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1.
The very first time Taehyung gets Jimin like this— alone and only half-naked in his lap, smooth and suntanned from the waist down with an oversized t-shirt (Taehyung’s, of course) on his shoulders, smirking a sideways slant right down into Taehyung’s open mouth— he ends up coming.
Too soon, right away, immediately and devastatingly and before Jimin can do more than grind his hips down against Taehyung’s pubic bone. Jimin’s dick, bare and upturned and the prettiest shade of pink at the curved, swollen tip— the prettiest, really the prettiest color that Taehyung has ever, ever seen— it nudges once, twice, three times, maybe four against Taehyung’s own crotch. Five times, maybe, but Taehyung doesn’t know, can’t think or count or even breathe because it’s too much too soon, right away, and his underwear– fuck, he’s not even undressed– is too tight and now it’s wet and he-
Taehyung is stunned and red-faced and shying away. Almost laughing, though he can’t quite get himself to find the humor in the situation any more than he feels the embarrassment, fire-hot in his cheeks— his cheeks that Jimin’s tiny, pretty hands squeeze as he bends to kiss him. He is chaste at first, soothing, and then filthy with his arched tongue doing this hot kind of licking against Taehyung’s taste buds.
“I‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” Taehyung is saying, babbling a little, still trying to suck on Jimin’s tongue through it all because he might be ashamed but he’s shameless all the same, too far gone, too cock-struck and star-whipped to really hold back.
“Don’t,” Jimin says. “Don’t be sorry, don’t be.” He sounds overly pleased, still a little like he wants to laugh but isn’t sure if he can find the breath for it. Busy, caught up, preoccupied just like Taehyung is with kissing him back, with shrugging Taehyung out of his haze and himself out of his shirt.
Because Jimin needs Taehyung’s hands on him: Taehyung’s hands that shake when they make contact on the summer-pavement sunburned skin over his ribs, growing tan and taut across the curve of his stomach, the handles of his hips.
“I didn’t- I don’t- I-” Taehyung is saying, and Jimin interrupts him to say back, “wanted me, hmm? Made a mess for me. So soon, Taehyung-ah.”
He’s not reprimanding, just stating facts. Taehyung whines. Jimin’s tongue traces the hollow of his throat, up to the bend of his chin. Taehyung had wanted to eat Jimin up; now it’s mutual. Always been mutual, really, but especially now.
“Okay, baby. ‘S okay. Feels good for me too, y’know?”
Taehyung’s eyes are wide, glassy. Jimin inches closer to touch at the birthmark on his temple with the pad of his index finger, and also to make sure he’s not about to shed real tears. Taehyung looks undone.
Good undone, Jimin surmises, when Taehyung’s crotch lifts up, an eager jolt, pulling Jimin closecloseclose to him.
His nails leave half-moon shapes on Jimin’s skin.
“Wanted to- your- wanna-” Taehyung huffs, looking frustrated and starved and satiated all at once. “Wanna make you feel like that. Fuck, Jimin-ah, I don’t-”
Jimin clicks his tongue. “Felt pretty damn good, Taehyung-ah.”
Taehyung shoves at him. For a moment he is fifteen again, Jimin’s best friend before he is anything else, and Taehyung reels, thinking of how many wet dreams alone he’d had of Jimin with so much as a slice of skin flashing from under his t-shirt hem as his muse. To kiss him– the concept alone had been unthinkable. Now, Jimin’s sexiness is showcasing itself so easily that Taehyung feels stunned to the soles of his feet.
He knows Jimin has never done this before. They are each other’s firsts in nearly everything: in kisses, in dates, in hand-holding that actually meant something, brief almost-girlfriends in high school rendered invalid and uncounted and forgotten about; in pain, success, in pulling all-nighters in the dance room, in attending award shows and not leaving empty handed, in signing off on album writing credits and bungee jumping in Gangwon-do and getting drunk on the eve of Jimin’s nineteenth birthday, even if Taehyung was still a few months away from legality himself and had to be sly about it. Everything that made sense for them to do, they did it together.
And now, Jimin is the first person to ever see what Taehyung’s face looks like when he has come, and Jimin is looking back at him like Taehyung is better than any of the porn he’s ever seen— and Taehyung knows he’s seen it.
That hadn’t been one of their firsts. Taehyung had nearly gone mad, had almost slammed his head into the walls of their old dorm when he’d found out that Jimin had been watching porn with Yoongi, of all people.
“Namjoonie-hyung was there too,” Jimin had reported back at the time, like that additional information would make Taehyung feel even remotely better about it. They were too young back then, just babies really. They hadn’t worked out what they were to each other yet. “It was weird, really. Not sexy. I think I sort of intruded on them.”
“I don’t want to know this,” Taehyung had responded, and when he locked himself in the bathroom for a while after that, he hoped Jimin thought he was jerking off in there. He wanted Jimin to think about it. He really wanted Jimin to think about it. In hindsight, the video game sounds coming from his phone were probably too loud, too much of a dead giveaway to the fact that he was, instead, very much moping and panicking and cursing his sad, sorry, lonely, sexless excuse of a life.
After all, how could he get it up when he was jealous like that, young and snappy like a livewire and so close to bursting in all the wrong kinds of ways, so close to telling Jimin the truth, so close to caving in. But he couldn’t. Not then.
But now:
“Aigoo,” Jimin says, whiny and dripping with satoori, “do you really think I don’t feel good right now? Just kissing you? Making out with you?”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same thing.” Taehyung’s words come out in a grumble. He presses his cheek to his shoulder blade, hiding. Jimin can see a flash of white teeth, the curve of his smile skating higher on his cheeks.
“Tae-yah. Taehyung-ah.”
He isn’t moving. He stays still, like he’s trying to freeze himself in time, until Jimin nudges him and says “Taehyung-ah” enough times to get him to give up on this little game of hide and seek he’s doing while situated right in front of him.
“Yeah?”
“Taehyung-ah, I like you.” It’s nothing he doesn’t already know. It still hits hard. “I like you so much, and for so long I didn’t think you could like me, and I- I don’t care. I don’t care what we do, I’m so happy to be with you, I’m so happy every day when I wake up and I can kiss you.” He pauses, half like he’s calculating what to say next and half like he’s getting winded just by talking. “That’s enough, anything is enough. I’m so happy with you. But also, I mean, you…that was so hot, Taehyung-ah. That was so hot.”
Taehyung lifts his head. Jimin is looking at him like he is hungry and he is not so much a person but rather a bowl of soondaeguk.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out sounding less like syllables and more like an exhale. “You think I have anything to complain about here? That I haven’t wanted to see that before?”
“Huh?” Taehyung says, not because he didn’t hear him but because he wants Jimin to say it again. “D’ya mean, Jimin-ah, that you…”
He takes too long of a pause for Jimin’s liking. Jimin feels like he has slipped up, like he has made a grave mistake by disclosing this personal insight— not like Taehyung doesn’t already have him pinned down by now, not like he wouldn’t figure it out eventually— but Taehyung looks like a puppy with the way his hair is flopping around his ears, all chocolate labrador sweetness juxtaposing with the splotch on his gray sweatpants, staining dark at the crux of his thighs, and Jimin is not doing a good job at hiding the fact that he is staring.
Jimin bites his lip, a nervous habit, and it’s another mistake, because it spurs Taehyung into movement, into emboldenment. One hand grips at Jimin’s neck, the other scraping down his hip, all that playfight bruising they’d done for years intentioned now, different from any other hide-and-seek, find-and-retrieve game they’d ever play. Taehyung’s fingers skim around the width of Jimin’s cock like they know exactly what they’re doing, like they’ve done this before.
“You thought about me sometimes? When you got horny and hard and all riled up?”
“Christ, Taehyung-ah.”
“All wet and wild and squirmy in your bed trying to keep quiet? Touching yourself like this? Your tiny little cute fingers around your big sexy hard dick? Can you even hold yourself properly? Make it good?”
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin whines, because he is going a little over the top with the dirty talk and it would make Jimin giggle, maybe, if Taehyung’s eyes weren’t so dark and searing, if his hand wasn’t on Jimin’s cock fulfilling his longest running fantasy to date.
“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung parrots. “Baby.”
“I did,” Jimin says. His breath shudders like the wind has been knocked out of him. “Is that okay?”
Taehyung almost scoffs. It is almost mean, in a way that Jimin would maybe like, but Taehyung is never mean. (And later on Jimin will wish that he was, at least a little bit, because then he won’t have to inevitably have a conversation with Taehyung about how he’d like it, just maybe, if he touched him a little harder, or if he taunted him a little more, or if he maybe didn’t always call him his angel or his baby or the light of his life, because of course he likes those things but he also maybe would like some other, more unkind, names to be on roster, just in the context of the bedroom, and only the bedroom. Maybe. Just maybe.)
But it’s too soon for that, far too early on, only a few weeks into this proper thing called dating, them being actual proper boyfriends or whatever, and Jimin isn’t sure he’s going to survive right now, what with the way Taehyung is jacking him off like he knows just what feels good for Jimin, automatic and on cue without even needing to think.
“Yes, it’s okay,” Taehyung goes on. “It’s so fucking sexy, Jimin-ah. Always wanted you to want me. You’re so- you’re a dream, I can’t believe you’re real, that you’re here with me-”
Jimin could scoff now. He is blushing and nearly cowering under Taehyung’s gaze, under his touch. He owes an apology to all the fictional girls he used to roll his eyes at in shonen jump stories when they were too open, too vulnerable, too real under the influence of affection. He gets it now. Thinks he has never felt as cracked open as he does right now.
“I want you,” Jimin says back. He is insistent, like they are having a competition. “Baby, Tae-yah, I want you all the time. Want you so much I could go crazy.” It’s trite, maybe, but Jimin means it.
“I came before you even touched me.”
“That’s… ssibal,” Jimin says. He shivers at the memory, at Taehyung’s bluntness, at the sight of his own precome oozing over the tips of Taehyung’s long fingers. With each upstroke over his cockhead, Jimin’s hips twitch. Maybe they are having a competition. “You win, I guess. Fuck, do that again, please, please.”
Taehyung looks briefly very serious, and then he is kissing Jimin, clutching his shoulder with his free hand before taking hold, unrelenting and tender, to his scalp, tangling up Jimin’s hair. And then they are not talking much at all anymore, because there is really nothing left for them to speak that they cannot say with the glide of their bodies, with the sprawl of their limbs, with the purse of Taehyung’s mouth so pulled open that Jimin feels like he could just about climb inside of him and stay there, make a home in the safe hollow of Taehyung’s chest, right where he’s always belonged. Right where he’s always lived, in one shape or form, anyway.
2.
Taehyung is putting on his best porn-star moans. He can’t see, from the way that he is on all fours atop Jimin’s bedsheets, that Jimin is frowning. Can’t feel it, either, because he is too busy sprawling his legs and pressing his chin into his pillowcase to feel Jimin hesitating from his position beneath the swell of his asscheeks, to decide whether to call Taehyung out on his shit or not.
Taehyung is swaying on his hands and knees. He is already bruised from their latest choreography, so what’s a little more when this seems like the best way to try this sort of thing out, this kind of deep-chested need; the nicest angle to get Jimin to lick at him all nice and sweet and slow like he has been. They’ve only done this once before and he was belly-up, on his back then, but this is better; Jimin’s blankets are so soft that, despite the sweating of his palms and his kneecaps, he thinks this might actually be good for his aches and pains. A kind of makeshift yoga, or free chiropractor service. His spine has already cracked twice within maybe ten minutes of Jimin’s mouth being on his taint. He has laughed about it, Jimin has tried not to. Out of kindness, probably, but Taehyung thinks they are much too deep into things both figuratively and literally— for Jimin to dance around him at all anymore.
Jimin keeps stroking his lower back.
“Easy, baby bear,” he says. The next kiss he places to Taehyung’s skin is away from his hole and on his inner thighs instead, on the curve of his asscheeks until he is pulling off and away. Taehyung tries not to whine about it– because Jimin had been licking him just right, that long tongue just about to slide in and he was so ready for it, just about shaking over it, so why did Jimin stop so soon–
“You don’t have to do all that, you know,” Jimin finally says. He speaks like he’s treading water, like he’s talking to a child or someone other than Taehyung. He sounds…displeased. Taehyung can read him without even turning around, without even seeing his face. He breathes in slowly, matches it with an exhale, and tries not to feel hurt when Jimin’s hands lift off him entirely.
“What?” He flops until he’s laying on his side and he can see Jimin’s face. His spine complains about it but at least this time, it doesn’t make a noise. He’s thankful; Jimin’s face is already scrunched up a little. There’s a little something like pity in the way that his smile sits on his face. Taehyung thinks, only I know him like that, only I would recognize that, and then he immediately feels kind of sick because he doesn’t want the person he knows like that, the person who knows him right back, to feel pity for him.
“Jimin-ah, what? Why’d you stop? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jimin chews on his lower lip. He should have prepared this part before he had stopped, should have taken more time in his stretch between Taehyung’s legs to spoil him slash tease him slash collect as much data as he could, because he is not quite sure how to come up with the right phrasing to say that somewhere between learning how to eat Jimin’s ass and letting his own get eaten, Taehyung had undergone a vocal transformation from being somewhat subdued to mewling like a full-blown sex-kitten, and Jimin has been worrying about it.
“I’m not faking it,” Taehyung protests. His lips, when they pout, are so swollen from kissing that they brush the tip of his own nose. Jimin stares at his birth mark, tries to let himself be grounded by the familiarity of it. “You think I’m faking it?”
“Was it bad, Taehyung-ah? Was I bad?”
Jimin is lifting to his feet, drawing away from the bed. With the way that he is standing, Taehyung figures that in about ten seconds, he is going to start to pace.
“No, not at all-”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.
“Really?”
“I promise, Jimin-ah, please, listen-”
Taehyung is not the type to lie about promising. Jimin levels his stare at him. He had forgotten he was naked and he feels silly now as he stands with his hips bare, his cock jutting out half-hard. His arms are crossed over his chest.
“Why are you making those sounds?”
“What sounds?”
“Like you’re…not you.”
Taehyung looks confused. Jimin sits back down. He feels suddenly bad for having stood up at all. Taehyung has this look in his eye like Jimin has taken everything he owns and thrown it out the window to roast in the summer heat, to crumple atop the pavement.
“Okay. I thought you were liking it.”
“I was.”
“So…I mean, yeah. I know you were liking it. I could tell.” Jimin gestures in the direction of Taehyung’s waist, makes some motion that vaguely gets across the allusion to orgasm.
Taehyung lunges across the bed until his knuckles shove at his Jimin’s shoulder. “Yah, smug much?”
Jimin fights back his smile. “Hey, you were the one to tell me it was good. Ah, Jimin-ah, Jimin-ah, your tongue. I heard it straight from your mouth. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He raises his index finger to nudge at Taehyung’s lower lip.
“That’s not how that phrase works,” Taehyung says, but darts his tongue out to lick at Jimin’s index finger anyway.
It is hard to be mad at him— and mad isn’t the right word— so rather, it is hard to be anything but infatuated with him when he is naked and Jimin can still see the shadow of his asshole from where he lies now, half-stretched from Jimin’s kiss and just the slightest press of his fingers. There’s never real pressure when he fingers Taehyung, never any discomfort like Jimin sometimes has to suffer through, Taehyung has taken it like a champ every time, and they haven’t done it that many times, sure, but still, Jimin doesn’t understand–
“Why are you exaggerating? Why are you- I mean, sorry, but why are you, like, trying to sound sexy?”
Immediately, Jimin realizes this is the wrong thing to say. He course-corrects.
“I mean, you are sexy. You’re always sexy, everything you do- but when you’re being you. Why are you not being you?”
It is silent for a moment before Taehyung finds his words. Jimin scoots closer to him on the bed, swiftly feeling like he has overreacted too much, like he shouldn’t have said anything at all. He stares at the faint hairs on Taehyung’s thighs, at the path to his pubic bone where they get darker and thicker. He wants to go back to kissing him there.
“I mean, it’s…different when it’s something different, you know? It wasn’t like I was- I don’t know, I mean, I’m going to feel different when you’re doing this compared to when I’m doing it to you.”
“Doing it– do I have to talk to you about sex like Hoseokie-hyung does to Jeonggukie? If you can’t use your big boy words then-”
“Yeah, yeah, then I shouldn’t be having sex, shush. ”
Taehyung’s cheeks are turning the faintest shade of pink. Jimin frowns at him, Taehyung frowns back.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Jimin says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel embarrassed.”
“Jimin-ah, I’m not. I like it. You make me feel good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like…really good.”
“Okay,” Jimin says. He doesn’t miss the rise and fall of Taehyung’s throat. His Adams apple is already kiss-stained, perched high and pretty on his neck, and fuck, Jimin will steal one of Seokjin’s turtlenecks for him before he wakes up in the morning and catches sight of it in the mirror. Jimin puts his hand there, atop the bruise, in lieu of his teeth. He watches Taehyung soften and settle.
“Okay,” he says again. “Tell me, baby.”
“It was…a lot, and you know I…I didn’t know if I’d like it, but I wanted to like it because I like you, so much, I mean. You know- you know I do. And I did like it, I liked it so much, and I wanted you to know because I wanted you to like it too, to like me liking it-”
“Baby,” Jimin repeats. The arch of Taehyung’s jawbone is warm under his parted mouth, like a spring sunset, when he kisses him there.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” he tells him, because through that rambling, he’s decoded Taehyung, seen right to the heart of the matter: Taehyung has been worrying about him.
“Do you know,” he says, and gets a little distracted because somewhere along the way while he’s gotten himself closer to Taehyung, Taehyung has slipped his hand along Jimin’s ass to touch him right back. He slips his teeth across Taehyung’s lips, talking through a kiss, saying, “do you know, Taehyung-ah- hmm, listen to me. You know I like anything with you.”
“I know,” Taehyung answers, and he must be very serious, because he leans away from Jimin’s next kiss to say, “but what if you didn’t like that?”
“I mean, I figured you would, because I like doing it to you, and I know you like me-” That earns Taehyung a shove to the chest, even as Jimin just folds impossibly closer towards him. “But I didn’t want you to think you weren’t doing good, or that I didn’t like it for even a second.”
“But what if I was doing something bad? Or you didn’t like it?”
“You don’t do anything badly,” Taehyung replies, like it’s obvious. Like it’s something Jimin should know, that he is incapable of doing anything bad ever, actually.
Jimin rolls his eyes.
“I’m serious!”
“Taehyung-ah. Don’t fake it for me, ever. Don’t fake it with me. We don’t do that.”
“I know.” Taehyung is quiet for a moment. He lets Jimin look at him, lets him frame his face in his hands and kiss him until his tongue feels a little bit numb. Good numb. The best kind of numb.
“But really, I wasn’t faking it that much.”
Jimin is halfway to smirking, on the edge of confidence. Must be the nudge of Taehyung’s cock against his spread legs that eggs him on.
“No?”
“No, I just wanted you to feel good. To know that I feel good. Because sometimes I get quiet, y’know, when I’m really…” The corners of Taehyung’s grin creep up; the creases of his smile lines paint across the skyline of that blush. Pink, pretty, so pliant in Jimin’s bed, pouting up at him after he’s been punished for having too much prowess.
“I’m not always loud when it feels good, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good. I wanted you to know it. To not get discouraged.”
Jimin’s voice is very quiet when he speaks again. “Lay back down,” he says. He is not teasing when he spreads Taehyung out, this time with his knees facing up towards the ceiling until Taehyung gets the memo and pulls them tight to his chest.
“Gonna eat you out more,” Jimin says. “Just let me. Doing so much to make me feel good. But I don’t want you to worry about me, just wanna take care of you. Just be you.”
“Okay,” Taehyung answers. “Sorry.”
Jimin snaps his head up. He reaches for Taehyung’s hands, finds them at the base of his stomach, right by his bellybutton.
“Hey. No. Don’t be sorry.” He squeezes once, twice, more times than he can count, and feels Taehyung’s pubic hair tickle his wrists. “Don’t be sorry.”
“Okay. Not sorry.”
He is breathy more than anything as Jimin suckles at him, as he prods him open with two fingertips and feels inside for the spot that will make Taehyung’s knees jerk. He’s always reflexive, moving like he is a marionette and Jimin is pulling on his strings.
“You’re sweet,” Jimin says. The words are wet with spit, muffled with the pressure of his lips on the rim of Taehyung’s asshole. He is puckered and so warm and Jimin is overcome with wanting; they both shudder at the same time.
“You’re so sweet to me. The sweetest boy I’ve ever known. Sweetest boy on earth, Kim Taehyung-ah, good boy.”
Taehyung lets out this hopeless little wail, a far cry from the whines he’d been serving up before, and then he is quiet, just panting, really, while his hips shift under Jimin’s hands, twisting and writhing while Jimin’s tongue works and works, flicking inside of him fast and certain.
“Good boy,” Jimin says again, because that seems to be doing something for Taehyung and fuck, if it isn’t doing something for him too. He rolls his own hips down against the mattress, chasing whatever friction he can get, and only when he pulls off to spit into his palm, to get out the words, “hey, Taehyung-ah, baby boy, do you think you want my cock in you now or what?” is it too late.
Taehyung comes across his stomach, gorgeous streaks of white that kick these stuttering breaths out of his chest seconds later, like he’s having a delayed reaction. Jimin watches, is faintly aware of his tongue lolling out of his mouth like he is a dog, because he had been doing something down there between Taehyung’s legs, between the sanctified spread of his asscheeks, and. Well. He hadn’t thought it’d be enough to get Taehyung there, is all. It hadn’t been, a few days ago, the last time they did this.
“You,” Jimin says. He has half a mind to put his tongue back on Taehyung’s hole, maybe just to get himself off at this point— and he can’t judge Taehyung, not at all, because right now he thinks he could do it, so keyed up that he’s pretty sure he could get there just by drinking in the sight of Taehyung right now. There is a beautiful look of surprise on his face.
“Yeah. I don’t…”
“…Just from that? From me?”
“…Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung agrees. “Fuck.”
It is with Jimin’s cock nudging against the splatter on Taehyung’s stomach, the hot mess of it, that he finds his own release. Taehyung lays there and lets Jimin make him messier, and that beautiful look of surprise doesn’t fully shake off from his face no matter how many minutes pass. His hands shake as he reaches for Jimin once more, because he is so many things during sex— already, in just the handful of times that they have had it— but he is never not needy.
“Can’t believe you thought I was faking it with you,” he says, after he has gotten up and rinsed off and put on a pair of Namjoon’s slides that Jimin is not entirely sure Taehyung knows are not his. He flops back into the bed face first, and he is so muffled by the lazy press of his face into the blankets that Jimin is not sure that he has heard him correctly when he says, “I would just tell you if you were bad at sex, y’know, ‘Min-ah.”
“I’m going to suffocate you.” Jimin announces. He pulls a pillow out from under the slope of his own neck to repeatedly whip him in the back of the head with it. Taehyung’s laughter is just as feather-light.
3.
The holidays were nice. Good to be home. Good to be with family. Taehyung can’t remember a single thing that happened while he was away.
“Tell me,” Jimin says, trying to get more out of him. He wants to know about harabeoji and appa, about Jeonggyu’s grades and his new girlfriend. He wants Taehyung to share the final ingredient in his eomma’s coveted cucumber salad recipe that she told Jimin she’d pass on to him. Sometimes, on the phone, Jimin talks longer to her on the phone than he does to Taehyung.
“What?” Taehyung says. He does not mean to sound so exasperated, except that Jimin is on top of him, kissing his neck like it turns him on to hear about how Taehyung’s childhood bedroom has been reconfigured to fit more of his sister’s things that she brought home from university. She has been collecting Pokemon stickers, just like Namjoon. He stole one of her duplicates to bring to him the next time they catch up over samgyeopsal and sejak oolong tea.
One of Taehyung’s hands is in Jimin’s hair, scritching at his scalp, while the other is at his ankle with his leg hiked up high across his middle. The stretch of skin between Jimin’s crew sock and sweatpants is taunting Jimin. It had been a wider space earlier, as Taehyung’s hand had been easing north, shoving the fabric up. Now, Jimin has undone all of his hard work. He really wants to hear about the mystery seasoning in that banchan.
“Wanna just kiss you,” Taehyung tells him. He is fully aware of how pathetic he sounds, and he does not care. “I missed you.”
Jimin pulls his mouth away from the mark he’s suckled against Taehyung’s collarbone. Taehyung can tell by the way that it stings that he will need to whip out the good concealer tomorrow: the kind Yoongi recommended back when Jimin had first walked into blocking rehearsal with a hickey flashing out from under the collar of his jersey, and eventually they had flashed from nearly everywhere else on Jimin’s body with each new stage, and then on Taehyung’s too, damning as all hell, and well, the others were able to put two and two together.
(“You use this?” Jimin had asked Yoongi when he’d lent them the remnants of his current tube and said he could keep the last of it.
“For…” Taehyung started, and then succinctly finished that sentence where it began.
“Yes,” Yoongi said, like they were the stupid ones for not having caught on to the fact that he was also in the party of members who were consistently getting laid, and then he had shut his door right in their faces.)
“I missed you too,” Jimin says. “That’s why I wanna know everything.”
“I told you everything on the ride over.”
“That was on the phone. Tell me now that you’re here, in front of me. It’s better that way. I like it that way.”
“If I had known this I would have saved my breath the first time.”
“Liar.”
Taehyung smiles against his lips. Just brushing against them, not even kissing, just this soft sort of nudging, being close. Jimin smells like the cleanser he uses for his face before he sleeps; his nose is warm against Taehyung’s cheek.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m a liar. I’ll tell you again.”
So he does. With his eyes closed, Taehyung feels like Jimin is all around him. His hand is tingly where it’s draped around Jimin’s shoulders, stuck in the same position for too long, cramped up against the back of the couch cushion, but he doesn’t bother to move it. It’s a welcome discomfort when everything else feels good. He is breathing in the same air as Jimin, they are so near to each other. Jimin inhales; when Taehyung kisses him, he is taking the air right back again.
Taehyung is not thrilled to talk about home, not when it feels foreign compared to this. When it is so cliche to be this close to Jimin and feel this good, to feel like he is back where he belongs, to feel like he had never left at all, and thus, like he can never leave again.
Sometimes he is sad to have spent so much time away from family. Chuseok is not the same without his halmeoni to make songpyeon and wake him up with her humming and early morning dishwashing. She scraped the plates with hardened sponges, and Taehyung always expected them to scratch, but they never did. Every year feels a little bit harder without her.
Nobody in Taehyung’s household is particularly good at talking about it, except Taehyung, who can only put the words into song lyrics or a notes app document in his cell phone, filed away until he decides to send it to Yoongi and Namjoon. He always offers it up in a group chat, because he knows they may understand how he feels but he doesn’t want to burden only one of them with it. If they’re bothered by him, he wants them to be able to complain to each other.
Thank you for sharing, Yoongi always texts back fast, unless he is sleeping and then he will take fifteen hours to respond.
It’s always good to hear what you’re thinking, Namjoon will say. You’ve got something good. Follow it. Keep going.
Taehyung knows that what they are saying is “you are not a burden to either of us.” He’s never been good at keeping things to himself, especially not his insecurities. What they don’t say aloud is that the words will never become more than this, at least not for now, because they’re too hard to wrangle into something more than what they already are. Taehyung has already flung them into the pile of “maybe’s,” which, in his studio, equates to futile “never’s.”
Jimin pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Taehyung does the same. In the semi-cocoon they’ve created, Taehyung confesses, “maple syrup.” He had planned to tell Jimin the secret salad ingredient later, to make him guess while he was workshopping the snack himself. He wanted it to be a game of sorts, one where Taehyung could sit back and survey him, treat it like a variety show while he chopped up gherkins and filled tiny bowls, trying out new flavors in each one to see what stuck and matched the right flavor profile. He wanted Jimin to feed him with his gochujang stained fingertips, to apologize when Taehyung sucked down the spice and sniffled about it afterwards. Taehyung would tell him that it was alright, that it was not so bad of a feeling to have on his tastebuds as long as it came from him, and maybe Jimin would get distracted by his sweet-talking and let Taehyung blow him in the kitchen because Taehyung’s always had a thing for his fingers like that, an oral fixation or whatever, and Jimin was pretty much into anything Taehyung was into. But it was okay if he didn’t, too, because the point of it all was to be a game, one where Jimin would guess until he got it right and Taehyung would snap a picture of him next to his winning dish, grinning all victorious and red-cheeked from the heat of the peppers, and Taehyung would send the picture to his mom, bringing a little bit of his home to his other home, and vice versa.
Instead of the game, they are on the couch, and Jimin is immediately shucking himself out of his pants, like he is rewarding Taehyung for his honesty about seasoned culinary vegetables.
“Really?” Jimin says. “Maple syrup, like the kind from Chichibu?”
“Sure,” Taehyung answers. “Or American. I think I brought some for Eomma from New York City one time.”
Jimin is out of Taehyung’s lap and out of his underwear, and then he is right back on Taehyung’s lap in record time, spectacularly naked.
“Or maybe I lost that one in customs that one time.”
Jimin seems to think about this. He is breathless and beautiful and Taehyung dreams of him. He dreams of him while he is right in front of him. Every time his eyes blink shut there is a different vision of Jimin, either from his memories or from his fantasies or his REM sleep. Taehyung is not sure how he managed to spend over a month away from Jimin and not forget how to breathe or something. For maybe three days he had forgotten to bathe. He had felt bad about it, a little useless, a tiny bit depressed too, maybe.
Hard to be motivated when you’re not there with me, he had texted Jimin, trying to sext about it. It had gone okay. Taehyung had only maybe sort of come across as pitiful. Jimin had been shy and Taehyung thinks anything would have gotten him hard, he was doing so bad at being away from him, at getting used to his own hand being the only thing available to get him off, like a chore.
My turn next time,
Jimin had said after Taehyung had sent him a blurry snapshot of his legs after he’d finished, his thighs stained in silky white. Taehyung hadn’t quite known what Jimin meant by that, but he had about an idea or five.
Jimin’s asshole takes in the length of his dick so smoothly that Taehyung knows, with gut-clenching clarity, that he had prepped. Like the texts weren’t a giveaway, like Taehyung hadn’t figured, given the way that Jimin liked to play at his hole a little bit anyway, even if he was going to top, just to really get himself firing on all cylinders.
It is so effortless, the way that Taehyung finds himself inside of Jimin. Like it’s nothing at all, like it’s just a little shifting until they mold closer together and find themselves connected. He barely even has to move.
It is harder to decide where to focus his attention: on the vanishing point where his cock sheaths perfectly between Jimin’s legs, beneath the hang of his balls and the uncharacteristically patchy shave of his usually trimmed hair, or the way Jimin is looking at him.
“Taehyung-ah,” he says, like he is doing the same thing as Taehyung: like he is missing him when he is right here in front of him.
Taehyung is not sure whether he pulls Jimin down to him or whether Jimin crumples— and maybe that’s the wrong word, maybe Taehyung is actually the one crumpling here instead, but no matter— Jimin is quivering beautifully in Taehyung’s grasp, like a feather on the surface of a pond or something equally as poetic, as significant to the way of the world, to the way in which nature unfolds itself and then starts all over again.
Jimin is big on foreplay, usually. Will kiss Taehyung for hours to get him riled up real good— and that’s what he’d done, actually, though with less of the things that usually came after, unless the earlier sexting is brought into the equation, and then—
Taehyung cock slips out on the next thrust. Jimin’s ribs ripple when he rises to adjust. He thumbs at Taehyung’s cockhead without meaning to when he guides him the right way, angled back where Jimin is waiting for him with his rim swelled open and unclenched and wanting. Taehyung is thinking once more that he will die if he doesn’t feel it immediately: that warmth, he needs it right back, the weight of his walls around the whole entire chubbed up circumference of his cock, made for Jimin to sit on just like this, just like it’s nothing, like it’s the best thing Jimin’s ever know— because maybe it is, because god knows it is for Taehyung —
And Jimin is doing that. He is sinking down. Taehyung is feeling it.
Taehyung’s orgasm is not embarrassing because he is not sure that it really happens. He could still be on a plane, or in his father’s bed with a framed photo of himself on the wall, his high school graduation cap placed too low on his forehead. He could be in a wet dream, a fantasy, riding it out with Jimin’s hands on his jaw, framing his face and keeping his mouth open to really hear him moan even if only in his mind.
“You,” Jimin says. Through the rush of blood in Taehyung’s ears, Jimin sounds like he is underwater, like he is back on the other side of a phone line, getting his nerves in check before he types something out to hit send on. But he is not nervous: “yeah, Taehyung-ah, god, yeah- yeah, baby, you look so good, feel so nice, keep going-”
The glide is so slick. Barely the average amount of lube, and Taehyung’s foggy brain is putting together the pieces about it, daydreaming; Jimin must have slicked his hole up earlier, got it wet enough to take him, or he’d stretched himself real good, probably four fingers deep the way Taehyung knows he has to do it— what with his fingers being so short and stubby and all— and Taehyung wants those fingers in his mouth now, those knuckles against his tongue and the roof of his mouth—
“Look what you did,” Jimin tells him, though they are both already looking: at the space where they meet, the drip of Taehyung’s come around his own dick, easing Jimin’s glide. The insides of his knees are getting stained somehow. Taehyung is still gushing. Every time he twitches against Jimin’s walls, he gets closer to his prostate. Jimin is jacking off now, racing him, like the promise of greater touch is doing him in. Like it’s too much, too great, and wasn’t that what got Taehyung here? Anticipation being better than the main event itself?
When Jimin comes, it is not long behind, and it is with the softest of sighs, one Taehyung wishes he could record and hold tight to his chest, keep locked away just for himself.
When Taehyung goes to the studio two days later, he comes away with three scraps of songs: one about his grandmother and one about Daegu and the way in which it is always a little humid, even when it is frozen on the ground and Taehyung’s boots can barely keep him upright atop the ice. The last song is entirely for Jimin, something he is sure no one else will ever hear, and then he releases it anyway for the whole world to eat right up and shape into something new.
4.
In the coming weeks, Taehyung will blame this on the fact that they were low on time. Jimin will not let Taehyung live down the fact that he didn’t even remember they had a schedule that day.
When Taehyung had woken up, he had complained to Jimin at least five times about how terrible the cheeseburger he had yesterday at some trendy new American style pop-up truck was. Some wannabe In-N-Out place, and he’d always liked it in America, always made a stop when the seven of them were there, so he’d made a trek with staff once practice had got out early.
“The worst I’ve ever had,” he had said, though he’d started out by saying it was disappointing, and then tasteless. His insults have only intensified.
Jimin had curled against his shoulder, head tipped down towards his chest, his body a little cocoon under their sun-warm blankets. When he sleeps deeply, he sinks further down into the bed, his head less on the pillows and more on the mattress. His cheeks were flattened down into the fabric. He had mumbled something that sounded like disinterest or disbelief and Taehyung had escalated to cursing out the burger joint in its entirety, though with no real hostility, not when he was busy making the top section of Jimin’s hair staticky by tousling it with his fingertips.
Taehyung thinks that all his complaining must be why Jimin has him in the shower like this, with his face nearly pressed to the wall and his right leg hitched up enough for Jimin to hunch between his legs and nudge his cockhead against his asshole.
Jimin grumbles about shower sex when Taehyung tries to plan it. Something about slipping and falling and breaking both of their dancer limbs, or there being better places in the house to get railed on— and sometimes if he’s particularly explicit in his descriptions of other places, he’ll change Taehyung’s mind and lead them out of the tile and back onto the protection of the carpet. But usually, Jimin’s grumbling is just that: grumbling.
Taehyung is the one grumbling now. He still hasn’t shut up, but he’s going about his words in a far different way than he was ten minutes ago. Jimin had been making out with his hole so wonderfully that he’s lost the plot: a consolation prize. These sweet sounds had slipped out of Taehyung with each prod of Jimin’s tongue against his inner walls, with each slide of his pouted lips against the swell of Taehyung’s hip bones. Gibberish leaving his mouth, incoherence mixed in with a little “Jimin-ah, please” or “Jimin-ah, that’s nice, do that more, yeah, yeah, Jimin-ah, do it good for me.” No more talking about grease and too many tomatoes and wasting his money, about having a craving and not getting it fixed, and how having something unsatisfying is sometimes worse than not having anything at all.
Earlier, Jimin hasn’t said much back, besides “slept good, you?” and “you wanna- again?” when he’d stepped under the shower stream and gotten his face close enough to Taehyung’s so that they were almost kissing, but not quite, and then he’d just lingered there, eyes still closed like he was savoring something. Taehyung’s eyes had closed too, but he knew without seeing that Jimin was smirking at the touch of Taehyung’s cockhead against his lower abdomen. Morning wood nudging by default of proximity rather than intent, but Taehyung is never not wanting when it comes to Jimin so he’d shoved up closer, cocktip pressing flat against Jimin’s bellybutton, and he’d poked with his fingernails at the creases etched into his cheeks from the bedsheets right before he’d leaned in to close the rest of the distance.
Last night, they had been just like this, except Taehyung was mainly under the spray of the showerhead and Jimin would have been shivering if he wasn’t sweating, if he wasn’t running as hot as the water temperature from the way he was kicking his hips, gliding his cock quick and easy and seamless into the squeeze of Taehyung’s hole.
Taehyung had lasted just fine then. He had come with Jimin’s hand at the base of his dick, those newly trimmed, neatly manicured fingers squeezing tight but unmoving, barely any pressure at all. But enough to make him get the shower handle all messy, enough to make Jimin come not even ten seconds later, the clenching of Taehyung’s rim doing him in real good, so good that he didn’t even care about the shower handle, not really.
Now, with Jimin’s cockhead only just teasing past his entrance, Taehyung’s knees shake. He thinks he ate soap somehow. He has managed to pull Jimin closer, to clutch onto him while he shudders through his orgasm, unexpected and immediate. His teeth clench down onto Jimin’s shoulder; somehow he has twisted the both of them around so that they are facing each other. He does not remember doing that. He is looking at Jimin, looking at the mark he has left: a violet, jagged crescent, the outline of his teeth blooming on Jimin’s pale skin, Taehyung’s feverish doing. Jimin is looking at him too. Right, of course he is. Incredulous and unsure and pleased and confused all at once.
Taehyung makes a noise, low and reedy and needy, and he’s not proud of it. Because he can make better noises for Jimin, can be truly debauched, can sound nicer than this. All his top-tier vocalist abilities can let him do so much more, can get him dirty tongued and loose-lipped and nearly slobbering over Jimin, at Jimin — but he hadn’t even gotten to that point yet, his brain hasn’t caught up with his body — but he’s–
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Jimin says, like that’s helpful. Taehyung makes another pathetic sound.
Jimin is not having it. “Taehyung-ah, you’re so cute. Don’t be embarrassed, you’re so sweet. That’s so sweet of you, you know?” He looks down at Taehyung’s cock like he needs to share his sympathy with not just Taehyung’s face, like they’re two separate entities. Taehyung wants to shrivel up and die. He also would like for Jimin to keep talking like this, because at this rate, he can probably make him come again. He would like to come again.
“I’m glad it felt good. You know I want you to feel good. I don’t mind, you know I don’t. Always wanna see you let go for me.“ Jimin’s index and middle finger swipe across the vein on the side of Taehyung’s cock, then pop into his mouth. And repeat, doing it like it’s nothing, cleaning up the lightest of stains that Taehyung had left on his own cock because everything else had gone right down the drain, there’s barely an aftermath—
“Baby bear,” Jimin says.
“‘Min-ah.”
“Honey bear.”
“‘S nice. Feels nice. You always feel so nice.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Did that for me. Did that to me, angel.”
“Good, baby,” Jimin says right back, this game of mutual praise tennis kicked off in full swing.
Still breathless, Taehyung kisses him. Waits for Jimin to get the memo that he wants it sloppy and grins when he does, when Jimin’s tongue is up against the roof of his mouth and he can taste the faint salt of his own come, the even fainter hint of Jimin’s toothpaste brand. Different from his, because Jimin is picky about his dental hygiene and likes it extra minty nowadays.
Jimin’s fingers press at the hinge of Taehyung’s jaw. Like he’s about to squish his cheeks, he pinches, and instead lets Taehyung’s mouth hang open until he’s almost drooling, until he is drooling and Jimin is drinking it up and pouring it right back into his mouth, nearly spitting more than he’s really kissing him this time around.
“My Taehyungie,” Jimin says, and Taehyung parrots back, “yours, yours, yours,” because even after all these years, the novelty of Jimin– of him having Jimin, of Jimin having him– never fades. Jimin feels too good to be real in every way that Taehyung can conceptualize.
There is a lot more kissing before Taehyung can think straight again. Jimin’s hair is bleached but healing, less fried in the winter than in the summer, but still squeaks in this soundless way when Taehyung’s pruney fingers scratch around in it.
In a moment of clarity, when his dick has deflated even the tiniest amount, Taehyung says, “you did all this to shut up my dinner monologue, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“My tragic burger, in Gangnam at the-”
“Hmm? You want a burger tonight? Yeah, we can get some, I’ll buy you one, jagiya,” Jimin says, absolutely too sweet and absolutely too earnest.
“Oh,” says Taehyung. His brain still isn’t operating fully, but recognition is sinking in. “Wait- earlier, when I was telling you about- were you… oh, you were sleeping.”
Out of the bathroom, Taehyung feels sickly hot, like he does when he stays in a sauna for too long, or a car with no air conditioning and locked windows. He is happy though, watching the figure of Jimin’s naked body wander across the room.
His phone buzzes so loud it makes his ears hurt. He has no one else to blame except for himself and his god-awful habit of turning the ringer up to the highest possible setting when concentrating on a game, and then forgetting to turn it off.
“Hyung, what? You- Yeah, sorry, hi– what’s up?”
He is watching Jimin tug his socks on, the way he grimaces at the friction of the fabric on his still damp skin. The furrow of his eyebrows is cute. Taehyung is only halfway listening to Seokjin on the other end of the line until-
“Jimin-ah, shit, we gotta go-”
“Why do you think I’m getting dressed?”
“What, you let me go through all that knowing we had somewhere to be-”
“You knew we had a schedule-”
“So embarrassing in so many ways-”
“And what do you mean, ‘let you go through,’ like you weren’t spoiled during every single second of that-”
“Of course I-”
“Guys.” Seokjin’s voice comes in tinny and exasperated from the speaker of Taehyung’s phone. “Please can you hang up before you divulge the details-”
Taehyung is fussing at his hair in the reflection of the mini fridge, crouching to his knees and hissing at the strain of his hamstrings. He digs around his bag and flings the shirt he’s about to wear right at Jimin, like Jimin won’t betray him by tugging it on himself, and like Taehyung won’t counteract by stealing one of Jimin’s shirts instead. It’s probably his own shirt anyway, considering how much of the same closet they share at this point.
Taehyung sighs, “hyung, it’s a two-way call, you can hang up yourself, you have thumbs.”
5.
According to Hoseok, there is enough gimbap and banchan to feed the six of them and their staff three times over. He had told them as much when they’d settled in for the livestream, his stomach grumbling for the duration of it, the whole forty five minutes. He is now moving fast ahead, a flash of black and white: his dark beanie, his white shirt, the even whiter RJ plushie that had stood in for Seokjin bundled up in his arms.
“Think he and Jeongukkie are racing,” Taehyung says from beside Jimin. He walks slowly and points one long finger in the direction of what appears to be a zig-zagged speed-walking competition taking place down the expanse of the corridor. Yoongi hollers from somewhere behind them, saying something about saving enough for the dongsaengs that are in office today, the newly debuting trainees. Taehyung says something about them too, but Jimin isn’t really listening; he is instead waiting for Yoongi to pass them so that he can sidle up closer to Taehyung and put a sweeping hand low on his back, so that he can slip his fingertips up the hem of his shirt when he knows there’s no staff around and the cameras can’t catch them quite right in this part of the office.
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin says, voice low but as nonchalant as he can manage, “you got a problem you want me to help you with?”
“Hmm?” Taehyung is tired today. Sleepy and habitually yawning and trying to hide it, from the cameras and from Namjoon and from Jimin, like he doesn’t share a bed with him and could tell that he didn’t sleep much last night; like Jimin wouldn’t be able to tell even if he didn’t just because they’re attuned like that. All clued in and connected and on the same wavelength and everything.
Jimin nudges him with his hip. Dares to put his index and middle finger below the waistband of Taehyung’s jeans, just enough to feel the softer skin of his lower waist, the top of his ass, and then away. Not too much, not here. He settles his arm loose around Taehyung’s waist, feels the brush of his left forearm against his own inner elbow. Taehyung’s hands sit low in his pockets as he walks, trying for casual.
“Baby,” Jimin says. “Bathroom?”
They don’t do that anymore, not really. Not in a long time. Too old for the thrill of it, too many aches already sturdy in their bones to make them get more that they don’t really need. They are too familiar with the ease of a car ride home, with the luxury of either one of their beds or couches or even the soft fabric of the entryway rug. The guarantee of privacy is worth the extra time nowadays. But Taehyung-
“Looked like you were struggling in there. What got you all strung up, huh? What did I do?”
Taehyung swallows. “‘Min-ah,” he whines, low and like he’s embarrassed. But he’s not, and Jimin knows it, and tells him as much:
“I know you, nothing turns you off. The camera could’ve stayed on and the hyungs could’ve stayed there and if you could’ve had me, you would’ve let me get down on my knees right there for you. Shoved Hobi-hyung right out of the way, undid your pants and wouldn’t have even said a word. Would’ve just been happy and all greedy for it. So strung up for no reason.”
“Don’t talk about Hobi-hyung right now,” Taehyung says. “And not for no reason.”
“Hmm? Then, tell me, baby.”
Taehyung seems to think about it. Decides to not give Jimin an answer when he pouts, says, “that’s not true, anyway.”
“Hmm?” Jimin asks again.
“Wouldn’t want ‘em to see it. Only want you to see it.”
“I know, baby. Only teasing.” Jimin scuffs a hand through Taehyung’s hair, palms at the shell of his ear. Gentle, sweet, touching him more because he wants to and less to reassure him, though that’s part of it too. Always part of it. Taehyung’s eyes stay downcast, taking an interest in his shoes.
“See me,” Taehyung says, tacking on to the end of his mumbling. It kicks a low rhythm into Jimin’s heartbeat, speeding it up, mirroring the desire in the pit of his stomach. Growing in a different way, something born just out of fondness and something far, far deeper, far more palpable than any amount of touching or fucking could ever be.
“I see you, Tae-yah,” Jimin says, still tender and stuck in the moment. Then, succinctly out of the moment, pushing the moment further: “Only your Jiminie gets to see you and your nice big dick. Got it hard just for me. Quite a tent you’ve got going there.”
Taehyung whines. A guttural, wounded sound, still in the wheelhouse of embarrassment. He starts walking faster. Matches Jimin’s pace, really— Jimin, who has led them to the bathroom anyway, or to the lounge that locks from the inside and happens to have an en-suite fit with a sliding glass door and a shower. Taehyung likes to wash up sometimes after he comes. He also has a tendency to come on his clothes if he’s not naked, and never plan accordingly by bringing a spare outfit. It’s too much of a dead giveaway of what he’s been up to whenever he wears one of the extra tour shirts lying around. Jimin is being practical. That’s what this is. Not like their ditching of dinner won’t allude to any sort of shenanigans going on.
“I just want,” Taehyung says when the door is shut, when he’s dropped to lay haphazardly and unceremoniously across the entirety of the couch, his nimble hands working on the buttons of his pants until they’re down the stretch of his thighs. Underwear taken with it, bare ass on the couch, Jimin would tease him if he weren’t already on his knees for him, shoving Taehyung over so that he can make room. He taps the pads of his fingers against Taehyung’s shins. He’s impatient, leaning closer, saying, “mmm?”
Taehyung gets one hand around himself, steadying, and blinks up at Jimin. “Want you to,” he says, like Jimin needs any prompting. Like Jimin isn’t sizing him up like a meal, isn’t wetting his lips juicy and red just to lean forward and suckle on him like a cherry lollipop. Not in the mood for making Taehyung beg too much when he’s already this presumptuous, so gorgeously open and willing for Jimin to reach out and take.
He is just about to take Taehyung to the hilt of his throat, deep down and settled real good, nice and low enough to make Jimin hum into it: a thing that Taehyung may like because the reverberations feel good and Jimin sounds sexy— wrecked and sexy, he’ll say— but it’s a thing that Jimin likes even more, a kind of fullness not too different from the way he feels when Taehyung is fucking him and gets close in, snug-tight against his prostate. That same rush of feeling in his chest, something about closeness and fullness, about giving love and loving to give it.
Taehyung stops him before he can. Says, “can you. The other way. Turn around.”
And Jimin doesn’t get it, isn’t following for a good seven seconds or so until Taehyung is tugging on his hands and hoisting him up onto the couch with him.
“Off.” He palms underneath Jimin’s hoodie, lifts up his shirt. “Let me see.”
“Oh,” Jimin says. “This what got you horned up, is that it?”
Taehyung’s groan is muffled through the rush of fabric over Jimin’s ears. Naked from the top down— and Taehyung from the waist down, so they must look disheveled and desperate and absurd were anyone to walk in on them and decide to end their careers right now— but it’s been too long that they’ve been at this, too many years of sneaking out and getting away with it, and he really, quite frankly, doesn’t give a shit anymore—
And usually they keep their quickies to just their crotches, and usually their quickies don’t involve couches or Taehyung’s hands massaging soft and slow over Jimin’s back, over all that fresh ink of five moon tattoos neatly lined down his spine. They are old enough that it doesn’t sting or itch or need any protective bandaging, but new enough that Taehyung has still not quite gotten enough staring time penned in to his daily schedule to fully appreciate them. He had pawed at them throughout the entire livestream, had kissed at them with closed lips in the bathroom the night before until Jimin had swatted him away because it tickled and he was trying to swish mouthwash around his gums and Taehyung was going to make him choke, being distracting.
“Like to look at you,” Taehyung says.
“At my tattoos?” Jimin says, like Taehyung doesn’t have a history of pulling out of the warm, hot, clenching heat of Jimin’s ass just to come on the inked skin of his ribs and lick it off himself. Jimin already knows he has a thing. Capital T, all bold letters, kinky as all hell.
But the moment has gotten soft with the way Taehyung’s touches linger, with how careful he is not to scratch his nails on the ink itself.
“At you,” Taehyung says, hopelessly romantic, like he hasn’t used all his tricks on Jimin already. Like he hasn’t spent the last eight years wooing him, like he hasn’t won, like Jimin hasn’t won right back.
“Sweetheart,” Jimin says. “Wanna look at them?”
His nails do press, deliciously sharp, at Jimin’s shoulder blades. He presses him down, sighs loud and airy when Jimin buries the whole of Taehyung’s cock in his throat and lets him sit there. More palming, these warm strokes of touch across Jimin’s back, across his hips, and his ass is so close to Taehyung’s face, even if he’s only in sweatpants— and it would be so easy for Taehyung to shuck him out of them, to get at his hole or at least squeeze the peach of his ass, to scoot forward and put his face in the split of it like he always wants to whenever they’re doing it like this— but he doesn’t. He just touches Jimin’s back, moans a mumble of sighs and “so pretty, baby, my baby” and then his cock is twitching before Jimin has even really started properly blowing him, before he’s really worked up a rhythm or even ghosted a touch against the curve of his balls–
And it’s so fast that Jimin doesn’t even get all of it in his mouth, he gets Taehyung stained on the belt loops of his slacks with the way it drips from his lips, given the angle and all, but Taehyung just keeps coming, these soft small spurts still steady even after the big one, even after Jimin has swallowed and licked his lips and swallowed again and cleared his throat. Taehyung is quivering and when he says “fuck” in this busted, bottomless voice, he sounds genuinely surprised. He is still stroking at Jimin’s back like he cannot stop, like the touching feels better than the orgasm itself.
Jimin will have to put in a cleaning request for this room when they’re done, just in case. Will have to make sure that he does it himself because last time, when they’d made a mess of pajeon crumbs and soju in the dance room after hours— and really it was only the snacks and soju that time, because they’d been good and nice and civil and fucked at home that time— Taehyung had said they’d spilled yangnyeomjang all over the chairs. It was accidental, a misspoken white lie he had gotten caught in twice, first when he’d earned them all an earful from the maintenance noonas, and second when they had gone in looking for crimson red stains and found nothing.
+ 1.
Taehyung is bored.
He is looking at Jimin, pouting at him, riled up and in the mood and half naked and almost stripteasing over it. And Jimin, not bored, because he was very much doing something— actually he was in the middle of an activity— will feign disinterest.
Taehyung is fresh out of the shower. Or maybe he has not gone in yet and he is lingering, loitering in Jimin’s doorframe, putting off the chore because it’s his least favorite thing to do, to shower alone. Earlier he’d said the same of eating lunch alone, and yesterday, of driving alone.
No matter— Jimin has been good at ignoring him. Taehyung making some quippy comment about getting dirty before getting clean is typical, nothing new, it would be weirder if he wasn’t saying it, really. But Taehyung is undeniably distracting: jutting his hips out, leaning against the wall, with his hand almost under his waistband. Jimin expects him to start stripping, or to take his cock out and start begging Jimin to touch it, because his hands are so much smoother and better and he knows just how to touch Taehyung with them.
“Your hands are magic,” he’d say. “Want you touching me always. Don’t stop. Ever.”
“Ever?” Jimin used to laugh.
“Ever,” Taehyung would answer, dead serious. Then he’d usually say something like “Jimin I’m so in love with you that even when I’m doing something I hate like chopping onions or vacuuming or taking Tannie out for a walk in the freezing cold, I’m happy because I know you’re in the world.”
“You hate vacuuming that much?” Jimin would reply because he couldn’t think of a good way to tease about Yeontan, not when he was grumbling in his sleep at their feet on Taehyung’s new rug he bought from somewhere in rural France. Somewhere where Taehyung would send him voice notes of bird noises and videos of caterpillars on sidewalks, Taehyung’s breathing heavier than usual in the background. He always smoked more when he was in Europe. The culture, or whatever.
“But your place is always clean,” Jimin would say, and Taehyung would tap his nose and scrunch his eyes at him, like a cat slow-blinking in the sun. Nothing but fondness, directed all so strongly at him that sometimes Jimin feels so overwhelmed by it he could cry.
And that’s how he felt then when Taehyung had gone on to say, “no, because I have you, and nothing is bad with you,” and all Jimin could really do was kiss his mouth, and eventually shoo Yeontan out of the room so that he could kiss him in other places.
“He doesn’t care,” Taehyung would say when he was sober— not that he had ever been drunk or buzzed in any way at all before, but just off the rush of stripping Jimin bare and having his way with him, of getting his lips on his taint and getting Jimin wordless, that real good kind of fucked out, before he’d even touched his hole for real.
“I care,” Jimin had said. “Privacy, Taehyung-ah. He deserves it.”
“Not us?”
Jimin’s eyebrows had raised maybe too high. Taehyung had started laughing before he’d even gotten the words out: “oh yes, because you’re so well-known for your high regard for privacy. A big priority for you. Not like you traumatized poor Jeonggukie for life last week when he was coming over for dinner and you were on the counter with your-”
Taehyung had rolled his eyes. He’d been smiling, so pretty with his freckled bottom lip and angled nose that it hurt Jimin sometimes just to look at him. Ached in the best way possible, like seeing something so beautiful and knowing a camera could never capture it quite right. Jimin is always looking. Impossible not to. Looking at Taehyung is like staring at the sun, except it makes Jimin see clearer.
The thing is: Jimin likes to look. And Taehyung knows that. So sometimes, it’s fun to pretend he doesn’t.
“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung drawls. Gets whiny with it. Puts on his best prince charming drawl, pouts his lips some more like he’s pleading Jimin for the last of the ramyeon that they’ll end up splitting anyway. Preening like not having Jimin’s eyes on him in this very moment is crucial and upsetting and he’s been alone for too long, untouched for too long, and he’s going to die without it, actually, right here against Jimin’s bedroom wall that’s really both their bedroom wall, but they spend more time at Taehyung’s lately so something about it feels new and special anyway, even if it’s just because they’re never here. and because they’re never here, they’ve never fucked against this wall, and Taehyung would like it to happen very much. Suddenly and immediately, like it’s going to crumble down and fill the room with insulation and wood paneling and paint chips if Jimin doesn’t provide Taehyung with the magic cure of being shoved up against it and suctioning his pretty little mouth around Taehyung’s throbbing cock— it’s already throbbing, he’s so ready to go, it wouldn’t take long, and he’s not humble about it, not for Jimin, not when it’s him—
But Jimin is just. Not paying attention. Taehyung runs a hand through his hair, feels like he’s on display the more that Jimin doesn’t pay him even a glance.
“Gonna destroy your pretty little bedroom, Jimin-ah,” he mumbles. “Wall’s gonna collapse. The apartment spirits told me, just like in Totoro. Not looking good for us.”
“What?” Jimin says. He looks Taehyung up and down. A quick gaze, there and gone, but it shoots right to Taehyung’s cockhead anyway. His stare is disinterested, immensely so. Yet Taehyung’s pants feel too tight.
“Honey, what nonsense are you going on about?”
Oh. So they’re playing. Taehyung’s waistband is stretched out from this grip he’s got on the drawstrings with his index and middle finger. He is torn between dropping them to the floor and palming himself through them.
He feels, in a way that is not even so much about roleplay or their own little games so much as their own intimate sort of truth, that he should not touch himself until Jimin says he can. Or at least until Jimin looks at him a little longer, because Jimin surely can’t see just how undone he is already, and Taehyung thinks Jimin should know. Knows that Jimin would like to know. It’s only good if Jimin is here, if Jimin is into it, if Jimin-
Taehyung has been repeating his name. Sounding like a big baby, really, and Jimin is rolling over finally, onto his back, staring at the ceiling and sighing.
“What, Taehyung-ah, really? Right now? Aish, I don’t even- what got into you? What’s even sexy about anything right now? How are you always turned on?”
“You, always you,” Taehyung answers sincerely. It is getting harder for Jimin to ignore him, but he does anyway.
“You can deal with it yourself. You’re a big boy, you don’t need me.”
A wretched groan deep from Taehyung’s chest releases itself and dies halfway up his throat. He pulls himself off the wall, then drops back. It hurts his shoulders a little, given how he is bare without a shirt. He feels acutely aware of how far away Jimin is. He is only a few feet away but he wants him so intensely that he is genuinely salivating over it, mouth feeling wet and empty and oh, he’ll try a different approach, then-
“Can I blow you?”
Jimin makes a sound that is close to a scoff.
“Please. Please, please. Want you. I’ll make it good. And then you’ll want me.”
There is a flash of softness in Jimin’s eyes when Taehyung approaches. It is not specific to anything Taehyung has said, not really, but rather just something that comes through any time Jimin tries playing at anything other than honesty, at any emotion besides being just as hopelessly devoted as Taehyung is. It is something that reminds them both, even now in the midst of this tryst: that Jimin always wants him.
Jimin is rolling around on the bed like he is a bored teenager, wasting time and daydreaming. Taehyung doesn’t have to imagine what Jimin was like at that age because he grew up right beside him. Twin flames, or whatever. Always on the same page, two halves of the same soul, all that shit, etcetera etcetera.
But Taehyung likes to imagine another universe anyway, one where they grew up a little slower and kissed a little sooner. A life less raw on the edges, something a little smaller and less brave. Who he and Jimin would be, in any and every bed spread out across the span of all the universes, because Taehyung was so sure he’d find him, was so sure Jimin would find him right back.
“Taehyung-ah,” Jimin deadpans, his undertone all disinterest. “What makes you think I’m horny right now?”
“I’ll make you horny.” Taehyung doesn’t answer his question. “Can make you feel so good. I wanna. Please? Please, you know I can, Jimin-ah, chickie, you know I can. I’ll make it good.”
Jimin looks at him over his phone screen. Taehyung doesn’t know when he picked it up. It might not even be his own phone, might be Taehyung’s. He looks like he is considering him.
Then he clicks his tongue, makes an indifferent noise low in his throat— and oh, his throat, Taehyung wants his cock down it, snug right in the safe, warm hollow of it, wants the sweet pressure of it— and if he can’t have that Jimin can have it with him, can use him any way
he likes, can get there before him, can get there over and over and over if he wants, because Taehyung wants him to, and he will let him.
“Jimin-ah, I want you,” he moans. Petulant, like a kid refused dessert. He moves closer to Jimin. He is almost touching his knee with his hand that is not almost palming his own cock.
Jimin licks his lips, but he is still not looking at Taehyung.
“Fine,” he says. “Back against the wall. Over there. Be still. Go ahead, you can touch yourself, but be quiet about it. Don’t distract me.”
Taehyung scrambles back. Sets his shoulders straight, inhales, gets his fingers back on his drawstrings. Wants to give Jimin a show even if he isn’t watching. He'll make him want to watch.
“Slower,” Jimin says. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”
“I thought you weren’t paying attention,” Taehyung says, mindless and foggy from desire, bratty without even meaning to be.
“Oh, did you want that?” Jimin answers. “My attention? Sorry. Never mind, then. Forget what I said.”
Taehyung’s skull bumps against the wall. He doesn’t miss the way Jimin says, quieter than his other words, “careful, sweetheart,” but it’s a near thing.
“Jimin-ah, please,” he groans. “Let me touch.”
Jimin shrugs some more. He turns his gaze towards him just long enough for Taehyung to monitor the thoughtful chewing of his lower lip.
“Yeah, sure, what’s it to me. Go ahead, if you want.”
“Know you want me. You’re bad at this. Jimin-ah, you’re turning red. Know you wanna fuck me. Know you do. Know you.”
Jimin’s jaw clenches. Like he is thinking, or like he is getting properly hard now, in a way that has been becoming harder for him to hide. For a moment, Taehyung thinks he has broken his resolve and that Jimin is going to spring upright and close the distance and perhaps fuck Taehyung nice and adequately and hard against the pile of laundry that sits between the bedside table and the corner of the room. One of Yeontan's toys is somewhere behind all those clothes, or maybe under the bed. Taehyung had set out to find it last time he was here and had gotten distracted by something else. Probably Jimin’s new wall art, the little framed paintings from Jeongguk, or the ever growing line of skincare in the bathroom cabinet because Jimin is extensive and anal and admittedly a little over the top about things like that.
Jimin does not move. He looks past Taehyung, unclenches his jaw, and returns to his phone, scrolling and tapping like Taehyung’s knees aren’t on the brink of giving out, he’s so slouchy and desperate and practicing the absolute worst posture. His hand is giving in and slipping into his underwear, the curve of his swollen cockhead peeking out of the hem of his pants, his fist shucking the excess fabric away until he’s naked along his thighs. From his knees to his ankles, his pants manage to stay upright; he thinks he would look silly if he didn’t know how hot he looks otherwise. Weaponized sexuality, down to his bone marrow and the way he squints in the light, like he’s hand-tailored to get to Park Jimin’s heart and hole.
“Come on,” he says with the air punched out of him. “Look at me. You wanna.”
When Jimin’s eyes do eventually settle on Taehyung, they linger. Darting away and back like he’s not interested, and Jimin is good at this game, he is, but he’s not that good.
“You want me,” Taehyung tells him. “Come have me.”
His voice is quieter than the squelch of his fist around his cock; he has acquired the lube and gotten his abdomen all sticky in the process. The sounds he is making are obscene and obnoxious and they are exactly what Taehyung wants them to be. He is satiny-slick and coated in a sheen of sweat and he knows he looks so nice, poised in the corner of Jimin’s bedroom like a statue made just for him. He knows he looks so nice that it must be making Jimin go a little insane.
The last time they had done this, Jimin hadn’t touched him for maybe thirty minutes. It had helped that they had been watching a movie and Jimin was genuinely interested in it, some American superhero thing with nice cars in it, to the point where he forget he even had a part to play and he was preoccupied with texting Seokjin and asking him if he knew what kind of cars they were.
“Hyung says it’s from the 1980’s,” Jimin would report back. “A Porsche. The color doesn’t exist, they painted it just for the movie.” He seemed surprised to look over and see Taehyung out of his shirt, like he forgot that anything else had been going on here besides innocent conversation about million dollar automobiles.
Tonight, Jimin gives in easily. He pads over to Taehyung on his bare feet and brings a pillow with him to perch his knees on.
“Alright, come here,” he says, and then, albeit briefly, Taehyung’s cock finds home in the hollow of his throat. Jimin lets him settle in, lets him push deep to the very back of his throat because he likes it best that way, when he forgets how to breathe a little bit but feels okay about it— more than okay about it, really— because it’s Taehyung.
“Wanna kiss you,” Taehyung says, pulling Jimin up and off and away, and it’s so romantic that Jimin can’t help but laugh. Taehyung, his best boy, his deviant darling who wants kisses more than he wants a blowjob— and oh, that darling is doing this devilish grind of their hips together, reaching into Jimin’s shorts with his palm that’s wet from lube and his own pre-come.
“You’re so sweet,” Jimin says. His forehead tips down to Taehyung’s shoulder. He can feel Taehyung’s sweat, the ripple of his arm muscles working as he jerks them both off. His mouth purses as spit spills from his lips, and his aim is perfect, lands right at the very tip of Jimin’s slit, where he’s turned an almost purple color from the way Taehyung is stroking at him. And now Jimin is the one who really wants to kiss him, even as Taehyung’s mouth is busy moving, trying to procure even more spit, raring to go to get Jimin even wetter, and Jimin can’t stop him when he’s doing that, when he’s making his toes curl against the rug and his stomach flip with anticipation, so he just pants against the side of Taehyung’s face with his mouth dropped open, breathless.
They come together, which is not surprising except for how Taehyung had been going at this for maybe twenty minutes longer than Jimin had. Jimin shudders, makes these gasping “ah-ah” sounds, and clutches closer to Taehyung until all that he can smell is the faint scent of his body wash and that delicious, indescribable undertone of him. This grown man musk that’s the same as he’s always smelled, something heady and heavenly. Taehyung is all around him, satisfying every part of his senses, as Jimin’s cockhead twitches against Taehyung’s inner thighs, the trimmed thatch of hair around his pubic area, the faint freckles of his birth marks on his waistline.
“That was kinda fast, jagiya,” Taehyung says. He is not teasing.
Jimin heaves a breath. “Yeah.”
Taehyung’s eyebrows raise. Jimin feels exhausted, like he could fall asleep standing up, here propped against Taehyung like they’re two matching mannequins. He also feels like he could go all over again. It would be nice if Taehyung would manhandle him over to the bed or maybe to that laundry pile, to get him face down and ass up, to have his way with him. He won’t even have to ask; Taehyung is pawing at his asscheeks, shoving his shorts down his thighs. They are both half-dressed, they probably look funny, were anyone to peek in and see them this debauched and in disarray.
“I don’t know,” Jimin says. “You were…that was sexy.”
“Hmm,” says Taehyung. He seems like he is waiting for Jimin to say more.
“That was so sexy. I don’t know. I couldn’t keep the act up, I couldn’t say no to you”
“You can’t,” Taehyung agrees. He is smug and pleased and beautiful. There is a candle lit nearby and it reflects shadows on Taehyung’s face, across the gorgeous slope of his cheekbone.
“Especially when you’re being so slutty like that.”
Taehyung pretends to clutch his chest. His fingers are intertwined with Taehyung. Jimin can faintly feel his pulse under the lines of his knuckles.
“Me? Slutty?” He is egging Jimin on. He had specifically asked for Jimin to call him slutty, and Jimin had forgotten. Round two feels impending and unavoidable now.
“I mean,” Jimin goes on. He has nothing to really say. The whole point of this little trial was for Taehyung to really tap into that depravedness, even more so than usual, and for Jimin to siphon it out of him extra-deep. There is something superbly overwhelming about the concept, about putting it into action, given that Jimin is the only person in the world that has ever had the pleasure of fucking Taehyung, and being fucked by Taehyung, in every sense of the word, in every variation and configuration and position.
“So many people want you,” Jimin says. He moves on autopilot, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist. “And you know it.”
“Yeah,” Taehyung answers. “A shame.”
“Hmm,” Jimin agrees. “A real shame.”
“I can’t help that I want you. And that you want me so much that you jizzed your shorts before I even sucked you off.”
“You were going to blow me?” Jimin says. He is trying not to give in to the way Taehyung is teasing him. He is failing; laughter is lurking at the curve of each syllable that leaves his mouth.
“‘Course I was.”
“Really?” says Jimin. He is not surprised by the idea of it, he just wants Taehyung to keep talking. Likes the way it sounds when he says things Jimin already knows.
Taehyung’s hands slip out from between their bodies. When he gets a good look at one of them, at his long fingers drenched and dotted in diamond colored ribbons of cooling white, Jimin groans. Taehyung wastes no time lifting his palm to his mouth and licking. It reminds Jimin of how he looked when he gave Yeontan puppy ice cream years ago and was trying to teach him that it was something edible rather than a toy or an immediate threat to the safety of Taehyung’s mother’s apartment.
Taehyung clicks his tongue. Hums like he’s taste-testing vanilla icing on a cake, something he’s been crafting up in the kitchen and he’s only just nailed the flavor profile he’s been working towards. Taehyung can’t bake for shit, but he can pretend. When he closes his eyes, takes Jimin’s own come-stained hand and cleans him up too with these long strokes of his wide, flat tongue, Jimin’s cock stiffens up once more.
“‘Course I was. So. You wanna go again?”