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Saturday breaks gold and bleary over Jimin’s face, finding him flat on his stomach and half-buried under the battlefield of his king-size duvet. The bedroom is the kind of minimalist that costs more than maximalism: snow-white sheets wrinkled just so, glass walls pooling with sun, a single modernist painting at war with the ordinary. The street below is nothing but distant traffic and the whir of delivery scooters. Here, it’s silence but for the low, steady breathing of Jimin and the man pressed along his side, arm draped as though keeping a wild thing from drifting out of the sheets entirely.
Yoongi wakes first. He always does. His eyes open to the platinum shine in the room, and he looks at Jimin like he’s trying to memorize the angle of his jaw, the way the covers dip at the small of his back, the phases of the moon telling a story inked along his spine. The clock says 9:37, a minor miracle given the late-night giggles and the ungodly hours they’d kept, faces blue-lit by TikTok until Jimin’s phone clattered off the nightstand. Yoongi shifts, careful, burrows an icy foot between Jimin’s calves. There’s no flinch; Jimin’s sleep is bottomless, not even a missile test could wake him. Yoongi runs a hand, feather-light, under the fortress of the sheet—tracing the line of Jimin’s bare ribs, up and down, fingertip skipping over each one like a child counting piano keys.
Jimin stirs with a huff that’s equal parts contentment and protest. He burrows deeper, black hair a savage tangle, then flips without warning, pinning Yoongi’s hand between his own chest and the mattress. His eyes flicker open, one at a time, heavy-lidded, giving Yoongi the look of a man whose dreams were just getting interesting.
“Hyung,” Jimin murmurs, the word slurred, mouth still swollen from last night’s kisses, “you’re going to make me late for nothing.”
“Nothing is important,” Yoongi says, voice still raspy from sleep. “It’s our turn to do nothing, so I intend to be on time.”
It’s Saturday, it’s their day off.
Jimin’s reply is a smile, sideways and janky toothy, then he attacks, latching onto the bony part of Yoongi’s wrist and worrying it with slow-motion bites. Yoongi lets him, amused, then wriggles his hand free to splay his palm over Jimin’s heart, thumb grazing the silver chain that always rests there. The silence is safe—no one to overhear, no manager waiting in the living room, no early-morning vocal warmups for a comeback stage that is both distant and terrifyingly near. Only the secret hush of two bodies existing in the same breath, and the stretch of hours before anyone can shatter it.
Yoongi lays back, lets his hand drift lower, flat on the washboard expanse of Jimin’s abs. They’re both naked under the sheet, a hazard of a late-night shower that turned into an hour-long steam and then an encore in bed. It’s instinct, the way they find each other under the covers—no fumbling, no awkwardness. Just a shifting of hips, a tangle of legs, heat pooling between them. Jimin’s hand skims down the V of Yoongi’s hip, the start of a slow morning spiral, until Yoongi yelps, “Careful,” and rolls over, face buried in the pillow. Jimin laughs, low and dark, then bites Yoongi’s shoulder, just enough to leave a mark.
This is how it started: not as romance, but as an answer to loneliness, to destress. Bangtan’s hiatus hit like a snapped string, and after Yoongi’s military social work discharge, he’d come home raw and jittery. Jimin, always sunshine and easy laughter, had found a way to make Yoongi’s skin fit again. The first time was pure catharsis; the second, revenge. By the third, it was clear: this was no longer a coping mechanism. This was the thing itself. The way Jimin made Yoongi whimper. The way Yoongi could bring Jimin to the edge with a whisper. The slow-burn thrill of knowing every inch, every twitch, every secret crease.
Jimin draws circles on Yoongi’s back, tracing patterns that have no name. “What time is it?” he asks, though he doesn’t move to look.
“Nine-forty,” Yoongi says, after checking the clock with one eye open.
“We have a whole day,” Jimin says. “What do we do with it?”
Yoongi props himself up on one elbow, face alight with mischief. "Let’s see how long you can last before you can’t anymore," Yoongi whispers. "All day, you game?"
There is a moment of absolute silence—just the sun climbing higher, the hiss of the penthouse’s HVAC. Then Jimin lifts his head and grins, wide and hungry, like a kid at the start of summer break.
Jimin’s breath hitches. He knows this game. It’s agony and bliss, a kind of torture that leaves him raw and grateful, desperate for more, for anything Yoongi gives. Yoongi is such a giver. He nods, unable to find his voice, and Yoongi kisses him, deep and thorough, tongue sweeping in and claiming every inch of Jimin’s mouth.
“Deal,” he finally says after they separate to breathe. “Winner gets…”
“Winner?” Yoongi arches a brow. “Pretty sure we both lose.”
“Maybe I want to lose,” Jimin says, and pulls Yoongi back in close until there is only heat, and breath, and the slippery friction of bare skin on bare skin.
They stay like that, curled together under the avalanche of white sheets, until the sun has doubled and their bodies are sticky with sweat and intent. Today, there is nothing to do but this. Today, the world is only this bed and the two of them, taking turns losing, over and over, until it feels like winning.
It starts with Yoongi’s mouth—always Yoongi’s mouth, the way it moves over Jimin’s skin like it’s tracing a route on a treasure map, the way it both worships and destroys. Jimin isn’t even fully awake before the first shock of tongue on his collarbone, the slow drag of lips down the slope of his chest, and he’s already hard, already aching. Jimin’s hands find Yoongi’s hair because they always do, and Yoongi hums at the touch, the vibration sinking straight through Jimin’s bones.
Yoongi’s tongue is a slow, methodical torment, never in a straight line, always doubling back, making Jimin shudder with anticipation. He mouths at the ridges of Jimin’s abs, lets his teeth catch on the waistband of nothing, and then Jimin is bare, entirely, everywhere. The air is cold on his skin, but Yoongi’s mouth is molten, and Jimin bites his own wrist to keep from moaning out loud. Yoongi looks up, eyes dark and hungry, and asks, “How long can you keep quiet?”
Jimin shakes his head, hair in his eyes, and tries to say “Not long” but all that comes out is a gasp, because Yoongi has already started, mouth wrapped around the head of Jimin’s cock, tongue lapping at the slit in a way that feels both obscene and deeply unfair. Jimin’s hips buck, involuntarily, and Yoongi’s hands pin him down, palms flat on his thighs. The control is absolute. The wet heat of Yoongi’s mouth, the slow suction, the way he pulls off with a pop only to lick a line up the underside, all of it is calculated to destroy Jimin’s composure.
Jimin is shaking by the time Yoongi starts working him with his hand, twist and pull, mouth working in tandem, and it’s not even five minutes before Jimin is close, so close he can barely see. But Yoongi, as always, feels it first. He pulls off, lips slick, and fixes Jimin with a look so intense it borders on cruel.
“Tell me when you’re close,” Yoongi commands, and Jimin nods—he would agree to anything.
Time stretches, the tension a wire pulled tight between his hips. Yoongi’s hand is merciless, the precise rhythm of squeeze and twist, and Jimin whimpers, desperate, already teetering on the edge. “Hyung, I’m—” he chokes out, voice barely there.
Yoongi stops. He lets go completely, and for a full five seconds, Jimin is nothing but the echo of what almost was.
It’s agony. It’s perfect.
“Good boy,” Yoongi says, voice velvet, and leans up to kiss the sweat from Jimin’s temple. “You can have it in a minute. Just not yet.”
Jimin can’t speak. He can only nod, swallow, and arch into the ghost of Yoongi’s touch. His whole body is vibrating, his skin so sensitive any touch feels like electrocution.
Yoongi stretches out next to him, props his head on one hand, and runs the other through Jimin’s hair, gentle now. They kiss, slow and deep, tongues lazy, like they have all the time in the world. Jimin’s hands travel up the nape of his lover gripping his dark tresses.
When Yoongi finally slides on top of him, their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Yoongi’s cock is hard and pressed against Jimin’s thigh, and for a moment they just grind, slow, desperate, like two animals in rut.
“Ready?” Yoongi asks, and Jimin nods again, eyes glassy.
Yoongi lines up, pushes in with a slow, careful thrust, and the stretch is so good Jimin almost sobs with relief. Yoongi bottoms out, groans low in his throat, and stays there for a moment, breathing hard against Jimin’s neck. Then he starts to move—long, deep strokes, fucking Jimin open in the slowest, most deliberate way possible.
Jimin’s legs lock around Yoongi’s waist, dragging him in deeper, and Yoongi braces himself on his elbows, their faces close enough to kiss. They do, often, lips never far from each other's jaws, chins, and throats. The pressure builds, slow and relentless, and every time Jimin gets close, Yoongi backs off, slows down, grinds in circles that do nothing except make Jimin want to scream. So he does.
It goes on forever, or maybe just minutes—time warps when it hurts this good. Jimin’s head is swimming, heat pooling in his belly, muscles clenching every time Yoongi thrusts in deep and drags almost all the way out.
“Tell me,” Yoongi whispers, lips brushing Jimin’s ear.
“I’m close, fuck, please, I-I need…ahhh” Jimin gasps, and this time, instead of stopping, Yoongi speeds up. The rhythm is brutal, perfect, and Jimin feels the entire world narrow to the point where their bodies are joined, every nerve lit up and begging.
“Don’t come,” Yoongi warns, and Jimin obeys—barely—eyes rolling back as he strains at the edge, every stroke a sweet, merciless torment.
Then Yoongi buries himself to the hilt and stops. The pleasure is electric, short-circuiting thought, burning through both of them. Yoongi groans Jimin’s name into the hollow of his throat, body shuddering too. They stay locked together, shaking, breathless, blinded by the stars behind their eyelids—the edge sharper, sweeter than ever.
“Shower?” Yoongi says eventually, voice muffled by Jimin’s shoulder.
“Five more minutes,” Jimin pleads, eyes already drifting shut.
Yoongi relents. He always does. He kisses Jimin’s forehead, then his nose, then his mouth, soft and lingering.
They drift, half-awake and half-dreaming, until the sun sneaks higher.
*~*~*
They migrate to the shower on quiet feet, their cocks still heavy, swinging between their legs—half-aching, half-thrilling—as they pad to the bathroom, sunlight pouring in through a wide window that frames nothing but green woods. No neighbors, just the hush of nature outside and the promise of privacy.
The white marble gleams, shadows and sunlight shifting over the floor. The shower’s a glass box in the corner, already clouded with memory and steam. Yoongi slides open the door, shooting Jimin a look so charged it’s nearly a command.
Jimin follows, caught in the golden spill of daylight. The water comes on hot, pounding down like summer rain, fogging the glass and slicking their skin. Yoongi corners Jimin against the misted wall, pinning him in the sunbeam, wanting him on display for no one but him,hands roaming, mouth trailing from his collarbone to his jaw.
“Gonna be good?” Yoongi asks, voice barely more than a whisper against Jimin’s ear.
Jimin nods, hair dripping, cheeks flushed. “Yes, hyung.”
Yoongi grins, then sinks to his knees, hands splaying Jimin open—palming his cock, rolling his balls, then sliding slick fingers between his cheeks. He works one inside, then two, slow and merciless, thumb rubbing circles that make Jimin tremble, forehead pressed to the glass, breath fogging the window.
“You’re going to kill me,” Jimin pants, voice shredded.
Yoongi flashes a wicked smile, teeth white and sharp. “That’s the idea.”
Jimin’s muscles clench, hips rolling back onto Yoongi’s fingers, cock bobbing in the slice of sunlight. Yoongi curves his fingers, hitting the spot that makes Jimin gasp, working him open, unhurried, drawing whimpers from his lips.
“Please,” Jimin whispers, so soft it might be lost under the pounding water.
“Not yet,” Yoongi says, mouth stretched in a wicked curve. He rises, crowding into Jimin, turning him. They kiss deep and languid.
Yoongi traps his wrists, pins it to the glass with just enough force to remind Jimin who’s orchestrating this round. Jimin gasps, surprised at his own pleasure in being restrained, and Yoongi’s eyes go wide with delight.
Jimin grips the top of the glass, muscles straining as Yoongi edges him higher and higher, just shy of the summit. Every time Jimin gets close—every time his hips jerk, breath stuttering, eyes rolling back—Yoongi pulls off, kneels back, and smiles. Not a mean smile, but a promise. Jimin groans, frustrated, his cock throbbing.
Yoongi comes back up—their tongue sweeping in, tasting the metallic tang of pre-cum and salt.
Yoongi grinds against him, skin slick on skin, cocks rubbing together, water streaming over their bodies. Jimin’s hands finally claw free, raking down Yoongi’s back and leaving bright red trails in his wake.
They stay locked like that, bodies humming, sunlight spilling over them—held on the edge, wanting, and nowhere close to done.
*~*~*
They towel off with lazy, unhurried motions, each using the other as a human towel rack and nipping at water-beaded skin whenever opportunity arises. Yoongi slings on a pair of Jimin’s black sweatpants, Jimin an oversized hoodie and nothing else—both are distinctly commando, which is the point. The kitchen is a magazine spread of cool marble and subtle lighting; the only thing out of place is a scattering of instant ramen packets by the sink.
“Gourmet breakfast?” Yoongi asks, grabbing the loaf of sourdough.
Jimin snorts, but takes the proffered bread and slots it into the high-end toaster, its blue LCD winking to life. He stands in front of the counter, hair wet and cowlicked, watching the coils turn orange. Yoongi sidles up behind him and brackets his hips, chin on Jimin’s shoulder, swaying them both gently side-to-side.
“You know we’re supposed to eat protein,” Jimin says, not moving to break free.
“Plenty of that on the menu later,” Yoongi mumbles, and Jimin laughs, low and unguarded.
They eat at the kitchen island, sipping black coffee and playing footsie under the slab of Carrara marble. Yoongi swipes crumbs off Jimin’s cheek with his thumb, then sucks the finger clean, a gesture so casual that it would be easy to miss the way Jimin’s eyes flicker, pupils dilating.
After breakfast, they migrate to the living room, still a little damp, still humming with unresolved heat. The charcoal sectional is vast, designed for parties neither of them ever throw. Jimin queues up a sitcom, some classic from their trainee days, and flops down, sprawling like a cat in a sunbeam. Yoongi lands beside him, knees tucked up, and pulls a chunky throw over both of them. The TV glows, laugh track echoing in the sleek quiet of the penthouse.
Ten minutes in, Yoongi’s hand disappears beneath the blanket, inching slow as a glacier up Jimin’s thigh. Jimin doesn’t look away from the screen, but his breathing shifts, tiny and sharp. Yoongi palms the bulge over Jimin’s hoodie, stroking in lazy, open-ended patterns. The fabric does little to hide anything; Jimin’s hard in seconds, pushing up and forward like he can’t stand the distance. Yoongi rubs the tip with his thumb, rolling circles through fabric, never quite enough pressure to finish the job.
“Hyung,” Jimin murmurs, keeping his gaze fixed on the TV, but his hand covers Yoongi’s, squeezing hard, then letting go.
Yoongi leans in, breath warm on Jimin’s ear. “You like this show?”
“It’s stupid,” Jimin says, voice tight.
“Not as stupid as this,” Yoongi replies, squeezing him harder, slow and mean.
Yoongi shifts, guiding Jimin to settle between his legs, his own cock rigid and pressed against the curve of Jimin’s back. One arm wraps tight around Jimin’s waist, the other slides beneath the oversized hoodie—straight to bare, heated flesh. Yoongi’s hand finds Jimin’s cock, fingers curling around the shaft with a maddeningly gentle grip. He strokes slow, barely-there touches, thumb circling the slick head, then gliding his palm down to the base and back up in lazy, feather-light passes.
Jimin’s head tips back, mouth falling open, a breathless moan slipping out. His thighs twitch under Yoongi’s touch, hips canting up in search of more friction but only getting more teasing, more denial. Pleasure coils tight and hot in his belly as Yoongi’s strokes grow more languid, his thumb pressing just under the tip, drawing out a choked gasp.
The blanket falls away, the hoodie riding up, exposing Jimin’s abs as they tense and ripple with every shivery pull. His hands clutch at Yoongi’s thighs, knuckles white, desperate to ground himself.
“Keep going and I’m gonna come,” Jimin warns, voice thick with need, shuddering at every stroke, barely holding himself together on the precipice of release.
“Isn’t that the point?” Yoongi teases, but the words have a tremor. He wants it—wants, to see Jimin lose control.
Jimin turns, abruptly, rolling over Yoongi and pinning him to the couch. Yoongi laughs, but it ends in a gasp when Jimin settles between his thighs, mouth at the curve of his neck, tongue finding the flutter of his pulse. Jimin moves lower, kissing down the ridge of Yoongi’s collarbone, across his chest, then lower still.
The sweatpants come off, and Yoongi is hard, flushed, leaking already. Jimin looks up—eyes gone dark, mouth parted—then dips down, tongue trailing a wet stripe from base to tip. Yoongi’s head slams back against the couch; his hands scrabble for purchase on Jimin’s hair, but Jimin bats them away, pinning Yoongi’s wrists to the cushion with unsurprising strength.
Jimin takes Yoongi’s cock into his mouth, slow and unhurried, tongue swirling around the tip before swallowing it deep. He bobs, languid, every movement exaggerated by control. Yoongi’s hips jerk, but Jimin’s grip is relentless. Every time Yoongi gets close—every time his toes curl, every time he mutters, “Fuck, Jimin, fuck, don’t stop”—Jimin pulls back, lips popping off with a slick, obscene sound, and waits until the edge ebbs before resuming.
Yoongi’s whole body is vibrating, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving with effort. Jimin is merciless, dragging it out, torturing him with a combination of suction, tongue, and the faintest scrape of teeth. Yoongi’s legs twitch, thighs tensing, toes curling under the throw.
“Fuck, please,” Yoongi gasps, and that’s new—usually it’s Jimin who breaks first.
Jimin just smirks, wet mouth shining, and returns to his work. One hand wraps around the base, squeezing tight, while the other drags nails up Yoongi’s thigh. He brings Yoongi right to the brink, holds him there, and then stops—completely. Yoongi’s back bows off the couch, a ragged shout lost in the empty apartment.
Jimin climbs up, straddling Yoongi’s hips, pinning him down. “You said all day, hyung,” he says, and Yoongi can only nod, eyes wild.
They lie there, tangled and sticky, both gasping, neither sated. The TV drones on, forgotten. Jimin runs a finger along Yoongi’s jaw, slow and reverent, then bends to kiss him—deep and desperate, all tongue and teeth and hunger.
Yoongi tastes himself, salt and electric, and thinks that maybe this is the best kind of torture.
They don’t move for a long time, letting the aftershocks fade. It’s a stalemate, both wanting, both denied. Yoongi pulls the throw up, draping it over them like a flag. He wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, hands splaying wide, fingers slipping under the hoodie to rest, possessive, on bare skin.
“You’re evil,” Yoongi says, voice fond.
“You started it,” Jimin counters.
They stay like that, held in the gravity of the sectional, hearts beating in time, neither quite ready for the next round. It’s only the first act, and already the lines between victory and surrender are blurring.
*~*~*
A few hours later, they’re in full idol mode, the apartment transformed by careful framing and ring lights into a stage for millions. Jimin mans the phone tripod, fingers flying as he checks angles and adjusts the background. Yoongi paces, fidgeting with his hair, the nerves that never go away even after ten years of this.
“Should we put the plushies on the table?” Jimin asks, holding up a battered BT21 character.
Yoongi considers, then shrugs. “If you want to look like a giant baby, sure.”
“Hyung,” Jimin says, mock-wounded, then perches the plush between them on the low table. He fluffs his hair one last time, licks his lips, and glances at the clock. “We go live in sixty seconds.”
They settle on the couch, knees bumping. Jimin does a countdown with his fingers—three, two, one—and taps “START.”
The screen floods with purple hearts and comments, a rush of language and love that never fails to awe. Yoongi beams, leans forward, and shouts, “Armyyyyyy!” into the lens, while Jimin waves, sweater palms in full glory. Their chemistry is effortless, each riff feeding the other, laughter tumbling over inside jokes and fan prompts. This is only Yoongi’s second live after the group one. The apprehension had gradually ebbed away as he continued to see the fervor with which ARMY loved and welcomed him back after the foolishly exaggerated nonsense he went through last year. ARMY saw it for what it was, when the world tried to kick him while he was down…quite literally, ARMY held him up. They always would.
They read comments aloud, answer questions about their day off (“We rested a lot,” Jimin lies, grin wicked), tease about comeback spoilers, and occasionally roast each other in half-English, half-slapstick Korean.
But beneath the surface, the tension is a live wire. Yoongi keeps his left hand under the table, thumb tracing lazy circles at Jimin’s hip, just out of frame. Jimin’s eyes go glassy at intervals, sentences trailing off before he rallies, flashing his tongue over his lips or glancing sidelong at Yoongi with a look that would scorch vinyl.
Yoongi takes the lead on fanservice, pulling Jimin in for a shoulder hug, which lingers just a beat too long. The live chat explodes—HE’S SHY, WE SEE THAT LOOK, MARRIED COUPLE ENERGY, and without fail, the obligatory, ever present, YOONGI MARRY ME—while Jimin ducks his head, cheeks flaming, then bites back with, “Hyung, you’re so greasy,” in his best Busan whine.
The minutes fly, the audience swelling. At one point, Jimin’s voice drops, almost a growl, as he reads a thirsty fan comment and looks dead into the camera: “You want me to sing a sexy song? Only if you ask nicely.” Yoongi cackles, doubles over, and then, without thinking, rubs Jimin’s thigh under the table in an unmistakably intimate gesture.
Jimin’s reaction is delayed—first, a micro-flinch, then a sly, slow smile. He covers it with a string of fan questions, but anyone watching closely would see the tremor in his hands.
As the live nears its end, they thank ARMY in unison, bows and hearts and a volley of finger hearts. “We love you so much,” Yoongi says, eyes bright. “You’re our everything.”
Jimin adds, “Can’t wait to see you all soon,” but his gaze drifts, hungry, to Yoongi’s mouth.
*~*~*
The second the “LIVE STREAM HAS ENDED” icon flickers out, the air inside the apartment snaps. Jimin’s mouth is on Yoongi’s neck, hands greedy and rough, the playfulness from earlier gone to hunger. They barely make it to the living room floor—Yoongi trips over the edge of the rug and lands on his back, Jimin following, straddling him with wild-eyed intent.
There’s no time for finesse, no need for words. Yoongi yanks Jimin’s hoodie off in one go, palming his ass and grinding their hips together. Jimin ruts against him, biting at the side of Yoongi’s jaw, teeth scraping over stubble and the sharp angle of bone.
“Lube,” Jimin gasps, and Yoongi fumbles in the end table, a squeeze bottle stashed inside weeks ago for this exact emergency. He slicks his fingers, then Jimin’s hole, two knuckles deep before Jimin is even done cursing him for being slow. Yoongi shoves down the sweatpants, cock springing free, and coats himself in a hasty spiral.
Jimin plants his feet, bends forward, and slides down in one long motion, swallowing Yoongi whole, sweat beading down his spine. He’s tight, almost painfully so, but the way he whimpers—low, urgent—tells Yoongi not to stop, never stop. Yoongi rocks up into him, using both hands to anchor Jimin’s hips, controlling the depth and angle with an authority that’s half-dance, half-fight.
Jimin rides him, hard and reckless, moaning with every bounce. The only sounds are the slap of skin, and the shudder of their breath. Yoongi wraps a fist around Jimin’s cock, but Jimin bats it away, wild-eyed.
“No hands,” Jimin rasps. “Make me come like this.”
Yoongi’s whole body tightens. He pumps his hips, slow and punishing, the kind of thrust that makes Jimin’s teeth click together. Yoongi leans back, thumbs digging into Jimin’s waist, watching him unravel. Jimin’s hair is wild, chest heaving, every muscle in his body tensed and straining for release.
Yoongi brings him right to the edge—then stops, squeezing the base of his own cock, letting Jimin grind helplessly against him.
Jimin howls, wordless, sweat dripping off his chin. “Please, fuck, please, please—”
Yoongi relents, thrusting up with a brutal rhythm, and Jimin shudders apart, cock untouched, ropes of cum painting Yoongi’s torso and the floor. Yoongi’s orgasm hovers, a raw, white heat, but he clamps down, refusing himself the finish, even as his cock spasms inside Jimin.
They collapse together, a heap of bodies and trembling limbs. Jimin’s face is pressed to the hardwood, one cheek streaked with tears and sweat, his thighs shaking with aftershocks. Yoongi slides out slow, then rolls Jimin over on his side, kissing him so hard their teeth click.
But it’s not over. Jimin’s still hungry, eyes dark and furious with need. He claws at Yoongi, drags him up by the hair, and flips them so Yoongi is on top, pinning Jimin’s wrists above his head.
Yoongi slides back in, still slick, and fucks Jimin into the floor. It’s relentless—no build, just raw need, the kind of fucking that bruises. The slap of skin echoes, louder than before, and the ache in Jimin’s arms and ass only makes it better. Yoongi loses himself, thrusting so deep Jimin sees stars, every nerve ending on fire.
Jimin wraps his legs around Yoongi’s waist, heels digging in, pulling him closer with every thrust. Yoongi bites at Jimin’s jaw, his neck, the hollow of his collarbone, leaving a constellation of marks. Jimin arches up, meeting him stroke for stroke, a silent dare: finish me, break me, win.
Yoongi’s arms are shaking, the sweat on his back slicking them both to the floor, but he refuses to let go. He fucks Jimin through another orgasm—this time, Jimin sobbing his name, voice gone hoarse. Yoongi can’t hold out anymore; he squeezes the base of his cock one last time, then lets the dry orgasm hit, a convulsion that leaves him gasping and nearly blind.
For a long minute, neither of them moves. Jimin’s hands are still pinned, wrists red from Yoongi’s grip, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he threads their fingers together, anchoring Yoongi in place.
Yoongi finally releases Jimin’s hands, but stays, face buried in Jimin’s neck, the steady thump of Jimin’s heart the only thing holding him together.
“Hyung,” Jimin breathes, voice barely a whisper, “we’re gonna die at this rate.”
Yoongi laughs, his shoulders shaking, raw. “At least we’ll go together.”
They lie there, sweat drying on their skin, the floor sticky and shining in the afternoon sun. Yoongi presses a kiss to Jimin’s shoulder, then another, softer, just below his ear.
Jimin rolls his head, eyes glazed. “Still not done.”
Yoongi grins, hair stuck to his forehead, and bites Jimin’s earlobe. “Never.”
They pick themselves up, legs trembling, and stumble towards the bedroom, leaking cum and laughter and everything they can’t say out loud.
The city outside goes on, oblivious. In here, it’s just the two of them, all friction and fever and the promise of more.
*~*~*
They barely make it to the bed, Jimin tripping on a clump of discarded sheets, Yoongi laughing until Jimin’s weight drives the air out of him. The room is flooded with afternoon light, sheets twisted and pillows everywhere—a crime scene of pleasure, evidence in every rumpled corner.
Yoongi flops onto his back, arms flung wide, chest shining with sweat. Jimin crawls up from the foot of the bed, a wild animal stalking his prey, eyes blazing. He pins Yoongi’s shoulders, mouth hot and open on Yoongi’s, kissing him until the world tilts.
“Ready?” Jimin whispers, and it’s both a question and a challenge.
“Always,” Yoongi shoots back, but his voice wavers, already undone by the look on Jimin’s face.
Jimin straddles Yoongi’s hips, thighs squeezing tight. He lines them up and sinks down, slow and deep, the fit so perfect Yoongi’s breath stops in his throat. For a second, everything freezes—then Jimin moves, hips rolling in a rhythm that is all power and no mercy.
Yoongi moans, low and guttural, hands gripping Jimin’s waist so hard there will be bruises tomorrow. Jimin grinds, changing angle, chasing the spot that makes Yoongi see stars. Yoongi’s cock is so hard it hurts, every nerve ending alive and screaming.
They move together, tempo accelerating, the slap of flesh and desperate moans filling the room. Jimin throws his head back, jaw clenched, sweat running in rivulets down his neck and chest. He rides Yoongi like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth, pace ferocious and unsparing.
Yoongi can’t look away—he’s transfixed by the play of muscle, the beauty of Jimin’s body arching above him, the way pleasure and pain blur together on his face. He reaches up, thumbs tracing Jimin’s nipples, fingers digging crescents into his ribs, into his song etched into Jimin’s skin.
Jimin’s hands find Yoongi’s, pinning them to the bed above his head, taking everything and giving nothing but sensation. The edge comes fast—too fast—and Jimin feels it, biting his lip, determined to drag Yoongi with him.
“Hyung,” Jimin moans, voice trembling, “come for me. Please, give it to me.”
Yoongi’s answer is a shout, hips bucking, body thrumming to the breaking point. Jimin pistons faster, vision going black around the edges, every thrust a punch of pure sensation.
They shatter together—Jimin’s orgasm ripping through him, Yoongi’s chasing a heartbeat later. Jimin’s cum stripes Yoongi’s chest for a second time this afternoon, hot and sticky, while Yoongi fills him so deep it feels endless. Every muscle locks, then melts, and they collapse into each other, shaking with the aftershocks.
Jimin slumps onto Yoongi, face buried in his neck, panting like he’s run a marathon. Yoongi wraps his arms around Jimin’s back, holding on for dear life, palms soothing the trembling.
They don’t move for a long time, content to float in the bright, echoing quiet. Yoongi runs fingers through Jimin’s damp hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Jimin sighs, heavy and sated, and rolls to the side, dragging Yoongi with him so they’re nose to nose, legs tangled.
Yoongi smiles, eyes glassy with pleasure. “You win,” he says, voice hoarse.
Jimin grins, lazy and wrecked. “No, hyung. We both did.”
They lie there, shaking and breathless, the world outside forgotten, nothing left but the two of them, locked together at the very edge of everything.
*~*~*
The room is silent but for the soft metronome of their breaths. The sun has concluded its retreat, dragging lazy shadows across the foot of the bed, painting the sheets in muted gold. Jimin lies curled into the crook of Yoongi’s arm, sweat-damp and utterly still, as if afraid any movement might shatter the peace that’s settled between them.
For a long time, neither speaks. There’s no need. Hands wander, slow and aimless—Jimin’s fingers drifting over Yoongi’s collarbone, Yoongi’s palm tracing the curve of Jimin’s waist. Every touch is a question answered, a promise kept.
Jimin turns his face, nuzzles into the warm space below Yoongi’s jaw, and just breathes him in.
Yoongi, eyes closed, smiles softly. “What are you thinking about?” he murmurs, voice slurred with exhaustion and something deeper.
Jimin hesitates, then laughs—small, embarrassed. “You,” he admits. “How you always make me feel like this.”
“Like what?”
Jimin shifts, props himself up on one elbow, and studies Yoongi’s face—the curve of his cheekbone, the way his lashes lie against flushed skin, the small cut on his bottom lip where Jimin bit him a little too hard.
“Safe,” Jimin says, voice steady now.
Yoongi opens his eyes, and the look in them nearly undoes Jimin all over again. “You are,” Yoongi says, simple as the sunrise.
Jimin swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He reaches up, threads his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, still damp with sweat. He leans in, forehead pressed to Yoongi’s, their noses brushing, and in that moment the world outside the bed ceases to matter.
“I think I have feelings for you, like-like real feelings.” Jimin whispers, as if afraid to speak it too loud.
Yoongi’s eyes go wide, a universe of emotion flooding his face. He cups Jimin’s cheek, thumb stroking gentle circles, and pulls him close.
“I’ve had feelings for you for a long time,” Yoongi replies, and the words fit so perfectly that Jimin’s heart trips in his chest.
They kiss—slow, deep, lingering. It’s not a beginning or an end, just the perfect middle, two lives braided together by the day’s heat and the night to come. There’s no more need to edge, to tease, to test the limits of what their bodies or hearts can take.
They just are, together, and that’s everything.