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Nam-gyu and Thanos sprawl out on the floor of Nam-gyu’s cramped bedroom, limbs stretched across the limited space like they’re trying to claim more room than what actually exists. The mattress is pushed up against one wall, a small desk cluttered with wrappers that were once probably filled with coke and cables sit in the corner, and the faint glow of an old as fuck LED strip barely keeps the darkness of the night at bay. There’s not much space to move, but they make do, their bodies slotting into whatever gaps are left between scattered clothes and forgotten snack papers.
Thanos is in his usual state—blabbering through another demo rap, his words spilling out in an uncontrollable stream, as if speaking too slowly might give them time to develop a mind of their own and tangle together to choke him in collective agreement. Thanos only ever quiets down when he’s too high to function, when the drugs surge through his system and push his body into overdrive before inevitably dragging him under. The shift is always abrupt. One moment, he’s all energy and slurred rhymes; the next, he’s a drowsy heap of tangled limbs and half-formed thoughts, slouching over Nam-gyu’s body without a second thought about whether Nam-gyu could actually handle the extra weight or not. Selfish bastard.
When Thanos gets like this, Nam-gyu has two options: brace himself against the nearest wall and let Thanos press him further in, or surrender to gravity and collapse onto the floor together cause Nam-gyu's a petty piece of shit when he wants to be. More often than not, he chooses the first, feeling the heat of Thanos’ body pressing into him. Anytime Nam-gyu touches him, Thanos is always so fucking hot—like, literally scorching. The weight of him is heavy but familiar. If they're lucky, they’ll stay upright. If not—well, the floor isn’t the worst place to land.
They’ve started enough brawls in slimy, rundown back alleys to know.
Right now as Nam-gyu shifts his head to peek at Thanos' side profile as they lay on his floor, Thanos doesn’t look too out of it yet. Nam-gyu can’t say the same for himself though. Nam-gyu doesn’t know what happened to Thanos today, but he appeared to be in a good mood, more than usual and without the initial Ketamine too. So much so that he hands Nam-gyu two of his colorful pills straight up with no need to ask.
Thanos must’ve gotten a good fuck somewhere or something.
With no further questions needed, Nam-gyu took them both into his mouth, ignoring Thanos when he pulled a face at him after muttering ‘greedy junkie’. Yeah, Nam-gyu’s the one being greedy even though it was Thanos who freely offered them. Seriously, sometimes his logic pisses Nam-gyu off to no end.
Regardless, Nam-gyu shoves Thanos' little comment off. Water down a duck's back or whatever.
It’s no secret that Nam-gyu is used to hard-hitting drugs—the kind you shoot up for an almost immediate effect. At first, when he finally worked up the nerve to lightly complain about Thanos refusing to give him more, saying the pills weren’t strong enough—pussy shit, if we’re using Nam-gyu’s exact words—he hadn’t expected Thanos to actually... accommodate him this time around. He figured there’d be more of a fight, maybe Thanos telling him to quit whining or find another dealer if he was going to be picky. And sure, Nam-gyu could—he has options—but he doesn’t really feel like going through all that effort.
Besides, Thanos is free company, not some sketchy, uptight dealer looking to screw him over. Nam-gyu already has enough dealings at Club Pentagon, and lately, they’ve been getting stricter with their shit. They let him sample new drugs as test runs, even give him his own stash to sell and promote, but when it comes to using? That’s coming out of his pocket.
Yeah, they're the real greedy bastards.
Nam-gyu has to admit, swallowing his pride to ask Thanos for more of his mystery pills was a new low—even lower than he’d ever allowed himself to go for the sake of his ego. The first time, Thanos had still been blissfully high while Nam-gyu was already starting to come down. If Nam-gyu had any sense, he would’ve asked someone else—an actual dealer, like himself. He could’ve gone to work, claimed he’d sold out, and demanded more supply. His boss would’ve believed him, and technically, it wouldn’t have been a complete lie. His shit always sells out fast
But at that moment, Nam-gyu didn’t have any cash on him. And for some reason, he didn’t just want any high—he wanted whatever Thanos had in that necklace of his. He wanted to taste it, to feel what Thanos felt. Maybe it was curiosity at best.
That would only excuse the first time he asked, not the second. Or the third. Or the fourth.
Even if Nam-gyu were sober right now—him and sober in the same sentence made his stomach churn just thinking about it—he probably wouldn’t be able to make sense of half the shit Thanos was spewing next to him anyway. Something about colors, or maybe flowers? Fuck if he knew. Crazy bastard.
“Dude,” Thanos suddenly says, cutting himself off mid-rap. Or—wait, was that the end of it? Nam-gyu curses. Everything is starting to blur at the edges, the world slipping in and out of focus like a scratched-up CD.
“Dude, where’s your phone or something?”
“Huh?” Nam-gyu blinks, slow and unfocused. His body feels heavy, sluggish, like he’s wading through syrup. He hates syrup. So fucking sweet.
“Fuck you want it for? Use your own.”
“It’s done for, man. Yours is better.”
Nam-gyu groans and shuts his eyes, trying to concentrate, but it’s no use. His stomach twists—not just from the idea of being sober but from something deeper, something real. Maybe he’s actually about to throw up.
Thanos must mistake his silence for rejection because he pouts, lower lip jutted out in that telltale way Nam-gyu doesn’t even have to see to recognize—he can hear it in his voice when he whines, “C’mon, please?”
Nam-gyu vaguely remembers telling Thanos, just once and mostly as a joke, that he liked it when he begged. Not that it counts for shit now.
“What happened to your diary shit, huh?” Thanos pushes, his borderline decent attitude all but gone. “Don’t have it laying around? I want you to write this down.”
Nam-gyu’s stomach clenches again—fuck, he really is starting to feel it—but the mention of his 'diary shit' has him cracking one eye open. Thanos is watching him expectantly, propped up on his forearm, half-hovering over him. Too close, too warm. Nam-gyu barely registers how heavy his limbs feel, how uneven his breath is.
“Dude,” Nam-gyu echoes flatly, his voice rough at the edges. “It’s called a journal. I don’t do that girly shit. Besides, that was back in high school, and I only did it ‘cause that fuckass principal told me to. Get my feelings out or some shit.” He groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “Dropped it ages ago, so why the fuck do you even remember that? It’s embarrassing. Fuck.”
His body feels like it’s floating and sinking at the same time, his head too light and too heavy. Thanos is still looking at him, expectant, like he’s waiting for more. Like he wants Nam-gyu to care. And maybe he would care, but the longer Thanos forces him to pay attention, the more he shit he feels.
Thanos flops onto his back with a sigh, and when he speaks, his voice carries a rare solemnity—like maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “Damn, high school? That was forever ago, yeah. Why are you still here, huh? Thought for sure you’d fuck off somewhere by now.”
Nam-gyu should be the one saying that to him, really. It's funny how they seemed to have the same thought without realizing it. Kinda. It makes Nam-gyu snort, trailing his hand that runs over his face over his mouth instead. He sort of gets it, though. Thanos is somebody—popular, infamous if not outright famous. Fans cycle through his life like a revolving door, some lingering just long enough to enjoy the perks before moving on. None of them stick around long enough to actually know him for the piece of shit he is. And Nam-gyu’s pretty sure that’s by design. Thanos likes things that way—impersonal, rough, and fast. The whole go big or go home kind of deal.
Nam-gyu shifts slightly, adjusting his weight against the floor, trying to focus on something, anything. His head feels fuzzy, but his mind, for once, isn’t fighting him. It’s only when he’s high like this that his brain actually cooperates instead of spiraling into useless, sappy bullshit.
“Write what? What’s that about?” he asks, his voice coming out more aggressive than he intends. He’s trying to focus, trying to hold onto the conversation before it drifts away. But there’s something else— something curling low in his stomach, hot and restless. It makes Nam-gyu want to squirm, makes his skin feel too tight. Fuck. He wrecks his brain, trying to remember what the hell he took to make him feel this damn needy.
Thanos lounges beside him, arms slipping behind his head as he settles back in with an easy, practiced comfort. Nam-gyu can feel him— close, too casual, like he belongs there. It’s not unusual. Thanos has never cared for personal space much like Nam-gyu himself—but in this moment, it’s almost too indulging.
Then, the embarrassment creeps in shortly after. Of all the things for Thanos to bring up, it had to be that. Thanos almost never talks about the past, always keen to keep it buried. Nam-gyu isn’t too different in that aspect either. So why the hell does this stick in Thanos’ memory?
Journaling had been frustrating as hell back in high school—one of those things Nam-gyu never really got the hang of. His hands had only just started developing that tremor, the one he could never quite get used to. Writing had become a goddamn chore, struggling to keep up with all the words and curses racing through his mind. It reminded him of that broken record player in his parents' closet. The one that played the same grating tune on repeat, making his ears ring until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d torn the damned book to shreds and chucked it out the window.
He doesn’t know nor particularly give a damn about that broken record player anymore or where the hell it ended up.
"These bars. Duh." Thanos says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He’s still lying back, gaze half-lidded and lazy, voice softer than before. "If I’m not careful, I’ll forget this shit.”
“You’re creative, man. Think of those bars some other time, I don’t wanna’ type shit out right now.” A rare, once in a blue fucking moon disagreement.
Nam-gyu exhales sharply, rolling his head to the side to glance at him. His chest feels tight, too many emotions tangled up in the haze of whatever’s in his system. He wants to say something, maybe brush it off—but the words don’t come. So instead, he just breathes, feeling the weight of Thanos beside him, pressing into the space between them like it’s always been there. And fuck, if Nam-gyu could develop some hidden flexibility that would allow his foot to fly up to this head and knock him the fuck out so he’d be a bit less into the moment, he would.
"What’s been up with you?” Thanos asks, voice loose and lazy, but there’s something else in it—something genuine. Like he actually wants an answer. Like he just now realised Nam-gyu's sour mood. That surprises Nam-gyu more than it should.
Or maybe it’s just that his brain is too muddled to process anything properly right now. The slow curl of warmth in his stomach—too much, too distracting—tells him this isn’t the conversation he needs to be having. Nam-gyu's on edge, frustrated by the lack of control he has over his own body—more than that, by the fact that he doesn’t even want to change it.
Nam-gyu shuffles closer, draping an arm over Thanos' chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The heat of Thanos' skin seeps through the fabric, making Nam-gyu's fingers twitch, but he keeps them steady. Just barely.
Thanos doesn’t push him away. He never really does, and Nam-gyu takes full advantage, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. He could answer the question, sure. Could tell Thanos something real, something halfway meaningful. But talking isn’t what his body is asking for right now. That, and the fact that Nam-gyu’s not sure if he could stifle the whine building up in his throat if he opens his mouth right now.
Still, his fingers twitch against Thanos' chest, and he wonders how far he can push before Thanos notices what’s going on with him.
“Dunno,” he murmurs, tilting his head against Thanos’ shoulder. “Same old shit.”
It’s vague enough to be dismissive, but not enough for Thanos to push. Nam-gyu feels him exhale, his chest rising under Nam-gyu’s arm, and it’s so fucking annoying how solid he is—how easy it is to just lay here and melt into him.
But Thanos doesn’t seem to pick up on anything unusual. Not yet. So Nam-gyu lets his fingers drift. Slow, almost absentminded, skimming over the fabric of Thanos’ shirt, tracing nothing in particular. He’s not touching him, not really—just ghosting his fingertips along the edge of his ribs, the dip between them. It’s casual. Friendly, even.
Except it isn’t.
Because Nam-gyu’s not that high. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Those pills and whatever else he took should be starting to slowly wear off by now considering it has been, in Nam-gyu's opinion, a long ass time since he took something.
Thanos doesn’t react at first, and Nam-gyu takes that as an invitation. He shifts closer, pressing in, enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off Thanos’ skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against his palm. Thanos hums, shifting slightly—adjusting, maybe, but not pulling away. Nam-gyu lets himself linger. Lets his breath fan against Thanos' collarbone as his fingers drag lower, pressing just a little harder, dipping under the edge of his shirt like it’s an afterthought. It’s not, but he’ll pretend it is.
Thanos tenses—just barely—but Nam-gyu catches it. He almost grins, but then Thanos finally speaks, voice heavy with amusement.
"Dude," Thanos drawls, tilting his head just enough to glance at him. "You got something to say, or you just gonna keep feeling me up like a creep?"
He could play it off. Should definitely play it off.
Or—He could push further.
Just to see what happens. A high Nam-gyu is a Nam-gyu without restraint, after all. In moments like this, the usual hesitations, the second-guessing—it all fades into the background, drowned out by the slow, buzzing heat in his veins. He’s the kind of person who, when given an opening, doesn’t just take it—he grabs it, sinks his teeth in, refuses to waste a single moment.
Even so, Nam-gyu stills for a fraction of a second, fingers hovering just below the hem of Thanos’ shirt. His brain does a half-assed attempt at coming up with a response, but really, he wasn’t expecting to get called out this soon. Thanos is usually slower to catch on when Nam-gyu talks shit about Se-mi, Min-su or even Gyeong-su, probably because he finds it amusing—how easily irritated Nam-gyu gets by everyone whose name doesn’t start with Th and end with anos.
He exhales, slow, measured—pretending like he’s unbothered, like his heart isn’t thumping against his ribs loud enough for Thanos to hear.
"The fuck are you talking about?" Nam-gyu mutters, fingers moving again—like he hadn’t just hesitated, like he hadn’t been caught red-handed. He drags his palm along Thanos' stomach, skimming just beneath his shirt, his touch light but deliberate. Testing. Daring.
The more time goes by the less of a shit Nam-gyu seems to give.
Thanos shifts beneath him, but it’s not to move away. He tilts his head back against the floor, eyes slipping shut, mouth twitching in what might be amusement.
"Yeah, okay," Thanos says, his voice lazy, drawling. "You’re really bad at this, man."
Nam-gyu bristles, irritation flaring for just a second—because what the fuck does that mean?
"Bad at what?" He presses in further, shifting so that half his weight is leaning against Thanos' side now. Their legs brush, Nam-gyu’s fingers slipping higher under the fabric. His hand flattens against Thanos' stomach, his skin too warm beneath Nam-gyu’s palm. He swallows around the dryness in his throat, stomach flipping at the realization that he doesn’t want to stop. Guess the excessive use of drugs turns him that desperate.
Thanos cracks an eye open, glancing down at him, and—fuck, his stare is just as lazy as his tone, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something too knowing.
"You tryna be subtle, or you just hoping I won’t call you out?"
Nam-gyu clenches his jaw, but that heat curling in his gut just tightens, burning slow and thick. Nam-gyu should pull back. Shrug it off. Say something to save face.
But instead, he pushes his luck.
"If you got something to say," Nam-gyu murmurs, tilting his head just enough that his lips nearly brush the exposed skin of Thanos’ collarbone, "say it."
Thanos exhales a slow breath, his chest rising against Nam-gyu’s hand. And for the first time tonight, he actually sounds serious when he responds.
"You’re touchy as fuck when you’re high, y’know that?" It’s not a rejection, not really—but it’s a warning. A line drawn between them, unspoken but firm.
Nam-gyu stares up at him, fingers twitching against his skin. Then he grins. Sharp. Challenging.
"And?"
A pause. “Fuck.” Thanos mutters, his upper lip curling slightly up as he shifts, like he’s trying to get comfortable—not that it helps. His voice carries a rare edge of exasperation, but there’s something else buried beneath it. Again, it’s like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It’s un-Thanos-like, a slip Nam-gyu wouldn’t have caught if he weren’t pressed this close.
“Damn. You’re worse than usual.” The drugs are doing their job, loosening them both up in that lazy, languid way. Thanos has never cared enough to comment on Nam-gyu’s physicality before, probably because he doesn’t have much room to talk himself. Nam-gyu doesn't bother delving into the details. Not like he gave a shit. At least that means Thanos notices.
Huh. It’s not the mind-blowing revelation Nam-gyu thought it would be.
"Give a guy some space, will you?"
Still, Nam-gyu doesn’t move. If anything, he sinks further into Thanos’ space, close enough to feel the way his breath hitches before settling into something deliberately neutral. Nam-gyu can feel the tension, the push-and-pull of it, and it thrills him.
Thanos clicks his tongue after a moment, looking down at him with something torn between annoyance and amusement. “You done?”
Nam-gyu grins, slow and teasing, fingers pressing just a little firmer against Thanos’ side. “Dunno,” he says, voice slightly muffled “You gonna make me be?”
He hopes—fucking hopes—Thanos does something about it. That he’ll push back, shove him off, and react in some way that Nam-gyu can sink his teeth into. But Thanos just exhales sharply, eyes uncharacteristically dark and unreadable, before muttering under his breath—
Thanos repeats more noticeably this time. "Fuck." He moves suddenly, pushing himself upright and shifting onto the edge of Nam-gyu’s bed with a creak of the frame and the clinking of his jewellery. He doesn’t technically shove Nam-gyu off—doesn’t explicitly say piss off, clingy bastard or anything like that—but the message is clear enough. There’s no room left for Nam-gyu to latch onto him again, no opening for him to press further. Nam-gyu doesn’t fight it. He lets himself slide away, settling onto the floor with a lazy sprawl, his palm braced behind him for support. His head tilts back slightly, eyes flicking up to where Thanos sits, his posture a little too stiff, like he’s waiting for the moment to pass. Nam-gyu chuckles. Alright. He’s done with this game or whatever. He gets it.
He tells himself that as he rolls his shoulders back, playing it all off like it was some harmless joke. Just another one of his stupid whims—testing the limits, seeing how far he could push before Thanos got that rare, telltale tightness in his chest. Because Thanos doesn’t do discomfort. He hardly ever backs down, and if he does, he’s even more ashamed about it, which makes it fun.
It’s the kind of thing they laugh about later. Nam-gyu does this shit, Thanos calls him a junkie and tells him to knock it off, and then life moves on. Thanos is usually the pushy one between them, the one who thrives off catching Nam-gyu off guard, pulling crazy shit in public just to watch him shuffle with embarrassment. So yeah. Nam-gyu figures it’s only fair he returns the favor every once in a while.
Nam-gyu has no idea what the hell he was expecting when he halfheartedly turns his head to glance at Thanos, now perched on his bed while half of Nam-gyu’s body still lays on the floor. Maybe he thought he’d find Thanos pouting, sighing about how he regrets going soft on him—letting him take one more pill than usual. Instead, Thanos just pats his thigh with a free hand—silent, expectant, a lazy grin tugging at his lips like this is something casual. Like it’s nothing at all.
Sure, Nam-gyu’s a clingy, touchy piece of shit when it comes to Thanos, but that’s always been his call. He gives out casual touches without thinking—squeezing Thanos’ arm, tugging at his sleeve when he wants attention. This though?
This is Thanos asking. And that makes it different. Direct. And so damn confusing.
Thanos isn’t exactly hard to read in retrospect. When he’s pissed, you know . He’s the kind of motherfucker who wears his heart on his sleeve, loud and obvious—yet still manages to throw Nam-gyu off with his spontaneous shit.
Nam-gyu lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, tilting his chin up at Thanos like he’s got the audacity to make this request. “You serious, man?”
Good move. Make it seem casual. A joke they can laugh about later when they’re higher than they are now.
But Thanos? He just opens his legs wider.
Nam-gyu’s eyes drop to eye the movement before he can stop himself. He sniffs to cover it up, hesitating, before moving forward, slow and deliberate. When he finally settles onto one of Thanos’ knees, he laughs, low and unsure. But Thanos? He’s still got that grin, all expectation and mild surprise, like he’s just waiting to see how far Nam-gyu will take this.
And that’s the problem.
Because Nam-gyu doesn’t know where to place his hands. For once, they’re not shaking. Of course, when he actually needs an excuse—some sort of out—his body decides to start functioning properly. Go fucking figure.
His fingers twitch before they settle at Thanos’ pants leg, gripping at the fabric absently, like it might ground him. He fidgets for a long moment, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear before shifting forward, inching closer. Then, in one smooth movement, he swings his right leg over Thanos’, situating himself at his mid-thigh.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, the sharp tang of something metallic creeping onto his tongue. It grounds him for a second, just enough for the weight of the situation to settle in.
Because this? This is weird .
Something and not just mindless teasing.
Thanos might play it off like it’s nothing, but Nam-gyu knows him better than that. Knows that Thanos rarely asks for things quietly—not like this, not with that lazy smile and expectant gaze. And Nam-gyu hates that he doesn’t know how to react.
His grip on Thanos’ pants leg tightens. He fidgets, smoothing his thumb over the fabric like it might buy him time to think. His fingers twitch, restless. He lifts one hand halfway, like he might run it through his hair, scratch the back of his neck— anything —before he forces it back down, clenching it into a fist at his side instead. He could just laugh it off. Shrug it away, make some snide remark, brush past it like it never happened. It wouldn’t even be hard. Thanos would probably scoff, shoot back some dumbass comment, and they’d go right back to whatever bullshit they were doing before.
That’s the safe option. The logical one. And yet—Nam-gyu doesn’t take it. Instead, he breathes in, slow and measured, then exhales through his nose.
Fuck it.
The thought comes sudden and final, snapping through him like a live wire. Before he can hesitate any longer, Nam-gyu shifts forward, moving deliberately. He grips Thanos by the shoulders—closer to his neck than anything, fingers pressing in just shy of too hard. If this goes horribly, embarrassingly wrong—if Nam-gyu’s pride takes a hit so bad it never recovers—at least he has the option to choke the shit out of the person responsible.
Maybe that tiny shred of control makes it easier. Because Nam-gyu keeps moving, crawling in even closer, the heat creeping up his spine.
Thanos smirks—sloppy and lopsided, like he’s tired, except Nam-gyu knows he’s too fucking wired for that. And he knows that look. Nam-gyu’s all nice and pretty on his lap. Looking eager. Surprisingly, Thanos doesn’t run his loud mouth once during the entire interaction. And that? That’s what weirds Nam-gyu out the most.
By the end of it he's finally settled, planting himself more on Thanos’ lower torso than his legs. Nam-gyu presses in, his body slotting against Thanos’ like they were made to fit. The heat between them is unbearable, radiating off their skin, sinking into every inch of him. He tilts his head, mouth grazing the edge of Thanos’ jaw before he buries himself in the crook of his neck, inhaling deep. His hips roll forward, slow but deliberate, and fuck—he feels it. The unmistakable press of Thanos, just as hard as he is, right up against him.
His fingers tighten at the nape of Thanos’ neck, nails digging in just slightly, enough to make Thanos suck in a sharp breath. There’s no mistaking the way his body reacts, a twitch, a subtle shift like he’s fighting the urge to push back just as desperately. Nam-gyu grins against his skin, dragging his teeth along his pulse point before pulling back just enough to hear Thanos murmur, voice low and rough, right next to Nam-gyu's ear, “Yeah? You feeling that too?” He exhales, and it’s damn near a groan.
Nam-gyu remembers Thanos ranting about how much he hated suckers—the ones who thought they could mark him up like they were more than just random fucks to pass the time. Thanos preferred to be the one doing the marking anyway by the looks of things. That’s why it’s striking when, instead of pushing him away, Thanos only grips Nam-gyu’s lower back harder as he lightly sucks onto the skin just below Thanos’ jaw. Thanos’ breath stutters when Nam-gyu rocks his hips again, the friction winding tighter between them. His hands slide lower, fingers tracing the dip of Nam-gyu’s spine before gripping his waist, guiding him into a rhythm neither of them are ready to break.
They're just helping each other out. No big deal.
Nam-gyu bites back a sound, but it’s useless when Thanos shifts beneath him, pressing up just enough to make him feel the full weight of it—the heat, the pressure, the need between them.
“You’re really pushing it, huh?” Thanos scoffs, voice tight. Nam-gyu barely hears him over the rush of his own pulse. He leans in again, lips grazing over Thanos’ jaw before scraping his teeth against it, testing. The reaction is instant—Thanos stiffens, his hands flexing at Nam-gyu’s hips, and then he tilts his head just slightly, giving Nam-gyu more access.
“Shit,” Thanos breathes out, a hand sliding up to press against the small of Nam-gyu’s back. “You know what you’re doing?”
"Can't be too different." Nam-gyu replies and feels a strange and annoying sense of vulnerability now that he's admitted it. He hums, dragging his tongue over the fresh mark once he properly bites down. “I thought you didn't like being the one getting marked up?”
Thanos groans, half exasperated, half something else. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Nam-su.” Yeah, a very good mood, judging by the slowly forming tent in his pants.
"Nam-gyu."
Thanos hums, like he’s only half-listening, his hands wandering lower, fingers digging in just enough to make Nam-gyu shiver. “Mm, sure.”
Nam-gyu stills, thinking they could end it right here. Let Thanos forget this entire exchange. Maybe later, Nam-gyu could bring it up casually. “Hey, remember that time in my room when you were so high off your ass you actually messed around with me for a bit?” He’d throw it out there every time Thanos tried to chat up some conveniently attractive woman, just to watch the confusion flicker across his face. Would Thanos know if he was lying or telling the truth? Probably not. And that would be the best part—watching him fumble for a few moments, unsure, before inevitably deciding he’d had enough and socking Nam-gyu right in the jaw.
“Sure?”
Thanos doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Yeah, sure. Nam-su.”
Nam-gyu exhales sharply, fingers tightening at the nape of Thanos’ neck. “You’re doing that on purpose. Asshole”
Thanos grins, tilting his head, eyes flicking over Nam-gyu’s face, lingering on his mouth before he murmurs, “What, you gonna do something about it?”
Nam-gyu doesn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Instead, he moves, pressing in harder, rolling his hips just to hear the way Thanos' breath stutters. It earns him a sharp squeeze at his waist, a barely restrained groan against his throat.
“Careful, boy,” Thanos warns, but it’s ruined by how wrecked his voice already sounds. Nam-gyu bites back a grin, lips grazing over Thanos’ jaw before dragging lower. “You sure?”
Thanos exhales roughly, his grip on Nam-gyu’s hips tightening. “Fuck around and find out what I'll do to you.” Nam-gyu shifts again, pressing flush against him, and there’s still no denying the way Thanos reacts—his body tensing, fingers digging in, a quiet curse slipping past his lips. That’s when Nam-gyu finally breathes, voice barely steady—
"Fuck, Thanos." Nam-gyu barely gets the words out, sucking in a breath as he tries to sound like he isn’t already drowning in it. He’s not sure if he pulls it off, not with how his body reacts to every slight shift, every graze against his skin. "Can I?"
Thanos, because he’s a dick, tilts his head as one side of his upper lifts up like he’s thinking real hard about it. "Can you what, huh?" His voice dips into that taunting, sing-songy tone that makes Nam-gyu's eye twitch. "Use your big words and tell me what you want, baby."
It’s fucking mocking, but Nam-gyu’s traitorous body doesn’t seem to care. Nam-gyu’s sure he should be annoyed—no, he is annoyed—but fuck if that doesn’t make his pants uncomfortably tight. He circles his arms around Thanos’ back, fisting the worn-out fabric of that ugly yellow shirt, and when his body presses in just right—fuck—he surprises even himself with the choked-off groan that scrapes past his lips.
Great. Perfect. He should say something snarky, threaten to bite down on something Thanos would really miss, but all he can do is stew in the sheer fucking audacity of this guy. Because, of course, Thanos knows what Nam-gyu’s asking. Hopefully. But he still wants to hear Nam-gyu say it out loud. Thanos is a piece of shit.
A piece of shit Nam-gyu desperately needed to get his hands on—needed to physically ruin. To fuck the life out of those smug, lazy eyes until they were glassy and unfocused. Until that cheap-ass hair dye bled into Nam-gyu’s fingers, seeping under his nails, staining him like a bad decision he wouldn’t bother washing off.
Nam-gyu exhales sharply through his nose, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth before finally spitting it out. "Can I suck you off?" It comes out begrudging, but fuck, he says it.
And just in case this all goes sideways, he leaves himself an out. A little space for an abrupt laugh, a quick pivot to haha, just kidding if Thanos makes him regret every life decision that led him here.
"C'mon, man." The words slip out before Nam-gyu can stop them, before he can shove them down. And worse—so much worse— "Please?"
Thanos freezes—just for a second. But Nam-gyu sees it—the way Thanos’s fingers twitch, how his throat bobs just a little too hard when he swallows. He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. And maybe he really can’t, because when he finally speaks, there’s an edge to his voice—something rough, like a match struck too close to the flame.
"You." His gaze drags over Nam-gyu, slow, heated. "Wanna get on your knees for me?" He points at Nam-gyu then to himself. Thanos has a way of saying shit. All vulgar and shameless that makes Nam-gyu want to backpedal.
Nam-gyu holds his ground, jaw set. If he backs up now, Thanos will never let him live it down. So he takes a good chunk of his pride and swallows it like bitter medicine.
"Yeah," Nam-gyu shrugs, voice lower, rougher. "Why not?"
Slowly, he shifts backwards, one knee hitting the floor, then the other. The room feels hotter, the space between them tightening like a stretched wire, humming with strain. Thanos watches him the whole way down, eyes leisurely tracking every inch as Nam-gyu sinks to his knees. His smirk is there, barely, tugging at the corner of his mouth like he wants to say something cocky, something that’ll make Nam-gyu snap, but for once, he keeps it to himself.
Nam-gyu exhales, tilting his head up to meet Thanos' gaze only to catch him looking away at the last second, like he’s just now realized that checking Nam-gyu out might be a little too fucking queer. His hands settle on Thanos' thighs, not quite gripping, just there.
"Want to make me beg for it or something?" Nam-gyu asks as a joke to get Thanos' attention.
Nam-gyu would’ve laughed at the look on his face—like he was actually considering it, like he was really thinking about it. But Thanos doesn’t give him the chance.
“Why not?” His voice is all lazy drawl, cocky satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “C’mon, why don't you act all pretty for me, boy? I like how bitchy you get.”
Nam-gyu’s eyes threaten to roll back into his skull at Thanos' confession. Now Thanos is looking down at him, and normally, that’s a sight Nam-gyu would rather die than witness—whether literally or figuratively. But this? This is something he could get off to right then and there. Just to see how Thanos would like it—being left to watch Nam-gyu be selfish. Fuck.
Thanos lifts the hem of his shirt, resting a hand over his belt buckle. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Nam-gyu feels it, the need curling tight. His mind fills in the blanks like he didn’t just have to ask nicely for it. Nam-gyu's fingers hover over the bulge in his own pants. Not enough for his body to automatically jerk into it but close enough to pacify him for a short while.
When Nam-gyu looks up, his disbelief is plain as day, an open-mouthed grin tugging at his lips, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s really trying to hold himself back.
“Didn’t I just ask nicely, huh? The fuck you treating me like a girl for? You want your dick sucked or not?”
Thanos’ hand slides over the side of Nam-gyu’s face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear—almost sickeningly romantic—before gripping the nape of his neck, firm, possessive.
“Not that bitchy.” He clicks his tongue but doesn't seem all too upset. Dramatic. “How about you say it again.”
Nam-gyu lets Thanos tip his chin up, his grip firm. Maybe it's to make him look more appealing, maybe for his own satisfaction. It pisses him off how easily he follows the motion, how willingly he lets Thanos guide him. He should make this difficult. Should give him shit for drawing this this 'quick fuck' out. Nam-gyu has a feeling he knows exactly which words Thanos is waiting for.
He makes himself pretty—or at least, Nam-gyu thinks he does. Not that he has any clue what business Thanos has calling him, a guy, pretty in the first place. Still, he shuffles forward on his knees, settling between Thanos' spread legs. His free hand finds the back of Thanos' knee, fingers pressing in just enough to ground himself. The whole display is deliberate, obvious, and judging by the way Thanos' grip tightens—one hand fisting around his belt, the other pulling at Nam-gyu’s hair—he clearly wasn’t expecting it.
Nam-gyu hisses at the sharp tug, the sting prickling hot along his scalp. His first instinct is to pull back, but there’s nowhere to go—not really. So instead, he presses in further, nuzzling his cheek against the firm muscle of Thanos’ thigh with a low whine in an attempt to get away. "Hyung."
The shift drags Nam-gyu’s hand hovering over his crotch lower, and before he can stop himself, his fingers press down hard against the front of his own pants. The pressure shoots straight through him, sharp and involuntary, and he gasps, hips canting up to receive more. Nam-gyu casts a cautious glance up. From this angle, it's subtle enough for Thanos not to notice. Thank fuck.
Thanos exhales sharply through his nose, and Nam-gyu feels it more than he hears it—the way his whole body tenses and ultimately decides to pull him closer.
“Su-bong. Hyung,” he repeats, softer this time—part plea, part taunt. Although it's not the answer Thanos was seeking, it appears that his initial aim has already slipped his memory in his drug filled haze. And like hell Nam-gyu's going to ask if he could get him off a second time. If Thanos is going to be a dick, Nam-gyu might as well be one too.
Thanos doesn’t answer right away. His grip in Nam-gyu’s hair loosens, but he doesn’t let go. He lets his thumb drag slow over the shell of Nam-gyu’s ear, almost gentle. Almost.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs, and Nam-gyu hates the way it he responds. But right now, kneeling between Thanos’ legs, his pride feels like it’s been peeled back, thin and translucent and aching to be touched. He licks his lips instead, eyes flicking back up to meet Thanos’, and hates even more that he’s searching for something there. Permission? Approval? To hell with it.
“Say it again,” Thanos says, quieter now. Almost coaxing. “Like you mean it.”
Nam-gyu bristles. “You like hearing yourself called that, don’t you?”
“You like saying it.”
He doesn’t answer, but his hand tightens against Thanos’ leg. A beat passes—then two—and finally, his mouth twists into something like a smirk, resigned and bitter around the edges.
“Hyung,” he says again, and this time, it’s deliberate. Laced with meaning. A curse. "Please."
Thanos’ fingers flex at the back of his head, not yanking this time, but guiding. Nam-gyu lets him, jaw clenched, the heat under his skin flaring bright and mean. He should feel humiliated. Should scorn the way Thanos is manhandling him like this. But there’s a flush of red on his face, and it’s got nothing to do with shame.
Thanos' hand drops to Nam-gyu’s jaw, thumb dragging over the corner of his mouth like he’s tracing where his smirk used to be. “Bet you’d take anything I give you.” He mutters, almost fond.
"The longer you brag this out the more gay it looks, dude." Nam-gyu deadpans, eyes flicking between the obvious tent in Thanos’ pants, now more noticeable since he dropped to his knees, the strip of skin showing where his shirt has ridden up, and finally, Thanos’ face.
"You're damn eager to have my dick shoved in your mouth. I'd say that's pretty fucking gay."
Nam-gyu glares up at him, but it’s a purposefully weak shot. His breath hitches when Thanos' thumb slips just barely past his lips. Thanos curses under his breath.
“That’s it,” he says. Nam-gyu doesn’t get a second warning. Thanos grabs his jaw with both hands now, tilts his head up, up, until his throat is stretched bare and he’s looking at Thanos like he’s already halfway undone. His thumbs press into Nam-gyu’s cheeks, firm enough to leave dents.
“Keep your eyes on Thanos, yeah?” Him and that fucking English.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Thanos yanks Nam-gyu toward him rather than leaning down himself to press his lips against Nam-gyu’s fast and brutal. The kiss is all messy, tongues sliding rough without the need for foreplay or approval. Nam-gyu tastes cheap liquor, sweat, and something else that makes his head spin.
One of those overpriced colognes Thanos wastes his money on.
Nam-gyu gasps into it, and Thanos takes that too. Swallows it down like he owns it. One hand slides back into Nam-gyu’s hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, the other pressing down on his shoulder until his spine bows slightly, body obedient even when his pride isn’t. It’s filthy. The position, the power, the way Nam-gyu is already pressing in closer like he wants more, even as his fingers curl into fists at Thanos’ thighs, shaking with restraint.
Nam-gyu sticks to Thanos' word. Keeping his eyes on him without daring to close them even after they go half lidded and heavy. Closing them would mean he’s into it. Enjoying it. And that would be admitting something he’s not ready to name. Thanos leans in again, mouth hovering, then pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against Nam-gyu’s with a kind of intimacy that feels almost sweet. Gross.
"You kiss a lot of girls, Nam-su?" Thanos asks, eyes stubbornly fixed on him.
What kind of question is that?
He’s kissed before. Girls. Hookups, parties, the usual shit. He’s been kissed hard, soft, sloppily drunk, grinding against a wall. It's nothing new. Nam-gyu doesn’t necessarily think it’s gay to kiss Thanos. He can fool around with anyone and at the end of the day it means nothing. It’s about Thanos. The biting, the one-upping, the closeness that never made sense until it was suddenly here, dragging him under. So yeah, maybe it’s a kiss, and maybe it’s messy and desperate and toeing the line of something they can't place. But it’s also a win. Nam-gyu likes winning. And right now? Mouth slick, pressed up against Thanos’ lips, breathing in the same shared heat? This feels like a win-win situation.
"I mean, yeah — obviously." Nam-gyu snorts and maybe it was a bad idea to continue talking because their lips brush with every word. "This is so fucking gay." he mutters through a burst of giggles. It's a clear sign there’s still a cocktail of drugs swimming about through his bloodstream. Both of theirs.
Nam-gyu licks the taste of Thanos off his mouth before Thanos drags him forward by the hair again, but Nam-gyu doesn’t go easy this time. His nails dig harder into Thanos’ thigh. He wonders if they’ll leave angry little red marks if he presses just right. He wants to undo Thanos’ belt. Drag his jeans down. See for himself.
The thought alone has him sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to suppress the needy moan building in his throat.
A breathless laugh escapes instead, warm against the zipper of Thanos’ jeans. Then Nam-gyu mouths over the bulge there, tongue wet and deliberate even through the fabric. Thanos jerks under him, one thigh tensing, his breath catching. Nam-gyu grins, and this time he does bite. He bites right along the crease of Thanos’ thigh. Hard enough to make Thanos swear and shove down harder on his head.
“Shit—fuck, okay.” Thanos fumbles with his belt, hand uncoordinated in his rush, and for a second, it’s almost endearing. How eager he is. Desperate, even. Like he’s been holding onto the image of Nam-gyu on his knees all night, turning it over in his mind.
Nam-gyu’s running on pure instinct. Knowledge not experience. Can’t say he’s ever wanted to go down on a guy before. Never looked at another man and thought, I want to make you fall apart on my tongue.
He’s watched things. Read things. Stored away too many what-if’s from the safety of a screen. He knows how this goes. Has been on the giving end more times than he can count, and maybe that should make this easier.
But it doesn't.
This feels different. More real. More dangerous. His mouth dry, heart thudding heavy behind his ribs, and there’s a weight to the moment that has nothing to do with Thanos’ gaze. It's not just the act in itself. It’s the wanting. The heat curling in his stomach that he can’t write off as curiosity or the thrill of winning a bet. It’s raw. Personal.
And now, with Thanos watching him like he’s already a little ruined, like he wants to be ruined. Nam-gyu’s chest feels too tight, his palms too warm, and there’s something terrifyingly easy about giving in to it.
It hits Nam-gyu then. This is Thanos. The self-centered asshole he’s known since their shitty high school days and well into their equally shitty adult lives. Okay, sure. He’s caught Thanos going down on a girl once or twice. The bastard was never exactly subtle, shoving his hand up some girl’s skirt in a club like it was his given right. And yeah, Nam-gyu’s seen him make out with more women than he can count.
And maybe, over time, he started getting a little bitter about it.
Because honestly, was Thanos that good? He talks himself up like he’s some goddamn sex god, but he’s never managed to hold onto a girlfriend for more than two weeks. Lately, even that’s been a stretch. Most of them barely make it past day six. When Nam-gyu asks, Thanos just shrugs and says they got boring, or that they couldn’t handle “all that is Thanos.” Cryptic prick.
Nam-gyu’s not sure how much of it is true. Thanos has a habit of talking out his ass. Half bluff, half bravado. He even went through Thanos’ phone once. Not his finest moment. There’d been this girl blowing up his messages, pissed about how he couldn’t commit. Said he always put some black-haired bitch before her. Said Thanos let her hang off him with no boundaries, like he wanted her more than his actual girlfriend.
She must’ve been on something. Nam-gyu’s never seen a girl draped all over Thanos like that. No mystery woman. No clingy black haired chick. Crazy bitch. Still. The accusation stuck in the back of his mind longer than it should have. Thanos couldn’t keep his girlfriends for long, but he’d let Nam-gyu stick around for years.
Now Nam-gyu bites down on his tongue for a different reason—not entirely out of nerves, but to keep a contented grin from lighting up his face.
Honestly, he’s expecting Thanos to say something corny, like “open your present,” but he doesn’t. Thanos just manages to unhook his belt, leaving it half open. He gives one good tug on Nam-gyu’s hair before his hand untangles, palms pressing into the bed as he lifts his hips and shoots Nam-gyu a look that says, get on with it. Okay, he knows how to do this part at least. Nam-gyu undoes Thanos' fly easy enough, silver rings clinking against the zipper.
He should probably take those off, right?
Thanos doesn’t mention how Nam-gyu pulls his jeans down with one hand instead of two. Fuck, those red marks are there on his thighs. The motion seems to knock something loose in Thanos—his hips jerk upward involuntarily before he speaks, something akin an apology laced into his voice. “I don’t usually do this kinda stuff with a guy, y’know.”
Then, back to being an asshole. “You’re not gonna make me regret it, are you?” Behind it all there's a sliver of uncertainty in Thanos' expression. Nam-gyu wants it gone.
It’s out of spite, if anything. That’s what Nam-gyu tells himself, teeth grit, pride burning just beneath his skin. The way he ends up level with Thanos’ cock. Holy shit. It’s not about curiosity, or wanting, or whatever the fuck this is becoming. It’s petty. Petty and defiant and completely, completely out of his depth.
Still, there it is, right in front of him. Thick, flushed, way too fucking real. Nam-gyu hesitates for half a second, breath caught, then wraps his free hand around the base, rings and all, and gives it one solid pump. Just to prove a point. Just to see if Thanos’ bravado holds.
It surprisingly doesn’t.
Thanos makes this sound—half groan, half whimper—that hits Nam-gyu in the gut like a punch. It's embarrassingly soft, too genuine, like the breath got knocked out of him. Thanos' hips twitch forward, like he’s chasing more, and his fingers curl tight into the bed sheets beside him.
Nam-gyu blinks, thrown. That was… not what he expected. He thought he’d get a cocky remark, a smug little “yeah, just like that,” but instead Thanos sounds ruined. Vulnerable even.
It fucks with his head.
“You—” Nam-gyu clears his suddenly hoarse throat. “You always this easy?”
Thanos doesn’t answer right away. Just swallows hard, breath shaky. "Told you I was in a good mood, Nam-gyu."
Nam-gyu goes still.
And yeah, that does something to him. Something he doesn’t have the vocabulary for. But it makes his dick twitch in his pants and makes him squeeze just a little tighter the next time he moves his hand. Both hands. The hand gently palming his own hard on and the one on Thanos. He shifts forward, eyes still locked on Thanos’ cock like it might condemn him, but he’s already too far in to back out. No way he’s giving Thanos the satisfaction of calling him a pussy. So he leans in and flattens his tongue along the underside. Just a slow, testing lick from base to tip.
Fuck, he's really doing this.
Nam-gyu pauses at the head, breath warm against it, and silently curses the way his own pulse is hammering. He’s winging this by going off memory, porn, and all the times someone’s blown him. He knows what he likes. Figures it can’t be that different. Pressure, rhythm. He’s got that covered.
What he doesn’t have is grace.
He closes his lips over the tip, just to see how it feels in his mouth, and nearly pulls back out of reflex. It’s unfamiliar, the weight of it sitting heavy on his tongue. He adjusts, lets his jaw fall slack, hand tightening around what he can’t fit.
Thanos’ hand slips back into Nam-gyu’s hair, the grip loose at first. It's more like Thanos is trying to ground himself, to stay tethered. But the longer Nam-gyu works his mouth around him, the deeper he sinks down, the firmer that grip gets. It’s not rough, not quite, but it makes his scalp throb in a way that feels dangerously close to good.
Grey spots start to crowd the edges of his vision, pressure building, lungs aching, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Especially not when Thanos’ hips twitch up, barely restrained, and that hand slides down to the nape of his neck to keep him steady. Keep him there.
Nam-gyu tries to keep eye contact, but his lashes flutter, his eyes sting, and the blurry haze gets worse for an unknown reason. His chest is tight, throat stretched around the weight of it, and he’s too far gone to tell if it’s overstimulation or lack of air or both. His brain’s half-flooded with heat, mouth tingling, body tense—and it hits him all at once.
The possibility of throwing up is still very real. Not off the table, not even a little.
Then that hand moves again. It slides from Nam-gyu's neck to the side of his face, fingers splayed, thumb brushing gentle against his cheek like something tender. Nam-gyu’s a second away from pulling off just to snap, cut it out with the romantic shit, but then Thanos’ thumb comes back a little damp.
The wave of mortification is instant and brutal. His vision’s blurry. Pleasure-wrung tears. Jesus.
"There we go." Thanos coos, voice just steady enough to mask the shaky breaths slipping past his lips, like he actually thinks he sounds put together. "So pretty for me, baby."
In any other situation, Nam-gyu would laugh in his face, call him a desperate fuck for pulling lines straight out of a playbook. Because seriously? That shit might work on the women clinging to Thanos in clubs, the ones who giggle and melt at every low whisper and puffed-up compliment, but him? No fucking way. Not when Thanos’ cock is in his mouth, hitting the back of his throat with every shallow thrust, and Nam-gyu’s whole body is burning.
But when Thanos says it—low and shaky, laced with that breathless cockiness—something tight and molten settles deep in Nam-gyu’s stomach. A groan slips out before he can swallow it down along with the faint aftertaste of precum, an embarrassing little hitch at the back of his throat that has him immediately clamping his lips tighter around Thanos just to shut himself the fuck up. His hands skim along the outside of Thanos’ thighs, fingers pressing in as he grips behind his knees and pulls them further apart. Whether for better access or to distract himself, he doesn’t know.
But one thing’s for sure. No fucking way is he into that...Fuck no. Fuck no.
The pressure is dizzying, a constant pulse between Nam-gyu's legs that won’t let up. Every time Thanos grinds a little deeper, it sends sparks shooting down Nam-gyu’s spine. His thighs are clenched so tight they ache, and he can feel his cock leaking, untouched, pressed tight against the rough fabric of his pants. Every drag of his mouth, every low noise Thanos makes, every stutter of breath—it’s doing something to him. His head is fuzzy. Heavy. His mouth aches, jaw straining, spit clinging to his lips, dripping messily down his chin. His heart’s hammering, blood rushing between his ears, and fuck, he can’t even be mad about the way his hips keep twitching down, chasing friction that isn’t there. He’s so turned on it hurts. Hot and overwhelming in a way that makes him feel stupid.
Worse, it’s not just physical. It’s the way Thanos sounds. The way he talks to him. Like Nam-gyu’s something precious. Pretty. Like he’s wanted. And that pisses him off a whole lot. Thanos can't be normal for one damn second.
Nam-gyu hums around him, trying to act like he knows what he's doing, bobbing his head in a rhythm that’s just short of cruel. The sounds he makes around Thanos only make things worse. Loud, wet sucks echo every time his cheeks hollow out, and Thanos throws his head back, gasping when Nam-gyu’s tongue swipes over his tip. Nam-gyu abruptly pulls off, needing air in his lungs but it’s near impossible with Thanos’ vice-like grip in his hair, trying to drag him back down. Nam-gyu wouldn't be surprised if Thanos purposefully wants him to gag on it.
Nam-gyu's chest rises and falls hard as he tries to gather himself, one hand wiping spit off his chin like it’s nothing, though the flush in his face says otherwise. He leans back on his heels, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand while dragging in lungfuls of air. He stares up at Thanos.
Thanos' eyes are blown wide, mouth parted, a slick sheen of sweat starting to gather at his temple. His cock is flushed angry-red and twitching against his stomach, like it’s protesting the sudden loss of warmth. The hand not in Nam-gyu's hair is hovering, like Thanos wants to reach out, but isn’t sure if he should.
“You were close,” Nam-gyu says. He shifts on his knees, cock pressing uncomfortably between his legs. “Could feel it.”
Thanos huffs out a half-laugh. “I was close. What, you want a medal?” It's defencive, like he's chastising himself for almost nearly cuming too soon. And that's...holy shit. Thanos almost came from his mouth.
“I want you,” he rasps, voice gruff and cracked, “I wanna fuck you.”
And just like that, everything in Nam-gyu stills. He stares at Thanos, blinking slowly like he’s making sure he heard right. “What? The fuck did you just say?” Thanos looks at him then. Dead-on, heat simmering behind his eyes even as his voice stays low.
“You heard me.” He shifts his hips like he’s trying to resist the urge to roll them forward. “I want to feel you. Wanna watch you take it.”
Nam-gyu should roll his eyes at Thanos and his porn-level fantasies. But the heat crawling up his spine says otherwise. And the heavy throb between his legs sure as hell isn’t helping. “I’m not..you know,” he mutters, a little breathless. “Unless you’re about to spit on it and pray.”
Thanos’ hand comes up then, reaching for Nam-gyu’s jaw to curl around it. His thumb traces just under his bottom lip. "Open up,” Thanos says, urging. “Let me get you ready.”
Nam-gyu parts his lips and Thanos slips in one finger, slow and careful like he thinks Nam-gyu might back off. He closes his mouth around it, lets his tongue drag along the pad as the taste of skin and salt hits his tongue. Thanos exhales—quiet, strained.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his gaze locked onto the slow slide of his finger past Nam-gyu’s lips. Nam-gyu takes it down halfway before he huffs, more flustered than he wants to admit. Opens his mouth wider, lets Thanos slip two fingers in. His tongue curls between the two, licking slow lines down the length of them, then back up again, wet and warm. Spit starts to gather at the corners of his mouth, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down and presses forward until his lips are flush with Thanos’ knuckles. “You want it so bad? Let me give it to you.”
Before Nam-gyu can react, Thanos shoves a third finger past his lips, rough and sudden, stretching his mouth. Nam-gyu’s eyes go wide with it, a choked noise caught in his throat. It’s not graceful, not careful, and it’s definitely not for show. Again, spit spills down his chin in a slow trail. His body jolts forward from the force of it, hands clenching in Thanos’ shirt as he instinctively tries to pull back, but Thanos’ hand curls tighter behind his neck, holding him steady.
“Don’t pretend you can’t take it,” Thanos' thumb drags across Nam-gyu’s spit-slick cheek. “You’ve had worse things in your mouth.”
Nam-gyu wants to bite him a second time. Real bad. He glares instead, eyes sharp but glassy, and keeps sucking around Thanos’ fingers like he means it. Thanos holds him there a moment longer, fingers deep, watching the way Nam-gyu’s throat works as he swallows around the intrusion. Thanos looks like he likes seeing him this way. When Thanos finally pulls his hand back, Nam-gyu gasps, a string of spit still connecting his lips to Thanos’ fingers. His face flushed to the tips of his ears.
“You’re such an asshole,” Nam-gyu spits out but he’s not pulling away. Doesn't even try.
“Yeah?" Thanos smiles, all teeth, like it's a compliment. "You love it.”
"You still going to do it?" Nam-gyu asks quietly like Thanos would change his mind this deep in. Nam-gyu huffs out a breath that’s not quite a laugh, not quite anything. He shifts back, knees cracking slightly as he rises off the floor, still wedged between Thanos' legs. Nam-gyu's thighs tremble faintly and his hand ghosts over the waistband of his pants.
Thanos’ brow lifts slightly, and for a moment, his smirk falters into something close to disappointment. “You think I don’t?” Nam-gyu can't blame him. Thinks he'd literally crash out if someone left him high and dry after all that build-up.
Nam-gyu shrugs one shoulder, deliberately casual. Maybe it'd cause all his nervous energy to fall off him as well. “Just checking.”
His dick is practically in front of Thanos' face. Screw Nam-gyu for feeling a little damn shameless.
Nam-gyu’s jaw ticks. He looks down—at Thanos' cock, wet and flushed and heavy between them, still slick from his mouth—and swallows hard. “I wanna fuck myself on it,” he says, almost a whisper. “Just—sit on it. Ride you ‘til it shuts you up.”
There’s a beat of silence. A long one. Thanos just stares.
And then—“Fuck.”
It’s more exhale than word. His hands reach up, grabbing at Nam-gyu’s waist like he needs to feel him, to anchor himself before he floats clean out of his own body. “You wanna ride me?” Thanos asks, voice wrecked and nothing like smug anymore. Nam-gyu lifts his eyes. There’s a spark of defiance there, but it’s flickering thinner than it was a minute ago.
“Yeah.”
“Then come here,” Thanos groans. “I want you bouncing on my cock like you were made for it.”
Nam-gyu breathes in like he’s about to talk back—like he’s got something snarky locked and loaded—but the sound that comes out is closer to a whimper. He climbs into Thanos’ lap after he takes his own pants off without another word, legs shaking as they fold around his hips. His hands braced against Thanos' chest. His whole body is buzzing, nerves and anticipation pooling hot between his legs. Thanos' spit-slick fingers slide down between Nam-gyu’s thighs, and the sudden touch makes Nam-gyu jolt, hips canting forward. The first finger slips in easily, slick from before. It’s not enough, just a ghost of pressure, but Nam-gyu gasps anyway, thighs tensing where they bracket Thanos’ hips. The second comes not long after, and the stretch has him curling forward, pressing his forehead against Thanos’ shoulder.
Nam-gyu shifts again, trying to angle his hips better, and when Thanos' fingers curl just slightly inside him, he bites back a moan. “Fuck. That feels… weird.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
Nam-gyu would glare at him if he could will his head out of the crook of Thanos' shoulder. “You askin’ me for a Yelp review or something?”
Thanos scoffs and leans in close enough that Nam-gyu can feel the heat of it against his skin. “You’d rate me five stars and you know it.” Then the third finger starts to push in, faster this time. Firmer. The stretch is more intense, more real and it burns a little at first. Has Nam-gyu hissing through his teeth and gripping Thanos’ wrist with white-knuckled fingers.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Okay. Okay, that’s a lot. Shit—wait a second.”
“You’re taking it,” Thanos says, not smug exactly. More like stunned. Reverent. “Fuck, you’re actually taking it.”
Nam-gyu groans, hips twitching as Thanos scissors his fingers slightly. And the worst part? Nam-gyu's so fucking hard he feels like he might pass out from it.
“Fuck, okay,” Nam-gyu stammers through gritted teeth, hips shifting back to take more. It stings, but not in a way that makes him stop. “That’s—fuck, yeah, keep going.”
Thanos crooks his fingers just right, dragging them against the spot that makes Nam-gyu jolt, and he grins like he meant to do it, like he knows exactly how Nam-gyu’s body works. He doesn’t. But it’s enough to have Nam-gyu pushing back into his fingers.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” Thanos' thumb is brushing along the crease where thigh meets ass in a way that's deceptively gentle. “So tight like this.”
When Thanos slides his fingers out, slow and deliberate, Nam-gyu whines before he can stop himself. His body pulses at the loss, already craving more.
“Shut up,” he snaps before Thanos can say anything.
Thanos ignores him, reaching down to stroke himself once, twice, slicking himself up with the saliva left smeared across his fingers. “C’mere,” he urges. “I want you up here.”
Nam-gyu crawls up, straddling Thanos’ lap with the kind of reluctant urgency only desperation can deliver. His thighs tremble as he hovers over Thanos’ lap, breath sharp and uneven. The prep helped, but now, with the real thing brushing against him, it feels completely different. Thanos’ fingers are digging into his hips, enough to bruise.
“Go slow,” Thanos encourages, but his voice is fucked. Strained and way too eager for someone pretending to be patient. “Let me feel you open up. You ready?.”
Nam-gyu nods without looking at him. “Yeah,” he says. “Just—shut up and let me.” His fingers curl tight in the dip of Thanos’ collarbone, holding on like a lifeline as he angles himself just right and sinks down. The first stretch punches the breath from his lungs.
Thanos groans under him, head tipping back, and Nam-gyu can feel the tremble in the man’s thighs—the way Thanos is trying not to thrust up too fast, too hard.
“Fuck—” Thanos gasps. “You feel—shit, Nam-gyu, you feel so fucking good.”
He's so out of it that he doesn't even realise he's been saying Nam-gyu's name right. Not that stupid pet name.
Nam-gyu doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed as he lowers himself inch by inch. His breath stutters out in little gasps, legs quivering as he adjusts to the fullness. It hurts, a little.
“Look at me,” Thanos says, voice low but demanding.
Nam-gyu opens his eyes, glassy and wide, lips parted around a gasp. Thanos’ pupils are blown wide, sweat starting to bead along his temple. And that looks so...fuck. Nam-gyu wants to cum so bad. He sinks the rest of the way down with a shaky breath, thighs spread, chest heaving. “Holy fuck,” he groans, almost collapsing forward into Thanos’ shoulder a second time. “Give me a second.” Nam-gyu's not expecting Thanos to actually listen to him.
Thanos’ arms wrap around him, not pulling, just holding, and it does something to Nam-gyu’s insides. Something strange and warm and completely uninvited. But he shoves it away. Focuses instead on the throb of Thanos inside him. When Nam-gyu starts to move, it’s slow. Careful. Just a gentle roll of his hips that has both of them groaning. Then again. And again. His rhythm stutters at first, shaky and uncertain, but he finds it—rocks into it—until his body starts chasing the friction on its own. The slide is nasty, wet and messy. Every motion drags a sound out of one of them. Thanos swearing under his breath, Nam-gyu biting down on his own hand to keep himself from moaning too loud.
It’s all heat now. Skin against skin. Hands grasping, sweat slicking their bodies as Nam-gyu picks up pace, fucking himself down harder onto Thanos’ cock, chasing that ache that’s curling deep in his stomach. Thanos is a mess under him, head tipped back, teeth sunk into his own lip to keep from coming too fast. Thanos hand slips between them, wraps around Nam-gyu’s cock, stroking in time with every bounce of his hips.
“Just like that,” Thanos pants. “Ride it. Fuck—look at you. So good for me.”
His rhythm falters as the pleasure slams into him full-force, thighs burning, his stomach drawing tight. Oh, fuck. Each drop of his hips punches breath out of his lungs, barely keeping pace now, a mess of gasps and low curses under his breath.
“I’m—” he chokes out, voice cracking right in the middle. “I’m gonna—fuck, Thanos—”
“Come on, baby,” Thanos' voice all grit and desperation as his hips jerk up to meet him, the control slipping entirely. “Cum for me.”
Nam-gyu comes with a full-body shudder, head tipped back, mouth open in a silent cry. His body locks around Thanos as he spills between them, nails biting into his shoulders like he needs something to hold him in place. His pulse echoes in his ears, heat crawling under his skin, everything flashing white-hot.
But Thanos doesn’t stop. He can’t. Not with the way Nam-gyu clenches around him, still rocking into him with slow, feverish rolls of his hips like he doesn’t know how to stop either. Not when Thanos is already teetering, nerves frayed raw, every muscle drawn tight. He thrusts up a few more times, deeper, rougher, until the sound that leaves him isn’t a moan but something sharper—a broken noise, caught somewhere between a sob and a groan, like his body gave out before he could process it. Thanos' hands grip Nam-gyu’s hips hard enough to bruise as he cums, whole body tensed beneath him.
Nam-gyu blinks down at him through the intoxicating haze, breath still catching in his throat. Thanos’ head is tipped back, throat exposed, lashes damp. There’s a tremor in his arms and—That’s when Nam-gyu realizes.
Thanos is whining, soft and shaky, each breath hitching like he’s still chasing after it even as his body lets go. There’s a wetness along the edge of one cheek, barely visible, catching the low light.
Nam-gyu doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dare. Just leans forward and lets their bodies press together, resting his forehead against Thanos’ temple, both of them spent, sweaty, and coming apart at the seams.
“Fuck,” Thanos whispers eventually.
Nam-gyu lets out a breathless laugh—quiet, not quite mean. “Yeah. Fuck.”
The room feels too quiet all of a sudden. No more panting, no more swearing, no more ragged gasps punched out between thrusts. Just the soft creak of the mattress under them and the ticking of a clock Nam-gyu hadn’t noticed until now. He shifts slightly, and Thanos hisses, hands tightening reflexively around Nam-gyu’s waist. Oversensitive. Raw. His knuckles are white where they grip, but he doesn’t push him off.
It’s not gay to lean down and nip at the skin just below Thanos’ jaw—definitely not—before sucking at the spot until Thanos tilts his head further back, offering more even as he weakly pushes at Nam-gyu’s shoulder, mumbling that he should chill out.
They won’t remember the explicit details in the morning anyway.
It’s called living in the moment.