“Jungkook,” Jimin sighs, waking Jungkook from his beauty sleep, “is it maybe possible that you don’t wake me up every morning with your dick poking into my ass?”
Jungkook raises his head muzzily, peering down at Jimin’s upturned face over his shoulder. They’re spooning, like they do every night before falling asleep in the colder months. Perks of having a roommate always so desperate for cuddles that it’s almost pitiful.
“Wassat?” he slurs. The days are edging close enough to the end of the year that the morning air has a chilly nip to it, and Jungkook lets his head drop back down onto the pillow, pulling Jimin’s body closer and snuggling into it. He revels at the heat of Jimin’s back against his chest, tugging the blanket closer around them both with his free hand.
“Stop that,” Jimin whines, voice as high-pitched and ridiculously sweet as always. Jungkook knows it’s important to BTS—if Jimin’s voice weren’t pitched the way it is, half the high notes in their songs wouldn’t exist—but it doesn’t stop him from teasing him relentlessly about it. “Your boner is disembowelling my ass.”
“Huh. Deal with it.” Jungkook closes his eyes again, nestling his hips nicely against Jimin’s butt. They got over the gayness of cuddling each other to sleep every night a year or so after their debut. Jungkook may be straight as a ruler and as far from batting for the same team as one can get, but falling asleep while spooning Jimin is like falling asleep while holding a soft, warm, gently breathing, sweet-smelling marshmallow, and Jungkook isn’t giving that up for anything. Hey, if Jimin’s willing—and he always is—Jungkook’s willing. “You wake up every morning to it anyway.”
“Let me guess. You were dreaming about tits.”
“Of course I was dreaming about tits,” Jungkook sighs, voice becoming dreamy. “I’m always dreaming about tits.”
“That is a misogynistic, male chauvinist pig thing to say which flagrantly and vulgarly objectifies women, and I’m gonna have to ask you to stop.”
“You’d be dreaming about tits too if you weren’t gay.”
“I’m not gay!” Jimin squeals indignantly, voice pitching up even further, which only serves to prove his point.
“Jimin. Please. Practically every time we go out a man stops you and either asks you for your number or gives you his. There are more articles than I can count about how you’re one of the most popular idols in South Korea with gay men. Ever heard about the gaydar?”
“Of course! I’m not stupid!”
“You set millions of gaydars across the nation off every time you smile with those goddamn twinkly eyes, Park Jimin. Don’t even try to lie.”
“So maybe you could be a bit grateful,” Jimin wheedles in his begging voice, artfully trying to turn the conversation around to his advantage, “that you’re holding such an envied position as spooner of Park Jimin, the one and only, and get your boner out from between my ass cheeks?”
“I’m cold. I’m only moving if you become the big spoon.”
“But I hate being the big spoon,” Jimin says, trailing off into a whine again. “You’re so much bigger than me. You make me feel like a backpack.”
“Not my fault you’re so short.”
Jimin huffs, the air deflating out of his ribcage. “If you’re gonna insult me, at least call me hyung.”
“We don’t see eye-to-eye with that statement…oh, right, because you aren’t on my eye level.”
Jimin audibly rolls his eyes while Jungkook cackles, mentally congratulating himself for his own punniness.
“If you don’t do something, Jeon Jungkook, I will leave this cuddle and let you and your twiggy dick freeze over.”
Jungkook’s laughter dies out. “Twiggy dick? What twiggy dick?”
“It’s short and thin and pokes me uncomfortably. Sounds like a twig, right?”
“This isn’t twiggy.” Jungkook humps Jimin’s ass for emphasis.
“Ew, ew, ew!” Jimin shrieks, voice instantly several decibels above that of a plane taking off, turning around and beating Jungkook’s chest. “What are you, a dog in heat? Stop humping me!”
“You two,” a fearsome Yoongi bellow reverberates through the dorm, “if you don’t fucking shut up this minute and stop being so gay, I will burn this goddamn house down.”
Namjoon’s voice floats up the stairs, sensible and rational. “Yoongi, what did I say about not threatening other members?”
“They’re being gay! They disrupted my beauty sleep!”
“Beauty?” a curious voice which sounds like Taehyung’s drifts up next. “What beauty?”
“Everyone calm down and go to sleep,” Seokjin calls through the house, voice raised.
“Jungkook humped me,” Jimin wails, now pressed against the wall on the other side of the room and pointing a quivering finger at Jungkook, whom is now laying in the puddle of Jimin’s body heat on the bed and trying to absorb it.
“You two, what did I say about being gay?” Namjoon’s voice says, sounding tired. “All the spooning is borderline enough. But if you guys are gonna start humping, you either notify me so I can take measures to hide it from the media and the fans, or you stop, because we’ve went four years without a single scandal and won a Daesang and a Billboard Award, and I’ll be damned if we lose our reputation because the maknae can’t keep it in his pants.”
“It was for emphasis, hyung, ” Jungkook protests loudly.
“Oh, you call him hyung!” Jimin shrills. “With me it’s all soft words and compliments when you wanna get a cuddle in, but the next morning it’s a boner up the ass and insults about my height!”
“I am lighting this match,” Yoongi yells, bloodlust tinging his words.
“Could you maybe not vent so loudly and homosexually?” Seokjin puts in, slightly irritated now. “Do you remember what happened with EXO and the bugged hotel room?”
“What the bejeezus is going on?” Hoseok calls sleepily.
“I don’t know, hyung,” Taehyung replies truthfully. “Everyone’s shouting and they woke me up, so I figured I’d just lie awake until it died down.”
“Okay,” Namjoon says, audibly trying to restore calm. “Everyone’s gonna be quiet now, and Yoongi can blow out his match, and we can all go back to sleep.”
Everyone falls silent obediently—no one crosses the leader. Outside the dorm, the birds in the trees cautiously begin to sing again, wary of being interrupted. The comfortable background sounds of Seoul fill the lull: distant sounds of traffic and the far-off ringing of a bell as a hawker advertises his wares.
“His dick is poking out of his pants,” Jimin screams, shattering it.
Sure enough, like Jungkook expected, Jimin comes crawling back into his arms that night, whimpering about the cold and how his bed feels too small without someone in it. Jungkook overlooks how blatantly gay that sounds and instead chooses to store it in his Things to Tease Park Jimin About When We next Argue bank. He lets Jimin snuggle his way into the curve of his body. If it’s about fifteen degrees thanks to the heater system Namjoon somehow managed to break and a heater on legs is trying to persuade Jungkook to cuddle with him, who could refuse, right?
“Jimin,” Jungkook says when he’s been holding his friend for a while, his legs tangled comfortably between Jimin’s, thighs sandwiched together and keeping each other warm— like symbiosis, a faint part of his brain which still remembers 7th-grade science echoes faintly—“why do you like cuddling so much? Like, honestly?”
Jimin remains silent, and for a minute Jungkook thinks that he’s already asleep or he’s just flat-out ignoring him. And then he answers, “I don’t know, really. I just like being held by someone bigger than me. Preferably someone with muscles. Extra points if they’re warm. You’re convenient.”
“Thank you for making me sound like an XXL hot water bottle which hits the gym.”
“You’re welcome. That’s basically what you are to me, anyway.”
“Jimin…you ever thought about being gay?”
Jimin slowly swivels his head to look at him, cracking one eye open blearily. “What did you just say, Jeon?”
“I said, you ever thought about liking men?”
Jimin stiffens. Then he begins untangling Jungkook’s limbs from his, saying lowly, “I swear, if this is the time you’re going to ambush me with some hidden feelings—”
“No, no,” Jungkook says hurriedly, pulling him back. Jimin struggles briefly, but up against Jungkook, it’s like a kitten struggling to shift an elephant, and he eventually gives up. He relaxes, pliant, into Jungkook’s touch. “I mean, like. I’m not teasing this time. You’re kinda girly. You walk with your hips swaying sometimes. You cover your mouth when you laugh. Your voice is so goddamn high-pitched that sometimes I’m convinced it can shatter glass.”
“No, no, hear me out. And you like being…little. Feeling safe.” Jungkook hesitates. He isn’t good with words, but he’s determined to get this right—he doesn’t want to fuck up on such a touchy subject, particularly in conservative Korea. “I’m serious, you know. All homo jokes aside, if you like guys, I would fully support you.”
Jimin is suddenly powerfully reminded of why Jungkook is one of his best friends. Because, bumbling as he is, like a puppy blundering through a house of china which keeps knocking things over with its tail, at the end of the day he’s just trying to do things right.
“Nah,” he says at last. “I’m not gay, Kook. I appreciate the support, though. You should go host a Pride parade one of these days.”
Jungkook snorts ungracefully. Even so, if Jimin recorded it, looped it, and put it on V Live, at least a million fans would probably tune in to listen to the air being forcefully expelled from the maknae’s nostrils. Jungkook is so popular with ARMYs that sometimes Jimin wonders whether selective blindness is a thing.
“Whatever, hyung,” he says. Hyung. He only says hyung when he’s feeling affectionate. “Just thinking that it might be a possibility that one day it won’t be my boner poking into your ass. Could be the other way round.”
“I never get morning wood,” Jimin shrills indignantly over the sound of Jungkook’s laughter. “Go the fuck to sleep, Jeon Jungkook.”
“Jungkook,” Jimin grumbles the next morning, door shut now thanks to the new rule Namjoon invoked his leadership powers to instigate, citing world peace and the prevention of Yoongi-related crimes of arson—“you ever thought of doing something to get rid of these uncomfortable boner alarm clocks?”
“Hnghh?” Jimin waits patiently for the complex process of Jungkook waking up to be over. “Whut?”
Jimin repeats his statement.
Jungkook scratches the back of his head. “I dunno. Like what? Like jerking off?”
“No,” Jimin persists. “Like getting someone else to resolve the issue for you.”
Jungkook blinks stupidly at him for several seconds. Jimin resists the powerful urge to slap him to wake him up. “What, like recruit someone else to get my morning wood transferred to?” he comes up with eventually. Jimin could cry at how idiotic the man he wakes up next to every morning is.
“No,” Jimin sighs. “Take care of it like…get rid of it. For you.”
Jungkook finally cops on, understanding dawning on his face. “Jiminnie,” he says, “I’m pretty sure sneaking a girl in here is a one-way instant ticket to scandal.”
“I wasn’t talking about a girl,” Jimin says impatiently.
Jungkook screws up his face in effort as he tries to understand.
Jimin sighs. “Okay. This is my thought process. You can’t date a girl, obviously. Obviously you need to stick your dick in something pronto, or you wouldn’t be getting boners. But…half the nation already ships Jikook.”
Jungkook snorts. “What does our gay ship have to do with this?”
“What I mean is…ARMYs already think we’re gay for each other.”
“So why not?”
“Why not what?”
Jimin sighs again.
“Why not,” he says patiently, “let me help you get over this?”
Jungkook’s brow furrows.
“…what?” he asks finally.
Jimin sighs heavily. “I’m gonna have to just come out and say this, have I?” He draws himself up as best as he can while sitting up in bed. “Do you, Jeon Jungkook, want me, Park Jimin, to blow you and get rid of your boners?”
“What?” Jungkook squeaks sharply.
“Why do people get boners?” Jimin asks rhetorically. “‘Cos of pent-up sexual frustration. How do you get rid of pent-up sexual frustration? Having sex.”
“I don’t wanna have sex with you! I thought you were just screaming about me humping your ass twenty-four hours ago!”
“We’re not having sex,” Jimin says, quite annoyed. “I’m just putting my mouth on your dick until you come and I don’t have to wake up inhumanly early every morning anymore. That’s really it.”
This is all happening too fast for Jungkook’s poor caveman brain to process. Jimin watches it wheeze and sputter and smoke from the strain of dealing with this overload of information. “I don’t want you to blow me!”
“You sure? Heard that blowjobs feel really good.”
“Jimin—why are you offering this?”
Jimin shrugs. “It really isn’t a big deal. Getting woken up every morning bothers me more, seriously.”
“But that’s so weird,” Jungkook moans.
“Who cares? We don’t have to tell anyone. It can just be between the two of us.”
“That makes it even weirder!”
“Jungkook,” Jimin begins, punctuating it with another sigh, “just let me do this. I’m offering, okay? If you don’t like it you can just tell me to stop at any time.”
“I just need a yes from you.”
Jungkook hesitates. He has heard that blowjobs feel really good. And, gosh, he’s seen his fair share of POV blowjob porn videos, and the tight ring of lips around a cock looks like it feels like heaven.
“Sure,” Jungkook says uncertainly, praying that he won’t regret this although the majority of him knows that he probably will. “Knock yourself out.”
Jungkook is dying.
This is everything he was afraid of. He would’ve been okay with okay. He would’ve been alright with mediocre. He was expecting it, really, because this is Jimin’s first time sucking dick, right? But it’s even worse than he feared.
Jimin is fucking amazing at blowjobs, and he can’t deal with it.
He moans illegibly into his pillow, spreading his already splayed legs further to make space for Jimin’s bobbing head. The first time Jimin swallowed around him, he grabbed his pillow from under his head and pretended to hug it, but he really needed something to muffle his sounds in and block his view of Jimin going down on him. He tried looking once, but the image of his dick disappearing into his best friend’s mouth, down his throat, made him feel too many things he couldn’t even begin to sort out. So he let the pillow solve the problem for him.
Jimin, surprisingly, didn’t make jokes or tease when he pulled down Jungkook’s sweats and boxers. He’s been weirdly quiet throughout this whole thing. Although of course—Jungkook giggles deliriously as it hits him. Of course Jimin’s been quiet, because his mouth is stuffed full. Of Jungkook’s dick.
When Jimin licked the tip, the first bout of agitated pleasure cracked through him, and he knew he was in trouble. Jimin took it all the way down until his nose was touching Jungkook’s belly as if he has less of a gag reflex than Yoongi has singing ability, and Jungkook knew he was screwed. He reached up and tugged at Jungkook’s balls as if it it meant nothing at all that they were bros calmly engaging in sordid sexual activity, and Jungkook couldn’t stop a startled groan of pleasure from spilling out, and Jungkook knew he was fucked.
He digs his own nails into his palms now as Jimin works steadily, soft tongue laving up the underside as Jungkook’s length slides in and out his throat. He didn’t know blowjobs sounded so wet, Jimin’s spit coating his length and running over the seam between his balls, and it would be gross if it didn’t feel like he’s going to spontaneously combust. He didn’t know a lot of things about blowjobs, namely that his first one would be given to him by his best friend and it’d be so good that he never wants it to end.
But Jimin knows how to use those cheeks and tongue, goddamn it, and Jungkook can sense his orgasm bearing down on him with terrifying speed. He makes an ungraceful squawk and thumps the pillow weakly, trying to catch Jimin’s attention. But the beautiful wet warmth surrounding and constricting agonizingly tight around his cock doesn’t pause or notice.
“Jimin,” he says, and he’s taken aback by how much it sounds like a moan. He didn’t know his voice could sound like that, low and husky and wrecked, and it embarrasses him. “Gonna c-come.”
Jimin swallows hard around Jungkook, hand still jerking the base of his cock.
And everything happens at once. Jungkook feels himself tip over the brink and lets out a loud, wanton whimper, unable to make any other sound, to warn Jimin. Jimin pulls off in startlement. Savage pleasure seizes him and pulses in clenching bursts of heat between his legs, and when the ringing in his ears has abated—his ears actually started ringing, what the fuck—he lifts the pillow cautiously. Jimin is lying between his legs with his eyes closed, hand still wrapped around the base of Jungkook’s softening cock, head raised off the bed. There are spurts of sticky white on Jungkook’s belly where his cock flopped against when Jimin released him in panic, but Jungkook’s come is in Jimin’s eyelashes too, a long, thin streak splashed across his lips and little drops caught in his lashes and gumming them together. Jungkook stares in horror.
“Oh, God—Jimin,” he whispers in horror. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Jimin, eyes still shut, being very, very careful not to get any of the white liquid lashed like cream across his lips into his mouth, says in a pained voice, “Will you please get me a tissue?”
“Of—of course.” Jungkook reaches over to his bedside table and plucks tissue from the box by his bed. He hands it to Jimin. Jimin delicately, carefully wipes the come off his face.
“Jimin,” he begins, “are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Jimin lowers the tissue and opens his eyes, blinking to clear his eyelashes of any residual come. He pushes himself up, getting off Jungkook’s bed and walking calmly out the door. “I’m fine.”
Jungkook slumps against his headboard.
What the hell just happened?
Jimin mulls over what he’s learned.
The real truth, the truth Jimin’s conscience is only bothering to half-hide from him, is that he’s been interested in men ever since he can remember. He’s always liked being engulfed by someone bigger, always liked the warm reassurance of being small and cared for. And when Jungkook willingly cuddled with him every night, he thought…he doesn’t know.
He asked Jungkook whether he could blow him without really expecting a ‘yes’. He was probably more taken aback than Jungkook when he agreed. But he went at it anyway, determined to resolve his odd fixation with flat, muscled chests and broad shoulders.
It wasn’t stellar. Contrary to what porn makes you think, there’s nothing particularly arousing about having a dick shoved down your throat, and, worse, having to willingly keep shoving it down your throat, but he’s learned a lot of things. First of all, if you panic too much about keeping your teeth covered, your lips aren’t gonna be tight enough. Second, if you swallow around a dick, it throbs and jerks, which scared Jimin so much he nearly bit it off. Third, balls change color…? Jimin has his own pair, and he could’ve looked down wherever he liked when he was jerking off or fingering himself, but he can’t for the life of him fathom why blood seems to slowly flush in and out of them when he’s blowing the dick they’re attached to.
But kaleidoscopic balls aside, the fourth thing, the thing only Jimin learned, is that he kind of liked seeing Jungkook come. The stupid pillow he was using to cover his face and muffle his pleasured noises (Jimin’s not stupid—he knows his friend well) slipped, and Jimin could see his face clearly. The utterly blissed-out expression on his face filled him with a strange, triumphant sense of achievement, like going up on stage to receive an award. Jimin watched Jungkook’s cock jerk and spurt come, listened to his half-stifled, broken moans, felt the wet splash of his friend’s come on his face when he pulled off too late, and…
He doesn’t want to admit it. But he liked looking at the whole display of ecstasy. He liked knowing that he’d done that to Jungkook, that he’d taken someone apart so thoroughly like that. It was pretty damn hot, watching Jungkook fall apart and lose control and jizz all over himself like a filthy little slut, and the only reason Jimin walked out of there so fast was to hide his raging boner.
Jimin looks down at said boner. He can’t just walk around like that. This is the 21st century and #freethenipple is a thing and all that, but he’s not Jeon fucking Jungkook. He has class.
He sneaks into the bathroom, shutting the door. His towel isn’t in here, but he can just borrow Yoongi’s—no one has to know, and Jimin won’t get murdered if he’s careful to hang it the same way he found it. He shucks off his clothes and switches on the water, sighing in relief at the warm liquid spraying over his shoulders. He’s pretty good at keeping quiet (Taehyung isn’t—every time Taehyung announces that he’s taking a shower, Jimin instinctively reaches for his noise-cancelling headphones) but the masking noise of the shower is always a good extra precaution.
He sags against the wall, wrapping his hand around his aching cock. God, he’s hard. Jungkook can be really fucking sexy when he wants to. Jimin thinks of the Coming of Age ceremony dance they had to do, the move they did where Jungkook spread his legs wide and thrust his hips forward with his hand curled between his legs in a loose fist. The suggestiveness of the move is hard to deny, and Jimin is still convinced that ‘coming of age’ is a play on words. Jungkook is a man who knows what his hips can do and knows exactly how to use them.
He thinks of the throbbing heat of Jungkook’s cock in his mouth as he begins pumping himself, the strangled swear words which drifted out to him even through the insufficient barrier of the pillow. More than anything, Jimin loves how easily Jungkook fell apart under his mouth, his hands. Jimin thinks he could fuel a hundred fantasies on how easily Jungkook melted the moment he touched his lips to the head of his dick.
He allows himself to moan, just slightly. Just a tiny one. His ass aches to be filled, but he hasn’t got his lube here and no way is he going to try and finger himself with spit alone, not after that One Desperate Night we don’t talk about which Jimin couldn’t walk properly for a day after. So he grits his teeth and thinks about the thickness of Jungkook’s legs instead, how Jungkook let him, probably didn’t even notice, when Jimin grabbed onto his milky, smooth, muscular thighs and squeezed. Jimin wishes he could’ve left a mark. He would’ve loved to bite down on Jungkook’s skin, on his inner thighs or his belly or maybe, maybe even his neck, suck until Jungkook bruised black and blue and purple, because he knows Jungkook bruises as easily as fruit. And then he would’ve licked until he could see his own spit shining on Jungkook’s marked skin, until the taste of his best friend on his tongue was embedded too deep to shift…
He gasps, feeling his body tense up. He’s close. Already?
Jungkook’s got him so worked up, as wound and taut as a tense violin string waiting to be played. Jimin quickly throws aside the label maybe kind of interested in men and changes it to most definitely interested in Jeon Jungkook and his motherfucking thighs without issue. He’s a man. He’s not afraid to face himself.
His mind gallops wildly, given free rein. He wants Jungkook inside him. He wants Jungkook pinning him to a mattress and pounding into him. He wants Jungkook marking him up, sucking dominance into his skin, making him moan and whimper and fucking scream—
And Jimin comes, body locking up as white flies in sticky strings out of his cock. He closes his eyes and tips his head against the cool tiles of the wall, letting out a long, low moan. Pleasure throbs slowly and languidly through his dick as it dribbles feebly, the last few drops leaking out of the tip and dripping off his balls onto the bathroom floor, where it’s washed away by the shower water swirling down the drain.
He takes a deep breath when the wonderful clenches have left his body and opens his eyes. It’s clear that he wants Jeon Jungkook. Jimin is a determined man. When he knows what he wants, only hell can stand between him and that goal. (And maybe not even hell, because with the things he’s stuck up his ass before, hell is most probably his final destination anyway.)
And by God, he’s going to get Jungkook inside him if it’s the last thing he does.
The next time Jimin reaches for his dick, Jungkook only protests a little before giving in.
“Sit up against the headboard,” Jimin tells him, and catches the compulsive twitch of his fingers towards the concealing pillow. “And don’t cover your face. I wanna see you.”
The statement, the blunt straightforwardness of it, makes Jungkook blush for some reason. Jimin might be small, but Jungkook often forgets how direct and commanding he can be. “Why?” he mumbles, doing as he’s told and sulkily tucking his hands away from the cushion.
Jimin shrugs. “You look funny when you blow your load,” he says with a cheeky grin, and Jungkook only manages a weak “yah” before Jimin’s pulling his pants off his legs again.
This time Jimin tries something different: he keeps Jungkook’s cock deep in his throat and just swallows around him, from tight to tighter and from tighter to tight, and then uses his tongue to stroke along the underside and stir up friction. Jungkook becomes quite sure that he’s gone delirious, hands fisted in Jimin’s hair because his fingers itch for something to close around and Jimin lets him yank. Jimin hums deep in his throat, as low as he can manage from the sounds of it, and the vibrations are what pushes Jungkook over the edge: he clenches his fists harshly in Jimin’s hair and screws his eyes shut and comes, gasping at the pleasure as he empties himself down Jimin’s throat. Jimin swallows it all contentedly, throat closing around his oversensitive dick, and Jungkook is so taken aback that he pants, “Filthy.”
“Only for you,” Jimin says, and Jungkook flushes when he sees the darkly suggestive look on his face. He doesn’t know whether Jimin’s being serious or not, and it makes him feel nervous, uneasy, something lurching in his stomach like he’s falling off a cliff.
Every time Jimin shows him affection, which is usually often but now seems to be a bit too frequent even by his standards, he always makes it dirty. One time he hugged Jungkook from the back when the other members weren’t looking, then slid his hands up under his shirt and pinched his nipples, making Jungkook moan in surprised pleasure. Another time he was standing behind Jungkook in line and waiting for one of their concerts to start, and he casually slid his hand into the back pocket of Jungkook’s pants and groped his ass.
He knows it should be making him feel uncomfortable, that he should be telling Jimin to stop, but he likes it. He’s a little hooked on the thrill of never knowing what Jimin’s going to do next, when he’s going to do it, how daring and how public it’ll be, and that addiction is enough to keep his mouth shut.
He knows he should’ve said something when nighttime rolls around a week later and Jimin sits up in bed, watching him put his pajamas on. “Jungkook,” he says slowly, “you know I expect some kind of reciprocation back, right?”
Jungkook freezes and turns to look at him, satin pajama shirt half-buttoned up his chest. The view of his sternum is quite literally one millions of fangirls would pay for, and Jungkook doesn’t miss the way Jimin’s eyes slide slowly and languidly over the exposed skin in appreciation.
“Like what?” he asks cautiously.
“Liiiiike,” Jimin drawls slowly, drawing the syllable out, “I dunno, maybe a blowjob back or something.”
And Jungkook is not ready to deal with that, with the fact that at some point in the near future, he might quite possibly have to blow a man. He might quite possibly have to put a dick, a male sex organ, a male one, into his—also male—mouth.
But then he thinks about it. It’s pretty unfair, isn’t it? Jimin has been blowing him every day, sometimes twice a day—once in the morning and once at night—and each experience has only been more stellar than the last as he explores what Jungkook likes and doesn’t like, his quickest turn-ons, the fastest ways to wrap him around his finger. Jimin deserves something in return.
Jimin always seems enthusiastic to blow him, eager, even. Sometimes Jungkook avoids mentioning it because he doesn’t want to make Jimin uncomfortable, and Jimin reminds him. They’re no longer operating behind the pretense of getting rid of Jungkook’s morning wood, because Jungkook’s boners stopped popping up a few days ago when his body decided it was satiated enough. Jungkook can’t even begin to understand Jimin’s motives for blowing him, and he doesn’t like to think about them, because doing so makes his head hurt and it never gets him anywhere.
“Of course,” Jungkook says, wondering how the hell he’s going to bring himself to blow Jimin.
Jimin smiles. It hits Jungkook in the face like a sack of sunshine. “Okay,” he says, and he turns back around, humming a little tune as he begins his nightly regimen: the ritual of applying various creams and moisturizers to his face “to keep my complexion healthy and glowing”. Maybe the reason you have these is because you don’t follow my regime, Jimin says every time Jungkook makes fun of him, poking the faint acne outbreaks which never seem to subside no matter how hard Jungkook scrubs his face clean in the mornings. Jungkook always swats him away.
An idiotic wave of bravado swamps Jungkook suddenly. “Why,” he begins bravely, “why don’t we do it now?”
Jimin seems startled, pausing in the act of uncapping a little tube of white lotion. “What, now?”
”Yeah.” Jungkook gets on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He hopes Jimin doesn’t notice that he’s shaking from nervousness that he won’t be good enough, that Jimin will get disgusted at his terrible abilities and just push him off. Jungkook feels ridiculous. Jimin is his friend, albeit one which blows him every day and makes him lose his mind hundreds of times in the span of fifteen minutes. He shouldn’t have to be afraid of disappointing him. “N-now.”
“But…” Jimin looks down at his crotch. “I, um…no offense, Jungkook, but I’m not really…suitably worked up right about now.”
Jungkook blinks at him. And then he pulls Jimin to him and bravely tries to kiss him.
Jimin’s tube of lotion clatters to the floor. Jungkook misses and smears his mouth across Jimin’s soft cheek. Jimin winces in pain as his nose smashes into Jungkook’s cheekbone. “Ow—”
“I’m sorry,” Jungkook breathes, pulling back a little and cupping Jimin’s face in subtly trembling hands. Jimin looks at him, all puffy cheeks and impossibly plump pink lips and wide eyes. “I’m sorry, I—would it help if I kissed you?”
They haven’t explored this. This is foreign territory. Kissing means intimacy, means trust, means the whole neatly packaged-with-a-pink-ribbon parcel of romance and caring and sappiness, but Jungkook doesn’t care. He’s going to avenge all the mind-blowing (excuse the pun) blowjobs Jimin’s given him, and he’s going to avenge them as well as he fucking can.
Jimin searches his eyes, plump lips parting slightly. Jungkook has always liked Jimin more without makeup, liked how he looks softer and less severe and the little imperfections of his skin are visible. He looks too marble-cut under the harsh glare of stage lights. But freshly-showered after a long day, monolids and puffy face and snub nose bared in all their glory, only wearing a bathrobe with half his chest carelessly showing, hair washed and unstyled and flopping over his eyes—he looks like the Jimin Jungkook knows. Like a Jimin which could be just his.
“It…probably would,” Jimin says carefully, voice soft and high and hesitant.
Jungkook’s stomach lurches in unreasonable excitement and anticipation. This is just your friend, he tells himself. You’re kissing him to get him hard so you can blow him and repay your debt. But this doesn’t feel like something as simple and black-and-white as that. This feels like Jungkook nervously facing the prospect of kissing someone for the first time, someone new, holding his face in his hands and desperately trying not to break eye contact even though his stomach is a squirming mass of snakes because he read somewhere that that’s impolite.
Jungkook tilts his head sideways and slots his lips against Jimin’s, kissing him.
And—and holy fucking shit. How are Jimin’s lips so soft? How can anything be that soft? It’s like kissing two pillows of perfection. Jungkook moves his lips more eagerly, pressing firmly against that soft, giving mouth, and Jimin presses back minisculely: the tiniest response. But that means Jimin likes it, that means Jimin is willing to entertain him, that means that Jimin is onboard with this whole idea in at least some tiny way. Jungkook fills with elation. He makes a small sound and presses in harder, relishing the way Jimin presses back at him with his small hands curled around Jungkook’s cuffs, and, to his puzzlement, he feels Jimin’s mouth open under his.
Out of curiosity, he swipes his tongue over Jimin’s lips to taste him. He tastes sweet—like cupcakes, like icing, like sugary things you always try and fail to resist. Jungkook feels something animalistic in his body spike, dark and possessive— more of the taste, more of the spun sugar on your tongue —and he boldly licks right into Jimin’s mouth.
He runs into another soft, warm, wet, slippery lump which it takes him a moment to figure out is Jimin’s tongue. It moves tentatively, the very tip of it touching the very tip of Jungkook’s. And then Jimin seems to decide on something, wrapping his tongue around Jungkook’s.
Something swoops in Jungkook’s stomach. He pushes Jimin over, taking advantage of his relative weakness, and cages him in against the bed as his back hits the mattress with a thump. By some tacit agreement Jungkook is absurdly proud of himself to be in on, they both open their mouths wider, and their tongues flick out to meet in the middle. Jimin’s drags over his, soft and wet, and Jungkook feels everything in him clench in anticipation.
Jungkook doesn’t break away from his mouth, reaching down to unknot his bathrobe sash with quick, deft movements and push the soft white material off his best friend’s body. Jimin shivers whenever he touches him. He expected Jimin to be wearing underwear, but Jimin being the same Jimin who flashed Hoseok during that fateful magic show Bangtan Bomb, his hand touches his bare hip and Jungkook makes an ungraceful squawk.
Jimin jumps, startled, and turns his face away. They both stare down at his body, Jungkook’s hand hovering helplessly over his hip. Then Jimin seems to come to a decision, pushing the flaps of the bathrobe aside to expose himself completely and leaning languidly back against the headboard. Jungkook flushes at the unspoken message. Look at me. I know you want to.
Jungkook sits back for a while and stares at Jimin’s dick. Of course he’s seen Jimin’s before. They’re best friends, bandmates; at this point, Jungkook could probably pick the dicks of the other six members of BTS out of a lineup. But he’s never seen Jimin’s hard: flushed, thick, and a little shorter than average against his stomach. Jungkook is fascinated by the slickness gleaming in the dim light of his bedside lamp, precome leaking out the tip and dribbling down the side. But what strikes him is…
He reaches out. Runs his finger around the base of his friend’s cock, making Jimin jerk and release a startled moan. “Jimin,” he says, voice tinged with surprise and a little awe. “You shave?”
Jimin shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah? You got a problem with it?”
“Why?” Jungkook keeps himself trimmed, like every other member does: it’s all neat down there. But he didn’t know that Jimin shaved. The skin feels too hairless under his fingers, more smooth than he’s used to.
“It…” Jimin tries to close his legs, a little defensively, and Jungkook instinctively pushes them back open. Jimin stiffens and then goes pliant. “It makes me feel clean. I like it.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll, like, I dunno…” Jungkook shifts his eyes up to his face. “Cut your balls open or something?”
“What? No! Who even thinks that?”
Jungkook coughs. “No one. I mean. Not me or anything.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “You dork. Do something before my boner dies.”
Jungkook takes Jimin’s dick in his hand. It jerks softly. “You’re kinda small.”
“Lucky for you, because it isn’t any breeze to have a dick down your throat.” Jimin sniffs. “If I had any more of a gag reflex, your blowjobs would not be as deep as they are.”
“You don’t have to deepthroat me every single time. Sometimes you swallow and I’m afraid I’m just gonna slide down low enough to feel your stomach.” Jungkook lowers himself to the bed and strokes Jimin’s cock a few times tentatively, feeling it harden in his hand. “Uh…how do I do this?”
“Do it like I do it. Lips on dick. Swallow a bit. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
Jungkook opens his mouth and tries to lower himself over it.
“No.” Jimin sits up a little and pushes his head off, sighing. “You have to kind of…lube it up. Lick it first.”
Jungkook sticks out a tongue and licks the head tentatively, bracing himself for the worst. But…huh. It doesn’t taste so bad after all. It tastes mostly like skin, but with a weird, smooth surface.
Jimin exhales slowly. “Okay. Lick the sides.”
Jungkook tilts his head and drags his tongue up the length, following the vein. The shaft is rougher than the head. Jimin sighs, although it doesn’t sound like a disappointed one this time, and flops back down onto the bed. “Get it wet.”
Jungkook licks with more zeal, gaining confidence. This isn’t so bad. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he can actually suck dick.
When he thinks it’s sufficiently wet, he pulls away and considers for a while. Then he sucks the head in first, working his tongue over the smoothness of the tip, and pushes his head down.
It hits the back of his throat, and Jungkook is suddenly, abruptly reconsidering his life decisions. How, he wonders as Jimin gasps indistinctly above him, did I find myself determined to give my best friend the best blowjob the world has ever seen?
Jungkook pulls off, gripping the base loosely, and goes down again. He’s terrified of scraping Jimin with his teeth. Okay, he prays as Jimin’s dick slides over his tongue. Okay, keep your lips covering your teeth, nice and easy. No need for a single bit of sharp bone to touch that dick in your mouth.
“Tighten your lips,” Jimin gasps. “Move your hand.”
“I’m getting to it,” Jungkook says, although he wasn’t, because he’s never considered the mechanics of a blowjob before, he just thought that people did it. That, however, is clearly not the case. He begins bobbing up and down unsteadily, and for all his singing and dancing abilities, he can’t establish a rhythm. There are too many things to concentrate on. Are his lips covering his teeth? Is Jimin’s dick even going anywhere? And, oh, shit, he’s been forgetting to move his hand! Okay, he’s moving his hand now. But Jimin’s dick isn’t that long! There’s hardly anywhere for his hand to move! And what about his hand’s rhythm? Does it have a different rhythm from his head’s? Does he move his hand up as he’s going down or move his hand down as he’s going down? Oh, shit, shit, are his lips covering his teeth? Okay, his lips are covering his teeth. All is calm, all is bri—fuck, he’s lost the rhythm again.
It takes a few false starts. Okay, it takes many false starts. Jimin is visibly patient with him, putting a hand on his jaw and giving instructions when he falters, doling out encouragement when he considers screwing it and just giving up. Jungkook slowly begins to calm down, his mind settling and starting to not resemble a flailing chicken being pinned down with a wet blanket. He starts to figure this out.
If he just sticks his tongue out and leaves it there, he doesn’t have to worry about his bottom row of teeth and only needs to worry about his top row. He does. Jimin moans a little, high and sweet, at the feeling of his tongue cradling his cock. Score!
If he moves his hand down as he goes down, his rhythm falls apart, but if he brings his hand up to meet his lips as they descend, he can keep the rhythm intact so long as he toes the fine line between concentration and too much concentration, where he inevitably starts panicking and his concentration shatters. He does that. Jimin releases a long, satisfied exhale. Okay. Good. Jimin likes it.
Jungkook takes back what he said before about Jimin not being big. Jimin is so very, terrifyingly big in his mouth. There’s so much of his dick and every fiber of his body is protesting against taking more of it in when the tip is already shoving down his throat, but Jungkook resigns himself to what he has to do. He misguidedly tries to deepthroat like Jimin does and promptly chokes, nearly throwing up, so he doesn’t try and force it any further than he’s comfortable with.
Jungkook loses himself in it. Sucking dick isn’t really that bad if you know how to time your breathing and you’ve got the rhythm down pat, Jungkook reflects. He has no idea how long he’s been doing it, even, it seems like minutes but it could just as well be dozens—
And then everything is happening at once. Jimin grabs his hair, which is astoundingly inconvenient because it disrupts his laid-down rhythm, and babbles all in one breath, “Gonna come Kookie shit Jungkook shit fuck.”
And Jungkook has just barely had to the time to contemplate, If I’m not planning to swallow, I should probably pull off before a lashing of something wet is hitting the back of his throat.
He coughs and tries to pull off, but he doesn’t make it fast enough—another streak lands right on his tongue, and this time he can taste that it’s bitter. The taste seems to burrow into his mouth and embed in his tastebuds for all eternity. Jungkook can no longer remember a time before this pervasive bitterness.
Great, he thinks. Now I shall remember the taste of my best friend and bandmate’s come forever.
But Jimin isn’t done. Jungkook sees more white spurt out of his dick and just barely manages to reflexively close his eyes in time, and then Jimin finally seems to be done, and the base of his cock is softening in Jungkook’s hand, but Jungkook is distracted because there is come drying in his eyelashes and he can’t open his eyes in case it gets on his eyeballs too.
Jungkook never, ever wants to add ‘cleaning come out of contacts’ to his repertoire of life experiences. Ever.
“Oh,” Jimin says, voice tiny. “Oh, I—Jungkookie.”
This is an exact rehash of the first time Jimin blew me, Jungkook thinks, and is mildly horrified at the fact that they have now blown each other and lived to tell the tale.
“Tissue,” he says, voice strained.
A fumble. And then a hand carefully dabs at his eyelashes, wiping the come out of the fine hairs. There’s some on his cheek too, apparently, because Jimin scrubs at that for a good while as well before he’s satisfied and puts the tissue down.
Jungkook cautiously opens his eyes. His eyelashes still feel vaguely gross—they put up a slight resistance to being parted which is probably a result of residual come which couldn’t be removed with the tissue—but he can see, and his horrifying visions of come-induced blindness and a world clouded with milky white have not transcended into reality.
Jimin stares at him, concerned expression in place, tissue crumpled in his hand. His bathrobe never even completely came off—it’s still hanging onto his shoulders, the hem twisted around his thighs. His cock softens slowly against his leg. He looks small and worried and soft, like the kind of person people instinctively go to hug without even thinking about it.
“So,” Jungkook says, rubbing the back of his neck as sudden awkwardness overtakes them, “uh…what did you think?”
Jimin stares at him some more. Then he shoves him, hard, and Jungkook has time to briefly wonder how so much arm strength comes from such a small person before his back hits the bed and he finds himself staring at the ceiling.
Jimin’s head appears in his field of vision. He feels a weight pressing abruptly down on his hips—Jimin has sat on him, like he likes to do sometimes just to assert dominance. He looks tiny and mad and terrifying.
“Jeon Jungkook!” he shrills. “I can never wank again because of that!”
“Why didn’t you tell me you could blow so well, huh?” Jimin grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Four years! Four years while my best friend had a mouth like that and you didn’t tell me?”
“I—” Jungkook tries to speak, but Jimin is hitting at his chest, small fists beating Jungkook’s broad torso uselessly. He stops when he runs out of breath.
“Idiot,” he pants. “If I knew you sucked dick like that, I wouldn’t have suggested Seagull as your stage name, I would’ve suggested Daddy.”
Jungkook flushes. Jimin notices and suddenly looks embarrassed and panicked and shy, all at once. He sits back on Jungkook’s hips and fidgets with his short fingers. His thighs loosen around Jungkook’s waist.
“Um,” he mumbles. “Um, I mean, thank you.”
Jungkook reaches up and pats his thigh, trying to be consoling. Jimin grabs his hand and brings it to his face, pulling Jungkook’s middle finger into his mouth and sucking it. Jungkook watches weakly as his lips close around his knuckle and a firm, wet tongue drags along his finger.
Jimin releases his finger with an obscene pop. A string of spit dangles between the tip and his mouth, and he pants, tongue small and pink between his teeth. “Kiss me,” he says.
Jungkook does. Their tongues meet up and decide to get to know each other better. He plays with Jimin’s hips while their mouths are occupied, tracing and cupping the shape of his hipbones, and Jimin lets him.
Jungkook wakes up.
He can’t immediately place what’s different. Jimin is flung out beside him, sprawled across the bed with his mouth slightly open, his ass half-resting on Jungkook’s hip. Nothing weird there.
But his stomach is roiling with unease, and something foul is crawling up his throat—
He just barely manages to fling Jimin off him and run out in time to vomit his guts into the toilet.
“No more activity today,” Namjoon says firmly, pushing Jungkook down into the bed.
He whines and tries to sit up. “But—”
“No more activity today,” Seokjin reiterates sweetly, voice a blade dipped in honey, and Jungkook sits back slowly, because you can talk back to the leader to some extent, but you can’t talk back to the cook who could season your meat with his spit if he wanted to.
“But I have things to do,” he whines faintly.
“No you don’t,” Yoongi says from the doorway. “Today’s a public holiday. You’re going to sit on the couch and play Overwatch until you start clicking the controller’s off button at Taehyung to get him to be quiet again.”
Jungkook sulks. “That’s unfair, hyung.”
“Just dispensing the truth, kid.”
“But I don’t understand,” Hoseok says, leaning over Jungkook and pressing a hand to his forehead. “Why would you have food poisoning? You ate the same things as the rest of us.”
“Well…no,” he says uncomfortably. Jimin hovers in the background, making panicked faces and mouthing shut the fuck up at him.
“What?” Seokjin says, shoulders raising impressively. “What was that? Have you ingested any suspicious food matter recently? Do your symptoms also include irregular or unusual bowel movement such as dry and crumbly stool or diarrhea?”
A stunned, uncertain silence. “Jesus,” Namjoon says. “Way to put a man on the spot.”
“I’m just reciting from my mom’s old book on first aid, Joonie, let me live.”
“No,” Jungkook says, even more uncomfortably, “I…haven’t been shitting weirdly. If that’s what you asked?”
Seokjin breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. You aren’t losing fluid from the back end too.”
“I’m out,” Yoongi says from the doorway.
“No, what I meant,” Jungkook says, trying to get the conversation back on track, “Is…that…you know those chocolate Easter bunnies?”
Namjoon goes still. “Yes,” he says cautiously,
“I was craving chocolate, so I looked in the fridge but there wasn’t anything but one of those bunnies. So I ate it.”
Seokjin puts his head in his hands. “Jungkook,” he moans, “it’s January.”
“That means that bunny was made ten months ago!”
“Well…I didn’t see an expiry date.”
“Jungkook! It’s an Easter bunny! Easter happens in March! March of this year has not come yet and is about a month away! That means the bunny was nearly a year old! How did you fail to work this out?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry I’m not Plato—”
“Plato? He was a philosopher,” Namjoon says quizzically.
Jungkook pauses. “Socrates—”
“Sorry, Kook, also a philosopher.”
“I don’t know, the mathematician guy, the one with the circles—”
“Right! Archimedes! I’m sorry I’m not Archimedes, Jin!”
“You don’t have to be Archimedes! An idiot could figure that math out!”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not an idiot!”
“Not an idiot, he says,” mutters Yoongi, whom has most decidedly not left. Jungkook glares at him. The man, he thinks, has the tendency to hang around like a bad smell.
“Look, this is besides the point,” Seokjin says, massaging his temples. “No dance practice. If you’re gonna sing, you do it from a supine position while lying in bed. Don’t get up except if you need to use the bathroom, in which case Jimin is to be notified first. Drink lots of fluid to replace the vomit, at least eight glasses in this whole day, you understand?”
“That’s a myth, Jin,” Namjoon interjects nervously.
“It is whatever I call it, and I call it something the maknae had better do unless he wants to get his ass whooped by yours truly. Don’t interrupt. This bucket beside your bed is for you to puke in if the need so arises. Jimin, because you share this room with him, I appoint you official caretaker of Jeon’s sick ass.”
“That’s not fair!” Jimin whines. “I need to go to dance practice!”
“No you don’t. You, Jungkook, and Hoseok are already the best dancers out of this band, and you need the least help out of all of us. Me and Joonie, however, will only scrape through this comeback if Jesus takes the wheel. Consider it taking one for the team. Maybe next time you can stop the maknae if he decides to eat nearly-year-old chocolate.”
“I’m being blamed for his stupidity,” Jimin complains. “What happened to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”
“Wrong constitution of the wrong country. If you would like to move to the U.S., I strongly encourage you to learn English and haul ass getting a visa. As far as I know, the Korean constitution just tells us to mind our own business and not cross the 38 th parallel unless we wanna get shot.”
“Do we even have a constitution?” Hoseok says to no one in particular.
“I’m sure we do,” Namjoon says generously.
“Now that’s been said, I’m out.” Seokjin turns to leave. “Jimin, you now also have maknae feeding duties. Feed him what you want for breakfast. I can make him broth for lunch, which shall be found on the stove. I’ll work out dinner depending on how knackered I am after dance practice. Do not let him out of his bed. Make him drink water at least once every hour.”
“Don’t want broth,” Jungkook mutters sulkily. “Want porridge.”
Seokjin softens visibly. “Then I’ll make you porridge,” he coos, petting his bangs. “Okay, I actually do have to go. Namjoon, Hoseok, Yoongi, you’re coming with me to practice. Someone find Taehyung before he wanders off looking for fairies again. Jimin, stay here with Kook.”
Seokjin flounces out, duties done. “Jin out,” Yoongi says under his breath, making a badum tss sound before following them.
Jimin immediately turns to him once they’re out of earshot. “Jungkook, I’m just worried, are you throwing up because last night—”
“Shh.” Jungkook points at the door. “Shut the door.”
“It’s not you,” he says once it’s closed. “It was that bloody dodgy chocolate Easter bunny.”
Jimin slumps in relief. “I thought that was a story you made up as an excuse!”
“It wasn’t. I was feeling hungry in the middle of last night and my mouth still tasted bitter, so I left you in bed and went to look for a snack.”
“Really?” Jimin asks, interested. “My come tastes bitter?”
Jungkook groans. “Can we not focus on that right now? You’re not really going to make me stay in bed all day while the others go out, right?”
“Of course I am! Do you think I have a death wish? I’m not defying Jin’s orders! The man could spit in my soup!”
“What?! But I don’t wanna be cooped up doing nothing all day!”
“Then maybe next time you shouldn’t eat ten month-old chocolate,” Jimin chides, wagging a stubby finger. “Think about it, Jeon. Babies have been conceived and born since that chocolate was made. Life has been created from scratch. And yet you ate it.”
“I was hungry!”
“Too bad. I’m not risking getting my ass whooped to let you patter around like a vomiting free-range chicken.”
“I’m not vomiting anymo—” he begins.
But the word vomit sets off another bout of sickening nausea, and he has to grab the bucket to retch.
“Gross,” Jimin says after he’s lowered it. “If you think I’m kissing you after seeing and smelling the contents of your stomach, then you’ve got another thing coming.”
“I’m just joking,” he says, chuckling, looking secretly pleased at the thought of Jungkook being bothered by his refusal of kisses. “But Jin’s right, Kook. You really do have to recover. If you don’t stay in bed you’ll be weak for longer.”
Jungkook sulks, because he knows Jimin’s right.
“And besides”—Jimin sidles up into bed next to him, wisely on the side opposite from the bucket—“I’m stuck here with you too! It can’t be so bad.”
Jungkook grumbles indistinctly.
“Hey, we have our phones and Wi-Fi.” Jimin pulls his out of his pocket. “We can watch predebut videos of BTS and make fun of ourselves!”
Jungkook brightens considerably. “Oh, that sounds fun.”
Jimin clicks on a video of No More Dream. “Aw, baby Kook with his baby abs. Pity you’re so cagey about showing them now. I literally think you could cripple the North Korean population by standing at the 38 th Parallel, flashing your abs, and getting all the women over there to come here. It would be awesome. Like waving a human nugget on the Train to Busan.”
Jungkook’s face morphs into a scowl.
“Okay.” Jimin walks into Jungkook’s room, carrying a steaming bowl. “Porridge as requested.”
Jungkook sits up. “Thank fuck. I’m so hungry.”
“You’ve literally been sitting on your ass all day.”
“Not because I want to,” he grumbles. He reaches his hands out for the porridge, but Jimin tuts and lifts it out of his reach.
“Nope.” Jimin sits down on the chair by his bedside while Jungkook looks confused. “I’m feeding you.”
“What am I, a baby?” Jungkook tries to take it from him again, but Jimin deftly swerves the bowl away. “Come on.”
But Jimin ignores him, taking a spoonful of porridge and lifting it to his lips. “Open up.”
Jungkook sighs heavily. But he opens his mouth and lets Jimin put the spoon in, swallowing the damp, chicken-flavored warmth of the porridge. It tastes good. Everything Seokjin makes tastes good.
Jimin feeds him while chattering away at him, talking about the two doves outside the window who always come back, when are they just gonna get a chick, I think they’re building a nest, you’ve seen them collecting twigs too right Jungkookie??? Jungkook zones out, comfortably adrift in the waves of Jimin’s ceaseless voice.
The bed is comfortable and he’s known Jimin’s voice long enough that it sounds vaguely like home, so somewhere between Jimin talking about the latest stupid thing Taehyung did and Jimin wondering aloud about what’s for dinner, Jungkook dozes. He lets his eyes shut and slumps, spine giving out like jelly, but he’s conscious enough to hear and feel the real world. Jimin notices and stops talking.
There’s a rustle, and for a moment Jungkook thinks Jimin is leaving. But then he feels himself being pulled into a soft lap, head being laid gently to rest on Jimin’s thick thighs, and a hand strokes its way through his hair. He turns his head aside and nuzzles into Jimin’s smooth, bare skin. Everything inside him feels warm and sleepy, and he doesn’t feel nauseous at all.
It’s nice. It’s cuddly. It’s nothing special—Jimin would do this in a heartbeat if he ever asked, and sometimes he does it even if he doesn’t—but there is a quiet satisfaction to be found in the familiarity.
Jungkook wonders, perhaps idiotically for the first time, whether all of Jimin’s affection and touches mean something. Whether he really does care about Jungkook as much as all the hardcore Jikook shippers insist.
But these are hard questions. Jungkook’s brain when running on exhaustion and chicken porridge was not built to answer hard questions.
So he sleeps.
Jungkook gets better, of course.
He knew he would recover, but he also knows that coupled with the constantly weakened state his rhinitis puts his body in, he’d still be feeling the effects of the food poisoning for a week after if Jimin hadn’t kept him in bed all day. He doesn’t thank him directly, because that is Not How Jeon Jungkook Rolls, but he does let Jimin cuddle him more often, pushes him away less when he’s startled in the midst of an interview by arms reaching around his waist and squeezing.
Jimin seems delighted by the change. Jungkook knew Jimin always wants to cuddle. Jungkook still does know it. But suddenly, the fact that he can’t figure out why bothers him very, very much.
It’s another night. Jungkook’s life lately, all the parts of it which matter, seems to just be one long medley of nights strung together in a necklace threaded through with Jimin’s laughter. He’s sitting up in his bed and scrolling through his phone. Jimin’s arms are wrapped around his waist, and his head rests on Jungkook’s shoulder as he reads what Jungkook reads. They share earphones, the right side in Jungkook’s ear and the left side in Jimin’s. Normally Jungkook hates people looking at his phone, but with Jimin he’s never minded.
Jimin doesn’t even pretend that he’s going to be sleeping in his own bed these days. He used to sit in his own bed and fake something mundane, brushing his hair or applying lotion for a few minutes, sneaking glances over at Jungkook and waiting for the right time, before shuffling over the small gap and crawling onto Jungkook’s bed while complaining indistinctly about the cold and the crippling loneliness. Jimin’s mattress has not known the warmth of its owner’s body for a week now, and why should it when that owner is Jimin? Jungkook always, always lets him in.
Jungkook hasn’t really been seeing his phone screen or listening to the music for a while now. His mind grapples with a problem which refuses to stay still, wriggling out from under the touch when he tries to put his finger on it. He scrolls through articles too fast to be read and doesn’t skip ads which can be skipped, instead staring blankly at them. He can feel the minute tensing of Jimin against his shoulder in irritation, although of course Jimin is too nice to complain.
Jimin gives him so much and hardly ever expects anything in return, and it greatly unsettles Jungkook that it took him so long to be bothered by why.
Finally, Jungkook can’t hold it in anymore.
He pauses the music. He closes all the tabs. Jimin huffs out a little sigh of annoyance, but he looks up at Jungkook readily, waiting patiently for an explanation. It’s funny how Jungkook never felt the weight of all that trust bearing down on his shoulders until now.
“Jimin,” he says, unable to hold the words back any longer, “why are you so good to me?”
Jimin goes still for a moment. His smile doesn’t budge, but it goes stale. Then he replaces it with another one, smaller, manufactured to look more confidential and therefore more honest. But Jungkook knows his roommate. He is not above masking everything with smiles.
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head.
“I mean you give so much more to me than you expect back.”
Jimin runs a hand through his hair. And something funny happens to Jungkook—his vision honest-to-God gives way to patches of black for a second, like the feeling when you stand up too fast and the world becomes blind and dizzying for a while. When he’s managed to blink the spots away and he feels rooted to the earth again, like magic, like a goddamn epiphany or lightning bolt from gay heaven, suddenly he notices all the small ways Jimin is Jimin, all the tiny things Jimin does which drive their fans crazy; and he feels like the room is spinning again even though gravity is holding him down, and everything is clear, and everything is not, and confusion dances hand-in-hand with sensibility—
Jimin’s hair, newly black and natural the way Jungkook prefers it, clean and falling over his forehead. His broad-yet-narrow shoulders, slumping forward a little, the muscles corded along the range of them. His belly, a little concave, a little filled out and reassuringly healthy. His arms look strong. His lips look full, are full. His neck is a perfect column of tanned skin and his jaw is a blade people would pay to cut themselves on. Jungkook has always seen all these things, has always had them within his reach, and he is struck dumb by how stupid he was to not know how much power they possessed to enthrall him.
His best friend is beautiful. His best friend is a man. His best friend is both beautiful and a man, and Jungkook is struggling with how much his body does not find this a problem.
Jimin hasn’t changed into pajamas. His tank top has large sleeves, and as they gape further, Jungkook’s eyes are drawn to the flash of a nipple with as much ability to change their direction as ball bearings rolling down a groove.
Jungkook can readily count all the ways Jimin is one of the most feminine people he knows, but when you ask him about all the ways Jimin is masculine too, all the firm muscles and strong thighs and capable hands, he stutters and peters out into faltering silence. He doesn’t know how to do justice to the living, breathing oxymoron of Park Jimin.
Attraction does not have to be a dichotomy, Jungkook has always known that, but he just didn’t know that principle applied to him.
“That’s just who I am,” Jimin says, perfect lips parting to permit sound, and Jungkook is surprised to be reminded that he asked a question and it did not, in fact, take place a thousand years ago. The space between epiphanies is not a small one.
Jungkook opens his mouth. Insert answer here. But his throat, for once, is empty and at a loss.
Jimin blinks slowly, once, at him. “Hey,” he says. “Are you okay?’
Jungkook doesn’t know he’s doing it. He sees a thumb on Jimin’s lip and thinks, lucky bastard, but he doesn’t make the connection that the thumb is his until Jimin’s eyes close and he exhales quietly against it.
Jungkook freezes. Jimin peeks one eye open at him. He opens his mouth and bites Jungkook’s thumb lightly, small, white teeth dipping the skin, and Jungkook’s heart decides to migrate to his throat.
“Go on,” he says with a tiny smile.
Jungkook’s pulse does a stupid little stumble.
He moves his hand, jerky and unsteady, and Jimin closes his eyes again. He traces his jaw, marvels at the sharpness of it. He runs his knuckles down Jimin’s throat and places his thumb on his Adam’s apple. Then above it. Then above his jugular.
Jimin opens his eyes and stares placidly at him. He could squeeze, he could cut off Jimin’s air supply or crush his windpipe with one tightening of his fingers into a fist, but Jimin doesn’t care. His pulse beats lazy and languid under his fingers.
Jungkook’s head spins at the trust.
He moves his hand to the back of Jimin’s head, tangles it in his hair. And he hesitates. “Pull,” Jimin says, startling him horribly.
Once Jimin has stopped giggling and Jungkook has drifted down from his jump into outer space, he asks shakily, “What?”
“Pull,” Jimin says simply. He tilts his head into Jungkook’s palm. “My hair. Pull a bit. I like it.”
Tentatively, he clenches his hand into a fist, strands of hair still clutched in it. He tugs. Jimin goes pliant instead of tensing up. His mouth curls up at the corners, and when Jungkook lets his nails scratch over his scalp, he takes a deep breath and smiles.
It’s so jarringly out of place. Jungkook is so confused that he’s broken through the other side into acceptance.
Jimin sidles closer to him. It’s suggestive, but innocently. He smiles up into Jungkook’s face. Jungkook’s hand is still clenched in his hair, and when he pulls again, Jimin does a little happy wiggle. “Kiss?” he asks, voice lilting up questioningly at the end, like Jungkook would really refuse him at this point.
Jungkook licks his lips. Jimin leans in and kisses him, hands descending on his shoulders, sliding down to his biceps, and squeezing appreciatively, and Jungkook is glad for all the hours of his life he’s sweat out in the gym. He knew they would pay off for more than just the sake of the comeback.
Jimin tilts his head, deepens it. He’s too good at this for Jungkook to be the only person he’s ever made out with. Jungkook always knew Jimin fooled around pre-debut, the sex of the people he fooled around with remaining suspiciously unspecified over the years, and he’s still not sure whether it puts him off or thrills him.
“Jimin,” Jungkook murmurs. It’s said in a chastising tone. Jimin takes it as encouragement. He pushes Jungkook back until his back collides with the mattress, then straddles him determinedly, thick thighs on either side of his hips. Jimin’s hands slide up his shirt. When they pinch at his nipples, a little cold—his hands always reflect the temperature of the room—Jungkook startles so badly that he bites the closest lip.
It isn’t his. He watches in horror as Jimin sits up slowly and touches his mouth. His fingertip comes away stained with red.
Jimin blinks. He looks at him, then the blood, then back at him. In utter absurdity, he smiles angelically, as if Jungkook just handed him a present.
“I knew those bunny teeth were good for something,” he says, bouncing up and down slightly in excitement. Excitement. There are so many things Jungkook will never begin to understand about him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He bounces again. Jungkook feels a flare of heat as Jimin’s ass rubs against the front of his pants before his whole body goes slack. A prickle of embarrassment tinges his cheeks when a look of mild surprise takes over Jimin’s face, only to quickly be replaced with delight.
He gets rid of Jungkook’s clothes with a practice which scares him, small fingers shucking his shirt and pants and underwear off as if buckles and buttons and zippers are things he has never had to contend with, and then grips Jungkook’s rather hopeful, hard cock. Sweetly, deliberately, he rubs the tip against his ass until Jungkook can feel every minute clench of his rim, painfully close to being around his dick.
His mind short-circuits. Suddenly, every cell of his desperate, sex-crazed brain focuses on getting his cock inside something, preferably something tight and wet and warm, and preferably something belonging to one Park Jimin.
“J-Jimin,” he stammers. A rush he recognizes as the beginnings of panic sweeps through him, weakening and doubting, but then something goes right and it switches euphorically into excitement. Blood rushes intoxicatingly between his legs, eager to be satisfied.
Jimin grins when he feels his cock plumping up, swelling and jerking in the circle of his short fingers. He reaches across the narrow divide between their beds, sliding his hand under his own pillow and withdrawing a clear bottle—how did Jungkook not notice it before?— and squirting a generous dollop of the contents onto his fingers. Jungkook squirms as some drips on his belly. It’s cold.
He wants to groan in disappointment when Jimin moves off his cock. Jimin slides back until he’s sitting on Jungkook’s hips with Jungkook’s cock weeping and deprived against his stomach, grinning and wiggling his lubed-up fingers at Jungkook in a wave, before he leans back and spreads his legs and reaches down and oh that’s what he’s doing.
Jungkook watches, open-mouthed, as Jimin fingers himself open right on top of him, thighs splayed wide to provide Jungkook with the best view. He’s heard of it, sure, but that doesn’t mean he knew that something like a finger could actually go up an asshole, much less— oh shit, Jimin —two.
Jimin moans, almost leisurely, like he has some spare time and is just indulging a hobby of his—which, Jungkook realizes, is pretty much exactly what this all is. He twists his wrist to push his fingers in deeper and does something which makes his small, pert features screw up in pleasure. Jungkook struggles up so he’s sitting against the headboard, then reaches forward and trails his fingers down Jimin’s spasmodically tensing and relaxing abs. He brushes Jimin’s cock on the way down. It throbs a little pathetically, tip shiny with slick. He notes with some smugness that it’s smaller than his own.
“Don’t touch me,” Jimin cries, and Jungkook jerks his hand back, alarmed.
Jimin sees his reaction and laughs breathily. Lube trickles slowly out of himself and pools in the dip between Jungkook’s thighs. “I meant because I don’t wanna come yet,” he explains, giggling at Jungkook’s terrified expression.
“Wanna try?” Jimin asks, bones in the back of his hand flexing as he curls his fingers.
Jungkook blinks, clueless. “Try what?”
Jimin rolls his eyes. He moves up Jungkook’s body, sitting on his hips, and angles his hips up. Then he pulls his fingers out of himself with an obscene, wet sound and grabs Jungkook’s hand, bringing it towards him so the fingertips press against his rim.
Jungkook’s mouth goes dry, then floods with saliva again at impressive speed. He can feel the ridges of Jimin against him, the way his opening seems to flutter.
“Come on,” Jimin says. His eyelids are hooded. He watches Jungkook lazily, a cat who’s got the cream and expects more cream in the future. “Finger me.”
As if in a trance, Jungkook pushes his middle finger in. It sinks all the way in to the knuckle. The inside of someone else’s body is…warm. Oddly smooth. Jimin writhes and grins, bangs sweaty and in his eyes, and gasps, “Another.”
Jungkook doesn’t believe it can all fit, but Jimin asked, so he delivers. He presses the blunt end of his ring finger against Jimin’s rim before Jimin relaxes and it slips right in. He pushes it in so they’re both fully inside Jimin, surrounded by him, enveloped by him, and Jimin is clenching with pleasure around them.
“Your fingers are so long,” he breathes, grinding down on them slightly. Lube smears on Jungkook’s stomach. “Curl them, curl them, please please please?”
Jungkook tries. It’s hard to move them in such tightness, but he manages, and when he brushes something which feels swollen and engorged, Jimin jerks up straight like a ramrod has been shoved into his spine.
“Aim for my navel,” he gasps, and Jungkook does. He hits the swollen area full-on, fingers pressing hard into it, and Jimin shrieks, falling in a disorganized bundle of limbs and warm skin onto his chest.
Outside, the sound of footsteps and lights flicking on. Murmurs. They both freeze, Jimin grasping Jungkook’s biceps, Jungkook’s hand growing a little numb inside Jimin as the weight of his hips pins it down. Jimin decides to lick his nipple while they wait for the exterior noises to die out, and Jungkook nearly bites through his tongue.
Finally, all is silent in the rest of the dorm. Jimin giggles breathlessly and fucks his hips down onto Jungkook’s hand. “More,” he whispers.
Jungkook gets better at finding it. Jimin’s hands tend to clutch every time he scores a direct hit, like a millionaire’s wife gripping her pearls, and soon enough, he learns to associate Jimin’s prostate under his fingertips with bruises on his hips. Striking it is like pressing a button which turns all of Jimin’s bones to jelly and his voice to broken moans.
Jimin comes in spurts, muffling sobs in Jungkook’s chest. Jungkook doesn’t touch his cock once. It throbs at the same time Jimin clenches almost unbearably tight around his three fingers, and then a rush, a flood, an outpour: sticky white splattering all over both their bellies, Jimin frantically grinding his hips back onto Jungkook’s hand and chasing the last dregs of his orgasm.
Jimin nuzzles into his neck later, one leg flung carelessly over him. His arms clasp around Jungkook’s waist. “You don’t mind, right?” he murmurs into Jungkook’s hair, tacitly asking whether a return of the favor is required.
Jungkook shakes his head. It wouldn’t make sense to need the favor to be returned. After all, Jimin is a man, and his moans are not at all arousing, and the way he sucks on Jungkook’s nipples when he’s distracted by fingers on his prostate does not at all make Jungkook harder than goddamn diamond, and Jimin does not turn him on in the least. Jungkook doesn’t want to fuck Jimin two ways to Sunday or into the mattress at all. Jungkook doesn’t go even a little bit crazy when Jimin teases, like when he pressed the head of Jungkook’s cock against his wet hole so firmly that Jungkook was certain, was hoping, was praying that it would push in and push in hard. Nope.
He prays frantically that Jimin won’t notice the embarrassingly large, wet tent in the front of his sweatpants.
There are good fansigns and there are bad fansigns.
There are mediocre fansigns and there are exceptional fansigns.
There are normal fansigns, and then there are fansigns where Jimin gives him an erection in front of a hundred ARMYs and the Internet.
He didn’t expect it. He’s posing for a picture, grinning, when a giant plush Pokeball collides with his head. He shuts his eyes reflexively, letting it bounce away, and when he opens them, Jimin is standing there, grinning.
He turns away and signs an album furiously to conceal his irritation. The smile has slid off his face like warm butter. The fan the album belongs to eyes him worriedly, asking whether Jungkook oppa is okay, and he gives her a hard Look. She doesn’t look a day under Seokjin’s age.
She moves on. Jungkook senses Jimin coming up behind him, but he’s still annoyed, so he doesn’t greet him. His line is empty. He does his main job when his line is empty at fansigns: he sits and looks pretty.
And just when a young, shy fan has dared to venture forward, photobook clutched in her shaking hands, a hand creeps from behind his ear and down his jaw. Jimin grips the side of his neck possessively, and without even thinking, Jungkook’s whole body lifts off the chair, back arching into the contact. His eyes close. His lips part while the corners curve up. Jimin doesn’t really kiss his neck, because he’s not stupid and he knows he needs to save the really phenomenal fanservice for when they win, he doesn’t know, an Oscar or something—but he bends down and lets his breath fan over the vulnerable curve of Jungkook’s throat, hot and hidden behind his hand, and in some ways that is worse.
Jimin pretends to nuzzle his neck. His grip is tight and greedy, making Jungkook desperate to unravel under his touch, making Jungkook limp and pliant as clay. The fansign has not yet realized what’s going on.
Then he releases Jungkook’s neck, straightening up and walking away. All hell breaks loose as every single ARMY in the room simultaneously loses their shit and screams the same, deafening, ear-piercing shriek.
Jungkook gets up and begins walking, heading for the nearby bathroom door. At first he thinks it’s to get away from the noise—he feels sorry for the rest of BTS; all their eardrums, his and Jimin’s included, are wrecked from such situations—but then he realizes that it’s good that he left, because a flush is rapidly spreading through his body and between his legs, and he can’t stop thinking about how close Jimin was to staking his claim on him in front of the whole fansign. He could’ve bitten into Jungkook’s neck, sank his teeth in and sucked, and the fans closest to them probably would’ve fainted and it would be a massive scandal splashed all over the headlines, but Jimin would’ve proved that Jungkook was his to the world and Jungkook probably wouldn’t have needed anything else to get off to for the rest of his life.
He likes being owned.
He pushes the bathroom door open and collapses against the wall. He tries to breathe, to slow down his ragged panting, but his mind keeps jerking his focus back to the way Jimin’s breath felt on his ear and his pulse surges up into a frenzy again. After several minutes of trying and failing to calm himself, he shakes his head and looks down to gauge the scope of damage. His cock strains ridiculously against the front of the uniform pants the stylist put him in.
Jimin giggles as he walks into the bedroom back at the dorm.
Playing with Jungkook is fun. He’s so easy to manipulate, and Jimin doesn’t mind the fact that now roughly a hundred GIFs of the pretend neck kiss are circulating and #jikook is currently trending on Twitter. They are all humble, but no one dislikes being popular.
He reaches into the cupboard for clean clothes. He’s just let the towel fall to the ground around his ankles when he feels strong arms wrap around his waist from behind and pull him against a hard, broad chest.
Jimin giggles again. He likes feeling small the way Jungkook likes being owned: reluctantly (okay, not really), but undeniably. He holds Jungkook’s wrists, gripping his waist tight around his belly, and turns his head, pressing his lips to a uniformed chest. “Kookie?”
“Don’t pull that shit,” he growls. He squeezes a little harder around Jimin’s narrow waist, and Jimin gasps. He knows what Jungkook is talking about.
“You like it, babe,” he says breathlessly.
Jungkook’s arms don’t loosen. And then he slumps, arms losing their strength, and Jimin knows he’s won.
“Gave me a boner in the middle of the fansign,” he mumbles into Jimin’s shoulder. “It could’ve turned as disastrous as the MTV Dope performance.”
“I tried to tell you about the boner, but you didn’t listen.”
“I don’t think the MTV cameraman knew what to make of it.”
“You’re so fun to play with, Kookie,” Jimin says, nipping at his chin lightly. “You melted like butter.”
He grumbles indistinctly. Jimin wraps his short arms around his waist playfully, pulling his larger body closer, and kisses him softly.
Jungkook’s still put out, so he doesn’t respond immediately, feigning indifference. But Jimin knows the weaknesses of his body, and when he reaches up under Jungkook’s shirt and pinches a nipple, twisting it cruelly so it hardens instantaneously under his fingers, Jungkook gasps and falls against him.
“Mmm,” he mumbles, sliding his hands around Jimin’s naked body and gripping his ass. Jimin inhales and smirks, curving his spine to push his ass into the maknae’s hands.
They make out for a while, Jimin lazily exploring the inside of the maknae’s mouth, before Jungkook abruptly turns him around and slams him into the closed cupboard. Jimin’s chest thumps loudly against the wood, making him gasp as the breath is knocked out of him. Jungkook’s strong hands mold his ass before slowing and eventually stopping. Curious, Jimin turns around. He’s staring at Jimin’s ass like a piece of meat.
It’s not like Jimin didn’t notice before; Jimin twerked once at a concert to the fans just so he could watch Jungkook be jealous in the background, pushing his tongue into his cheek as he always does. The main reason he slutdrops is because of Jungkook too; because he likes imagining sinking down on a full, hard cock, likes pretending he’s being filled with another man, and Jungkook staring at him openmouthed a few paces away makes the whole fantasy more pleasant.
Some people mind being stared at, but Jimin never has. It makes him feel powerful, not degraded. He likes eyes on him, likes moving through a crowd knowing he has the attention of every single one of them. And the weight of Jungkook’s gaze on his ass? It’s never been unwelcome. He has a soft spot for Jungkook and a harder spot between his legs.
Jungkook pulls his cheeks apart, thumbing at his rim. Jimin moans and wiggles his hips back onto the touch. His hole clenches. He feels so empty, even emptier thanks to the fact that he could potentially be filled shortly if all goes well, and he’s breathless and dizzy and punch-drunk off bad decisions. Jungkook squeezes Jimin’s thick ass in his big hands. “You’re pretty,” he says.
Jimin’s lips curl up. “Me or my ass?”
“Both.” Jungkook presses down on his perineum. Jimin feels a hot burst of pleasure and presses his chest to the cupboard, groaning.
“If you like it so much,” he gasps, “then have a piece of it.”
Jungkook’s hands still for a while.
Then there’s the thud of him kneeling on the ground, the feeling of his hands pulling Jimin’s hips back and spreading his ass cheeks. Jimin’s mind temporarily short-circuits. What’s he doing? He writhes and groans as Jungkook sucks a hickey into one plump cheek. Is he really…?
But he has no time to complete that thought. Jungkook’s tongue swipes across his rim, leaving a wet, surprisingly not-at-all-unpleasant swath behind, and Jimin feels everything below his waist clench in savage pleasure.
Jungkook pushes his tongue beyond his rim, flicking it inside Jimin, and Jimin pushes his forehead as hard as possible into the cupboard. He’s trembling all over, moaning without cease. He’s imagined this countless times, but he didn’t know being eaten out felt so good—like the best kind of pressure and suction on you all at once, and Jimin knows that doesn’t even make sense, but it’s the only way he knows how to describe an ache which seems to scrape him hollow. When he clenches, Jungkook licks right into him as if he’s licking sugar from the bottom of a bowl, and the sensation of his tongue pushing into Jimin makes stars pop behind his eyelids and his vision go black. Jimin thinks he might actually die.
Jungkook says something muffled into his ass. Jimin sobs something incoherent back.
Jungkook pulls his face away. “You actually taste nice down there,” he says. “That’s the weirdest thing.”
Jimin feels himself flush, looking down at Jungkook with his lips swollen from rimming him. Jungkook notices and licks his lips lewdly. “I…may put something.”
“I said that I may put something.”
“What, like… on? Like, something to flavor your asshole?”
Jimin feels his cheeks flame even more. He doesn’t really know why he even does it. He likes tasting nice (although he had no way of knowing if he really did until today). He likes the thought that if someone decided to eat him out and make all his fantasies come true, he’d taste good for them. “I ordered it online on a whim. What does it taste like?”
“Like…cream.” Jungkook licks his lips again. “Sweet. Really good.” He slaps Jimin’s ass like a cart horse. Jimin jerks. “Good move.”
Jimin leans his head against the closet in humiliation. Jungkook licks him hard, thrusting his tongue in again and eating him out with relish, and he bites down on his own arm to keep from screaming.
Jungkook begins rubbing at his balls, fondling and rolling them between long fingers. It doesn’t help. Jimin feels his hole tighten up, fluttering around thin air, crying out to be touched again. When Jungkook drags his tongue over the edge, tip catching on the rim, the relief is so acute that Jimin cries into the cupboard door.
But as stellar as it is, he doesn’t want to get rimmed forever. He’s quite sure Jungkook expects reciprocal—his cock strains against the front of his pants, causing a long bulge—and he’s hoping against hope that this time, maybe he’ll get Jungkook inside him.
Jungkook seems to know without speaking. He gives Jimin’s hole one last suck, making Jimin flinch and whimper, and then straightens up. But once he’s there, he hesitates.
Jimin turns around and smiles at him, conscious of the blush riding high on his cheeks and his puffy lips, swollen from being bitten. “What do you wanna do?” he asks, taking Jungkook’s wrists and pulling him in. He fastens his mouth to Jungkook’s nipple over his thin T-shirt and sucks, looking up to gage Jungkook’s reaction. His eyes roll back in his head.
“Everything,” Jungkook says, voice rough and raspy in his throat. “You.”
But Jimin knows he has to be careful. “Jungkook,” he says, drawing back for a while. “Do you…do you want—? With me?”
Jungkook looks at him for a long time. Jimin is struck by the uncomfortable feeling that Jungkook has made his face unreadable. Jimin has no idea what he’s thinking.
And then Jungkook grabs him, turning him around and throwing him onto the bed, and Jimin grins in delight.
Their clothes come off faster than Jimin thought possible. Jungkook kisses down his torso, stopping at his collarbones and soft, flat belly. “Do I need to prep you?” he asks softly.
Jimin flushes. “Uh…no. I did it in the shower.”
Jungkook blinks. Jimin can see Jungkook thinking about him, fingering himself while the water pours over his body, moans bouncing off the tiled shower walls, and is pleased by the dark stab of arousal which shoots through Jungkook’s eyes at the thought. “Okay,” he breathes, reaching for the lube bottle. “That’s it?”
Jimin nods. “I know neither of us have STDs, so yeah. That’s it.”
Jimin watches Jungkook slick up his long, thick cock with saliva pooling in his mouth. Jungkook’s cock looks like it was made for slurping. If Jimin had it his way, he’d broker a deal with the devil so every time he felt like eating a popsicle, he’d get to suck Jungkook’s dick instead.
Jungkook hovers above Jimin, supporting himself on hands placed on either side of Jimin’s shoulders. He hesitates again. “Are you sure?” he asks Jimin. “I mean, this is your first time, and—”
“I’m sure,” Jimin cuts in, “as long as you’re sure.”
Jungkook inhales a deep, ragged breath.
Then he nods.
Jimin breathes heavily once the head pushes in. Gorgeous, he thinks, gripping Jungkook’s forearms hard and secretly delighting in the veins he traces under his fingers. He loves the burn of being stretched so goddamn much. Fingers can only reach so far, and Bighit wouldn’t let him keep the dildo the fans sent him, no matter how much he begged as discreetly as possible.
Jimin spreads his legs wider and pushes his hips upward, eager to finally be with a man after a lifetime of dreaming about it. When Jungkook fails to take the bait, he grips Jungkook’s ass, pulling his hips down. Jungkook gasps brokenly when Jimin swallows up his shaft too, writhing in pleasure as he feels Jungkook’s length begin to widen as he nears the base. He narrowly stops himself from biting his lip all the way through when he feels the tip of Jungkook’s cock push in as far as he’s ever managed to get his short fingers, then further in, stretching him gloriously wide in places he was hardly sure existed.
His toes curl. He digs his nails hard into Jungkook’s ass, and Jungkook’s hips kick forward reflexively, forcing himself in all the way to the base. Jimin just manages to grab a pillow in time to scream into it.
Jungkook’s whole body shakes, nails carving half-crescents into Jimin’s back as he buries his head in Jimin’s shoulder. He turns his head and presses his face against Jimin’s neck, stuttering out a moan. Jimin arches when he feels his hot breath on his throat.
“Bite me, baby,” he breathes. Jungkook bites down hard on his neck. He gasps and clenches reflexively around him, squeezing down tight on the wonderful intrusion, and Jungkook cries out.
“So good to me, Jungkookie,” he mumbles, smoothing the back of Jungkook’s hair down. Jungkook presses his face harder into Jimin’s neck and moans, the sound rattling and vibrating through his throat. “Fill me up so good, feels so fucking goddamn amazing—”
He breaks off when he feels Jungkook’s cock throb inside him at the praise, Jungkook’s cheeks burning with a blush against his shoulder, and laughs. “You like praise, baby?” he coos. He smooths his hands over Jungkook’s ass, the grooves left by his fingernails, then slaps it hard. He’s always wanted to spank those thighs, that ass. Jungkook’s hips instinctively thrust forward, reacting to the pain, and Jimin tips his head back and screams with his mouth closed at the fullness. Jungkook’s heart hammers against Jimin’s ribcage. His balls rest snugly against his ass.
“Move, please, oh God, oh God,” Jimin sobs, trying to fuck himself up on Jungkook. Jungkook exhales sharply and bites his neck in warning, but Jimin only throws his head back to welcome more hickies. “Please move, Jungkook, don’t make me spank you again, I swear to God—”
With a grunt, Jungkook pulls out and slams back in, correctly sensing that Jimin isn’t here for the tenderness. He guesses right. Jimin barely manages to stifle another scream, raking his nails up Jungkook’s plush ass again, and Jungkook, irritated, snaps his hips forward a second time. Jimin feels the tip of his cock push down on his swollen prostate, beautifully engorged with arousal, and knows he isn’t going to be able to come from fingering himself ever again.
“You leak?” Jungkook asks in disbelief. He reaches between them and takes Jimin’s smaller cock in his hand. Precome dribbles weakly out of the shiny, flushed head at the touch, running in a thin rivulet down the side of Jungkook’s fist.
“Yes,” Jimin mutters, cheeks flaming in humiliation as he slaps Jungkook’s hand away. It’s not his fault he becomes as wet as a girl if you get him worked up enough. “Fuck me, God, don’t comment on my dick.”
But Jungkook doesn’t listen to him, stroking him in fascination until Jimin cries out softly and a drop of slick wells at the pinhole. Jungkook wipes it off with his finger and sucks the finger dry. Jimin lets his head thump back on the bed and closes his eyes, arousal pulsing through him and making his hole clench.
Jungkook gasps as his body tightens, collapsing until he’s chest-to-chest against Jimin. Jimin opens his eyes to watch his heartbeat flutter in his throat, rapid and desperate. “Thinking of fucking me now?” he asks, deliberately clenching as hard as he can around Jungkook until Jungkook grits his teeth and has to reach down to squeeze the base of his own cock hard to stop himself from losing it.
Jimin watches in delight, wondering whether he can get Jungkook to come just by doing Kegels, but Jungkook lifts his head after a second and glares. Thanks to the restriction of blood flow, his cock has gone a little limp inside Jimin. Jimin does not intend for it to stay that way.
“Yes,” he says, and pulls out, rolling his hips so his cock punches impossibly deep inside him.
Jimin doesn’t last long. He comes with fistfuls of Jungkook’s ass in his hands, prostate slammed into enough that he knows he won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow, nipples wet with Jungkook’s spit and stinging from Jungkook’s teeth. His ass clenches tight, milking Jungkook dry, and Jimin cries out with pleasure while Jungkook buries his face in his neck and Jungkook’s warmth spurts erratically inside him.
He’s heard the feeling is unpleasant, but later, lying sandwiched under Jungkook’s arm against his warm, hard chest while Jungkook snores softly, he feels his bandmate’s come trickling out of him and decides that he quite likes it. Every corner of him is filled with victory. He resolved once that he’d have sex with Jungkook if it was the last thing he did, and now he has, with the stains down his thighs to prove it.
He rests his head on Jungkook’s chest and grins to himself, reaching under the covers to play with the rough patch of hair below Jungkook’s hips. Some would prefer the skin bare, but Jimin likes the masculinity of it, how it stays hidden all the time to everyone but him. How his jaw and legs and arms are hairless, but here is an exception all for Jimin.
Jungkook murmurs in his sleep and tightens his hold on him.
Jungkook is woken by an insistent poke in the shoulder.
He cracks open an eye. “Kook, Kook, Kook, Kook, Kook,” Jimin’s voice is chanting, over and over again.
“What?” he grumbles. He shifts away from Jimin and stretches. His joints pop satisfyingly, body loose and rested in the slightly chilly, pale morning light.
“I have something to tell you.” The poking stops. In its place, a heavy weight in the shape of a body flops over him, making him grunt and crack one sneakily closing eye back open in irritation. “It’s important.”
“Can’t it wait for a few hours?” Jungkook pushes his face into the pillow. Jimin is silent for a moment, a thoughtful kind of quiet, and for a moment he thinks hopefully that he might get to go back to sleep. His eyes shut peacefully, and unconsciousness begins to pull at the edges of his mind again—
And the poking resumes. “No,” Jimin whines. “It’s, like, really important.”
He doesn’t seem like he’s giving up. Jungkook abandons all hope of sleep and turns his attention to the insistent bundle of short, prodding limbs.
Jimin only managed to pull on a pair of sweats and nothing else before falling asleep last night. Jungkook looks up at his bandmate propped up above him, all gloriously naked chest and sweatpants riding too low, fingers twitching, then remembers he has the freedom to touch now. He slides the waistband of Jimin’s sweats down and thumbs at his hipbones, slowly waking up to the faint juts of bone beneath his fingers.
Jimin presses his lips together and pretends he doesn’t like it, but Jungkook feels the hitch in his breath against his knuckles as his stomach draws in quickly. He grins to himself.
“What did you wanna tell me?” he asks, feeling in a decidedly better mood now.
Jimin hesitates. Jungkook moves his hands around to Jimin’s back and slips them beneath the worn, comfortable cloth of the sweats. He grips Jimin’s ass and squeezes it generously. Jimin’s eyes slip shut as he takes a deep breath and holds it.
After a while of steady groping and increasing bulging in the front of the sweats, Jungkook tires of the silence and flicks him. “Yah. You can’t keep me in suspense forever.”
Jimin opens his eyes and scowls. “I…I just wanted to say,” he says slowly, extracting Jungkook’s hands from his sweats and collapsing on Jungkook so he can tuck his head in the crook of his neck, “that…do you remember a while ago you asked me whether I was gay?”
“Mm.” He reaches for Jimin’s ass again, but Jimin slaps his hands away. He sulks.
“I actually am.”
That catches Jungkook off guard. He forgets about trying to grope Jimin and stares at him instead, hands frozen mid-reach. The silence is thick enough to cut and serve with Jin’s bulgogi.
Jimin avoids his eyes. “I actually am,” he repeats falteringly. “Gay, I mean.”
A horrible silence.
“That can’t be true,” Jungkook blurts.
Jimin looks down at him. “Why?”
“You’re always denying it,” he says, the words spilling out in a mess of incoordination. “You’re always insisting you’re straight. Trying to seem manlier.”
Jimin looks away. “Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I couldn’t exactly flaunt it, could I?”
“But then that makes,” Jungkook says in a panicked rush, “that makes this, all this, all this sex and stuff we’ve been doing—what does that make it?”
Jimin shrugs. He doesn’t meet Jungkook’s eyes, but he doesn’t avoid them either. “I like you,” he says, easy as that.
It doesn’t make sense at first. But then the words register, and Jungkook makes an indeterminate, terrified squeak. His stomach flips like a burger on a grill. His mind gives up and moves back to Busan.
He gulps and tries again. “Wha?” he squawks.
Jimin is more graceful about it than him. He runs his open palm up and down Jungkook’s side, stroking over his ribs and belly, and Jungkook tries with difficulty not to melt. He didn’t realize how much of a slut he is for being touched gently and lovingly until Jimin came and offered it without asking.
“You heard what I said,” he says.
Jimin moves his hand to his hair, stroking it way more softly than Jungkook deserves. Jungkook resists the urge to whine. Jimin has such beautiful hands. His short nails scratch gently, soothingly, against his scalp. “Well, you’re quite pretty, really,” he says, as if this is obvious. Jungkook shivers slightly, inordinately pleased.
“That’s not enough reason to like someone.”
“You’re also goofy and adorable and dorky and a bit stupid, but that’s not really what you say when you’re trying to make someone feel better about themselves,” he says.
Jungkook flushes. “Well…what do you expect me to say?”
Jimin cups his face and squishes it slightly, beaming down at him without a trace of resentment. “I’ve liked you since I saw your tiny, terrified, chubby face staring at me from the upper bunk for the very first time. It took me a while to realize it, but I did. I don’t expect you to say anything after four years.”
Something in Jungkook dies a bit.
Four years is an awfully long time to like someone.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” Jimin continues. “I just didn’t want to keep doing this stuff with you if you didn’t know how I really felt. So.” He shrugs. “And sex doesn’t really substitute a real relationship, either, but that’s the kind of thing you only learn by making that mistake yourself.”
“You want a relationship with me?”
Jungkook’s hands shake by his sides. He clenches them into fists to stop.
“Well,” Jimin says, looking away, “ideally. But that isn’t going to happen, so. I’ve already accepted it.”
“Why do you end your sentences with “so” so much when you’re disappointed?”
“I’m not disappointed.” A pause. “I’m resigned.”
Jungkook quails. Jimin isn’t just anyone. Jimin is the person who lured him out of his bed on that horrible first day because he was too afraid to meet the other members, the person who fed him lunch when he was too shy to eat with the rest of predebut BTS. He was the smile which brightened the dark days of back-to-back practices and the concern which lightened the times when Jungkook danced and dieted himself to exhaustion. Jimin, for a long time, was the only member of BTS who could get Jungkook to open up.
Jimin knows him better than anyone. Jungkook can’t imagine how much it would hurt to be that close to someone and have feelings for them at the same time for four whole years.
The same Jungkook who has slept with, been sucked off by, blown, and rimmed another man. And enjoyed it very much, really. His dick could testify to that with a large amount of certainty.
Is he… gay?
Jungkook is wearing a particularly magnificent Jungshook expression, Jimin thinks. He watches his bandmate’s face as he struggles, stray thoughts chasing each other across his face like tree branches whipping in a hurricane. His eyes stretch wide as saucers and his mouth hangs slightly open and slack, gaping a little dumbly. Jimin resists the urge to poke him.
“Well,” he sighs when he can’t take the idiocy on Jungkook’s face anymore, “I’ll just be going, then.”
He moves to get off the bed.
Jungkook coughs abruptly, quietly. “Ah…um…”
Jimin doesn’t stop.
“Wait!” he squeaks.
Jimin swivels slowly.
Jungkook wears the expression of a rat dangling by his tail over a bucket of water with startling accuracy. “I don’t want—” he tries, but sputters out into silence. He clears his throat, eyes bugging out, and opens his mouth again. “I don’t want you to—to go.”
He wants me to suck him off or something, Jimin thinks. I’m not doing it. I can’t. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this anymore the last time we fooled around. It takes more than sex to fill a heart.
“Jimin,” he starts, and coughs again. “I think I’m gay.”
This time it’s Jimin’s turn to choke.
Jungkook pounds him on the back. When he can breathe again, he gasps through watering eyes, “What did you say?”
“I said,” he says, seemingly overtaken by a powerful urge to awkwardly cough a third time, but suppressing it and forging on: “I think I’m gay.”
Jungkook's brow furrows. Jimin has known him for a long, long time, and he can see the sudden thought written all over the maknae’s face, outlined in red ribbons of terror: what if he doesn’t get it? “F-for you,” Jungkook adds, stumbling over the words slightly.
“They’re so gross,” Yoongi says lowly to Hoseok.
The two of them stare, while studiously pretending not to, at the disgusting pair sitting together at the end of the table. Jimin and Jungkook press together all along their sides, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Jimin’s leg is slung over Jungkook’s thigh. Jungkook looks at his face as he laughs, utterly besotted, and pours orange juice over his cereal.
“I like it,” Hoseok says, sunny enough to contest the golden rays blaring through the window and filling Bangtan’s kitchen with warmth and light. “Aren’t they cute?”
Seokjin sighs, prising the orange juice carton out of Jungkook’s loose hand. Jimin giggles again. Jungkook misses his mouth and spoons Frosties up his nose.
“When do you think the others are going to catch on?” Hoseok asks out of the side of his mouth, watching Jimin wipe milk off Jungkook’s cheek with a tenderness which makes Yoongi want to shudder.
Yoongi glances around the kitchen. Taehyung is happily smashing Lego blocks together. Namjoon distractedly taps a beat on the table, staring at the far wall and mumbling words under his breath. Seokjin frowns at the nutritional information on Jungkook’s cereal box, then glances at the massive mound of grain-flavored sugar in his bowl and tuts.
“I don’t think they will,” Yoongi says frankly. “They’re pretty dumb about these things, really.”
Hoseok reaches under the table and curls his hand around Yoongi’s pale one. His palm is warm. “Well,” he says, smiling, “They haven’t caught onto us yet.”
Yoongi looks at his bright, earnest face and feels a wave of thankfulness wash over him, so strong it makes him dizzy.
He tightens his hand around Hoseok’s. “Yeah,” he grunts.
Across the table, Jimin and Jungkook tip their foreheads together and close their eyes, smiling giddily.