Jimin stands in the dark entryway, pawing absentmindedly at the tears in his shirt. His wide eyes dart wildly around in the dark.
He knows, for a fact, that Yoongi had dragged him into the cabin. The evidence is there on his shirt to prove it—
But the alpha is gone. The grip had been gone from Jimin’s shirt the second he’d crossed the threshold, and by the time Jimin had finally grounded himself, he couldn’t see any sign of Yoongi.
Not a single light has been left on in the cabin—not even the candle Yoongi liked to leave lit for an hour before Jimin would typically fall asleep. Jimin’s hit with the sheer scent of the space, pheromones that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It’s nothing like what had made him stop still outside—but only because the increased intensity within the confines of the cabin leaves him overpowered and overwhelmed.
More than that, it’s anything but the dead silence Jimin had expected.
Instead, the quiet is punctuated with snarls, loud staccato banging, and, shockingly, clattering crashes—as if glass is shattering.
Jimin waits in vain for his eyes to adjust to the dark. His heart is pounding no matter how silly it might be to feel so nervous, and unlocking his body—from its completely still state, caught up in hormones, intimidation, rut—means shaky, startled pants before he can even attempt to move.
To make it worse, Jimin’s foot meets wood the second he does step forward.
He nearly curses. It his him hard, whatever it is, a dull but heavy object, and of course he’d stub his fucking toe—
The sounds stop.
Jimin’s eyes couldn’t possibly widen any more. Sweat’s cold under his arms; he doesn’t feel he’s been spotted, necessarily, but he stiffens nonetheless.
The cabin is quiet in that long moment, eerily calm. Long seconds pass, Jimin’s muscles locking and relaxing, his breath the loudest thing in the space. While he knows he doesn’t need to be worried, well.
He needs to play smartly.
Then, just like that, the growling resumes. Jimin would think he’d been seen if not for the snarling to be punctuated with more crashing, the kind of splintering sounds that indicate breakage.
Jimin reaches out blindly toward the object in front of him. It’s incredibly wide, turned on its side, and weirdly thin in places, with one, two points—
It’s the kitchen table. In the entryway.
He feels along its surface, and, in deep splintery texture, with eyes finally adjusting, Jimin can make out claw marks.
Goosebumps erupt over his arms. As if to give Jimin a hint, the crashing sounds from somewhere further in the cabin continue.
Is Yoongi… throwing things?
He can’t be, Jimin thinks.
It’s ridiculous, especially for Yoongi—who is, above all else, composed.
Controlled, Jimin knows, no matter how angry he is. Jimin is so extremely acquainted with that trait, knows it so well in the alpha’s face that, even as he steps carefully over broken ceramic that litters the entryway, he can only jolt each time he hears crash after crash from the kitchen.
Moving forward through the living room and toward the kitchen means Jimin has to feel all around him for objects, step carefully on broken glass that slides beneath his boots. There’s the familiar texture of leather—a couch cushion, feathers spilling out over the floor—and the smell of a snuffed candle from the bedroom that has most certainly been thrown to the ground.
As Jimin makes his way into the kitchen, he can peek around the archway that divides the two rooms; there, the alpha’s moving figure is visible, a black silhouette interrupting the blue moonlight from the kitchen window.
While the alpha’s back is turned, Jimin takes a step. At the lack of response, he persists, sneaking across the kitchen to stand along the furthest wall. Light from the adjacent window pours over Jimin’s face and body, but Jimin isn’t trying to hide: he’s trying to be caught.
He can finally see Yoongi, who’s—pacing, Jimin realizes.
It’s obviously distraught. He’ll grip something, squeezing it in his hand, and release it only to stumble again. His figure paces in and out of Jimin’s view. He nearly falls at one point, hand gripping the counter for balance. Then, when his body seems to visibly tighten and loses its patience—
He is throwing things.
Jimin flinches. The plate he’d hurled shatters against the wall but, more unnerving, the sound of his snarl is deafening.
Left too stiff to move, Jimin studies what little of the alpha is visible. The line of moonlight cuts Yoongi off diagonally at the clavicle but stretches pale blue over his body, ending well beneath his feet on the kitchen floor.
Those feet, Jimin recognizes, are covered in dry blood even while they don’t appear visibly injured. His eyes trace upward:
The alpha’s pants hang low on his hips, unbuttoned. There are frustrated tears at the thighs. Jimin follows the lines of his hipbones up the curves of muscle cording his stomach. Bare but covered with deep scratches, his chest moves rapidly with labored breath.
More than any of that, any of Yoongi’s shift is so imperceptible that Jimin is left to wonder if it’s complete or if he will continue to change. He’d expected transformation to happen to his eyes, to his ears, to his joints—changes in every part of him that should have shown the wolf inside.
Instead, there are no dramatic changes to his body; he stands the same way, carries himself the same way—albeit without any of the usual composure. Anything different, Jimin notes, must be subtle.
Another plate meets the wall; ceramic clatters.
Nothing could pull Jimin in before he’s ready, but the scent does its best. It works at him slowly, making Jimin pant just as much as Yoongi does, makes him wish the alpha would finally turn and put his hands on him—
As if Jimin had said any of it out loud, the alpha’s head snaps toward him. Jimin stops breathing.
He still can’t see how any of Yoongi’s features might look in the dark. All he knows, straining his wide eyes as much as he can, is the broad sweep down the alpha’s back and the stiff, straight line of his legs.
Yoongi’s whole body turns: Jimin’s discovered.
Jimin waits for the alpha to—to be on him, really, to grab him up and—
Even with every inch of his body aware, sweating, tensing, waiting, Jimin is so deeply stuck inside his headspace when the alpha crosses the stretch between them.
As the distance between them shrinks, the outline of Yoongi’s body blurs in Jimin’s vision.
Adrenaline leaves Jimin shaking; there aren’t any obstacles anymore. Not even the shards of ceramic stand a chance, not even when the alpha steps on them in a daze and leaves fresh, red footprints behind him.
He doesn’t growl, doesn’t snarl, doesn’t breathe for all Jimin can hear, leaving Jimin’s own pants as the only audible sound.
He does reach out.
His hands are the first to breach the line between dark and the light cast by the window, and with new visibility, Jimin can see how bloodied his knuckles and nails are.
Chills creep, tingly on his scalp.
Jimin imagines all the times he must have torn those pointed claws off only for them to grow back again and again—
They hover just a centimeter from Jimin’s clavicle. When Yoongi steps forward, face finally visible, Jimin can finally see that the pained expression he’d imagined is there.
There are the dilated eyes, pupil inking over iris. The whites of his eyes are nearly gone.
Jimin spends so long searching that, seeking some ring of brown around black, that he nearly misses the alpha’s mouth.
Dried blood smears up his jaw. His lips are speckled with it, too, and between those: incisors, too far grown. It’s not—not what Jimin had expected. They’re not nearly as long as they’re supposed to be; they don’t protrude. The adjacent teeth don’t look too altered, either; if Jimin hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed.
The alpha shakes his head.
Yoongi’s hands hover reverently over his face, over his cheeks, with long, pointed nails barely grazing Jimin’s skin in little divots. There they trail down his face, ghost along the curve of his jaw, and circle around his bare neck. His skin doesn’t touch Jimin’s, not for a single second.
“God,” he groans.
Jimin couldn’t be any more overwhelmed.
He shakes his head deliriously, hands traveling down, and just when Jimin is seconds from unfreezing, he pulls back.
Yoongi groans, covering his face with his hands. Veins, Jimin notices, look almost swollen on his forearms—
He shakes his head into them, snaps, “no, no.”
Jimin can only stare. His fingers twitch as he watches Yoongi stumble further back, not into the kitchen, but through the open arch dividing the spaces and into the small hallway.
Jimin follows after him entirely confused; it’s the last thing he expects. What is he trying to do, running away from Jimin? Is he asking for a chase?
But when Yoongi’s back hits the wall, he doesn’t fight, only slips down the drywall with a groan. With his eyes now adjusted, Jimin watches him curse long, steady streams of filth as he—
He tears a hand from his face and reaches into his pants.
Jimin’s body feels a little numb. He watches, immobilized, as the alpha bites down on his other hand, incisors drawing blood, all while taking his swollen knot into the other and—wrapping his fingers around the head, pumping.
Yoongi hisses into his bloodied hand—Jimin doesn’t know if he’s trying to muffle himself or if he’s just desperate to bite into something.
Into Jimin’s neck.
Yoongi’s hips jerk and the back of his head smacks against the wall. He releases the bite on his hand, finally, but only so that the alpha can support himself, palm against the wooden floor, as he fucks up into the hot, tight ring of his fingers. The scene only gives Jimin a better view of the bite.
A perfect semi-circle on the back of his hand—and it’s already healing, as if in a time lapse.
“No,” Yoongi’s hissing. “No.”
Jimin scans the alpha’s face only to find Yoongi’s eyes on his.
First instinct makes Jimin break eye contact, but that only means fixating hungrily on the alpha’s cock. Pre-come leaks freely from the slit over the little divot between head and swollen shaft—
Jimin panics; he wonders if Yoongi could know he’s wet.
The alpha mutters a long, steady string of curses as Jimin slides down the wall across from him. As Jimin slips lower and lower to eye-level, his hand quickens, wet and sloppy like he could already come.
Of course, Jimin knows that’s not likely. But as Yoongi scratches into the wood floor, snarls, and hits the head back against the wall, the frustration alone has Jimin hard.
He kneels, evaluating Yoongi curiously. Jimin’s too gone to look for the little things—indication of discomfort, muscle twitches, joints popping and crackling abnormally—but Yoongi’s dark eyes are there, and he can see the outlines of dark veins up Yoongi’s neck and even parts of his jaw.
There’s also, unforgettably, the sight of Yoongi blatantly snarling through sharp teeth as he pumps his swollen knot.
Jimin licks his lips.
“Yoongi,” he whines.
The alpha’s eyes roll into the back of his head, eyelashes fluttering.
With wide eyes, Jimin lowers down onto hands and knees. He’s never seen that kind of look from Yoongi.
The alpha’s reaching again, and from his back pocket he pulls out strips of shredded fabric to hold against his nose—Jimin’s shorts? A pair of his underwear? He doesn’t know, but it’s obviously well-used, dark and damp in splotches visible even in the low light.
Hesitantly, Jimin crawls forward. Yoongi must not even know what to do—his hand jerks away from himself, scratching at the wood floor. He looks like—like he’s scrambling, even if he doesn’t actually move away, just pulls on his shaft desperately, cursing shit, God, muttering more refusals.
Jimin crawls until he’s close enough to study the greyed stretch marks up either side of his jaw.
He should be terrified, approaching a literal predator. He might be, a little.
Yoongi shakes his head, fabric dropping. “No,” he snaps, yanking his own hair. “No, fuck.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Yoongi hisses.
He hits his head back once, twice, fingers tightening around his cock.
And Jimin feels awful—it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
“Why like this?” Yoongi spits, frustration visible, like Jimin isn’t right in front of him.
Jimin looks up at him carefully, leaning to one side, the other, swaying his hips back and forth in the air. When’s he going to snap?
“I know,” Yoongi mutters to himself. “I know, I know.”
Then why hasn’t he moved?
“I know,” Yoongi hisses. “I’m—I know, I’m gone, I know.”
Hearing him stutter somehow intimidates Jimin, but before he can even respond, Yoongi groans, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re not—” But he cuts himself off.
Yoongi’s pace increases.
“Shit,” the alpha hisses. “You’re not even real.”
The kind of worship in that growl has Jimin crawling forward before he can think twice.
He hovers, on his hands and knees, in the space between Yoongi’s open legs. The scent is strongest there, from the sheen of sweat on the juts of his hipbones down to the more obvious glisten on his knot.
Jimin’s head spins.
Without thinking, fingers half moving on their own, Jimin reaches toward it—
Only for the alpha to growl at him: a warning, and a correction.
Jimin’s eyes jerk up to meet his, astonished. He watches Yoongi blatantly laugh at that—not at Jimin, but at himself, at his personal crisis. He leans forward, dangerously close to Jimin, and inhales—and then he makes another bitter sound, falling back against the wall again.
“Yeah,” the alpha hisses. He pulls his hand off his cock for just a moment, just to hover his come-coated finger over Jimin’s lips. “Of course you’d be wet.”
Jimin lowers his front until his collarbone is inches from Yoongi’s knot. Why wouldn’t he be?
“It’s like I can smell you,” the alpha laughs deliriously.
It makes his whole body hot, makes him fixate on the sight dangled right in front of him.
“Sweet eyes,” Yoongi hisses. “Little puppy-dog face.”
His teeth clack together then and, hand darting, moves his fingers to Jimin’s face again.
Jimin can only imagine the kind of grip Yoongi could have on his face if Jimin only asked. The threat of the touch makes Jimin feel like his cheeks are already being scratched under sharp nails, face squeezed like a messy slut.
He swallows dryly. He’s only imagining it; Yoongi hasn’t touched him at all.
“Little needy thing,” Yoongi bites, muscle in his torso twitching. His tips of his nails barely scrape Jimin’s cheeks—
“—could grab you.”
His other hand’s pumping his cock again, aiming the head right at Jimin’s bare neck—
“Could knot you,” Yoongi hisses. “Breed you, mouthy little puppy.”
Jimin’s nodding before the alpha finishes his sentence, and as soon as the words leave Yoongi’s mouth, he’s shivering.
“Puppy eyes, puppy nose,” Yoongi murmurs, point of a nail digging into Jimin’s bottom lip. No skin to skin still; Jimin could cry—“Puppy lips.”
“Smooth puppy mouth,” he appraises, eyes glassy. “Perfect for sucking on a knot.”
—Jimin’s eyes are blown wide.
“Could fill you up,” he groans.
He snarls before Jimin can reach his knot again. Jimin could cry, eyes and ass and Yoongi’s cock all leaking all at once—
It’s all he wants. The worst part is that he feeds off of all of it: the scent, the way Yoongi glorifies him, and having Yoongi’s cock held like a treat in front of him only to have it pulled away like he hasn’t behaved well enough to play with it.
So, like a brat, he tries again.
“Please,” he bites, throat cracking.
He expects the growl but it still makes him falter. Yoongi’s thigh is taught and muscled beneath Jimin’s short fingers, all he can manage to grab at—
In one move, Yoongi jerks Jimin’s head up with come-slicked fingers on his chin.
He evaluates Jimin’s messed face in silent disbelief. His grip turns Jimin’s head from side to side, pads of his fingers pressing into Jimin’s cheeks and jaw as if to test whether he’s real.
It starts to resonate, with Jimin, that Yoongi hadn’t dared to touch him until Jimin had pushed that boundary. As the alpha stares at him with shock, inspecting, Jimin contextualizes everything Yoongi had said to him since he’d set foot in the cabin. He realizes it’s not so much of a stretch to suggest Yoongi might really be testing whether Jimin’s truly there or not.
As if he’s checking to see if Jimin is actually just a hallucination.
They stare at each other in stunned silence, realization between them. In Yoongi’s face there’s dangerous clarity where there was haze. And when Jimin had told the alpha to think of him during his ruts—
He hadn’t imagined provoking a shifter.
Yoongi’s eyes widen:
“Mine,” he snarls, grip tightening painfully.
Jimin watches the whites of his eyes yield to expanding black. Even knowing Jimin’s there, snuck in just to—just to be knotted, to have Yoongi hold him down—something flickers in his eyes. Something that might have been the last shred of restraint before Jimin leans, pressing his front down until the head of the alpha’s cock nudges his neck and Jimin’s ass is presented needily, back arched.
“Mm-hmm,” Jimin agrees. “Yours.”
The perfect presentation; he’s going to make sure Yoongi mounts him.
“Can’t hold back from this,” Yoongi hisses.
Jimin furrows his eyebrows, response a beat late. The snarl isn’t even worrying him anymore—is the smell already making him dizzy?
“Don’t,” he slurs.
Yoongi might—he might hiss through his teeth at that—but he definitely looks at Jimin through sweat-soaked hair.
“You know what all this is?” he slurs, gesturing to his scratched and bloodied chest, to himself.
When Jimin nods, drunk, Yoongi only laughs deliriously.
Jimin watches him lean forward, long line of muscle clenching. Nails dip into his skin again, little divots in his cheeks and, unless the bit of wet on his cheeks is a tear, one even cuts a little into his skin.
The grin on Yoongi’s face is outright predacious.
He makes it just past the arch way, mere feet.
That’s where the alpha snatches him right up, a single arm around Jimin’s middle—how, Jimin thinks dazedly—blatantly dragging him through the kitchen where he sweeps the remaining dishes off of the counter with one hand.
Jimin can’t help but wince at the clattering crackle they make against the floor.
Mouth curving over every syllable, flash of teeth between, Yoongi demands: “Is this what you wanted?”
Jimin’s thrown onto the counter. The cold stone makes his back arch, but Yoongi presses him down with a palm spread wide over his chest—
“You want to be bred?” the alpha snarls. “Is that why you thought you’d sneak in here? For my knot?”
Yoongi dips forward, and, against Jimin’s squirming and whimpering, inhales in the crook of his bare neck. As he hovers there, just a second, Jimin can hear his entire neck and back crackle in a long series down his spine.
Jimin’s eyes widen; the image of a bloody bite flickers desperately through his mind.
Yoongi’s shaky breath is enough to show how gone he is on its own, but then his trembling hands skate delicately up the narrow lines of Jimin’s body, shirt bunching up beneath Jimin’s underarms. There’s no point in removing it, not with a jacket of furs hanging off Jimin’s body, too, but Yoongi’s sure to stretch the fabric in his fists until stitches crackle dangerously.
“Mine,” the alpha moans. “Mine, mine…”
His grip tightens, and, slipping lower, he scratches down Jimin’s front. Jimin can only watch the red pebbling up in little stripes where cold air turns to sting—
Yoongi spreads Jimin’s legs until the material of his pants strains and his legs dangle uselessly off the counter’s edge.
“Couldn’t wait anymore?” the alpha slurs from between Jimin’s legs.
He drops to his knees, hand harshly slapping the inside of Jimin’s thigh before a response could even be possible, and sets about ripping Jimin’s pants off his body.
The sounds are surreal in Jimin’s ears, loud, scratchy rips that match the way he jerks Jimin’s legs around. Fabric hangs around his waist and ankles, but Yoongi thoroughly tears what covers his cock, ass and thighs.
He spreads Jimin, fingers dipping to feel the slick leaking from inside. Jimin squirms, rubbing his hole against the pads of his fingers uselessly.
“Not as obedient as I thought you were,” he muses.
All Jimin can do is nod.
“Snuck in for a good breeding,” Yoongi mutters. “I can’t believe you.”
Fingers holding Jimin wide, the alpha slurps at his hole.
Jimin shrieks, skin jiggling as he jumps. Yoongi growls into the damp skin there, maneuvering limp Jimin wherever he wants him like a ragdoll, two hands with steady grips on his hips and ass for whatever he might want.
Then, the second Jimin can start to feel pleasure build, he pulls back just as quickly as he’d started.
“Fuck the suppressants,” he laughs, pad of his thumb pressing on Jimin’s wet asshole. “What am I going to do to you when it’s finished?”
If he’s talking about a shift, Jimin doesn’t fucking know, but if he’s talking about the bond, Jimin can’t even imagine how good it could be—
Yoongi turns him onto his front like he’s another object to be thrown. He pulls Jimin down the counter so he can grab the soft little swells at the backs of Jimin’s thighs, where a deep, satisfied rumble sounds from the back of his throat.
“Guess omega puppy just needs a knot,” he croons, peering down at Jimin.
Just as Jimin’s about to punctuate his nodding with begging, the alpha spanks him.
“You know how much I thought about that?” he snaps, reaching around to take Jimin’s flushed little cock into his grip. Rubbing his thumb over the slit, he growls, “Did you know what you were doing to me? When you looked at me with that face? When you took my furs? When you wore these—”
He reaches into the back pocket of his own pants and, pulling out the shreds of Jimin’s shorts, throws come-soaked fabric beside his wet face. He growls, correcting Jimin before he can breathe in the scent of seed and knot there.
“When you sucked my cock right before the worst rut I’ve ever had?”
Jimin squeezes his eyes shut against the sting that blooms in them—and then the tears. The tip of Yoongi’s swollen cock slips against and nudges his wet hole, making all of Jimin’s muscles twitch, his joints ache—
The alpha’s come-covered hand strokes Jimin’s cheek.
No matter how much he squirms, he can’t quite force the knot inside—but Yoongi groans, head dipping back before he focuses on Jimin’s messy face again, pressed into the counter.
“You really are perfect for me.”
Jimin’s front slides up the counter, nipples dragging, top of his head meeting the backsplash. In Yoongi’s hands each is a grip full of Jimin’s ass.
He licks his lips as he looks between.
“All spread for breeding,” Yoongi slurs.
Jimin squirms and rubs himself over the dark head impatiently while the alpha adjusts, planting a hand on the counter, parallel with Jimin’s face, preparing to mount. The cockhead is blunt as it is wet, catching on his rim hard and unforgiving—
He doesn’t even have to beg; Yoongi’s lost patience. All he has to do is arch his back, standing on the tips of his toes, presenting as much as he can while bent in half.
Yoongi pulls Jimin’s entire body down by his thighs until the base of his knot meets Jimin’s rim. He must make such a satisfied face when he leans forward, snarls at the back of Jimin’s hot neck, and hears Jimin keen as he pushes inside.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Park Jimin.”
There’s nothing to hold onto, so Jimin’s left to lay limply on the counter top while Yoongi has his way with Jimin’s hole. The sweat between his front and the surface of the counter means Jimin’s skin and nipples are pulled harshly by mere friction—
He mewls, sound breaking with every slap of skin. He’s letting Yoongi do this to him, volunteered to take his cock, sent himself right to the alpha’s front fucking door for it, packaged like a toy.
Even the little friction he keeps from standing on tip-toe slips on the kitchen floor. Jimin’s cock brushes the counter’s edge at times, bringing little cold jolts and—it’s almost too much.
When he strains, neck twisting, peering over the curve of his shoulder, he can see the twist in Yoongi’s features, the veins of his neck when he throws his head back, pins Jimin down to the counter with a hand on his neck, and growls:
“Look what you made me do.” The sound of him slapping Jimin’s ass hits just before the sting. “Look what you—”
He hisses through his teeth when Jimin grinds back to meet him, inches of his shaft disappearing into greedy wet.
“I—Yoongi,” Jimin stutters. “Made you—”
The alpha’s sweat- and blood-stained palms slide up into Jimin’s hair.
“Fuck,” he exhales, and pressing his head reverently into the curve of Jimin’s shoulder, he mutters, “Made me do this to you.”
He’s going to pull Jimin apart.
“I didn’t,” Jimin sobs, reaching to grab the fullness of his own ass, pulling until it’s taut while Yoongi only hitches his leg up higher up to the counter—
It changes the entire angle, ruining Jimin that much more when Yoongi insists: “Yes you did.”
Jimin shudders, pleasure tickling the base of his stomach.
The sound of slapping skin rings in Jimin’s ears.
“—ruined me,” he bites. “Since I saw you. I’ve never—I’ve never been so close to a shift before, shit—”
He drops the word so casually, Jimin realizes. And that’s what it is, second nature—
“—You’ve.” He pants hot kisses into Jimin’s spine. “Driven me insane, haven’t you? I knew you would.”
He nips as his pace picks up, a truly brutal fucking, one that has Jimin seizing, whole body shaking, damp hands squeezing into fists—
“And, fuck,” Yoongi snaps, “you’re so good.”
Jimin’s orgasm is hot, instant, with little build, and far too much all at once. It’s disorienting on its own, but then the alpha is rambling hot words, more vocal than Jimin has ever heard:
“Aren’t you?” He encourages, fixating on the way Jimin shakes and whines beneath him. “You make me think I was made to do this to you—I never thought I’d—”
He reaches between Jimin’s legs, squeezing his spent cock until he yelps.
“—want to take someone apart so much,” he snarls. “And you—”
—Jimin’s whimpering a sad string of please, Yoongi, Yoongi, please—
“You made me desperate,” he growls, slick sounding loud between them. “Because you’ve always been so fucking good.”
Jimin is acutely aware of the stretch on his rim that starts to develop. He braces himself, hiccupping, tensing at the swell, but Yoongi stops. As if he wants to drag Jimin’s begging on a little longer, he pulls out his slick-covered knot.
“Should’ve given in a long time ago,” he growls deliriously, scrapping claws over Jimin’s back.
Jimin doesn’t know which one of them he’s referring to when he says that. He can only cry, mutter about the way Yoongi’s knot is starting to swell, and grind on the cock inside. The stretch on his rim is driving him insane, even though he’s already come, and even when Yoongi stills, leaving them both on the edge—
Yoongi croons as Jimin groans, blunt nails scraping desperate stripes on the counter.
“Please,” Jimin sobs, squeezing desperately. “Please.”
The moan he gets from that tells Jimin the alpha is anything but unaffected.
It makes Jimin sob that much more when Yoongi stops him, two hands at his hips, and pulls out. The alpha might look gone, but he’s still murmuring something not yet, squeezing Jimin’s ass around the curve of his shaft while he ruts over the soaked hole between.
He plays with Jimin’s little bud of a cockhead, too, and that makes Jimin keen, makes him think that he’s a little pet for Yoongi to play with, meant to be inflated with seed, to have his ass used like a little omegean toy; things he probably shouldn’t think about himself but drools over regardless—
But Jimin has not signed up to be edged. On shaking arms, he props himself up, shuddering when the alpha merely pinches the foreskin his head peeks out of—
“I want you to—you were going to—”
The words come out stilted, stuttered, nothing close to the challenge he’d intended.
The alpha’s eyes travel slowly from his cock, rutting between Jimin’s asscheeks, up Jimin’s body, black eyes fixating on his. The unspoken dare is there—that while he can try, Jimin is already begging for a knot before Yoongi’s swollen.
“…breed me,” he finishes.
God, Jimin’s going to be ruined.
Yoongi doesn’t push him when he tries to turn, though. He even helps Jimin—manhandles him, even holds Jimin so that he can sit upright on the counter the way he wants, so that Jimin can, even while he’s mortified to act like such a knot-needy omega, reach between them both to take both of their shafts in his little hand, pumping Jimin’s miniscule cock against the wide shaft of Yoongi’s knot.
The alpha’s burying his face into Jimin’s neck though, growling and making mark after mark, never quite breaking skin but—Jimin’s pleased his alpha.
It means he gets to watch the muscles of Yoongi’s stomach flex just a little closer, see the way his whole body shakes, hear his neck cracking as he throws his head back; it means he pulls the alpha a little further from the last shreds of control.
Thighs trembling, cock weeping, Jimin groans: “Give it to me.”
Yoongi’s eyes widen—Jimin only wraps his legs around the alpha’s waist.
“C’mon,” Jimin hisses, demanding, and when Yoongi growls a warning at him, he lunges.
They fall in a mess of limbs to the ground. The alpha’s humoring him, he figures, letting Jimin pretend he has some image of power instead of merely holding him in place. He allows Jimin’s desperate, shaky positioning of his cock so that Jimin can slip down smoothly on him, rim stretched wide.
As Jimin grinds deliriously, he snaps: “Want—you’re mine.” He can’t bounce on Yoongi’s cock the way he wants, not without pulling dangerously at his rim, but he drags his blunt fingernails over the alpha’s nipples anyways. “Give me—”
The strain in his legs is exhausting; it’s so much easier to sit and let Yoongi fuck up into him—rough, sharp strikes that make Jimin moan open-mouthed until saliva threatens to dribble out onto the alpha’s chest.
Finally, he’s got Yoongi’s knot and he can keep it inside him like his life depends on it—and he thinks it does, irrationally thinks that if he stops he might never have such a perfect chance to show Yoongi who owns him.
Yoongi’s grip wraps tight around Jimin’s cock. He growls again, another warning, tight pressure on Jimin threatening to turn painful, but Jimin plants his hands on Yoongi’s chest, leans low into Yoongi’s face, and hisses:
“Give it to me.” He ruts forward into Yoongi’s hand, tight little jerks. “I want it—fucking, fucking give me a knot, fuck, Yoongi.”
Then—taking it all into his hands—he nips the alpha’s shoulder. If anything’ll get him what he wants, that’s it.
He’s on his back then, a turn that threatens to pull on the tie between them but feels so good when Yoongi snaps at his neck, fucking his knot deeper, hard and fast—
His hand wraps around Jimin’s throat.
“I’ll give it all to you,” he threatens.
That makes Jimin hesitate, makes his legs and eyes open a little more.
Yoongi’s hips snap forward, cock fucking into him, knot stretching his rim uncomfortably. Jimin knows, in that moment, that he can’t afford to squirm.
“You want a knot?” he demands, and when Jimin nods frantically, his fingers tangle in Jimin’s damp hair. “Say it.”
Jimin’s struggling to breathe and he hasn’t even been choked yet. “Need—”
“—my knot,” Yoongi finishes, yanking. “Only me.”
He’s nodding into Yoongi’s grip on his neck, tears pouring down his face, blubbering.
“Yeah?” the alpha murmurs sweetly. “Need it, baby?”
“Need your fucking knot,” Jimin hisses, entire body jerking.
And he does. The knot swelling in him is the only thing that can scratch the incessant itch under his skin, can finally give him what he wants—
To be bred. He wants to be full, and in the end, it’s all he can take. He’s made for it, Yoongi’s omega in that moment, made to take knot after knot until his stomach is swollen and distended.
Shaking, his hand reaches between them and, finding his stomach, Jimin pats and palms the skin there desperately, little whimpers pouring out of his wet mouth. He doesn’t expect to feel the little bulge in his lower abdomen that makes its appearance every time the alpha fucks into him.
“You have to take it,” Yoongi croons carefully. “Don’t let it spill, puppy.”
He squeezes Jimin’s throat, so gently, pressure so careful that it only makes Jimin cry more and moan a weak little “yeah, please, yeah.”
And when Yoongi takes pity on him, fingers carding through Jimin’s hair, Jimin can’t help but squeeze around him when he comes again.
He’s fucked-out, already, can only lie there, but Yoongi’s cautioning him:
“Don’t waste it, baby.”
Jimin shakes his head, no, he won’t let go of any of it—
“You’d better not,” he threatens, “or it won’t take.”
And that’s it—that’s the point, being bred, being stuffed so full for hours and hours, the thought that would have made Jimin come again if he weren’t already spent—
“Mm-hmm,” Jimin sniffles, nodding. “Wanna be full.”
Yoongi’s cursing under his breath when the knot finally catches, pulsing, and he comes.
The sensation is—it’s dopamine and fullness all at once. It’s uncomfortable as heat and seed flood into Jimin’s body, but it’s also hot, warming up his entire lower body, spilling out the rim—
“No,” Jimin cries, fingers darting down to his hole.
Yoongi merely nips his scent gland, the threat of a bite more soothing than anything else, and makes a sound when he comes—a pitch a little higher than a moan, not quite a growl—something close to a whine.
That’s satisfaction, that’s the instinct in him purring, content.
Jimin has the gratification, lying limp in a mess of fur and slick of knowing that Yoongi must finally be sated, even if only temporarily. And it’s obvious, not only in the lock between them but in the contractions of his muscles as he comes, again and again, growling into Jimin’s neck.
Jimin smiles dreamily, every bit a sated omega. He has all the time he needs take in all the alpha’s seed—
Until the alpha’s fingers find his mouth.
Jimin’s eyes dart open as Yoongi’s fingers slip between his lips.
“Never knew you could be like this,” the alpha murmurs, spreading hot slick inside Jimin’s mouth. “I want you even more.”
Then, as if he isn’t even slightly exhausted by the knot tying them together, he grabs Jimin up in his arms—and drags him to the bedroom.
Held with his back against the wall, Jimin tries to keep up.
Not only is he already uncomfortably stuffed with come by the time Yoongi fucks him again, but his hole also feels… not raw yet, but burning without the knot to plug him.
Yoongi’s hands hold Jimin to the wall with a hand beneath the crook of each knee. It makes for an incredible, mind-numbing stretch from hamstrings to rim, and it spreads Jimin so wide that the mess of slick secreted from his sloppy hole drips to the floor.
“You spilled,” Yoongi reminds, “didn’t you?”
Jimin shudders. Fucking Christ, he looks good.
“’S alright,” Yoongi croons, hitching one of Jimin’s legs up further. “You can’t take it all, anyway.”
He can’t get enough of manhandling Jimin—one hand moving, and then the other, never to give Jimin any room to move but always to satisfy the itch that’s rapidly bubbling up under the alpha’s skin.
That same itch has Yoongi shuddering, muscles twitching, joints cracking more and more.
He growls filth into Jimin’s ear, hot snarling so close to Jimin’s neck that he swears there’ll finally be a shift happening, there’ll finally be a damn bite—
“The things I’ve thought about,” he laughs, hand feeling desperately at the soft bloat of Jimin’s stomach—
Tell me, Jimin wants to encourage. He moans instead, a long airy sound Yoongi must take some pity on; he wraps his fingers around the sad length of Jimin’s cock, pumping, and details:
“I thought about it every day,” he slurs. “When I saw you I knew it was over. You have—”
He’s shaking his head, eyebrows creased: “The sweetest face, and all I could think about—”
Jimin pants. “You wanted—” He squeezes, and guesses, “—to fuck it?”
It’s probably a little more explicit than expected.
He pants into Jimin’s neck, and where Jimin expects to feel a knot swell inside, he instead hears a long, deafening string of crackling from the alpha’s back and shoulders.
Jimin drags him deeper and deeper into that place, stretching his neck and presenting the bruised, stamped skin there.
He watches the imprints the alpha’s fingers leave behind: long, darkened marks. Saliva cools over them and in the crooks between the fingers Jimin had sucked, so obedient, giving Yoongi the fucked-out expression that had put Jimin to the wall in the first place.
“Is it close?” Jimin pants, back arching. “You’re—the shift?”
He shakes his head—not refusal, nor necessarily even denial—he’s trying to put it off. Jimin knows because he watches his face crumble, his shoulders shake, the vigorous shake of his head turn into nodding—
“Hurts,” the alpha hisses, shoulders tensing.
Jimin is, truthfully, too far gone to console him. He’d croon if he weren’t on the edge.
Instead, he runs his shaking little fingers through the alpha’s dark hair. The wet hair bleeds like ink in between, but it pulls easily, yanks with no resistance, and then Jimin’s eyes focus.
The hottest part: his neck.
It isn’t marred the way Jimin’s is. It’s not unblemished, either, but there’s plenty of free skin between Jimin’s nips. Yoongi’s skin tone is cool and transparent like the light that outlines his skin from clavicle to earlobe. Just beneath the latter, slicked in oil, sits the alpha’s scarred scent gland.
He breathes shallowly as he fixates on the little white line on Yoongi’s neck. It seems to make perfect sense, as he pulls Yoongi’s hair until the alpha reveals more of that curve, that he should bite it.
The alpha’s eyes widen as Jimin leans in. He’s frozen, body trembling—
Jimin inhales, smells everything intoxicating wrapped into one small spot, and bites.
Not once, but twice—ripping the skin in his teeth, an awfully messy bite, one that’ll leave plenty of scab and a thick ring of scar, a bite so messy he’ll be ashamed to have shown the compound how desperate he was, diving in for a half-bond, of all things—
The line of muscle between Yoongi’s neck and shoulder tenses as Jimin breaks skin. Metallic tang spills onto his tongue and coats his teeth.
“Mine,” he hisses into Yoongi’s neck.
His cock spills, white dripping sadly from the slit, the second Yoongi’s knot swells.
He pulls away, gasping. Blood drips down his chin and down the alpha’s chest. As Jimin presses his fingers against Yoongi’s neck curiously, more red bubbles out of the little cuts he’s made.
The scar and the brand sit, perfectly placed, in the middle of Jimin’s bite.
Yoongi shudders against him. Jimin can feel all the muscles twitching, his chest pumping, everything like a simmer beneath his skin. He himself has never been more pleased to have taken exactly what he wants.
Jimin traces his bloody fingers up the stretch of Yoongi’s neck in soft, gentle strokes. When the alpha looks down at him, eyes so black Jimin can barely see any white, he purrs.
Of course, it follows that the rest of the rut is a little blurry.
Jimin is never as gone as he had been during his heat, but the sex does merge in a mess of slick and knots, and above all else—
“Mine,” Yoongi reminds, pinning Jimin beneath him as his knot stretches him wide. “My sweet little baby.”
And Jimin considers himself so, so lucky to hear it—not just because it’s praise.
Yoongi’s becoming increasingly nonverbal.
That might also be a part of the shift, some dazed part of Jimin thinks—
Is it close? Jimin wants to know. Is it done?
Eventually, when Jimin’s stomach is absolutely stuffed and he’s been so thoroughly bred his back aches, he starts to wonder what he’d expected out of a shift at all.
Jimin doesn’t have any strength to flip them, but when he paws at the alpha’s shoulder, Yoongi helps them turn. He bounces desperately on him, thighs straining, arms shaking. While he milks the knot swelling inside, he looks over the alpha.
Jimin’s been crying for far too long, but even he can make out the changes. It might not be what he was expecting, and it might not be dramatic, but he can’t pretend he’s looking at the same alpha entirely. The changes are all there—in the disposition, the way his body responds—
Stretch marks completely cover his cheeks and even reach the skin near his dark, dark eyes. The way his jaw can just flex, can unhinge at a moment’s notice—Jimin’s bite is going to be huge.
He’d expected to see something completely alpha, and while what he sees isn’t entirely transformative, isn’t the wolf he’d been taught to be scared of, he knows Yoongi isn’t entirely the same. It’s nuanced—but it’s in every little part of him.
Jimin eyes the drying blood on Yoongi’s neck, the scabs that rapidly give way to healing scars, and knows that because this shift is complete that Yoongi must be, therefore, different even from other shifters.
After two days, many knots, and several hours of warming the alpha’s cock in Jimin’s slick mess of a hole, Jimin comes to—barely.
“That’s it, puppy,” Yoongi’s soothing. As he adjusts, his hard cock withdraws from Jimin, leaving behind a wet stickiness that leaks onto Jimin’s ass and thighs; a reminder and a claim itself.
Jimin whines, sleep clinging to his body.
“I know, puppy,” he’s crooning, pushing Jimin’s sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. “You did so good. Didn’t you?”
Jimin’s raw ass alone is enough confirmation for him to nod.
The alpha makes a hum of agreement.
He praises, “You took it so well.”
When his hand—skirting over Jimin’s battered body—traces the curve of bloated tummy, he groans softly.
“Better than I even thought you could,” he admits.
Yoongi puts him into place, allowing Jimin to fall onto his back and spread his legs where he lays—in front of the fireplace, evidently. The flames lit there tempt Jimin to glance around, sneaking suspicion suggesting he might have been out so long the alpha had already cleaned up some of his destruction, but it’s still too dark in the cabin to tell.
Yoongi is also very much naked, on top of him, half-bonded to him. That’s the real pressing issue.
“Park Jimin,” he breathes. If anything can pull Jimin from drowsiness, it’s that.
“Mm-hmm?” Jimin asks, a little demurely. His legs brush against Yoongi’s legs and… furs, he’s pretty sure, which seem to be spread beneath them.
Jimin looks over the curves of the alpha’s face. Some elements of the shift remain: the muscles that appear permanently flexed, the swollen Adam’s apple, stretchmarks, and the extra definition of his face that must be some combination of added muscle and two days without nutrition.
But the eyes are back. A little ring of brown surrounding that dilated pupil.
Yoongi’s eyes are hungry on his lips, his nipples, his neck.
“One more, baby,” he murmurs, fingers gently skirting along the soft curve of Jimin’s bruised ass. Tickles erupt over the skin. “Can you take it?”
Jimin’s whining a pathetic yes even before Yoongi brings the pads of his fingers up to Jimin’s wet hole.
He holds himself, knees drawn up to his chest, a hand under each knee, while Yoongi preps him. He can smell, now, that the slick that pours out of Jimin is mixed with sweat and seed, coating the alpha’s fingers and the furs beneath them.
Jimin’s confronted with pleasure and with the memory of everything—of every knot that had inflated his stomach, of begging to be—
He swallows. There had been very little time, he realizes, where he wasn’t stuffed.
He must be whining audibly at just the thought, because Yoongi leans into him, smooth skin of his chest against Jimin’s much smaller one, and presses a kiss there.
Jimin eyes him from eyes to collarbone as Yoongi grips handfuls of his chest and waist. The alpha looks so pleased to be above him, to be so close, to have Jimin’s mark on his neck. Jimin’s chest seizes, and he can’t help but ask—
“Aren’t you going to bite me?”
The question comes out sweetly, gently—but it must leave Yoongi shaken.
He’s frozen in place above Jimin.
He asks, breathless: “Would you want that?”
Jimin can feel, against his chest, the increase in Yoongi’s heartbeat, the warmth of his skin that radiates in his eyes. He waits for the alpha’s pupils to dilate, and when he gets his expected reaction—wide eyes, blown pupils, a little bit of shock mixed with anticipation—he can’t hold back a smile.
He giggles. “I bit you, didn’t I?”
It takes a long moment for Yoongi to breathe again. He looks like—like his life changes in that moment.
He curses, and he leans down, kisses a gasp out of Jimin—
“You don’t know what that means for me,” he breathes out, all in a rush. His hands are trembling on Jimin’s sides.
“No,” Jimin corrects teasingly. “I know.”
“You—I…” But his eyes are shining, and his fingers soft and carding through Jimin’s hair. “You could have my life if you wanted it.”
“I know,” Jimin breathes. He really could. In a way, he will.
The reverent expression on Yoongi’s face feels magical, thrums delicately in Jimin’s chest—it isn’t the hormones, either. Jimin doesn’t try to verbalize it.
“I’m going to give you everything,” the alpha dedicates.
“I know,” Jimin giggles again.
He’s excited, too, enough to turn his neck. He feels the alpha’s fingers tighten up in his hair, not painful, but eager, like he can’t help himself from holding Jimin in place—
“You’d better hurry up and take it,” Jimin teases.
Yoongi takes his time instead.
Jimin comes twice before the alpha’s knot begins to swell.
“Just a little more,” Yoongi eases, fingers slipping beneath Jimin’s arched back. He traces the curve of Jimin’s spine. “Alright?”
Jimin nods, gasping. He hasn’t been able to keep still for a second, limbs constantly twitching and squirming at the maddening pace Yoongi sets inside him. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ echoes between them, Jimin begging and Yoongi taking, and taking again—
He’s so grateful. That alone has Jimin hiccupping.
Are you okay? Yoongi has asked. No pain?
And also: Can I take you, baby? Do you want to be mine?
“Yes, yes, yes,” Jimin hisses, hips jerking wildly underneath the alpha. “Yours, Yoongi—”
“Mine,” he responds. He growls: “My mate.”
He nods feverishly, thighs straining around the alpha’s waist.
Yoongi’s going to make Jimin crazy. He sets a slow pace as if Jimin has a shred of patience to offer. It’s deep, splitting him wide, and the pleasure is hot even when Yoongi stops and pins him in place, whispers shh and you can do it, puppy. Jimin tries his best and, a little begging aside, he succeeds.
He knows he’s good. He can’t say he doesn’t need Yoongi to tell him, because hearing the praise makes Jimin cry and grind on his knot a little more each time, but he also gets off just purely by knowing he’s exactly what his mate wants.
You’re perfect for me, aren’t you?
It’s exactly why he doesn’t last long.
When Jimin physically can’t wait anymore, when he feels like pleasure will turn to pain, he reaches out shakily.
“Mine,” he whimpers, and preens when the alpha leans in.
He finds Yoongi’s hair in his grip, yanks, turns the alpha’s head to just the right angle, and sinks his teeth into the unbitten side of Yoongi’s neck.
The immediate swell inside Jimin parallels the final snap, the part of Yoongi that’s purely alpha giving in.
Yoongi shakes violently as he comes. He shakes when his knot begins to swell, when it’s large enough to lock them together, and when it continues to swell even more than Jimin has experienced before—it’s just as intense for him as it is for Jimin, and when his teeth finally sink into Jimin’s presented skin, it’s even more.
The bite is anything but restrained.
He has the strength to break Jimin’s skin easily but marks as if he doesn’t; it’s clean, one bite, but undeniably painful. As Jimin yelps, Yoongi pins him in place; he growls, too, but not just a warning. It’s not a sound Jimin has ever heard before—not a croon, and not purely soothing, either.
Jimin is surprised to recognize it as dominance.
He lays still on his back while Yoongi soothes the mark. His tongue slips over the skin—maybe to smooth it over, or maybe to savor the claim.
Jimin doesn’t quite follow the way Yoongi’s hands caress his shoulders and rub the soft curve of his stomach reverently, not because he doesn’t want to pay attention to his mate in the moment of bonding, but because he can’t.
There is no supernatural feeling of a bond, but there are, overwhelmingly, endorphins. Jimin shakes underneath him, feverish, pain completely forgotten—
That lasts a while. Pure, unregulated endorphins.
Yoongi holds his face very carefully by the chin and looks Jimin straight in the eyes.
He’s—saying something soothing. A lot of soothing things, actually. It’s probably been a while since the bite itself, Jimin realizes, if Yoongi’s already recovered.
Mine, Jimin thinks, repeatedly, a little deliriously.
Yoongi huffs a gentle laugh. “Yours,” he agrees.
Jimin licks his lips and inhales. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud, but it doesn’t bother him.
He does, however, want to hear more of Yoongi’s voice.
“Hi,” Jimin croaks, peeking up at him.
Yoongi stares down at him like he’s the center of the universe.
“Hi, baby.” He sweeps the tips of his fingers very gently and sensitively over Jimin’s jawline.
Jimin smiles, shoulders shrinking up at the tickle—it triggers a sting from his neck, but he doesn’t pay it any attention.
Yoongi does, though, as always. He blows gently at the bite, cool air soothing.
“How are you feeling?” he rumbles, tone gentle and low.
“M’good,” Jimin slurs sleepily.
He can only preen under the tingly feeling of the alpha’s calloused fingertips tracing gentle curves on his skin. He wonders what words Yoongi might be tracing there, what he might be thinking.
They’re bonded. Jimin knows that if he wants to know what Yoongi is thinking, well—he can ask.
Drowsily, he murmurs: “Do I get to know everything now?”
He doesn’t know how much more there could be, but Yoongi laughs, a warm, airy exhale.
“Yes, you do,” he promises. “You have any pressing questions you want to ask? Before you pass out?”
Jimin tucks his face into the alpha’s chest. He tries to think about—about whatever he’d wanted to ask. In front of him, there’s… Yoongi, Yoongi’s scent, Yoongi’s neck, his claim on Yoongi—
They lay there in the mess they’d made of fur, sex, and sweat—and, knowing that Jimin finally has every option open to him, he’s the first to fall asleep.
Yoongi sits up to look at the little omega curled up in his bed.
Round cheeks, soft and wide lips slightly chapped; rosy, tanned skin. Deep black hair, brown eyes closed beneath straight, dark eyelashes.
Gentle, smooth sweep of jawline into chin. An Adam’s apple, bobbing each time he fusses and swallows in half-sleep.
Excitement swells—when will he wake up? What do the marks on either side of Yoongi’s neck look like?
The omega makes a little sound, as if he can feel how impatient Yoongi is, a soft huff into the pillow before he wakes.
Jimin peeps at him through barely-opened eyes. Sleepy, soft, glowing. The passing rain season will be over soon, Yoongi knows, with that alone.
Jimin smiles languidly.
All his own. Bonded permanence.
“Hi,” Yoongi greets, smile parting his lips unashamedly.
Yoongi could cry.
Jimin’s head rolls in a half circle, back and around over to the other shoulder, as he sits up himself. His fluffy bedhead shifts as he does. Jimin is the smallest, most graceful little thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
He looks at Yoongi with red cheeks, hair so mussed that even the hair in his eyebrows stands at attention.
How couldn’t Yoongi smile?
“Hi,” Jimin says, eyes wide, a little dazed. “… You look…”
Yoongi runs his fingers through his greasy hair. He knows everything is a damn mess—
“… hot.” The omega licks his lips.
Yoongi raises his eyebrows just to watch the omega’s face warm.
Jimin fidgets in the sheets, eyeing the lines of Yoongi’s bare chest, up over his clavicle, fixating on the twin scabbed bites. One at the crook between his neck and shoulder, the other much higher up, on the other side—circling his scar.
Yoongi can’t wait to see the shapes of them. He hopes they’re messy—though he’ll be thrilled with even the neatest marks.
“… Sorry,” the omega murmurs, flustered.
Yoongi shakes his head, grinning.
And Jimin—Jimin stares at him. Yoongi fully accepts the warmth in his eyes.
“Do I…?” The omega stops, searching for encouragement with his eyes, and Yoongi nods encouragingly so that he can say: “Do I know it all, now?”
Yoongi can finally breathe, lungs expanding with relief.
“Not quite,” he admits, “but I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
The eager look on Jimin’s face is so bright. Yoongi really loves him.