Jungkook’s eyebrows go up. “Which are … ?”
"Well, the most obvious is to pack everything up and reschedule the shoot for sometime in the next few weeks," Yoongi says. "I'll need to see about renting this place out again if we decide to continue with the original script, which will take some coordinating."
Jimin frowns. "After all this prep? That seems like a waste. Plus, hyung-nim, I feel very strongly about today's styling. As in … it took me twenty minutes to find a skirt that would fit. I went through at least two waistbands this morning!"
"No one to blame for that but your quote 'fat little omega ass,' unquote," Yoongi says. "Knowing your wardrobe history, you should have started with elastic."
"You don't need to say 'quote unquote' if you're the original source, you know," says Jimin. "You can just assume that we're already well-aware of all your best hits."
Yoongi ignores that. "Option two."
"Option two?" Jimin parrots, voice climbing an octave. Historically, Jimin has always hated option two.
"You raise some valid concerns about wasted efforts. What we can do is try to salvage this concept somehow by working with what we currently have," Yoongi says, then adds, tone wry: "Anyone here catch your eye?"
"You can't be serious," Jungkook says flatly.
Jimin blinks, gaze bouncing between the two. Jungkook is, as ever, avoiding eye contact with him. Jimin is starting to think maybe he's taking his you can't look at that anymore! a bit too literally.
Across the tennis net, Yoongi's expression is its own kind of challenge, something like amusement glimmering beneath, but Jungkook doesn't seem at all cowed. Rank is apparently irrelevant to him here. Jimin tries to understand the nonverbal conversation unfolding, to no avail. He has no idea how to read between the lines with these two. Their micro-expressions are flitting by too fast to catch.
"At the very least," Yoongi says to Jimin, without looking away from Jungkook, "we can film a few solo teasers here, if that sounds like something you'd be interested in doing. Make use of the set while we still have it for the next five hours. What are your thoughts on that, Jimin?"
Jimin shoots Jungkook a suspicious look. "As opposed to what? Because I generally don't mind filming solo stuff, but … it might be a little awkward in this setting. Contextually and visually. Bedroom fingering makes sense, hyung-nim. I can even get away with a bit of public bathroom fingering, if I've taken the right precautions beforehand. But tennis court fingering? That's a stretch, even for me."
"Literally," Yoongi says.
"Yes, thank you for that," Jimin says, only it doesn't come out at all thankful. "Is there an option three?"
"There is," Yoongi hedges, then turns his pensive gaze on Jimin. "Option three would be filming alongside someone who's currently on set."
Jimin pauses to digest that. It sits in his belly like a brick. He hears himself say, "Huh? Wait … do you mean … having sex with … with an Agust D crew member?"
The idea sounds a little ludicrous out loud. Okay, a lot ludicrous. Jimin's face goes warm for reasons he doesn't really understand, and then, involuntarily, his eyes are drifting over to Jungkook, drunk on a sudden white-hot vision of those big-knuckled hands digging into his little hips.
Within seconds of the image hitting, Jimin's omega has gone up in flames, already yowling for more. The feeling is clawing at Jimin's belly now. Collecting in his thong, a small dribble of need. He clenches up against it.
Jungkook's head immediately turns in his direction — a sixty degree swivel — and then his gaze is slamming into Jimin with physical force. Like he's scenting the air for that sudden undercurrent of arousal.
Jimin waits for — he doesn't know what. Gloating, maybe. But Jungkook isn't celebrating Jimin's misfortune. His expression is scrupulously blank, giving absolutely nothing away.
Jimin feels a whine building and shoves it back as guilty heat goes through him. His defenses are down. He's been starved of Jungkook's attention for too long, and now, faced with unlimited access to it, he wants more. Wants to bathe beneath it like a swell of Busan seawater. It must be showing on his face, that whiny unbridled need, because Jungkook presses his lips into a thin line and makes his fists go flat where they're flexing restlessly against the tennis net.
"Not just any random Agust D crew member, but yes," Yoongi says, with a strange note of apology.
Jimin breaks free of Jungkook's stare with a sudden blink, cheeks ablaze. He drops his eyes to Jungkook's big knuckles and they still at once, no longer restless. "You're asking me to seduce one of your employees, then."
"Well, it would be acting, but … temporarily, yes, certain seduction would be permitted in a select context," Yoongi says with a huff of a laugh.
"Right," Jimin says, strained, and glances away from Jungkook.
"And the pickings are slim, don't get me wrong," Yoongi says, so that any hope he'd be conveniently paired up with one Jeon Jungkook dies an immediate fiery death.
Jimin will have to choose between a slew of strangers he's only had one or two conversations with, then. Still, that might be easier than allowing his most mortifying sex fantasy to flare to life, even if his omega finds the idea of filming with a random crew member hard to swallow. The emotional whiplash of the last thirty minutes has left both Jimin and his omega wind-battered.
"Three here today have also been in front of a camera for an Agust D production at some point, which means they're already comfortable with the idea of fucking on film. They will have all submitted to recent STD screenings as well — and I can have that printed for you right away," Yoongi says, already gesturing his assistant over.
"To be honest, I'm … I'm a little bewildered. I mean, yes, I'm okay with the idea of it, but …" Jimin says and folds his arms behind his back to neaten his posture. "To clarify … you let your crew participate in your … um, films?"
"We prefer not to outsource our talent," Yoongi jokes, rueful. "And to answer the question I can tell you don't want to ask … I am very rarely the catalyst. It's always their choice and often it's a curiosity born of working behind the scenes for so long." A pause. Then: "It's also an incredibly efficient way to have safe sex without any emotional pretenses."
"You outsourced me," Jimin says. He waits, the silence thickening. "Hyung-nim … ? What about me? I'm outsourced!"
"Fat little omega ass," Yoongi says succinctly.
"Yoongi-hyung," Jungkook says, with that same admonishing tone from before, and then nothing else.
Jimin turns to stare at him, hot-eared.
"He doesn't behave like this normally," Yoongi says in explanation, to Jimin specifically.
"Yes I do," Jungkook says, also to Jimin, before realizing himself and glancing swiftly away, throat reddening.
"Okay," Jimin says, enthralled to finally be addressing each other directly. "I believe you."
(He does not, to be clear. What Jungkook doesn't know won't kill him, though. It will, however, prolong this conversation, which is entirely too tempting after three years of absolute silence.)
Jungkook's gaze snaps back to Jimin. His eyes narrow, alert to the unspoken challenge in the air.
Chalk it up to years of seamless communication. They're right back to their days at SNU, the thread of tension between them moving at a musical thrum — partly verbal, partly physical. Jimin can sense it again, like a scent in the air, the way that their bodies are recalibrating under these new conditions, small movements to streamline that same boiling heat from before.
"You don't," Jungkook says, with deadly calm.
The words land in Jimin's belly with a fizzle of delicious warmth. He rocks back on his feet, soaking up the sudden attention. "Okay, I don't," he says, with mirth.
Jungkook's eyes narrow further still. "You don't and you're laughing about it," he grouses.
"Well, someone has to."
"What does that mean?"
"And who are you to stop me anyways!" Jimin says, gathering momentum now.
"The director!" Jungkook says from between his teeth and cracks his wrists in a nonchalant show of strength.
Jimin scoffs, indifferent. "Not anymore you're not."
"According to who?"
"Me and the rest of the crew! And! More importantly! Your boss Min Yoongi!" Jimin says, leaning forward across their little divide to sweeten his tone to tooth-rotting. "You don't have a beret or a mustache, so how much of a director can you really be!"
Jungkook pauses, shoulders abruptly straightening. Amusement wars with anger in his eyes. "… Are you thinking of a mime?"
"Maybe!" Jimin shouts and takes the tennis net in hand to shake the mesh threateningly, his small fingers five centimeters from Jungkook's huge knuckles. "I'm not sure! I was a STEM double major!"
"Oh, is that your excuse?"
"This is not common knowledge!" Jimin says as his voice rises in volume. "I've never taken a single film class before! I'm self-taught! My favorite movie is The Notebook! It makes me cry every time and that's really all I could ask for in a film!"
"I know! It's one of my favorites, too!" Jungkook says, back to leaning forward, and now they're almost nose-to-nose, breathing each other in at a pant, and Jimin can feel his thong getting wetter, drops his eyes to Jungkook's lips almost against his will, his own parting with a small wet smack, all flavored lip balm, and maybe Jungkook tastes that on the air, too, because he looks down his nose at Jimin, flinty, jaw ground down tight, then lower, right at Jimin's plump wet mouth, which is where his eyes stay, a prickling, pin-sharp focus that makes Jimin feel even needier, has him tipping his chin up imperceptibly, and Jungkook responds with a tiny head tilt of his own, and that's when Min Yoongi ruins everything by clearing his throat.
Jimin and Jungkook spring apart almost in unison, taking off in opposite directions of the tennis net. Jimin paces a few meters away, trying to will the heat from his cheeks and also the wetness from the cleft of his ass. He smooths his skirt out with a shaking hand, pretending like he hadn't just been about to come — completely untouched. His dick is a hot, needy pulse below the white ripple of his skirt.
Jungkook has retracted his hands where they'd been in danger of ripping through that thinning mesh and is now stalking away, back towards the camera crew. He confers briefly with an omega who must be Hanbin — the pretty one from before. Jimin can't read his lips at this distance; he needs his extra special eyeglasses for that. He settles for the sight of Jungkook yanking his hair tie out to tidy his bun, the movement of his hands abrupt, angry.
When Jungkook returns a moment later, bangs parted neatly over his forehead, Yoongi lets his eyebrows do all the talking for him.
"What?" Jungkook says, as prickly as a porcupine.
"You know … ?" Yoongi prompts and though he isn't smiling in this moment, it's clear that he wants to be.
"What? No! Of course I don't, I — what? Know what? I don't know anything about anyone — him especially." Jungkook then departs to take another long-legged lap around his side of the tennis court, hands on his hips, head down.
"We'll let him cool off a little," Yoongi says to Jimin.
"I don't need cooling off!" Jungkook yells halfway into his little lap.
"You could fry an egg on your forehead!" Jimin calls, hands cupped around his mouth. His good humor has returned to him.
It's like balance has been restored, Jungkook's heightened embarrassment bringing Jimin's back down to the ground. Equilibrium achieved. Always in conversation, always all tied up with each other.
Jungkook stops mid-step to toss Jimin a baleful look. "One more," Jimin hears him mutter to himself and so begins his second loop around the tennis court, this one slower than the first, more strict.
"I'm very hungry! Please get on with it, Jungkook-ssi, chop chop!" Jimin continues, having a blast with it now, and that's what finally pulls Jungkook to a stop.
Something in that last sentence. It's entirely possible that Jungkook-ssi is no longer as funny as it was when they were dating and throwing that honorific around ironically. It is also possible that Jimin has not uttered the name Jungkook in the alpha's presence in about three years. It leaves a little aftertaste in the air. A discordant hum, like the wrong guitar string struck.
Jungkook turns and fixes his eyes on Jimin. This time their intensity makes Jimin squirm, shifting in his platform sneakers until he feels wrong-footed, like he used to when he still wore insoles and the leather on one side began to lose its shape. Then Jungkook is closing in, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.
"I want a fried egg," Jimin mumbles.
"I would be open to the idea," Jungkook says to Yoongi, when he's reached his side of the tennis net.
"Of what?" Jimin says. "A fried egg? Getting a beret and a mustache? Because you can clearly pull off quite a lot, but I don't think the latter would suit you. And I say that to be kind."
Jungkook stares at Jimin with an expression that says he is currently at war with his baser instincts, probably as relates to strangling Jimin and/or — and this one is likely a little bit delusional, but oh well — humping him into the acrylic asphalt.
"Who are you talking to?" Jungkook says, almost mean.
Jimin starts. "Um. You?"
"Me, who?" Jungkook says, enunciating each and every syllable.
"You, Jeon Jungkook," Jimin says, glaring outright now.
Strangely enough, Jungkook's expression smooths out, right back to calm, like hearing his full name spoken aloud with intention has returned him to his normal course. "Sure that mustache comment isn't coming from a place of personal preference?"
"Nope," Jimin says. "You just don't seem the facial hair type. Sure you're even capable of growing yours out?"
"I grow where it matters, Park Jimin," Jungkook says slowly, with an amused head tilt.
Jimin splutters, at a sudden loss for words. "Wh — what does that even mean — !"
"Guess," Jungkook drawls.
"I dated a guy with facial hair once!" he snaps. "So I really don't care! Couldn't care, even if you paid me."
Jungkook's gaze flares a liquid black. "Congratulations. Hope he made you very happy."
That takes Jimin by surprise. "If I dated him past tense, I think it's safe to assume things didn't work out, but thank you," he says.
"He can still have made you happy, even if things ended badly," Jungkook murmurs, after a pause so fraught with tension that Jimin's hackles actually go up.
"I," he says, then closes his mouth, chagrined, and looks away.
“As I was saying,” Yoongi cuts in, rupturing the sudden tension like a popped bubble, “three people on set are available for impromptu filming today. Last minute casting of this nature is not ... unheard of, exactly, though I'd need to iron out a few details before we jump right in. You can call up your agent if you want to discuss the idea at length, but it wouldn't have to be an elaborate, scripted process like you should expect with Kim Taehyung. I'm thinking we take a more amateur angle — softcore porn if need be, at most ten to thirteen minutes, largely kissing and groping. Maybe handjobs if you're up for it."
"Okay," Jimin says eventually, curiosity piqued. "Who are the three?"
Jungkook folds his arms across his chest, silent aside from a slight exhale. It's almost a snort. He looks like he's biting his tongue, which does not bode well for Jimin.
"Kim Namjoon, Do Kwangsu — typically does sound tech — and Jeon Jungkook," Yoongi reels off, each name a strike to the temple. Jimin can already feel a headache building behind his eyes. "I think Namjoon and Jungkook would be the best options in terms of visual chemistry. Both offer interesting aesthetic contrasts to your look, although … Jungkook is bigger and performs the best in front of a camera."
"But," Jimin says and starts over to clear the sudden catch from his throat. Now that those dark eyes have settled on him, hot and unavoidable, Jimin refuses to meet them. "Um. Namjoon-hyung is clearly much taller … ?"
"I wasn't referring to stature," Yoongi says, dimly amused.
Jimin's mouth drops open. He hadn't wanted to open the floodgates, but now it's all rushing right back, untouched memories of Jungkook's wiry body wedged behind Jimin's on his tiny college single, trapping Jimin against the cool white wall, that huge, hard cock rocking between his slippery thighs as his roommate slept soundly across the room, Jungkook's hurried breaths tickling their way down the back of Jimin's oversized t-shirt, the wondering rumble of an alpha on the edge of release. Fucking the tight, slick place between Jimin's legs, not quite inside, not quite out, just teasing the tip without a condom on, because sleepy sex never included condoms with Jungkook.
It was the messiest that way, and also the easiest, that endless, sticky drip rubbed into Jimin's little hole, a nasty splatter Jungkook liked to play with as he drifted in and out of consciousness, at odds with how hyper-hygienic he was outside of sex. With Jimin, Jungkook could be downright filthy, while dozing off especially.
Half asleep, Jungkook reacted to Jimin's scent and body heat like a wild animal, reduced to pure instinct, always mopping up his own come with his cockhead only to slick it back up the crack of Jimin's ass again a minute later, until Jimin eventually whined in complaint and Jungkook slid inside soft to shut him up.
They woke up that way sometimes, locked together at the hips, to the outrage and disgust of Jimin's quiet, cutting roommate, who seemed to hate alphas and always took issue with Jungkook's presence in their private space.
These are the memories Jimin has worked the hardest to bury.
Before Jungkook, he'd only had two boyfriends that could be considered anything even remotely serious. In other words, both had stuck around for longer than a handful of months, had at some point split the cost of a trip back to Busan with Jimin to meet the small, warm pair of people he kept somewhere by the sea — the ones who'd raised him and who routinely sent handwritten letters to his mailbox unit in lieu of the requisite I love you text messages or phone calls. They always said they didn’t want to distract Jimin from his studies. His old-fashioned parents, perfect and patient. Content to love him across a 325 kilometer divide.
But Jimin had never gotten as far as — as shared domhood with a partner. All the initial research he’d conducted, surface-level stuff about impact play and aftercare, he had conducted independently of his boyfriends at the time. Whenever he thought about proposing the idea to them, he went hot all over with humiliation. He’d have to find a way to explain that his body was wired wrong, or why else would he want it hard enough to hurt? And by then they’d either broken up or dissolved during certain long-distance developments.
Jimin discovered specialty heat clinics shortly thereafter, the kind that offered triannual companion packages. One of those packages included kink-specific sex performed by trained professionals in a controlled environment, which was a lot less embarrassing than his back-up plan (find a fetish club, or meet someone with working knowledge of d/s dynamics to take back to a love motel). He’d gotten as far as a few heats, four, maybe five with a professional alpha dominant, before he met Jeon Jungkook his sophomore year at SNU, and then everything had changed.
I’ve created a monster, he thinks, because, in truth, he had.
They’d both been newborn babies, basically, buoyed by the rigor and routines of college life, still new and uncertain together, when Jungkook had said something along the lines of, “You’re — I’ve never — not like this …” and Jimin had tilted his head to reply, “But you’ve had sex before me, haven’t you?”
And Jungkook had said, haltingly, “Hyung,” as in, I’ve had sex with people, but no one like you.
And Jimin had understood.
Jungkook hadn’t meant the very little that they’d gotten to so far, mostly fumbling over denim and sucking dark spots into each other’s skin. He had meant … the being together, like this, part. Being together with a purpose, without a time constraint, with the knowledge that there would be no one else, at least for the foreseeable future. Jimin understood his meaning then.
He sat up on his tiny dorm mattress, shocked by his own urgency, and said, “Jungkook-ah,” and Jungkook had stared at him with those big wet doe eyes and made a noise in his throat, like, Huh? And Jimin said, “I am going to show you all the ways I want you to be with me. Okay?”
It's one of Jimin’s favorite memories, and so by consequence also the worst. The way Jungkook’s gaze had gone dark, ink-black spills in Jimin’s half lit dorm, like he was determined to see this — Jimin — through. The way he’d sounded when he said, “Show me.” Like it had been scraped from him. Like he was giving Jimin a little piece of himself to hold onto. A little piece to go.
And then Jimin had walked him through the beginnings of domhood. He’d said things like, “I like it when they press me hard here,” and, “It feels good if they put my wrists like this, see,” while Jungkook pored over new material and made himself a patient listener.
It didn't matter where they were when these conversations came up — sitting on the manicured lawn just beyond the Fine Arts & Music building, on Jimin’s worn mattress whenever his roommate was out for his horticulture hobby club, across the table from each other at the Melting Pot, with the big pots of cheese and melted chocolate, the little place they’d discovered together in Gwanak-gu, bordered through the glass windows by Gwanaksan’s craggy, mountainous teeth.
And finally Jungkook had said, “Not they. Just me.”
Jimin thinks he might have been bound at the time — either spread-eagled, or splayed on his front with his wrists hanging from the headboard. Jungkook was in the middle of — something. Fingers up Jimin’s ass, or maybe a toy set to a low, idle vibration.
And Jimin had been right on the brink, so he said, “Uh-huh, yeah,” and then he’d received an unexpected spank for his insolence. Hard, loud, cracked across his left ass cheek.
It sent the fat rippling with a rush of hissed air. Jimin felt himself tense up like a bow, panting open-mouthed against his pillow, and Jungkook, his little baby dom, had said, “Say it.”
Not like a suggestion. He’d gotten the voice down in the last several weeks. Had taken to domhood like a duck to water, perusing articles and blog entries and lifestyle forums, until he understood not just what Jimin liked, but also what he — Jungkook — liked.
“Huh? J-Jungkookie wants me to … ? To say what?”
“‘I like it like this, Jungkook-ah, I like it a lot when they make sure I can’t see, so I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.’”
Jimin made an uncomprehending noise. He’d said that some time ago. Two seconds? Twenty minutes? An hour? Who could say anymore? There were more important things to focus on right then. “Yes?”
He didn’t hear anything from Jungkook’s end of the bed. No shifting, no rasp of fabric, not even a little bit of a pant. Just, “You keep saying them, when there’s only me. Who’s them?”
“Oh,” Jimin breathed, eyelashes fluttering against his damp pillowcase. “Um.”
Another spank, to his other cheek. It caught Jimin on a hump down, so that his hips seemed to be hunching in when the impact came, dripping cock cradled by his velvet-soft sheets. It was good. So good. That startling crackle of pain, the worst a burst and then a cooling sting. Jimin was arching up again immediately, letting out a mewl of apology and spreading his legs as his want leaked down his pink-cheeked ass.
“Ah … ah … just Jungkookie,” he cried, twitching for more in spite of this concession. “Only Jungkookie. It’s only Jungkookie, only he can … only he … he can have me like this. Only for you.”
“Mn,” Jungkook agreed and cradled the burning spill of Jimin’s ass cheeks with his big, rough palms, contented. He rubbed a wordless compliment into them, thumbs kneading at Jimin's fattiest flesh, just beginning to smart from the spanking. It made Jimin's hole go very small, clenching up slickly in anticipation. “Good. Jiminie is being very good for me.”
"'M good," Jimin slurred, nodding vigorously, grinding his sweaty forehead into his pillow. "Jiminie … good boy?"
"Jiminie good boy," Jungkook murmured, almost too husky to hear, and Jimin melted into the mattress, stupid with pleasure.
That’s when he knew for sure that his boyfriend — now part-time dom — had taken on a life of his own. This game had begun as an introduction into Jimin’s private wardrobe of wants, the darkest sex secrets he never showed anyone, because that would mean committing to something he didn’t want to think about with any semblance of seriousness. It would mean shared sexual chemistry, stripped back and vulnerable. The basest of base desires.
But Jungkook was different. Jungkook was warm, and gentle, and trustworthy, and sometimes so suddenly mean that it jolted Jimin right up to the tips of his toes, like an unexpected slap to the face. He'd known that Jungkook had it in him, but to see the proof taking shape before him was another beast entirely. Still, Jimin had suspected as much from the start.
At times, when he invaded Jungkook's space too abruptly or tried to make off with his laptop and books to delay or distract from his studying, Jungkook would snap back, wrench Jimin’s wrists behind his back like Jimin was being a bad boy, or shove him roughly into the nearest flat surface, no warning, until Jimin went pliant in his hold, suffused with the sudden urge to bare his throat in submission and whine, an apology that said, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please, Alpha, though they both knew that wasn’t and would never be true.
Jimin never used alpha as a term of endearment. That would be embarrassing. And degrading, on a level that far exceeded sinking into subspace. No one ever uttered that word outside of terrible porn or erotica written by pandering omegas. Never.
Or at least that was his stance, right up until Jungkook knotted him for the first time, and then Jimin had come screaming around the pulse of that huge, swollen dick, had wailed on Jungkook’s back with his tiny fists, ankles hiked up high and body trembling all over, feverish without signs of stopping. He had catapulted right past subspace and into subzero temperatures, where nothing made sense and his entire body was weeping for something he didn’t know how to name. Not relief. Not exactly.
Something more, and deeper, and he’d cried out for it then, sobbing, “Alpha ... ah, Alpha, it hurts so much, I need … I … I … I don't know, please …” like Jimin’s omega had ejected him from the driver’s seat and taken over.
Jungkook nuzzled Jimin’s throat with a tender coo — a shush, shh-shh, s'okay — making space for himself inside of Jimin’s small body. Then he dealt his final blow: “Arching so good for Alpha … so good, Jimin-ah, perfect little omega taking Alpha's cock. S'big, huh? And you're still taking it, still being so good for me, know just what to do, hm, gonna keep all my cum inside,” and Jimin’s whole body went limp like a kill switch had been triggered.
He felt himself opening up wider to receive Jungkook, to welcome him in, to take everything that he had to offer, and Jimin came again like that — or maybe it was only aftershocks from the first, he couldn’t tell at the time — shuddering for it, thighs falling out of their clench and cock spurting messily between their slick stomachs, and, worst of all, his hands flew to his navel, where the sheer size and scope of Jungkook was distending his belly in an obscene bulge.
Jimin’s fingers trembled there, pressing down on all that cock, testing the give of his flesh with a timid mewl.
Jungkook jerked on top of and inside of Jimin, panting into his neck, sounding young and sweaty and out of his depths, even though he was quite literally buried inside of Jimin’s, and he said, “That’s mine, too.”
Jimin made a questioning noise, all he could manage right then.
“Belly,” Jungkook clarified, and let out a subhuman rumble that Jimin was pretty sure was his alpha intervening, or taking the wheel, whatever. “Mine.”
“S … Stop,” Jimin whispered, and spasmed a second (third?) time. “I can’t come anymore, Alpha. Please."
That — an accidental challenge issued during an alpha's sexual peak — didn't go over well in the middle of a first knotting, half heat-infused because Jimin had been hovering in the stage before a full-on fever for the last week, when he would have to essentially quarantine in the student clinic, and that was its own issue, filling out all the appropriate consent forms so Jungkook could skip four days' worth of classes and hunker down to fuck Jimin numb in one of those hospital-issue cots, which was probably weighing on his mind in that moment because he shoved his knot in deeper, a painful, skin-tightening stretch, and gave a hair-raising growl until Jimin bared his throat and went back to being good again, whimpering, "I'll come more, I can come, please, Alpha, please, I'll do it again, as many as you want, I promise," until Jungkook's wolf quieted and his aggression narrowed down to two fangs scraping against Jimin's throat in a gentle threat.
And then Jimin had come a third time, so. Point taken. He never made that same mistake during a knotting again — at least not unintentionally.
Reliving these memories in the presence of this new Jeon Jungkook is … certainly something. A potent reaction to Yoongi's words. I wasn't referring to stature. And a terrible trip down memory lane, too. The sense-memories always cut the deepest. Teeth. Knot. Touch.
Jimin bites back the retort waiting on his tongue. There's no way that admitting he has intimate knowledge of Jungkook's dick will go over well. He has a feeling Yoongi's already begun to piece their history together himself, which is not a thought Jimin wants to interrogate until he's in the privacy of his own home and can immediately drown out any subsequent embarrassment with a shot of soju. Or five. It depends on his mood, really.
Instead, he says, "You do porn?"
The more important retort, by far. How have they managed to sync up even here, in the unlikeliest of settings? For the last three years, Jimin has devoted a small well of anxiety to thoughts of Jungkook accidentally coming into contact with his content online, how his ex-boyfriend might react in the moment — shocked with embarrassment or horror or revulsion. And he'd been under Min Yoongi's thumb all along, wetting his dick just the same as Jimin?
Well. A little differently than Jimin.
Before he has time to think about the why or how of it, he finds himself softening with relief. He hadn't realized just how much anxiety he'd been carrying around all this time. Without it, he feels lighter, looser at the limbs, like he should be bouncing around on the balls of his feet.
"I've dabbled," Jungkook says, his expression and tone inscrutable.
"With your dick," Jimin says.
"Yes," he ventures, like he's still trying to gauge Jimin's reaction to it all. "I've … dabbled with my dick."
"Your …" Jimin says, then wets his lips when the word won't immediately come.
Jungkook arches an eyebrow, gaze knowing. He's begun to radiate smugness around the shoulders, bigger and more boastful now. Pride is thawing him, Jimin realizes. He's no longer the Jungkook of this morning, wooden and unreachable. He'd been so stiff-backed before. So silent. Watching him now calls to mind their early moments in that SNU lecture hall, when Jungkook had gone from cold to cheerful over the course of a semester. Only the process has been sped up considerably this time around, and Jimin hadn't even needed any spicy noodle cups to get this far.
Just his fat little omega ass.
"Big … ?" Jungkook suggests, as mischief dances behind his eyes.
"No!" Jimin cries hotly. "That is not what I was going to say!"
Jungkook's mouth curves up into a private little smile, just for Jimin, and his nose scrunches up adorably, too. It's a terrible sight. One of the worst Jimin's ever seen, like Jungkook is delighted by the turn this conversation has taken. It makes Jimin's heart pound.
"Guess we'll never know, will we, Park Jimin?"
"We will!" Jimin rushes to say. "Or — I will! Because I do know!"
Jungkook's eyebrow climbs higher still. "You know my dick?"
"No! I don't! I — I mean, stop it, Jeon Jungkook, seriously!" Jimin says, on the verge of climbing the tennis net and then the alpha like the stupid, smug jungle gym that he is.
"Ah, you've forgotten, then," Jungkook says and nods, sobering. "Your mind needs a little refreshing. Why didn't you just say so?"
Jimin just about lunges.
"Ahem," Yoongi says, no inflection.
Jimin turns to him, eyes wide and pleading. He points an accusing finger at Jungkook. "Hyung-nim, he's flirting with me!"
"I can see that very clearly."
"He's flirting back, hyung," Jungkook says, back to leaning his weight on the tennis net.
The view is slightly more scandalous this time around, the collar of Jungkook's t-shirt drooping low to expose a single slice of collarbone and a hint of his bulging pectoral muscles. A chain dangles somewhere near his nipples. Jimin tries to surreptitiously tip forward for a better view, and fails, thighs flexing with the effort.
"Did you want a photo to take home with you?" Jungkook says, almost smirking, and sinks forward another inch, rippling abs just barely visible past the tight fabric of his t-shirt. "Here, have a little something for the road."
Jimin shifts his eyes away at once. "Shut up."
"You were thinking about the size of my dick. Admit it."
"Yes, in the privacy of my own mind!"
"Haah — ?" Jungkook says, in a short, sharp laugh of utter disbelief.
"So it's none of your business, really!"
"What you do with my dick is always my business!"
"I'm not doing anything with it!"
"Yet!"
"What … ?"
"What?"
"You're the one who put the image in my head!"
Jungkook leans back, blinking. His next smile is slow to spread. "I see. And is that the only place I put it?"
Jimin's posture tightens in remembered sympathy — of the slide of that huge, hard dick. "I'm sure you'd like to put it in plenty of other places," he says, after he's recovered himself. "And that's why you're so valiantly offering your services to me and my fat little omega ass."
A flood of alpha pheromones knocks right into Jimin, and the answering wave of scent he sends out — out of reflex more than anything, he swears — seems to startle Jungkook right back, like a splash of perfume to the face. For a moment, they stand there, just breathing each other in, chests rising and falling under the desperate blend of alpha and omega arousal.
What a strange mating dance, Jimin muses.
It reminds him of the few times their cycles had perfectly synced up, the madness of dual mating urges meeting in the middle. That first time, Jungkook had almost accidentally sealed them together with his mouth and his knot, his teeth leaving frenzied nips all the way up Jimin's throat, until he'd bitten down hard just outside the range of mating mark territory. When he'd pulled back, there had even been a gleam of blood dripping from his lips. Jimin's blood. Afterwards, seeing Jimin's neck mottled under all those rabid bites and bruises, the campus physician had to tentatively advise them to separate in the event that they synced up again, unless they planned to permanently bond, and they'd listened, even though it was agony for them both those rare few cycles spent alone.
"So," Yoongi says, into the lapse of sudden silence. "Can I continue or are we still practicing our foreplay?"
"Continue," Jimin and Jungkook mutter in unison, abashed.
"While you two were discussing dick sizes," Yoongi says, "I had the thought that Jungkook has only ever done POV porn up to this point, which presents a problem or two … and in that case, I've decided to revise my initial recommendation to Namjoon and Namjoon alone."
"What?" Jungkook says, sounding inexplicably betrayed. "Hyung … ?"
"POV as in … faceless?" Jimin says.
"Yes."
The images are unavoidable then, a sluice of sudden sex: Jungkook thumbing away a pearl of precum from the head of his perfect cock. Jungkook jerking himself to completion, then painting the face of the omega situated below him on bent knees, tongue out for the offering. Jungkook relaxing into an armchair while that omega clambers into his lap and lowers themself onto the giant cock jabbing into the air. Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook, wide palms and dark pubic trim, with wrists like weapons, poised at the base of an omega's unbitten neck. Hand squeezing down, holding them still for it. Jungkook's sharply indrawn breaths. The tensed ripple of his abs.
"So … Namjoon-hyung, then," Jimin says, to distract himself from the onslaught.
It sounds wrong in his mouth and worse in his mind, is closely followed by a pang of rejection from the omega who's already set their sights on the alpha standing a meter away. Jimin's wolf won't entertain any other hypotheticals. Not after sinking their teeth into Jungkook's dizzying scent — the real thing. Not the distant notes that Jimin has tried to unsuccessfully conjure by memory during a heat.
Yoongi nods. "Namjoon has written and starred in regular scripted porn, so this wouldn't be asking much of him. Jungkook, however …"
"Jungkook, however, what?" Jungkook says and goes back to crossing his arms, biceps made more impressive by the movement. "I'm completely fine with showing my face."
Yoongi looks doubtful. "And yet you haven't for all the time that you've worked under me, so forgive me for feeling a little skeptical."
"I can't have a sudden change of heart?"
"You can," Yoongi allows, "if I consider that change pure of heart and not of dick."
Jungkook looks guileless and guilt-free about it all. "What about me strikes you as impure?"
Jimin half expects Yoongi to send over an appropriately inappropriate reply, like, big dick, but the real thing is far worse than any quip he could have imagined.
"You are not only striking, you are also chafing and grinding and getting your metaphorical dick all over my talent," Yoongi says, then holds up a hand to stop Jungkook mid-sentence. "I will no longer be accepting comments about size at this time."
"I would only grind my metaphorical dick on him with his permission, hyung," Jungkook says, with a slight pout and total earnestness.
"I," Jimin says, furious warmth rising to the surface of his face. "Um, and I would only grind my —"
"Enough," Yoongi bursts out, fitting two fingers to his temples and starting up a deep tissue massage. "Please try to focus, you two. We are running through faceless porn logistics right now. Jungkook?"
Jungkook snaps to attention like a puppy called upon by his owner. "Hm? Right, uh. So should I explain my thought process … ?"
"Please."
"Well. Before, doing porn was a matter of exercising control for me. Holding the camera, even when I was actively participating in a film. That's been an important part of trying to relearn my own body since … in the meantime. And that's a lot easier to do without having to worry about how I look, what people will think or criticize about my physical appearance, whether my privacy will be jeopardized by my choices." Jungkook pauses to take a breath, eyes downcast. "But … in certain scenarios … if a particular person were involved … things would be different."
"Different, how?" Yoongi says, before Jimin can ask that question himself.
"In certain cases …" Jungkook says, with a sideways glance at Jimin that is not at all subtle and makes him feel slightly like he's passing notes with a crush behind his favorite college professor's back, "I would be doing the teaching. Not the learning. Not anymore. And that what's matters most to me."
Dumbfounded heat spears through Jimin.
"So in this certain secret hypothetical … I wouldn't really mind doing a face reveal. Since it's for a good cause and all."
"Oh, fuck you," Jimin whispers.
"Oh?" Jungkook says, eyes alight with amusement. "Were you planning on it?"
"I … you …" Jimin fists the hem of his skirt, flushing bright pink. "J … Jungkook."
"Mn?" Jungkook murmurs and his gaze goes hot, searing through Jimin until he feels as naked and vulnerable as a newborn baby.
Jimin fiddles with his skirt for something to do with his hands, then sends Jungkook an imploring look through his eyelashes. "Be nice to me," he whispers, tapping into the unadulterated power of his pout.
He doesn't know what he expects from Jungkook. An unimpressed snort, maybe? A sudden erection? What Jimin gets instead: a sudden blast of alpha pheromones to the face, almost but not quite heavy enough to recall a pre-rut scent profile, like a huff of hot air from an open furnace. It's more musky than all of their little tennis court moments combined thus far and Jimin nearly collapses to his knees from the force of it, he's so caught off guard. Yoongi must notice, because he puts a hand out to steady Jimin at the small of his back.
In response, Jungkook's top lip curls back and a low snarl issues suddenly from his throat, startling everyone within earshot, including Seokjin, who's currently sailing by with a rice cake platter. He jerks to a stop in the middle of the tennis court, wide-eyed.
Yoongi squints at Jungkook and drops his hand, as though to test a new theory.
The growl abruptly dies in Jungkook's throat. "Uh," he says, after an awkward pause involving more staring and a shivery spurt of slick straight from Jimin's ass. "… Sorry about that. I … don't know what came over me."
"Right, well, I know what you wish had come over you. All over you. Or should I say 'who?'" Seokjin says, then resumes his rice cake delivery mission. "Anyway, I'm going to pretend I saw none of that! No one try to contact me about any workplace drama for the next fifteen minutes, at least!"
"Wise of you," Yoongi says.
“Hyung … listen to logic,” Jungkook says, right back to reasoning. “Namjoon-hyung has starred in two Agust D films to date and I’ve done how many … ?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve exactly, on top of directing around fifty others. So I’m clearly the more experienced option here.”
“Clearly,” says Yoongi, with a funny quirk to his lips. “Although there is the question of that parakeet you were so worried about …”
Jungkook flaps a hand, dismissive. “The parakeet won’t die if I’m gone a little longer. He's a very self-sufficient bird. I'll call and check in later.”
"Hm."
“Hyung, I’m the best fit for the job and you know it,” Jungkook says, with enough political conviction to single-handedly win a local election.
"No such thing as 'best fit' when you're above six inches," Jimin says under his breath.
"Jimin. Please," Yoongi says, his sigh unspoken. "Don't encourage him."
Jimin shoots Jungkook a glance where he's currently at risk of ripping through the tennis net with his bare hands. "Sorry," he says and disguises his laugh with a cough.
“Anyway. There's … merit to your argument, Jungkook, I'll give you that. This would be a good opportunity for you to start branching out artistically.” Yoongi flicks his phone on, then off again a moment later, looking abruptly uninterested in the proceedings. “But ultimately the decision is Jimin’s. Not mine.”
Jungkook’s eyes dart to Jimin, as vast and volatile as the sea. They’re the eyes that Jimin fell in love with. And they're back to lingering, licking Jimin up like they used to, drenching him with questions he can't even begin to fathom. He's still a Busan boy at heart, though. They both are, and one of the first things Jimin ever learned was how to survive the tide.
He shakes his head, trying to dispel the sudden drunken stupor. "Think about your professional prospects, please. Your privacy, as well. Just … please," he says and turns to face Jungkook fully.
"What," Jungkook says, "makes you think that I haven't?"
"Think about it longer, then," Jimin says. "Think about music videos and movies and comic book covers. Think about how all of that changes when you step into this world. This isn't like anything you've done before. This is … me. My world."
"Jimin," Jungkook murmurs. "Even after all this time, you think you know better than me. I already gave you my answer and you're still trying to act out of selflessness to spare my … what? Hypothetical career … ? You can't even begin to imagine what I want. Not since you've known me last."
"But —"
"But nothing. You're not my upperclassman anymore," Jungkook says, like a blow to the gut.
Jimin feels himself reeling, almost shocked speechless. "I'll … I'll always be your hyung, no matter what …"
"Do I get to have a say in this? In any part of what happens next?" Jungkook says.
"I …" Jimin falters. "Of course I, I want you to have a say."
"Then listen to me very carefully. This … right here …" Jungkook says, and sweeps a hand between them, gesturing to both the distance and proximity separating their bodies — their wolves. "This is not going to be like before, when you got to call all the shots. I'm not allowing you to end things without my permission anymore. Okay? You're no longer making decisions on my behalf. So if you say, 'let's not do this film together,' say it for you. Not for me."
"Before … I only did that because I didn't want you to have to give up academics and internships and … and life experiences," Jimin whispers. "Just to follow me to the military."
"And I ended up dropping out anyway," Jungkook says with a casual half shrug. "So who's more stubborn here?"
"Jeon Jungkook, you … you had your entire senior year ahead of you, a budding music career, professors who adored you. And you'd put all of that on hold indefinitely — family and friendships and career prospects. For me. That could have been the worst mistake of your life …"
"So?"
"So?" Jimin repeats, fists clenched at his sides.
"Yup. So," Jungkook says, resolute. "So what if it was the worst mistake of my life? So what if it was the best thing to ever happen to me? It would have been mine all the same. My choice, my responsibility, my desire. Watching you walk away has eaten at me every day since it happened. That means I already gambled everything I had to give. There's nothing else to take from me. So I'm saying … so what? This is what I want. This is what I've wanted since I first met you."
Jimin shuts his mouth on the sudden urge to sob. He shoves his clenched fists at the small of his back and takes a moment to gather himself, head down. "You …" he whispers, glancing up from under his bangs. "You've wanted to have sex with me on film since you first met me?"
Jungkook lets that sit between them a moment. Then he's curling forward with incredulous laughter. "Seriously? What's wrong with you?"
Jimin cracks a small smile. "You couldn't be trusted to act rationally at that age, you know."
"Hm," Jungkook hums. "If I'm still acting that way now, you can't really use the excuse of age, can you? So what will it be instead, Park Jimin? Why am I acting so irrational, huh?"
Jimin pretends to consider this. "Fat little omega ass," he whispers shyly.
Jungkook huffs, hunching over fully, until his trapezius muscles have begun to shift beneath denim and cotton. "Are you going to let me fuck it then?" he says down to the asphalt.
"Jeon Jungkook, you … are you blushing down there?"
"Better distance to your ass."
"You … !"
"No, seriously, it's incredibly fragrant down here. Very flattering, to say the least. I had no idea you were that ready."
"My ass is not my answer!"
Jungkook guffaws, abruptly springing back to his full height. "Then what is? I told you what I want. Now I'm asking about you."
Jimin blinks, taken aback. He opens his mouth. Closes it, face going hot beneath Jungkook's daring gaze.
“All right,” Yoongi chimes in, bringing his arm down between them like a film slate. “Jimin, why don't you take a moment to think about this a little bit? Away from … er … certain conflicts of interest? Maybe consider calling your agent, or your mother. Jungkook, some space, please. You also smell like you're ready to have marathon sex for the next century, just so you know."
"Yeah, but it's weird when you comment on it," Jungkook mutters.
“Five minutes, please,” Jimin says, and turns without waiting for a response.
He's pulling his phone from the depths of his jacket pocket before he can think twice about it, digging around for the tangle of wire earphones. The cord is fraying so bad that sometimes he has to plug it in at a certain angle or the sound goes spotty in one ear. He needs to replace them soon, he thinks, popping the earphones in to test his sound quality on Spotify. He fiddles with the cord for a second and then the volume level.
He can’t afford not to listen for every little nuance in audio right now. He can’t afford to keep up pretenses — that he won’t be listening for nuances, that it wouldn’t matter, that he is above seeking out tiny details in Jungkook’s life away from Jimin, like the way he sounds while sinking his dick inside of a porn star relative to all of Jimin’s collected sex memories of him. If he’ll be able to discern any deception in the way that Jungkook delivers his moans, in the strength behind his thrusts as compared to all the brutal fucking Jimin has taken under the wide span of his hands.
He opens up his browser, fingers already flying, and types out, agust d gay porn.
Maybe adding the identifier is a little excessive, considering Yoongi has publicly pledged to never put out a single heterosexual porn video if he can help it. Oh, well. Jimin likes being thorough and he is trying to locate a very specific kind of porn video.
As the search engine loads, he hurries inside to find an adequate hiding spot. He just needs a little time, is all, to make a decision about Yoongi’s ultimatum. To fuck or not to fuck.
Under normal circumstances, access to this area would be restricted — probably paid for on an hourly basis by a tennis club made up of ancient ahjussis any other Wednesday, too rich not to languish away in this fashion. How Yoongi managed to secure a membership-only tennis club is beyond Jimin, but then, money works in mysterious ways.
According to one of the stylist noonas, these facilities have been around for about a century or so, though they appear to have been renovated recently. A little laminated map by the entrance of the bar and banquet declares all the offerings on hand: atrium, gym, bathhouse and sauna, indoor pools, squash and tennis courts.
You are here! the map says, with a red indicator to tell Jimin that he is currently in one of the small entertainment halls that they rent out, for the cigar-toting tennis club members who probably clink ice into their glasses one cube at a time after a round or two on the courts.
Jimin takes a prompt left into a men's bathroom closed away behind a dark walnut door. It's easy to tell how upscale an establishment is by their bathrooms — the cleanliness and the fanciness both, if they offer full-length mirrors and disposable hand towels, whether they've built upholstered benches into the little waiting area before the urinals and sinks. Jimin doesn't have time to tell right now. If he's quick about it, he can maybe watch two or three of Jungkook's POV films.
He can't help but wonder at their quality on his way over to the stalls. Will the films be heavily edited to cut around all the usual stops and starts, the natural pauses of porn production that separate one position from the next as the actors adjust?
Or — worse, infinitely worse — will they be one-take, barely trimmed down, so long that viewers are gifted glimpses of Jungkook pulling out, performing aftercare, petting the sweaty omega lying in a broken heap beneath him? That would be bad — as in, directly devastating to Jimin's omega.
He tucks himself into a stall, latching the lock with one quick flick, and opens the link to Yoongi's website at once. He always forgets he has it bookmarked until he needs it next, which is rarely. Jimin prefers his imagination to porn, in much the same way that professional chefs despise cooking at home.
He ignores all of the moving thumbnails from the few films featured on the homepage, uninterested. A drop-down menu declares each of the categories available for his viewing pleasure, from omega on omega to mouth-knotting. Jimin scrolls down until he can filter for POV porn and then for popularity from there. Most viewed, with a little dancing flame icon.
He has a sneaking suspicion that Jungkook is one of Agust D's biggest cash cows, although perhaps it's not so sneaky considering what Jungkook looks like, even without any discernible facial features. Unsubtle. Unreasonably, perversely hot, like sex on legs, if sex on legs had sparkly eyes and double lobe piercings. And big hands and thick thighs and a mouthwatering dick and also —
And so, anyway, carrying on! Jimin spots a thumbnail, the second down, with a hand that looks suspiciously like Jungkook's. He doesn’t think. He clicks it.
He'll be able to tell, he really will, and if he can't, then maybe that's a good sign. A sign that his brain hasn't latched onto Jungkook's sex noises or skin blemishes, still swimming around somewhere in Jimin's subconscious all these many years later like leftover CSAT vocabulary. That would mean that he's one step closer to singledom. Seriously!
He thumbs past the animated Agust D intro, barely aware enough to take note of the video's length over the video's opening shot: a long-sleeved arm snaking out and yanking a sleeping omega into an arch with a hand to his dark hair. The other hand flickers into view to rip the blanket from the omega's body, revealing his near-naked form where it's curved into a convenient arch.
Just two quick lashes of movement, whoosh-whoosh, and the foreplay is over and done with. Jimin almost can't believe his eyes.
How had they done that — hands-free filming? Was someone else in on this shoot, angling a camera over Jungkook's broad body? That would be a little relieving, Jimin supposes, less intimate than the idea of two people filming something so low-budget — so informal — away from the assessing eyes of a production team. Or had Jungkook just strapped a GoPro to his forehead and gone to town?
Jimin feels himself snort, then stops. This is not funny. It is very serious business. Terrible business. Awful, even. A betrayal of the deepest kind.
Except no. That's not how porn works. It's a job just like any other — more laborious, and subject to the scrutiny of millions, but a job all the same — even if possibly, perhaps, in some twisted version of reality, Jungkook had ever felt the tiniest smidge of affection for someone he'd fucked on camera. Jimin chooses to bulldoze right past that thought, because it makes his eyes go hot and itchy in a way he doesn't like.
The film is of the silent POV variety, too. No dialogue, scripted or otherwise. Just the small confidential sounds of sex. Fabric shifting, little inhale-exhales as things heat up, the slick sound of a fist closing around a cock caught in the drip of too-much precum.
Jimin's eyes widen comically when one of Jungkook's hands whips out without warning and administers a hard slap to the omega's flank. Not a single order has been doled out alongside the punishment. More likely, the mini spanking session is meant to be interpreted as purely pleasurable.
The message is immediately clear. Get to it.
The omega makes a pathetic porn noise — so obviously embellished for the camera, he should really be putting more effort into this kind of thing! — and lifts his hips into the air, facedown on hands and knees in the universal heat presentation position. When he twists his face free of the sheets, he blinks his eyelashes up at the camera, playing at sleepy.
Jimin wonders what Jungkook's face looks like behind the camera, but then his cock comes into view, huge and spearing into the air, and okay, what's with all the plot holes?
Why is Jungkook naked from the waist down, when he so clearly has a long-sleeved shirt on? To hide the tattoos? Had he fallen asleep without pants on in this cinematic universe? Or showered recently and forgotten to tug on a set of sweats along the way? But no, he'd be damp if that were the case, unless he was very good at off-camera towel-drying and, okay, see … ! The flow of logic is ruining Jimin's immersion!
He glares through his lashes, focusing in again as Jungkook reaches down to pry the omega's cheeks open. And it is Jungkook, that much is now clear. There's not a doubt in Jimin's mind. The big dick is a dead giveaway, not to mention the sculpted thighs and well-groomed groin. Before that, even, Jimin had been able to tell by the length and shape of the fingernails, clipped short, clean, perfect for finger-fucking his partner into a mattress.
Jimin can tell by — this the most damning of all — the sound of Jungkook's sigh as he slips inside the shapely body below him and begins fucking in earnest. Jimin's brain goes perfectly blank beneath the sound.
He's still hot-wired, then, to remember and respond and call out to that sound. To the alpha his wolf craves. He can feel his omega rolling over for it, uneasy and trying to emit wicked waves of scent to draw Jungkook back in, away from whoever the body beneath him is.
Stupid, stupid wolf, Jimin thinks.
He can’t go back outside reeking of sex, but he also can’t look away from the video, not for one moment, eyes glued to the small silver pendant Jungkook is wearing, the way it bounces against his dark crewneck on every fuck in, balls slapping harshly against the omega writhing below him.
He’s panting now, heavy sips of air, and though Jimin can’t see his face, he imagines that sweat is dotting his brow, his hands clasped tight as he watches his cock pull free with a sound of sticky protest, then sink back inside like it’s nothing, not earth-shattering, worth nowhere near upwards of two million views. How could this have garnered two million views?
The things Jungkook has done to Jimin over the course of their time together are so much worse — better — rougher and more magical, and this is what everyone is losing their minds over? A nine-minute POV fuck with a little bit of light spanking?
Calling this groundbreaking when Jimin is living proof that sex can be innovative and exciting and deeply personal, tailored to two people specifically rather than two million, is an insult of the worst kind. But what does he know? He hasn’t been fucked by Jungkook in twelve hundred some days, not that he’s counting.
(He is not. Internal calendars do not count.)
The video is short and sweet, straight to the point. Or, not sweet exactly. Probably closer to savory, the heavy bite of gochujang on the tongue, like licking an open flame. Jungkook’s hands are huge and long-fingered, knuckle tattoos blurred in post, as if that will somehow protect his identity when his gigantic fucking dick is right there to give him away. If you’ve seen it before, at least, and for the last three years it’s felt like the image has been seared into Jimin’s retinas.
And that, really, is answer enough.
When Jimin walks back out onto the tennis courts, Yoongi is holding his ballpoint pen between his teeth and flipping through a thick stack of papers as his assistant takes hasty notes over his shoulder. He beckons Jimin over without looking up, a curt jerk of his head.
"What's this?" Jimin says, joining his assistant in the over-the-shoulder reading. "A new contract? How do you already have that ready?"
Yoongi reclaims a hand to remove the pen from his mouth. "Call it a hunch."
“I have been,” Jimin says. “You really need to work on your posture or you’re going to be a very anguished old man, hyung-nim.”
Yoongi blinks away all the sunshine to turn a glare in Jimin’s direction.
In answer, Jimin smiles, dimpling beatifically.
“One more time: why did I agree to sign you?”
“I believe it was you banging down my door at seven AM on a Saturday to get my signature, actually.”
“Doubtful,” Yoongi says.
Jimin holds out his palm to begin ticking items off of his imaginary grocery list: “As for positive traits … omega, fat ass, my bedroom fingering is very beloved, I photograph well in natural lighting, I have a cute nose, I always remember to tell you to take your grumpy pills on time —"
“That’s not a real thing,” Yoongi says.
“Moreover,” Jimin says, “in your words, ‘you would find a way to develop chemistry with a streetlamp, if we put you next to one for long enough, Jimin.’”
“Doesn’t sound like me.”
“Something something, my ass is the magnum opus on set, the crowning achievement, even, of your camera operators’ careers.”
“Crude,” Yoongi says, with an ironic tilt to his lips.
“Omegas like me!” Jimin chirps. “They don’t grow on trees!”
“Omegas like you don’t grow at all,” Yoongi says. “They remain below the roller-coaster height threshold even after reaching adulthood.”
“Oh, good,” Jimin says, taking this in stride. “We’re in the same boat then. You and I can wait by the trash cans while everyone else rides the roller-coaster, since we’re the same height!”
“Same height — !”
“Right, right, I forgot. You’re one centimeter shorter than me. What a cute alpha you make.”
Behind Jimin, Jungkook snorts. “Not wrong,” he says. “You are a cute little alpha, hyung.”
“Both of you shut up. Jimin, come put your signature on this contract or Jungkook's big dick will remain metaphorical for the time being. Jungkook, stand near the fence and wait for your costar like a good dog."
"I thought we weren't discussing size anymore," Jimin grumbles and takes the proffered pen in hand.
"Aren't you going to at least call your agent first?" he hears behind him.
"I've decided what I want, Jungkook-ssi," Jimin says without hesitation, "so I'm taking it."
Jimin gives the contract a cursory scan. The language is almost identical to the version he had to sign to get to Kim Taehyung's dick. Any edits that have been made are minor, mostly specific to Jeon Jungkook and the unscripted nature of their little impromptu film. Jimin clicks the pen and signs his name on each and every dotted line with a little flourish.
"Done?"
"Done," Jimin confirms, and hands the contract back to Yoongi. "Jungkook? What about you?"
"I signed mine while you were in the bathroom," he says with a self-conscious huff and discards his camera bag a meter away.
Then he squats low to begin re-lacing his sneakers, like he's taken a page out of Jimin's book. Less obscene than doing toe touches in a tiny skirt, though. Watching him work his way through those few simple knots settles Jimin's resolve. They're still well-matched, even three years later. Time hasn't taken that from them, at least.
“Are you that worried you’ll trip as soon as you get your big dick inside of me?” Jimin murmurs.
Jungkook glances up, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “I haven’t forgotten how you get,” he says with a note of subtle disapproval, like Jimin is notorious for acting out of turn, a handful and a half, too uncontrollable to contain.
That’s all it takes. A mere six words, and Jimin is thrust back into his former life as an SNU senior, to the days when Jungkook cheerfully bound and gagged him, incongruous against the maple headboard of his dorm single, afternoon light slanting in through the badly drawn blinds.
Jimin had always enjoyed running his mouth in those moments, pushing the limits of Jungkook’s patience until it inevitably snapped like a bamboo stalk under too much strain. That was usually when Jungkook reached over to dig for all of the sex implements Jimin kept hidden away in his nightstand drawer, buried beneath college lanyards and shonen comics and letters postmarked Busan, South Korea. This was Jimin’s reward: the hot lash of Jungkook’s anger, that childish impatience so quick to fray.
“So used to getting your way, just like that,” Jimin liked to tease, poking, prodding incessantly. “Because you’re the baby everywhere you go. And what now? Now that someone is here to challenge Jungkookie for the throne? Now that someone else is being the bigger brat?” and that was typically when Jungkook’s expression went fiercely intent and he finally took Jimin in hand, flipped him onto his belly and yanked his sweats down over his cheeks, baring him to the breeze.
Not one word uttered, just Jungkook reeling his arm back for a whip-quick spank that sent Jimin shuddering, slick already starting to collect along the cleft of his ass. Jungkook let him sit with the sting, absorbing it like a slap to the skull. Jimin could feel his thoughts rattling around in his brain that way, a pinball bounce — ding-ding-ding, head made hollow as coherence fled him.
“Are you done or do you want more?”
“Want more,” was what Jimin always responded, slurred into his sweaty pillowcase, because he knew what he’d gotten himself into.
He was never more aware of what he’d gotten himself into than when Jungkook reached down to hook the waistband of his boxers beneath his balls, letting the snap of elastic bounce his big dick just a little, just enough to make Jimin’s mouth water. Never more aware than when he murmured, rough as gravel, “Here’s that throne you asked for, then, hyung.”
Jimin always knew with Jungkook, although once, towards the end of things, Jungkook had taken them through all of their usual rituals — had divested Jimin of every last article of clothing, had arranged him across the bed as he pleased, on his back with his wrists above his head, had clicked the handcuffs into place and secured a silk sash over Jimin’s eyes, had even smoothed a large palm down Jimin’s belly until he felt whiny enough to impolitely request his alpha’s cock — and then Jungkook had left him like that. All trussed up on his little dorm single, blind to the world at large.
He’d ducked out of the dorm without explanation. To pick up groceries, Jimin would later learn, keys jangling — Jimin could imagine him spinning his keychain deftly around one finger — a happy whistle leaving his lips on his way out.
The click of the door shutting shook Jimin where his wrists were currently attached to his headboard. He heard himself make a tiny hurt noise as his alpha’s scent vanished and a flood of panic finally rushed in. What if his roommate came back before Jungkook? What if another alpha — an alpha not his own — found Jimin like this, naked and soaking his sheets, laying in his own slick and crying out for it? What if Jungkook took his sweet time? Worse: what if he never came back?
But the little bit of logic Jimin had left brought him back down to earth. Jungkook would never leave Jimin like this. Jungkook would come back. He always did.
When he returned twenty minutes later, ambling around the tiny space, carefully unloading snack foods and sliding them in their rightful place like there wasn’t a squirming omega waiting for his attention a meter away, Jimin had been on his way to unraveling, trying to fight his blindfold, panting into the open air, wet up the small of his back where he’d been smearing his slick around in an unsuccessful attempt to get off.
He was too far gone to even beg. He could only lay there, tugging tearfully at his wrists and releasing desperate waves of scent until Jungkook eventually took pity on him, a college junior now contemplating summer internships and post-graduation plans — premature, all Jimin’s fault. He was always throwing Jungkook into fast-forward without meaning to, all because Jimin was a year ahead, older, closer to graduating. Closer to leaving the private world they'd built for themselves here.
Back on the bed, Jungkook was silent, assessing. Uncharacteristically so. Even during the deepest kinds of dominance, the sort where Jungkook dropped honorifics completely, turned mean and no-nonsense, small parts of him still tended to show through — idle humming, huffs of impatience, mouth noises like ah and hm and tch, like he couldn't control his immediate reactions to Jimin’s neediness, how cracked open he became right before he was fucked full of cock. Here, Jungkook was silent, as though waiting for Jimin to fall back into old habits.
Ordinarily, this would be the part where Jimin began teasing and begging and wheedling, anything to force Jungkook’s hand. Today was different, though. Jimin was tucked too far into his own head right then. He had sunk into himself, slow and stumbling, as soon as Jungkook left the dorm.
Jungkook seemed to come to this conclusion himself because a moment later Jimin felt the mattress dip and then there was a mouth at his sternum, soft and close-lipped. Jimin jerked forward in shock, yanking at his cuffs to get closer, more, now.
Jungkook bit his way down to Jimin’s hipbones, let Jimin’s thighs fall open on a shaky whine, sat back again to watch Jimin present himself with limited mobility, hitching his hips up awkwardly, on his back with thighs straining. He yanked again at his cuffs, cried out when his efforts went unrewarded, flexing his fingers to try to draw Jungkook’s eye, to say, I've been good, haven't I? Can we take them off now?
“I left your mouth alone today,” Jungkook said, his first words since returning. His voice came out rough, rich like he needed to clear his throat or his filthy mind. Had he walked around Mullae Station sounding like that? Giving stupid, unsuspecting tourists directions on his walk over? Had he trailed his way through the aisles of an E-MART, thinking about what waited for him back on campus? Homeplus, maybe, digging himself into the darkest recesses of his arousal while he browsed cereals and soybean brands? “Did you notice?”
Jimin parted his lips to respond that yes, he had in fact noticed, then flinched when he felt a splatter of wet hit him like a reprimand, right across his open mouth. He let out a little confused noise and the mattress dipped again, louder, a whine of protest sounding as the bed’s springs bore all of Jungkook’s weight, and then his alpha was close enough to kiss, breath tickling Jimin’s throat, the excited exhale of almost there. They were going to be fucking very soon, if Jungkook had anything to say about it (and he always did).
“Today, your gag is symbolic, Jimin-ah,” Jungkook murmured, and Jimin made another noise, high and anxious, because maybe perhaps mingling with the philosophy students at that co-ed mixer last month had been a bad idea. They always talked too much. They were giving his baby alpha bad ideas! “It’s not real, is it?”
Jimin almost replied no, before remembering himself and their new game. They’d never played this one before, but he thought he understood the rules now, so instead he closed his mouth like a good boy, had only just gathered his bearings to patiently await his praise when another lash of spit hit him — hard, mean, a shock of wet. He gasped this time, arching back for it, trying to lick it into his mouth with a plaintive whine and a wriggle where it was now running down his jaw, hands-free.
Jungkook groaned low in his throat at the sight, a sound of abject arousal. Jimin could see him vividly even without the use of his eyes, pressing forward on one arm, impatience radiating from him like small heatwaves, the other hand already dipping low to fish his cock out of his loose-fitting lounge pants.
He would start fisting his dick right then, hard and dry, because he always said that was how he liked it before he slicked himself up against Jimin’s ass. Maybe he’d flick a bead of precum at Jimin, maybe he’d dangle a thread of spit from his mouth, waiting to see where it landed, Jimin’s mouth or throat or needy nipples, jutting up into the air with an impatience all their own.
“Now you’re getting it,” Jungkook murmured, and it finally dawned on Jimin that the point of this little game was not, in fact, to keep his mouth shut, but to hold it open for as long as he could so that (1) he could not talk, (2) he had to act out an invisible gag, (3) he was always ready for more of Jungkook’s spit, and this most important of all, (4) he was forced to acknowledge that everything that happened to him from here on out, including but not limited to saliva, was controlled by Jungkook.
Jimin was in the dark. Jimin could not predict when his next scolding — reward? — would arrive. He could only lay there, chin tipped up and mouth stretched wide, ready and willing to receive more wet lashings. That was the way he stayed, long enough that his jaw began to ache like he was cockwarming an invisible dick. Long enough that his tongue finally lolled free, almost numb, still waiting, always waiting. Even when Jungkook slid home and started fucking him, harder than usual, headboard rattling against the wall, mattress springs squeaking. Even then, Jimin kept his mouth open.
He revised his earlier list to add a fifth item — (5) like this, he couldn’t stem any of his usual sex noises, all the stuff he would normally muffle into a pillow to keep from escaping into the hallways of his dorm building. He had no choice but to listen to himself like this, an endlessly pitiful chorus of mewls, wet gargles made wetter when Jungkook leaned forward to spit directly into Jimin’s mouth, then kiss away any excess, tonguing Jimin’s cheeks and jaw and chin, so that Jimin was wet everywhere that mattered, moaning for more, bouncing against the harsh slap of Jungkook’s hips. He was stuffed so full that he could only lay there and obey, the best and most obliging omega by far, this he maintained.
“You,” Jimin says now, as he flounces over, skirt billowing in the breeze, lit up all over with the memory of Jungkook's touch, “aren’t exactly a walk in the park either.”
“I think you enjoyed our walks very much, Jimin-ah,” Jungkook says and rises to his full, towering height.
Jimin flushes, casting out for something coherent to say. “Are you not hot?” he settles on.
“Yes,” Jungkook says, like he’d been waiting for an opening, and starts removing the denim jacket he’s donned for what appears to be the sole purpose of flexing his biceps. The double entendre is immediate and undeniable. He grins as it hits Jimin, tying his jacket at his waist with methodical loops. “Thanks for noticing.”
Jimin’s mouth drops open. “That … that is not what I meant.”
Jungkook cocks his head, almost but not quite smiling, and then his nostrils flare delicately like he’s sampling the air. “Your scent says otherwise,” he murmurs and, worst of all, the smile starts looking a lot more like a smirk.
A suggestive smirk! Jimin’s least favorite kind!
“You — you’re messing with my omega’s head!” Jimin says with such force that a throng of pigeons roosting on a nearby tennis net suddenly scatters to the wind, wings flapping.
Jungkook cocks one dark eyebrow. “You share a head with your omega. You’re one and the same.”
“Not true! Not true at all!” Jimin objects, because that is totally one-hundred percent patently false and he bets there are scientific journals out there to back him up. He makes a mental note to put together an informal literature review on the topic later, just so he can rub his findings in Jeon Jungkook’s smug face. Then he realizes that this will require further contact, i.e. opening up a line of communication that was forcibly shut years ago. “Like, for example … ! My omega is always craving spicy food, even though I know logically that it won’t be a fun time for my nose or my belly, and I eat it anyway because they’re like an annoying nag in the back of my head!”
“Mn.” Jungkook hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, like some sort of sex icon in an ad for ass-hugging denim. Pure evil. “Consider that by separating yourself into these two opposing forces in your mind, you’re also removing any responsibility for yourself. The actual Park Jimin, I mean. By blaming your wolf, you get to evade the burden of all these desires and decisions that you’ve deemed purely animal. That you’ve told yourself are illogical or irrational or whatever the justification is … when at most, these things have only been fanned by your omega. When you get down to the heart of it, everything inside of you is yours.”
Jimin bites his lip hard enough to bleed, hot all over with humiliation or hurt or maybe — hardest of all to swallow — arousal. Jungkook has really matured since the breakup. This isn’t terrible news, but it’s also not ideal. Jimin supposes that’s the point of the time-skip plot device, though. You can speed up or kickstart a character’s emotional or physical development, without having to see any of it play out in real-time.
Only, Jimin wishes he’d been around to see. That thought is too painful to untangle right then and the one on its heels is almost worse: but you haven’t been inside of me in so long.
To recover, Jimin blurts the first thing that comes to mind, which ends up being: “No.”
Smart. Swift. That will take him by surprise for sure!
Jungkook gapes. “No … ? I just gave you the talking-to of your lifetime … ! A — a philosophical mind-fuck … the kind of verbal foreplay that … that songwriters can only dream of achieving … and your response is … is ‘no … ?’ Seriously?”
Definitely surprised.
Jimin doubles down. “Your alpha is clearly still into my ass,” he says and firms his pout, practically daring Jungkook to own up to the unnamed skirt incident of earlier. “Or will you take responsibility?”
That this is in any way accurate — that Jungkook might still be harboring long-term feelings for Jimin beyond the veil of sexual attraction — seems unfathomable, even after all of Jungkook's earnestness and time-skip-specific maturity. Jimin has said it more for the reaction than the rhetorical value.
But even so! One can separate asses from mortal enemies and/or exes, just as Jimin can separate himself from his inner wolf! Probably! With a little more digging and supporting evidence, anyway!
So maybe in some deep, darkly hidden corner of Jeon Jungkook’s alpha hindbrain, he’d liked Jimin’s ass enough to take a good long gander this morning, but that doesn’t have to mean that he likes Jimin any more than he does a random bystander on public transport who’s experiencing their own clothing malfunction where he can see. It’s animal. It’s instinct. Nothing more.
“Yes,” Jungkook says, no hesitation, and Jimin snaps back to the present with a sharp inhale. “The feeling is unfortunate, but it’s still mine. It will always be mine.”
Jimin’s arms go limp at his sides, like the air has been let out of them. He can feel his defeat showing on his face. More than defeat. It’s something worse. Something stupid. Radiantly embarrassed relief. That must be it, because his throat and his ears are burning and he hears a low whine that sounds suspiciously like his brain shutting down and/or his omega trying to throw themself into a forced heat. Probably both simultaneously.
“Unfortunate,” Jimin whispers, hot-cheeked, still not understanding.
Does Jungkook still tend to a small plot of feelings for Jimin? Does he hate that the plot has refused to die since they broke up?
“Mn,” Jungkook says and finally breaks eye contact. He starts to play with the stitching at his pockets. “Isn’t that kind of thing usually considered unfortunate?”
Jimin is not following. “Liking someone’s ass?” he says stupidly.
“No.” Jungkook looks up, big dark eyes back on Jimin. It feels like those eyes have Jimin in a chokehold, slowly constricting his airflow. “Having any sort of feelings for your ex. After the fact, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Jimin says. “I’ll ask the next person I talk to about mine.”
Jungkook’s fingers still. “Huh?”
“Huh?” Jimin says and crosses his arms behind his back in a fit of nervous energy. “What? You said it first, didn’t you? So you’re the more embarrassing of the two. Of us. You. You just admitted to liking my ass almost four years after we’ve broken up. You and your wolf. At least I have the decency to denounce mine. That … that’s so embarrassing for you, Jeon Jungkook …”
“Mm.” It doesn't look like any of Jimin’s words are currently penetrating Jungkook’s skull. His eyes have stilled, too, though Jimin isn’t sure how that’s possible if they hadn’t been moving much to begin with. He just — he can sense a sudden stillness, in the way that they steady in on Jimin’s face, like Jungkook is gazing into Jimin’s softest, most horrifyingly secret parts.
“Mm? Mn? Hm? Are those the only sounds you make these days? What’s up with that, huh? Hey, Jeon Jungkook.”
“Hey, Park Jimin,” Jungkook says, hushed and hair-raising. “It’s been three years and four months. Nowhere near four.”
“That … that’s even more embarrassing,” Jimin whispers, as blood rushes to his face in astounded pulses. “Stop saying stuff like that.”
“You look more horrified at yourself than at me,” Jungkook notes, vaguely amused.
“Yeah, because … because …” Jimin trails off, taking clumsy steps backwards as Jungkook begins to advance on him.
Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, exactly, only that it’s away. If he lets that scent get too close, there’s no going back. Jimin will be a goner. Jungkook’s scent at point blank proximity is like a death dart to the throat. Jimin knows himself. He knows his history. He remembers the rituals.
It’s all there: Jungkook unlocking the door to Jimin’s dorm with his spare key and throwing his things down after Friday classes. Promptly checking the bed on the left side of the small space for Jimin’s roommate, then dropping all of his weight on top of Jimin when he had confirmed that they were well and truly alone. No mercy, leaning in for throat nuzzles first thing, Jimin turning groggily in his arms, still half-asleep from a cat nap and already unfailingly turned on, just from the smell of Jungkook.
The way Jimin liked to linger near Jungkook’s dorm shower after he finished washing up, when the room was still cloudy with the cling of his alpha’s skin and sweat and shampoo.
Jimin’s batshit nesting instincts, how he had to periodically stop Jungkook in the middle of sex the closer his heats drew, just so he could retrieve Jungkook’s discarded clothing from the floor and do another round of scent-soaking with them, dabbing the bundle of fabric at his alpha’s sweaty skin to get the worst — most potent — notes of fragrance all over while Jungkook lay blinking in contentment below Jimin, at peace with the order of the universe.
Sometimes he liked to guide Jimin’s wrists down to his cock, the hot, flushed place where he’d grown the wettest during all their fumbling, and Jimin always felt himself whining in approval, because that was just what he wanted deep down inside, even though he never knew how to articulate it, and once or twice this had even devolved into its own game, trying to jerk Jungkook’s huge cock to completion through two or three layers of fabric, then shoving the cum-stained clothing under Jimin’s pillows afterwards to retain the smell of it all, to spread it, to make sure it permeated every fiber of his mattress.
“This is so disgusting,” Jimin said once, cradling his cum-stained bundle to his chest like a precious gift. His omega was overjoyed, practically purring with pleasure. “Never tell anyone I do it.”
“As you wish, hyung,” Jungkook murmured, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, and angled his cock — huge, half-hard now — upright, stroking the base with idle swipes of his thumb. “You want some more for your little nest?”
Jimin’s eyes widened. He could feel himself clenching up all over. “Yes,” he gasped, and dropped the old bundle to drag his laundry basket into the middle of the room.
It’s one of his worst kept secrets. He is so embarrassing in long-term relationships. The worst, even. Utterly needy and never without absurd demands, like shower scentings and nesting rites during sex.
Jimin feels his back hit a barrier and realizes he’s reached the chain-link fence separating the tennis courts from the pools. On the other side, blooms of red roses are sticking their necks up at the sun. On this side, Jimin is a little like a cornered kitten, heart beating about a kilometer a minute.
“Because what?” Jungkook murmurs and slings an arm above Jimin’s head, fingers hanging from a single steel slat. He crowds in close enough to raise all the hair at the nape of Jimin’s neck, but too far to satisfy the crackle of want now coming from between Jimin’s legs. “Because I kept track and you didn’t?”
Jimin’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He’s almost eye level with Jungkook, chin tilted defiantly. He’s evaporating into thin air. He feels himself put a hand out, as though to say keep back, but it lands on Jungkook’s cheetah print t-shirt, right in the middle of his hard stomach, and that’s where it stays, fingers fisted in the fabric.
“Go away,” he whispers.
“On whose orders?” Jungkook whispers back. “Yours or your omega’s?”
“My … my …” Jimin says, knuckles white against Jungkook’s belly from the force of his clenched fist. “Me.”
“Mn.” Jungkook’s expression shutters, though there’s something like grim satisfaction shining through. He moves to step away. “Good. That’s all that I needed.”
“Wait — !” Jimin says, alarmed, and tugs him to a stop with the fist he still has buried in his shirt.
Jungkook is looking down at Jimin’s small hand, expression unreadable. He glances up through the middle part of his wavy bangs. “Hyung. Very much mixed signals.”
“Because my time-skip hasn't been as rewarding as yours,” Jimin says, trying not to pout about it.
Jungkook’s brow furrows. “Huh ... ? Time-skip?”
“Your development has been way more accelerated than mine, so now we’re unbalanced,” he whispers, glancing down in embarrassment. “You have main character privilege and I need more time.”
A pause, as Jungkook parses this. Then: “You’ve had plenty. I was very generous with my waiting.”
Jimin glances up through his eyelashes, scowling. “You — !”
“I could have scooped you back up whenever I liked,” Jungkook says, as sincere as a heartbeat.
Jimin’s fist tightens against Jungkook’s belly. “And I couldn’t have?”
Jungkook shakes his head in mock-apology. “No. You were too busy telling yourself your omega was to blame for all your feelings.”
“You — you’re not the creator of this story!”
“No,” Jungkook agrees. “It’s a joint effort. We’re co-authors.”
Jimin likes that very much and he must be broadcasting it, because he starts softening up all over, tilting his head back not like he’s issuing a challenge, but like he’s requesting an open-mouthed kiss. His cheeks begin heating all over again. “Still … you got all … and you …” Jimin’s little fist fans out, five fingers spread. “With the piercings and the tattoos and you even … your hair.”
Jungkook bends his head obligingly, allowing Jimin a closer look at the dark purple sheen fading from his black locks. “I need to get it retouched.”
“You did all of the things that I wanted to do with you,” Jimin whispers.
“All of the things you’d already done,” Jungkook says. He sets his other hand on the fence, equidistant from the first, boxing Jimin in like he’s a very comfortable cupcake up for delivery. Or something. Jimin is definitely something, huddled between Jungkook’s bulging biceps, one of which is tattooed from shoulder to knuckles. Jungkook leans in, slowly, microscopically, so that Jimin has time to turn his face away if he wants. He doesn’t. He tilts up for it, mouth falling open, as Jungkook lowers his head at an unfortunate angle, his mouth hovering by Jimin’s ear. And not Jimin’s mouth, which had been Jimin’s original hope. He holds himself there, almost hip-to-hip with Jimin, close enough to drown Jimin’s glands in scent, and then his lips begin to move. “Now we match.”
Jimin gasps, posture going ramrod straight beneath his alpha, both hands on Jungkook’s stomach now. He’s not too delusional to admit that it’s more for balance than any attempt at controlling the situation or creating distance.
Jungkook opens his mouth against the shell of Jimin’s ear, breathing out until Jimin is shuddering beneath him, tingling from head to toe. “Here, hyung,” he whispers.
Jimin twitches violently, head tipping sideways. Like this, his throat is exposed, there for the taking — not that he’s going to mention that outright. The body language is bad enough. “Huh? Where? What there?”
“You’re pierced,” Jungkook says and skims Jimin’s ear with his nose, moving higher, towards the blond hair Jimin has ruined with his sweat. “And here? You’re dyed. And …”
“Here,” Jimin says eagerly, bunching up the zip-up tennis jacket he has on, right over his ribs. “Here. Here, Jungkook-ah. Right here.”
Jungkook’s gaze is molten, moving in a slow-crawl down Jimin’s body. “Right here,” he confirms, all gravel, and drops his hand to Jimin’s waist, wide against the gentle dip of his hip. “You’re tattooed.”
“Yeah, me first,” Jimin clarifies. “More embarrassment for you. You’re hyung’s copycat. You should … you should be mortified, Jungkook. You stole my style after I broke up with you. Remember when I would do my hair in a little ponytail-bun, too, just like that?”
Jungkook’s mouth twitches, and then, like the sun breaking over the horizon, he’s smiling, top lip pulled back over his bunny teeth. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you had a head start on all the character development and I’ve just been trying to catch up?”
“You’ll never catch up since I was born first,” Jimin says, very much a smart-ass and trying to muster up the appropriate authority about it all, except the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s unconsciously turned his palm up to tangle his fingers with Jungkook’s at his waist, and also maybe the fact that he’s started spreading his thighs in a blatant invitation for more. “You’re gonna have to chase after me for the rest of your life and you’ll still lose.”
“If this is your idea of running from me, I’m going to overtake you very quickly.”
“That would be highly impolite. Respect your elders and all.”
Jungkook shrugs. “Let’s make it a race, then.”
“A real one? Okay,” Jimin says, starting to frown thoughtfully. “Where to? Oh, but I’ll need to switch my shoes out first since these have a platform. You know I did track in high school, right?”
“And two forms of martial arts.”
“Yes, and —”
“Gardening. I know.”
“And I was also —“
“Class president. Yes. About the race.”
“Yes! About the race!” Jimin says, newly enthused. “And by the way, I know things, too!”
Jungkook raises his eyebrows.
“I won’t list them, though, because I have nothing to prove,” Jimin says, then can’t resist doing so anyway: “Dance scholarship abroad, the SNU equestrian team tried to recruit you your freshman year but you thought you’d look too funny, like you were doing Joseon role-play, and if archery or javelin wasn’t involved, what would be the point? You joined that reading group for Students Who Care About Asia’s Future sophomore year, only you didn’t know it was a reading group, you thought you’d be going out into the real world and doing community service, so you quit as soon as they handed you the syllabus and you saw the reading list, and then you stuck with tennis until we … until we … oh. Does this place bring back bad memories for you?”
“Jimin,” Jungkook says, sounding unbearably fond.
“Right, the race! Let hyung take his shoes off first, hold on. Also, is it really fair if I’m in a skirt?”
“That’s clearly a tactical advantage,” Jungkook says. “And an aesthetic one, too.”
“So I’ll just go in my shorts.”
“No,” Jungkook says, with enough emphasis that Jimin pauses. “Please, for my sake.”
Jimin slows, setting his foot back down on the ground. “Are we racing or not?”
“I … no.” Jungkook sighs. “The race was a metaphor.”
“Again with the metaphors and the symbolism! Since when do you speak in metaphors?”
“Since working under Kim Namjoon! Have you heard that man talk?”
“Mn,” Jimin says, nodding, then brings an embarrassed hand up to his mouth. “No. I meant. Yes.”
“Already copying me, I see.”
“No! Not that!” Jimin cries. “Never that!”
“Hm. I really missed the sound of that voice, Park Jimin,” Jungkook murmurs. “Especially when you whip out the satoori. Takes me right back to Busan.”
Jimin feels a whine gathering in his throat and thinks that letting it escape would probably just prove Jungkook's point, how seamlessly he slips into his regional dialect to get his way. Would that still work here, with this new Jungkook? Would he fold over for a Jimin tinged sweet and coastal? Just like home.
Just like their days at SNU, when Jimin would pucker his lips and beg in that pouty drawl, for Tempura takeout from Ppasasag or fingers inside or five minutes more spent picking blades of grass out of Jungkook's hair beneath the sunshine.
He wants to try, to pitch his voice precisely, but that's too much like porn Jimin, whose every intonation is calculated seduction intended for a large, alpha-oriented audience. This is just Jungkook — his Jungkook — and so it would follow that Jimin is just Jimin, stripped back and bare. Nothing but need.
Need, and also a little bit of greed. He lets that bleed through, too, tries to arch his way into a sneaky little kiss and is ruthlessly rebuffed for his efforts. No mercy. Just Jungkook efficiently turning his face away.
Jimin stands there with his head craned uselessly, stung from the rejection. His bottom lip has begun to jut. He can feel it pushing out.
Jungkook must see it on Jimin's face because his own mouth quirks in return, quietly amused, and he cups a big palm to Jimin's throat in casual threat. His touch is light in spite of this. Featherlight, and fleeting, like at any moment it might take flight, vanish into thin air as quick as it arrived. Jimin almost can't cope with that thought.
He can't have that, cranes his head further still, wanting to draw the eye, to tempt Jungkook lower. It's an underhanded seduction tactic, even for Jimin, whose arsenal has never been fair or just. Worse than satoori or short skirts, but it'd be a waste not to exhaust every resource currently at his disposal, including his unclaimed throat.
He'd have Jungkook collar him here, leather clasp with a bow or a little bell, something tight to cover up his shivery scent glands, and a litter of messy bruises too, the beginnings of a mating mark made to tie himself to Jungkook in a way a knot couldn't ever hope to.
When even the throat-baring isn’t enough to settle the restless giddy energy now rolling off of Jimin, he reaches up to take matters into his own hands. To take Jungkook’s tattooed wrist in hand, trying to relay an emergency broadcast message: Don’t leave. Take me.
He presses his own thumb to the rapid rhythm of Jungkook’s pulse to emphasize his order. To say, please, will you have me now? You want it like I do, don’t you?
In reply, Jungkook's thumb skates down Jimin's scent glands, teasing the ultra sensitive nerve-endings there. They send a million skittering messages straight to Jimin's brain, messages that his body receives with effusive welcome.
Messages like warm and open and leak. Need, need, need. Jimin's calves flex, anxious with the awareness that he is going to begin leaking past his thong soon. There's too much. A small cotton gusset can't hold all that need.
He bears this awareness like a flower blooming beneath a swath of sudden heat. Flowers have it a lot easier than him, though. Jungkook's stare is sharper than the sun's, for one thing. And a lot hotter, for another. Jimin trembles underneath it.
Jungkook is silent aside from the slow release of his breath, uses his thumb to force Jimin's head back another centimeter, until Jimin has nowhere else to go, skull trapped against steel wire. Unsatisfied, Jungkook adds one more centimeter after that, nudging Jimin's chin higher to brandish the full length of his throat. It bobs against a dry swallow, smooth and unblemished.
Jungkook's gaze snags there finally and Jimin feels like he could cry out from the relief of it. There it is — that sun-warm stare, right where he wants it. So focused. It sparks in Jimin's belly, Jungkook's dark gaze raking down the milky, unmarked flesh of his throat, still untouched three years later.
And then — and then Jungkook is pressing down on one of Jimin's pulse points with his thumb, proprietary, as though staking out a place for his teeth. Like. Like: Here. This is where my mouth will go.
A shiver begins at the base of Jimin's spine. He rides it out, pushes up a little higher, nose gently bumping Jungkook's. His eyes are wide, fluttering with wonder. He hadn't known he had any sex-related wonder left to feel. He thought he had depleted it all these last few years. But no, it's there now, spreading through his belly like butterflies.
Jimin exhales his wonder against Jungkook's mouth, fascinated by the way Jungkook's thumbnail bites into his throat. Fascinated by the thought that a single touch can tug him into even tighter knots. He feels the quiver of his pulse kick up another notch, caught out and panicky with desire.
He feels Jungkook feel it, too, those big eyes sliding back up to Jimin's face to confirm. They lock on him with heated promise and then Jungkook is exhaling too, warm, minty air breathed into Jimin's open mouth.
Maybe, in certain corners of the world, having reunion sex with a long-time ex is as unexceptional as blinking, easy to separate from the tangle of too-many feelings. For Jimin, though, in this moment more than ever, it feels momentous. Holding still beneath Jungkook's exploring hand. Giving his throat up to that dark, glittering gaze.
When Jimin strains up for another kiss, whining outright, Jungkook responds by leaning in at a mean angle, lips skidding past Jimin's. He brushes a soft chuckle into Jimin's cheek as Jimin's whine lengthens, getting louder and more demanding. Jimin tries to wriggle closer, tries to catch Jungkook's mean mouth against his own, with little success. It's hopeless without his alpha's help.
Jimin was right, then. In the meantime, Jungkook has gotten bigger, better, meaner, more expert all around.
He's suddenly squeezing Jimin's chin in a tight, unbreakable hold, as though threatening harm. "Did you think it'd be that easy?" he murmurs and gives Jimin's jaw a tiny, taunting stroke with his index finger. It's like he's rubbing it in Jimin's face — literally. "That you'd open your little mouth up and I'd be right there, ready and waiting? Kiss you just like that?"
Jimin doesn't know how to say that, yes, he had thought it would be that easy and he is unhappy to have encountered any kind of obstacle along the way. He has it on good authority that he is ordinarily irresistible to the world at large. Case in point: Jeon Jungkook at eighteen. How can that no longer hold true?
"I," he whispers. Swallows, starts again. "Not little."
"Hm?" Jungkook pulls back to pin Jimin in place with a look, cool and appraising. Amusement lingers at the corner of his mouth. "Not little? Or not as little as you and I initially thought … ? Or do you have a different memory than I do, Jimin-ah?"
Beneath Jungkook's stroking finger, Jimin goes scarlet.
Jungkook's mouth ticks up higher, amusement growing as Jimin's mortification mounts. "As I seem to remember, it was quite the struggle for you before."
And then Jimin sees it unfurl in dazzling, 4k color, like bookmarked porn. Jimin struggling — there's no other word for it — to fit his mouth around Jungkook's girth that first time, only his bedside lamplight to go by, giving wet, half-hearted sucks to distract from his failure, to make the slide down sloppier, more smooth, the gag reflex he hadn't known existed (had never encountered until now) kicking in so that he was gurgling in protest at the halfway point, how that made Jungkook even harder, his fat cock jerking against the roof of Jimin's mouth as he groaned and cupped the back of Jimin's head, watching Jimin open-mouthed where he was sitting spread-legged against the edge of — someone's twin bed.
It doesn't matter anymore whose it was. Just that it existed, physical evidence of Jimin's humiliation.
Jimin almost can't find his tongue in time to respond. "But …"
"But, what?" Jungkook cocks his head serenely. "You've gotten better? You've been practicing? Watching yourself deep-throat fake dicks on your iPhone camera in the meantime? What model, mn? Regular or knotting?"
Jimin only answers because Jungkook seems genuinely curious, says, "Both," in a tiny voice and watches Jungkook's eyes flash, molten warmth melting hotter.
"And which do you think you deserve more?" Jungkook whispers, that open mouth dragging up Jimin's jaw now, his temple, stopping at his hair to take a deep inhale. "To have your little mouth kissed? Or fucked?"
Jimin senses a trap looming and tries to take his time navigating it, even as he turns his face up to Jungkook's mouth, seeking. "Um … b … both," he murmurs, voice wavering in the middle with uncertainty.
He can feel Jungkook's smile against his forehead, feels it moving lower, making its way back down his hot face. "Are you sure about that?"
Jimin's blinks rapidly, dazed. "Sure about what?"
Jungkook is laughing now, a silent, shoulder-shaking chuckle, mostly expelled breaths that are stirring up the sweaty blond hair falling over Jimin's forehead. "You want your mouth kissed and fucked?"
"Y–Yes, I want both," Jimin whispers, confused by a joke he seems to have missed. Is his greed not obvious enough? He wants whatever Jungkook can fit inside of him — mouth or ass. "All. I want all."
"Still as greedy as ever, aren't you?"
"No," Jimin objects on instinct, more pout than person. "More."
"More? Is that possible?"
"It is!"
"Hm," Jungkook hums, sounding fascinated, like there's no place he'd rather be than right here, debating sex semantics with his omega. His palm settles at the small of Jimin's back, a proprietary pressure, like a pet owner stroking their puppy's flank. "And what about here?"
Jimin blinks. "Where?"
Jungkook begins dragging that palm interminably lower. Down, below, where Jimin is filling out the little shorts worn under his skirt with his fat cheeks. "Has this been well-fucked since I've seen you last, or have you been neglecting it … ?"
"Here, too, I need it," Jimin says, nodding agreeably and arching his back to show that he's good for it, pert little ass pushed up into the wide cup of Jungkook's palm.
"How many have fucked you here since me? Hm?"
“Too many,” Jimin lies, because it’s the least humiliating answer, far less humiliating than saying no one that matters, no one that left anywhere near the impression that you did, no one so good and warm and sweet that my body hadn’t forgotten them within the week.
Only the unsatisfying shove of his own too-small fingers, a companion alpha or two to take the edge off during the worst of his winter heats, when the deep Seoul chill leeched any kind of comfort from an otherwise useless nest — without safety or scent, without even a sense of cyclical completion — a few flings immediately following his SNU graduation, when the breakup was a raw wound and Jimin needed an outlet for the sharper edges of his loneliness, and those were by far the worst, an emotional revolt from within. He doesn't want to go back to that place, with alphas all wrong, no teeth, no trust, no touch good enough to usher him into the softest, most secret crevices of his sexual desire.
"Too many?" Jungkook says, head cocked, like that was the wrong answer.
Jimin blinks, pretending not to notice the dangerous thread running through Jungkook's words. "Now, please. Give it to me here."
"Very cute," Jungkook says, and when he leans back, his gaze is pitch black. All pupil. "But we're not in college anymore, Jimin-ah. This isn't a quick fuck between classes. If you want this cock, you're gonna have to work for it."
"I am —"
"It doesn't sound like it was very memorable either way, or you wouldn't have gone looking elsewhere."
"But …" Jimin whispers, suddenly grief-stricken. He's back to abandoned kitten.
"But, nothing."
"I looked elsewhere to get rid of you."
Jungkook's gaze snaps to attention, probing Jimin carefully. "Is that right?"
"Yes," Jimin says, trying to contain his pout prematurely, a pressure he can feel beginning at his bottom lip. "Now can I have the fingers, please?"
Jungkook's smile is slower to return this time. "Is this your idea of working for it? A pout and a pretty little 'please?'"
Jimin shakes his head, a vehement no-no-no. This isn't following the porn formula — linear, point a to point b, foreplay to fucking, kissing to get to the cumshot, and maybe a little bit of clean-up after, depending on the supplier. Jimin always leaves his clean-up in, never cuts down the endings of his films, thick thighs fanning open to frame a softening cock, small palm smearing the silky mess he's made into his belly like an echo from an earlier life, the nasty come-play Jeon Jungkook has conditioned Jimin into enjoying and never taken responsibility for, still playing out even without his presence. Ribbons of it, pretty and pearly, streaked all over. Sometimes Jimin dipped into it, then sucked a finger into his mouth to taste, head so hot with arousal that he couldn't resist. Sometimes he moaned imagining Jungkook watching him from across his bedroom.
But Jungkook doesn't care about the formula anymore or at least here, now, today. He's ad-libbing it out, with no instructions for Jimin, except the underlying implication that always seemed — seems — to color their sex life. Take it, all of it, every last inch. Be a good boy and bear it for me.
Jimin keeps shaking his head, mute with denial. He's stuck on the first stage of grief, then, tries to nudge his way into one more kiss and feels Jungkook apply another layer of mollifying pressure to his chin and throat, until he's gasping. "You … ah, have to."
"I don't have to do anything," Jungkook asserts, still with that same mercurial smile, "but stand here and watch you whine for it. Which just so happens to be one of my favorite pastimes, by the way. It's a shame I've missed out on all your lewd content these past few years. Could have occupied myself with all the squirming you like to do."
"I don't," Jimin denies, petulant.
His porn is a lot more than just squirming! It may not be the most high-budget content out there, but it is an elaborate affair, lots of forethought and precision-editing involved. And foreplay is always appreciated by the alphas who watch him — which, yes, all right, sometimes includes whiny squirming.
"You do, in your sticky little underwear, just like you are now," Jungkook says and then there's a hand up Jimin's skirt, ruffling the fabric dismissively like it's nothing more than a minor obstacle on the way to the main course. He smooths out a wrinkle from the form-fitting shorts Jimin had pulled on over his thong this morning, perfectly respectful, then locates its elastic waistband without fail. Jimin tenses as Jungkook tugs at it, testing its give, before letting it recoil with a loud snap, gaze trained on Jimin's face so he can watch him gasp for it, jolted onto the tips of his toes. "The shorts are an interesting choice. Protecting yourself from me?"
Jimin smacks a reproving hand to Jungkook’s chest, then leaves it there to make a point — and a terrible point at that, because he is immediately waylaid by the firmness, starts stroking one of Jungkook’s huge pecs with the reverence of a fanboy. “Mhm,” he says, still petulant, working himself up to a whiny tantrum. “So you can’t see.”
“Can’t see,” Jungkook acknowledges. “Can still touch, though.”
Jimin isn’t expecting the follow-up, but no sooner have the words left Jungkook’s mouth than a hard, open-palmed clap to the ass is jostling him straight into Jungkook’s chest. It’s clearly a precursor — an appetizer, really — to all the spanking Jungkook has in store, barely enough to sting, but it still shudders through Jimin like an electric shock. He gasps into Jungkook’s collar, little hand flexing in the fabric of that cheetah print t-shirt.
Jungkook palms Jimin’s ass, chuckling under his breath. He must have added another palm; there’s no longer one at his throat to hold his chin in place. Somewhere along the way, a single spank has become a rhythmic, two-handed knead — not that it’s unwelcome. It is the furthest thing from unwelcome, has Jimin pushing his hips back to help Jungkook along, allowing him to play with the shapely cheeks spilling past Jimin’s tiny shorts, prising them apart against the tight drag of the fabric, then letting them bounce back together again.
“To think,” Jungkook whispers, leaning in to drag his lips past the shell of Jimin’s ear, “one spank makes you this needy. Practically presenting your ass to me in the middle of a tennis court, Park Jimin. Seems amateur, even for you, but again … I haven’t had the pleasure of watching any of your videos. Not like you have with mine, or did you really phone your sweet mother while you were thinking your decision over?”
A quiver goes through Jimin and his ass twitches into a higher, more willing angle. How does Jungkook know him so well? Still, even now?
In answer, Jimin says, "I recommend skin tape in the future, if you want to hide your tattoos from nosy viewers. Instead of the blur effect. It's distracting."
Jungkook's laugh rushes down Jimin's throat, a low, warm breath of air. "I will take that under advisement." He pauses deliberately. "Big fan, huh?"
“I only saw one," Jimin mumbles.
“Mn. And did you enjoy the one?”
“No,” Jimin says at once.
“No,” Jungkook returns, like this is to be expected, standard Park Jimin protocol. Jimin’s face goes up in humiliated flames. “I didn’t think so. Much rather it be you underneath me, hm? I can imagine all the solo videos get lonely after a while without another helping hand, especially for the pillow princesses of the porn world. Do you spank yourself for your viewers?”
“Yes,” Jimin mumbles.
Jungkook hums, thoughtful, and starts folding the fabric of Jimin’s shorts up past his cheeks, baring them to the breeze, fingers working painstakingly. “You haven’t been doing it right without me, have you? You’ve been skimping on your spanks since I’ve been gone.”
“No,” Jimin says automatically, trying to straighten out of Jungkook’s hold, his animal hindbrain scrambling for escape, even as he widens his stance for it, already dripping in anticipation. “No, I don’t skimp! I’m good at spanking! Jungkook-ah, I promise, I do good with it! All my viewers like it a lot! It’s their favorite!”
“Above finger insertion?”
“Way above finger insertion!”
“You leave marks?”
“S–Sometimes!”
“Sometimes,” Jungkook repeats, with a displeased tch. “No. That’s called skimping. If this fat little ass isn’t cherry red every time you stop your recording, you’re doing it all wrong. Ah … what a shame. Maybe it’s for the best, though. There are few who deserve to see what this ass looks like when it’s raw and red.”
“Jungkook-ah,” Jimin whines, now hanging onto him by the collar of his t-shirt, two desperate fistfuls. “I can show you how I do it!”
Jungkook’s eyes gleam with sudden interest. “A live demonstration?”
“No, I — I meant one of my films! I’ll play something for you.”
“Mn,” Jungkook says, contemplative. “Doesn’t interest me.”
Jimin flushes, startled by such a swift rejection.
“Not when I have the real thing right here.” Jungkook unties the jean jacket from around his waist and flings it away, without a single look in its direction. “A few years ago, Jimin-ah, I think that offer would be right up my alley. Would have loved to beat my big dick to your little films. In my bed, in the shower, unloading all that pent up frustration to your pert little ass. Yeah. I would have liked that very much. Would have taken that over the few flings I entertained any day.”
“You … but …” Jimin whispers, hot-faced, unable to find his footing in the rush for coherency. His head is a hot pulse.
Jungkook’s hands vacate the under-skirt area of Jimin’s body and seize him roughly by the hips, safely above his outfit, squeezing once — hard — as if to say, these are mine to do with what I want. “But not today. Today, I am far more interested in what you can show me with your real body. Not something pre-recorded for a bunch of faceless alphas. Right now, you’re going to show this alpha how you like to play with your little body. Just the one. Me and me alone. Am I understood?”
“I am?” Jimin whispers, mind still stuck on the phrase beat my big dick to your little films. "I mean, I am … I … yes."
When had Jungkook’s mouth gotten so filthy? And why wasn’t Jimin there to witness it?
“Turn,” Jungkook orders, and Jimin scrambles to obey, facing the chain-link fence and the pruned rose bushes. He sets his hands to the steel slats for balance. “And bend over.”
Jungkook draws him into a perfect ninety-degree angle. Jimin holds the pose for him because he’s had worse, knees to his temples or head dragged so far back he felt an air bubble in his spine pop protestingly, the kind of forced fucking that Jimin needed and only got with Jeon Jungkook. He’d always been an eager pupil, particularly when he found the subject being taught personally engrossing, and new flavors of dominance was one subject Jungkook happily cracked books open for.
Jimin is good for it. His body is designed to be folded up and flung around for the noble cause of taking a cock. Never has he been more ready than with Jungkook — especially this new, unflinching Jungkook, who doesn’t mince words or think twice before taking Jimin in hand.
Jungkook yanks Jimin's tiny shorts down, catching them around his thighs, takes his little hand and guides it towards his wet underwear. He says, only, "Show me how well you fuck your hole. Impress me."
Jimin's fingers find the lace hem of his thong and then they're skating through the viscous mess he's made of the fabric, too slippery, not enough traction to get a good grip. He tries and fails to sink a digit inside of himself, the tip of his finger sliding uselessly past his small furled hole.
"Having trouble?" Jungkook murmurs, with a smile in his voice. "You can always use a lifeline, you know. Phone your alpha."
"It's so small," Jimin whispers. "It's hard to find …"
Jungkook groans and mashes a hand to the hard ridge of his cock over his jeans. “And your little fingers are so tiny. Keep looking. I want you to fuck your ass on your fingers. Inside. That’s it. Slowly, slowly, sink inside. Tight fit?”
Jimin has found and fucked a single finger past the tight ring of muscle hidden between his ass cheeks. That initial stretch is so startling that he moans in effort, glutes flexing. With a sticky sound, he pulls his index finger free, knuckles covered in slick, freeing it up and sending it running down the split of his pert ass cheeks. Back in he goes with his middle finger added, teeth gritted for the next spine-tightening stretch, his hole flexing around his stubby digits.
“T ... Too tight,” Jimin whines, as he holds his fingers inside of his sloppy entrance.
Jungkook starts guiding Jimin's wrist into a rhythm. “Fuck it,” he murmurs. “You have to fuck yourself with your fingers if you want your alpha’s cock.”
“Want it … give it to me … oh …” Jimin pants. A whine is building in his throat. He tries to bite down on it, but it’s already out, a high, reedy sound.
Suddenly there’s a hand at Jimin’s scalp, yanking his head back. Jungkook stoops slightly to peer into Jimin's face, a dark, looming mass cornering him against the fence, says, “It's yours, if you can hold still."
Jimin's omega is in ruins. He whines louder and before he can stop it, he’s releasing a gush of slick against Jungkook’s groin, drenching the crotch of his jeans. Slowly, disbelievingly, Jungkook glances down, as though to confirm what’s just happened. When he looks up again, his lips are pulled back over his teeth and his nostrils are flaring against the desperate waves of wet coming from Jimin.
Jimin tries to tug himself free, moaning in mortification, but Jungkook just tightens his hold on his hair and clamps a hand around his hip. “Stop resisting.”
Jimin wriggles harder, whining, his omega in revolt.
Then there’s a hand around his throat, big, rough palm outspread in idle warning. Jungkook uses it to direct Jimin's head as desired, forcing him into heated eye contact. “Jimin,” he says, in an almost subhuman snarl. “Listen to your alpha and calm those slutty fucking hips, or you're going home empty. Now.”
And just like that, Jimin’s omega drops, rolling over and presenting like a bitch in heat. “Hyung-ah,” Jimin whispers, eyes glazed over, his ass clenching in his skirt, trying to entice Jungkook inside.
“Holy shit,” Jimin hears from somewhere behind them, followed by two or three shutter clicks, rapid readjustment of the bodies in the near vicinity as the camera crew swoops in for a better view, more angle options.
If Jimin had the presence of mind to do so, he might wonder after Hanbin, the pretty omega who he'd briefly hated for no reason other than his proximity to the alpha of his dreams. What a stupid thought. The alpha is Jimin's — at least for the moment.
“So it’s like that, huh?” Seokjin murmurs.
“It’s almost worse than if he’d called him daddy …” says a nonplussed Namjoon.
“That wasn’t in the script, was it?” asks an assistant.
“No, certainly not,” Seokjin replies. "But from what I understand … this is … um, unscripted work."
“We’ve been going off book since the beginning,” Yoongi says, and sighs. "If we decide to use this, we’re going to have to make some really artful cuts to scrape something watchable together.”
No more than a second goes by before Jungkook is kissing Jimin. Their lips meet with hungry force and Jimin feels himself lean back for it, neck twisted painfully, seeking more, needing heat and teeth and the wet of too much tongue, licking into and beyond his mouth. Calling it kissing, right then, is being a little generous. It’s more like mouth-fucking, Jungkook working his tongue between Jimin’s plush lips with a growl.
Jimin sucks obediently, whining to show how much he likes it. Spit leaks past his lips, down his chin, and Jungkook rips his mouth free to chase it with his tongue, drawing a line of shimmering wet past Jimin’s throat with the pointed tip.
Jimin gasps, trying to display his throat like he’s desperate for a mating mark. He isn’t, to be clear, but his body — his omega — doesn’t seem to be getting the memo.
“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters, dragging his mouth up and down Jimin's neck in repeated loops that take him through the territory of Jimin’s scent glands, over and over. If Jimin didn’t know any better, he’d think Jungkook’s alpha was scenting him, obsessively, but that can’t be right, no, that’s not porn protocol. That is beyond the bounds of even unscripted work. “Been keeping yourself wet for me, haven’t you?
“Y-Yes,” Jimin says, embarrassed by his own stutter, how immediately he’s given in to Jungkook.
“All these years,” Jungkook says through his teeth. “All these years you’ve been waiting to get me back inside like a good little omega.”
“Alpha,” Jimin breathes, his fat little ass settling against the cradle of Jungkook's groin like a perfect peach.
“You’re so small here,” he says and squeezes Jimin’s hips. “And so fatty here.” Then he delivers a swift spank to Jimin’s cheeks.
Jimin moans and he shoves his skirt up his back until it’s framing his hips like flower petals pushed open, tips his ass back so Jungkook can yank his thong low. He takes two handfuls and squeezes, helps Jimin fold himself almost in half. Then his cheeks are parting, revealing the secret place where he is nothing but a pink whorl waxed hairless.
At the sight, Jungkook makes a sound like an animal uproar, guttural and growling, giving a rough rut of his hips that drags the bulge of his cock solidly up Jimin's dripping crack. "Small in here, too," he says and slips a finger in without ceremony, stirring with a frothy sound that makes Jimin's neck burn. "But your viewers don't know that, do they? They must think there's plenty of space for a fat cock inside. You can barely shove those tiny fingers up your ass, though, mn?"
"Too small," Jimin cries, heartbroken.
"Shit," Jungkook murmurs. "Just makes me wanna fuck my cock in more. Prove to the world what you can take when you have no other choice."
"Hyung-ah …" Jimin says, with a note of begging.
Jungkook groans and unsnaps his jeans, ripping at the zipper to free himself from the confines of his boxer briefs. “What did I teach you?"
"Hyung — Alpha, p-please," Jimin cries as Jungkook gives another grind, this time bare. "Inside!"
"You want hyung inside?"
Jimin nods deliriously. "Please, Al — hyung-ah, please put it inside. I kept it so wet for you."
"And you even remembered to beg," Jungkook murmurs, pleased, pulling back after leaving Jimin's throat with one more laving, a streak of greedy wet straight to the scent glands. Jimin shivers, thighs clamping shut around Jungkook's big, tattooed hand. "You’re so fucking slippery. Wish I could punish you for that, but you can’t help how bad your little hole needs it."
"No, hyung," Jimin scrambles to agree. "I can’t. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault … ah, ah …"
"Gotta take responsibility, huh? Give you the cock that you need, since your toys have clearly been so ineffective. Otherwise, why would your ass still be this fucking tight?"
"For you. Kept it tight for Alpha," Jimin says without thinking, and then, as he feels a wide, blunt pressure kiss the clench of his tiny hole, he begins to backtrack with a worried contraction. "A … ahh … wait, wait, I … ! Just the tip, please. Just … only a little bit to start?"
"Whole thing," Jungkook disagrees, swift and unforgiving, and watches Jimin spasm with an anguished cry, tensing up against the thick thrust of alpha vigor where Jungkook is playing at forcing his meaty cock all the way inside of that impossibly compact space, slipping over and past Jimin's dripping hole, almost slapping at it with his thick head. "I know you, Jimin-ah. You want the tip and the middle and the base and every last drop of cum. You’d take the balls, too, if you could. Your ass is that greedy."
Jimin whines his humiliation.
"Fuck, you’d let me sit my cock inside you for hours, wouldn’t you?"
"D-Don't …" Jimin hiccups, breathing labored, "… say it like that."
"I'm saying it like a compliment," Jungkook huffs and when he lines his dick back up, he lines it up proper, a dirty, downward angle, making a loose, insolent circle with his fist so that he's holding himself by the base, the hard, hairy part of himself that always works Jimin open the widest, thumb stroking, index finger crooked.
Jungkook lets loose a tight hiss, a sound that escapes from between his teeth, as he begins to apply pressure, gingerly feeding his fat dick into Jimin's plump little ass. The bulbous head is slow to breach, forcing its way inside of Jimin, despite the wild size disparity between the invading force of that fat cock and the slick entrance of Jimin's tight hole. Jungkook gathers himself and his momentum, working up to a lazy, inexorable thrust in that forces Jimin onto the tips of his toes.
With a gasp, Jimin opens up for it, listening for proof that Jungkook has slid home, the solid presence of a cock so big he has to part his thighs and choke out a sigh to make room for it, and that's just the mental battle — mind over matter. The stretch is new and biting — but old all the same — a tight pressure that brings a sheen of wet to Jimin's eyes, until Jungkook has bottomed out to the root, the worst of it, the fattest part of his cock fully locked in, and then Jimin can only breathe through it, belly fluttering in momentary panic.
He forces himself into a sensuous curve, a pained cry eking out against his better judgment.
"I’ll fuck this loose again," Jungkook vows down at Jimin's tight little ass. "Keep you on your alpha’s knot to stretch you out real good.”
Jimin lets out a lost noise, lashes fluttering, and wriggles against the tight grind of Jungkook's cock.
"I’ve missed this sound," Jungkook sighs. "Cute little ass bouncing in my lap."
Jimin's cock jumps and he rolls his hips a little at that, letting his cheeks clap against the cradle of Jungkook's groin, his balls. He can feel the rasp of his pubic hair, coarse with sweat, and shoves back harder, rough and impatient with it, trying to get Jungkook to grind in deep where he's refusing to drill himself down.
"Shit ... ha," Jungkook grits out, and holds Jimin down by the hips until he’s crying out, the tips of his platform sneakers dangling, almost skimming asphalt, as Jungkook forces Jimin higher for his next thrust, thick cock carving out a place for itself inside. It's pulsing like it wants to fatten up further, lock itself in deep and start spewing all the way up to Jimin's belly. "Feel it," he growls and humps Jimin's ass so hard that Jimin's hips ricochet off the chain-link fence. Jungkook fucks in as deep as he can go, until there’s no room left, only the press of his plump balls, and then he uses his groin to start smearing Jimin’s slick around, making a mess of his little ass.
Jimin fumbles his hand around, trying to hide himself from view, but Jungkook catches his errant wrist and pins it without remorse. "Alpha …"
"Making your messy little hole so loose, baby. Ready to suck hyung’s cum up, huh?"
"Yeah, uhn, yeah, hyung-ah, ah, wanna suck it … please, please, uhn."
"Fill you the fuck up the way you deserve. Been so good waiting for your alpha’s cock all this time. Have no choice but to give your little belly its fill."
"Please, I’ve been waiting so long, hyung. You kept me empty so long. Need alpha to fill me. Fill me up … ah, fill me up and fuck me, h-hyung," Jimin cries, high and frantic. "In … in Jiminie’s little hole."
"Fuck, tight little hole needs it so fucking bad …" Jungkook snarls and smears a hand up Jimin's throbbing cock, squeezing down hard enough to hurt.
Jimin writhes, scrabbling for purchase against the chain-link fence. "I'm … I'm gonna …"
A cruel laugh comes, but not even the sound of Jungkook's judgment is enough to wrench Jimin back from the edge. "Already?"
"Hyuuung … help me …"
"Where's your phone?" Jungkook murmurs, stroking Jimin with his hand and his hips, almost in tandem.
Jimin tries to make sense of that question, and fails, making a hurt noise to convey his confusion. Jungkook pats his pockets down instead; in moments, he's found what he's looking for, has swiped the camera of Jimin's phone open and hit the big red record button.
His fist is a tight, slick suction around Jimin’s cock, mind-numbingly good, and then he’s reaching around with his other hand to line up a terrible iPhone shot with the front-facing camera. Jimin’s lower half is perfectly in frame, even with Jungkook’s attention split: his skirt hooked past the slant of his pink cock, his small hips humping up into the air as Jungkook works him over with his hand, as precise as ever, until Jimin makes a tiny crestfallen sound and starts coming through Jungkook’s fingers, tiny, excited shots of cum arcing past that giant fist.
Jungkook groans behind him, shoves the camera in closer, frighteningly close, like, splash zone-close, but Jimin no longer cares. He’s careened past any kind of sense and is now luxuriating in the remote section of his brain that is small and shameless and lustful. The part of his brain that loves eyes and camera lenses all over his body, that only exists to be lewd, hips cocked, pretty dick jutting up into the air.
Jimin makes little circles with his hips and moans, watching himself as though through a porn video player. Aftershocks rocket through him with small jerks and trembles and still he watches the iPhone screen, dizzy with arousal at the idea of thousands seeing an anonymous alpha’s hand move over his slender cock, wondering, theorizing, wishing they could put a name to the knuckles. But that’s classified information, for Jimin only.
Viewers might get a glimpse — a small taste — but the rest is all Jimin’s. The private curve of Jungkook’s smile, his hurried huffs of air, the gleam of sweat collecting at his hairy groin. Jimin’s. His neatly cut nails. The brush of his bangs against Jimin’s nape. The way he sounds when he’s watching, not like he’s putting on a show. Like he’s forgotten himself and the circumstances. That’s Jimin’s, too, uniquely Jimin’s and no one else’s, not even the omega from the POV porn he’d watched earlier. Especially not him.
Jimin pants heavily, likes the look of himself dripping down Jungkook’s tattooed knuckles, the play of sunshine over cum, licked off like espresso froth.
Jungkook sucks his fingers clean, then runs his filthy tongue up Jimin’s throat, transferring saliva and scent all over again. He makes a home for himself there, nose mashed up against Jimin’s hammering pulse, his mouth moving listlessly, wordlessly, just drifting kisses with no direction until he’s covered every last bit of ground. Until Jimin’s scent glands are oversensitive, alive and thrumming with a second scent profile, his very own blanket of belonging. With perfect aim, Jungkook ends the video and tosses the phone onto his discarded denim jacket less than a meter away.
“I’ll look like … like the victim of a vampire mauling,” Jimin whispers, tilting his head back for more, his mouth a lax little pout.
“Mmn,” Jungkook agrees and sucks harder at a tight wet spot on Jimin’s throat that he’s aware has already been marked at some point, is now being darkened all over again. This time, Jungkook adds teeth.
“H–Hyung-ah,” Jimin whines, scrabbling at the chain-link fence in an effort to locate his equilibrium.
Jungkook lets out a grumbling sound, satisfied, and starts unzipping Jimin’s tennis jacket. “I want to eat you.”
“You — you can’t, I’ll go so fast, you’ll finish me in two bites,” Jimin whispers, arching his back to force the sleek white fabric past his right shoulder, and then Jungkook is suddenly there, tonguing his way down the gentle slope of Jimin with a hum of private pleasure.
“Will ration you,” Jungkook says, nibbling now at the knob of one dainty shoulder. “One bite per night.”
Jimin twitches, ticklish, and imagines what they must look like together, tearing into each other like animals, fiendish against the metal fence — Jimin’s skirt rucked up at an indecent angle, his jacket unzipped halfway and pooling past his left arm, baring the crest of a creamy shoulder, the tight peaks of his little nipples. And Jungkook. God, Jungkook big and growly behind him, denim tugged open over his fat cock, his well-muscled thighs caging Jimin in, keeping him kicked open always.
“This is more than one bite, Jungkook-ah,” he manages.
Jungkook hums and tugs Jimin’s hips back, pushing himself inside a little deeper with a slick sound. “Taste too good,” he murmurs. “Don’t even need any seasoning.”
Absurdly, Jimin laughs, alive with longing. “Eat me, then.”
Jungkook parts his lips against Jimin’s shoulder, sets his teeth against skin, then gently clamps his jaw shut.
Jimin feels his head fall back and whines. “E–Eat me, hyung, right there. Bite me … ah, please … make it hurt. Wanna hurt for you.”
Jungkook lets out a fierce huff, like a smothered groan, and fucks forward on a sloppy thrust, ramping up the force behind the rut of his hips now. The sting of his teeth becomes unavoidable, a flash of bright, stinging pain that brings Jimin to the edge of awareness and back again, his head volleying between stupid and spine-tinglingly awake.
"Gonna come," he grunts. "All the way inside, Jimin-ah."
"Knot?" Jimin gasps.
"No knot," Jungkook murmurs, and soothes the wound that leaves behind by unhinging his jaw and peppering kisses across Jimin's bare shoulder, hand skating up his chest to curl, possessive, around Jimin's throat.
“Inside, then,” Jimin pleads. “Can I have a little inside, please? Just a bit, just … please.”
Jungkook’s fingers tighten around Jimin’s throat, hand too loose to be restrictive but pointed enough that the pressure is constant. There’s a sound building in his chest, Jimin can feel the vibrations against his back, and it’s sending tingles down to his toes. It’s one of Jungkook’s secret sex noises, the last ragged burst of sound before he tries to knot — there had been none of that in his POV porn, just neat little noises to signal interest and exertion — and pin Jimin, to immobilize him like that’ll make his seed take. It lights up a section of Jimin’s brain that’s been collecting dust for the last three years.
He hears himself whine, high and eager, at the first sign that he’s about to be filled, leg kicking out like an overeager puppy getting scratched in just the right spot, and Jungkook groans harshly, jams himself back in, then out, hanging from Jimin's ass halfway, one fist jerking the root of his cock with hard, fast slaps where his veiny shaft is jutting from those fat, spread cheeks. And then he starts coming, with a single haaah of relief, hard and deep.
Jimin feels a flicker of something go through him, like the ghost of his orgasm, a tension release of rightness that tells him his omega has been satisfied. He's right where he belongs and he's being rewarded with hot, greedy pulses of his alpha's come.
He lowers his head to tongue one of Jungkook’s tattooed fingers into his mouth, sucks fervently for something to do with his one other hole of importance, someplace to put all the feeling. Spit rolls down Jungkook's knuckles and they tense, tendons rippling beneath black ink.
Jimin feels it superimposed over his old, moth-eaten memories of Jungkook, phantom meeting flesh, all the little sense-memories from before: the way Jungkook’s cock starts throbbing, how his balls pull up tight and he hunches his shoulders protectively, trying to shove in closer, though that’s impossible, they’re already skin-to-skin, they’re practically the same person in moments like this one. He sinks his teeth into Jimin’s shoulder through his tennis jacket — the other, unbared section of skin, perhaps to protect Jimin from the blunt force of his incisors — and pumps his hips with fleshy smacks, trying to push himself and his incoming load deeper, all alpha, and he won't stop letting out subhuman rumbles of release, as though to express contentment over a job well done. As though to express ownership. Total possession of the body beneath him.
He drops his hands to Jimin’s hips, clutching him bruise-like, and yanks him backwards another centimeter. Jimin doesn’t resist. He’s been waiting too long for this. He lets himself be led. Lets himself loll for it like a limp doll, almost sitting in Jungkook’s lap standing up, the toes of his sneakers scraping concrete. Satisfied, Jungkook locks an arm around Jimin's belly and slaps in hard one last time. Then he's erupting fully with a teeth-grinding growl, cock pumping thick, hot pulses of cum into Jimin’s tight little hole. Jimin gasps against the hot throb, toes curling in his ankle socks. He can feel it heavy and leaky, waiting to drip free on the pull-out, to run down his thighs in ropes of sticky white.
Jimin thinks that must be it. There can’t possibly be any left. He’ll be let down now. He’ll have to throw on an award-winning smile and wave goodbye to the Agust D crew with perfect composure on his way to the bathrooms, alone again, cum trickling sadly from between his legs. But Jungkook is intent, single-minded in his focus, and his grip doesn’t falter for a moment. It intensifies, barring any escape — a symbolic knot.
He ruts into Jimin’s ass, again, deeper, still spurting long and hot inside, grinding in over and over like he’s trying to get a nonexistent knot to catch. He seems almost disgruntled by the absence of one, starts making unhappy snuffling noises into Jimin’s nape as though to will his knot into existence through sheer force. Another yank backwards, another unhappy growl, another deep grind in, this one less patient, more frustrated.
Jimin twitches and Jungkook growls again, alpha instincts askew, tightens his hold on Jimin’s body — hips and belly — and gives one more threatening thrust, forcing Jimin onto the tips of his toes. He gasps and catches himself against the chain-link fence, back arched painfully.
“J … Jungkook,” Jimin whispers, reaching back to fist a hand in his hair. “Jungkook, it’s all in.”
“Mn,” Jungkook says, still snuffling around and being generally growly about Jimin’s neck area.
“It’s in … you did it,” Jimin says, trying to find his footing. It only just occurs to him that Jungkook has been bearing his weight this whole time, almost holding him in the air on every last fuck inside. “I’m full. You made me so full with all your cum.”
Jungkook’s noises settle some and a sweaty hand suddenly shoves up inside of Jimin's polo to clamp down on his bare belly, like he wants to confirm. “Yeah.”
“Remember, you said I can’t have your knot yet,” Jimin pants.
“Yeah,” Jungkook says, unconvinced himself.
“So you can’t go back on it.”
He lets out a tiny groan of displeasure at that. “Yeah, hyung, I know. Why did I say that? Why’d you let me say that?”
“No use dwelling now,” Jimin says with a small laugh and pats Jungkook’s arm where it’s belted across his belly. “It’s not like you can knot me when you’ve already come.”
A pause of consideration.
“Jungkook,” Jimin says immediately, trying his best to sound admonishing.
“I could …” Jungkook trails off and fucks forward a little, knocking Jimin into the fence until he’s bent forward at the waist and hanging on for dear life, back to doll-like in an instant. “If you give me a little more time.”
“We have a live audience!” Jimin gasps.
Inside, Jungkook’s cock twitches in interest.
“Jeon Jungkook!”
Jungkook moans, open-mouthed against Jimin’s nape, and his hips rabbit up reflexively. “Anything you say right now is going to turn me on. Don’t ask why. I’ll find a way, hyung. Somehow. Some way.”
“I,” Jimin begins, trapped.
“Yeah,” Jungkook says, in this moment so young and eager that he could be eighteen all over again, bargaining for more time with Jimin's body before a literature class neither cared about in any substantial way.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that he’s younger than Jimin. It wells up in him then, a rush of sudden affection. He can feel himself overflowing, liquid gold dawning along a distant horizon. He can feel it. He can feel it thrumming through him, and it is, in some small part, animal instinct, a reunion of bodies, but it is also — bigger, more importantly — Jimin’s. The feeling is Jimin’s. He’s been nurturing it all these years, stupid and hopeful, and naming it as such is like finally coming home. Unlocking the front door and letting it leap into his arms.
“I,” he whispers. “Jungkook-ah. I love you a lot.”
Jungkook stills at his back.
“And I won’t be embarrassed by it,” Jimin says mulishly, trying to imbue his voice with the right amount of resolve and hoping it doesn’t come out like a pout. He isn’t going to let this make him feel little. He’s going to be big about it. “I know it’s a cliché and I know it might make you feel weird since we’ve been broken up for so long, but it’s how I feel and I … and I obviously don’t expect you to return the sentiment right away. Or ever. In fact, it’s better if you don’t, because then I won’t feel compelled to do something crazy, like adopt a golden retriever with you or go apartment-hunting together. To be honest, I don’t really know where we’ll go from here, but … but I’m okay with that, finally. I just want to say it out loud at least one more time. Whatever happens, wherever we end up — I love you. Um … and you can let me down now, it’s really awkward saying this into a chain-link fence.”
Jungkook’s hold on Jimin loosens abruptly and he feels his feet touch flat ground again. The big, warm body at his back retreats, pulling out with a nasty sound of separation.
Jimin winces, wobbling forward a few centimeters as emptiness engulfs him. It’s not as bad as he expected it would be. The sex high seems like it’s going to carry him home, probably until he makes it back to his studio and cracks open a box of red bean pastries on his little futon. Then the worst of it will come tumbling out, the flagrant ache of one last fuck. He supposes it's a nice goodbye, at least.
Jimin bends to tug his shorts and panties back up, too shy to look Jungkook in the eye now that more than a second of silence has settled between them. He can’t tell if it’s awkward or anticipatory. Jimin grimaces down at his ruined thong, unhappy at the idea of sliding it back into place, and his shorts on top, fabric tugged up over the mess he and Jungkook have just made of his ass. When he turns to request a towel of some kind, trying to clench up to keep any last evidence of his (former) alpha inside, two arms immediately close around his waist.
“Yah — !” Jimin yelps, as Jungkook hoists him into the air. “What do you think you’re doing with your hyung!”
“Not my hyung,” Jungkook murmurs, mulish in his own right, and dips forward to nose tenderly at Jimin’s throat. “Not when we’re like this.”
“Like — like what! Jungkook, your cum, it’s all gonna leak back out — !” Jimin rushes to add, trying to yank his jacket down over his exposed hole.
Jungkook bats Jimin away. “When I’m back inside, I’m the hyung.”
“‘Back!’ Who said anything about back! What’s this, are you going to put it in again! Ah, ah … oh … Jungkook, Jungkook-ah … ah … ah …”
“Mm,” Jungkook hums. The slip inside is smoother this time, eased by how well-lubricated Jimin’s entrance has become after round one, a hot, wet clutch ready to receive another helping of cock. Always ready and waiting. “Does my little dongsaeng like it?”
“How are you hard again already!” Jimin demands, jolting as Jungkook slides home, balls-deep and totally unembarrassed about it. “Are you due for a rut soon?”
“Nope,” Jungkook says.
“This is incredibly demeaning,” Jimin says shakily and accidentally releases a new gush of slick around Jungkook’s huge, bullying cock.
“Hyung.”
“Huh?”
“‘This is incredibly demeaning, hyung,’” Jungkook repeats and blinks up at Jimin with undisguised patience.
Jimin flushes beet red. He promptly buries his face in Jungkook’s neck to hide himself from that wide, probing gaze. “Are you gonna knot me now?” he whispers. “… Hyung.”
Jungkook moans against Jimin’s throat, jaw working like he wants to leave a bite behind that will break skin this time.
“Knot your little dongsaeng, please,” Jimin goes on, growing whiny at the thought.
“Stop, stop, or I’ll come again too quickly,” Jungkook pants, and Jimin starts snickering.
“This is so gross, you know. Really disgusting stuff, even for you. You’re using your own cum as lube and I’m drenched and there are like twenty people pretending not to be watching it all happen and I just made you hard again purely because I said —“
“I love you,” Jungkook cuts in, impatient now, and catches Jimin’s mouth in a bruising kiss when his lips part, startled by those fatal three words. Jimin falls into the kiss face-first, or at least that’s what it feels like, his mouth soft and wet and open with shock. Jungkook nips him reproachfully, pulls back to say, “I didn’t stop loving you when you broke up with me. I couldn’t turn it off, Jimin-ah. I never figured out how not to love you. I’ll admit I tried, once or twice, but nothing worked and I gave up the game pretty quickly. I think you ruined me for all other omegas.” Then he leans in for a second open-mouthed kiss.
Jimin yanks his mouth away, aghast. “I ruined you … ? You are currently ruining my back!”
Jungkook nods with solemn understanding, unfazed by this fact. “Saying that out loud was like letting a huge weight off of my chest. I think I’m okay now.”
“O … Okay?” Jimin says in confusion.
“So I won’t knot you here like this,” Jungkook continues, sounding suddenly resolved, like some sort of mature adult with basic knowledge of public social decorum. “I feel in control again.”
Jimin pounds a fist against Jungkook’s back, almost red in the face with indignation. “You! And what about the poor omega you pulled into your antics? What about the one currently dripping down your dick like a leaky faucet, huh! What about me, you big, stupid, greedy alpha! You can’t just leave me like this!”
Jungkook drops a new kiss to Jimin's mouth, still solemn. His eyes are big and glittering. “My omega is so cute,” he murmurs. “Even cuter than I remember. As a reward, I’m going to cockwarm you, just like this, so everyone on set can see how pretty you sit for me.”
Jimin stares at Jungkook, horror-struck. “I didn’t do anything to warrant this kind of punishment,” he whispers through unmoving lips.
“Not punishment,” Jungkook insists. “Reward.”
“Jungkook!” Jimin shouts.
“Excuse my omega,” Jungkook says to a nearby camera operator — Hanbin, the directorial fill — swapping out memory cards. “He is very rowdy today.”
“I won’t stand for this!”
Jungkook blinks his attention back to Jimin. “You’re not standing for this,” he points out. “You’re sitting.”
Jimin gapes.
Jungkook leans in for another kiss.
“You’re an evil hyung,” Jimin whispers into his mouth and kisses him back, stunned into submission.
Jungkook nods, readily accepting this.
“How can you agree so easily! So you know then, the extent of your evils!”
“It’s more fun if we’re both evil,” Jungkook says. “Isn’t it, Jimin-ah?”
“You’re the most evil.”
“I accept this title, as the hyung in the relationship.”
“You’re not the hyung in the relationship!” Jimin cries. “I am!”
“Do you want my knot?”
“Yes, yes, Jiminie wants your knot, I told you! I always want it! I have thought about it relentlessly for the last twelve hundred days, you stupid alpha! I want it so bad!” Jimin blurts on instinct, then slaps a hand to his mouth in immediate mortification.
Jungkook continues nodding, giving off waves of endlessly smug pleasure. He starts for the tennis club’s bar and banquet hall without preamble. “Good dongsaeng. Good omega. Your alpha hyung will reward you for this.”
Jimin ignores the flood of sex serotonin that last sentence sends straight to his hindbrain and puts his forehead to Jungkook’s shoulder, pouting sullenly. “Yes, please, I want my reward now.”
Jungkook lightly smacks Jimin’s ass, right where he’s beginning to smart, oversensitive. “I’ll find some lotion for this, although I’ll have to let you down to apply it.”
“You’ll just use that as an opportunity to fuck me in a different position.”
“And you will enjoy it heartily,” Jungkook says.
Jimin extends his neck to kiss the mole below Jungkook's bottom lip. “Maybe,” he says, then surges forward for another kiss, a proper, open-mouthed one, licking sweetly at his alpha's lips. “I missed your mole.”
“I missed everything about you, even the parts that regularly left underwear all over my dorm room floor and refused to fall asleep any earlier than two am,” Jungkook says and Jimin trembles with laughter. Then, murmured against his lips: “Ahem, hyung, some privacy?”
Jimin twists around to slit Yoongi a catlike look, arms tightening possessively around Jungkook’s shoulders. Jungkook’s senses have always been far more refined than Jimin’s — scent, especially — and this is further proof of that fact. Jimin makes a mental note to go scented candle shopping later.
“You are,” Yoongi says, “and I cannot stress this enough, performing sex for five cameras in a public setting.”
“Actually, I was performing a raw, animalistic display of sexual and emotional chemistry that probably dates back to the Goryeo Dynasty and some of the first living wolves, and I was performing it for Jimin, specifically," Jungkook informs him, as charitable as is currently possible for an alpha cockwarming his long-lost college sweetheart.
“You’re welcome,” Jimin adds.
“How serendipitous that we all just so happened to be here to witness this unprecedented historical display,” Yoongi says, with a low-lidded scowl.
“And you were doing a lot of staring during it,” Jungkook says.
Yoongi’s eyebrows leap up. “That does appear to be part of my job.”
“A lot of staring,” Jungkook says, again, pointedly now.
Yoongi’s mouth flattens. “Is that a thinly veiled accusation I’m hearing in your voice?”
“Just don’t get any ideas, hyung,” Jungkook says, “as they relate to this one’s fat little omega ass.”
Jimin’s jaw slackens.
“It’s just as likely that I’m lusting after you,” Yoongi says to Jungkook.
Jungkook nods, like he will bear this responsibility for the pride of his country. “That’s fine.”
“No it’s not!” Jimin interjects, finger up.
“No it’s not,” Jungkook says loyally and leans in for another kiss. “Look away, Yoongi-hyung, we’re busy.”
“You’re a chrysanthemum, Min Yoongi!” Jimin yells a moment later and blows him a big smack of an air-kiss as he and Jungkook disappear inside the tennis court’s nearby facilities.
“I don’t know what that means,” Yoongi says with a sigh, and turns towards the remaining cluster of crew. “We’re never doing a sports concept again, got it?”
There’s a ripple of murmured agreement, unanimous all around.
“I don’t want to hear or see anything from today until there’s a final edit for me to review.” Yoongi waves the contract he's carrying for emphasis, and also to fan his sweaty face. “And I would like to issue a formal apology on behalf of Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin. Namjoon-ah, you will be compensated for what you bore witness to today. For the script, too, obviously. All right. Let’s pack it up, everyone.”
Seokjin pulls up beside Yoongi, squinting in the direction of the glass doors that are still swinging shut from Jimin and Jungkook's enthusiastic exit. Or entrance, depending on perspective. “You know, when you were ordering Jimin not to seduce any of your employees, Jeon Jungkook was the absolute last candidate on my mind.”
“Make no mistake,” Yoongi says, “the seduction that occurred on set today was all Jungkook’s doing.”
“A nice change of pace.”
“I think so, too.”