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Jungkook preferred to think he knew Jimin better than anyone. He'd had time enough to memorize the way his smile leaned more on the left side when it was sincere, the delicate lines at the outer corner of his eyes when he laughed within his laughter, the rhythm of his voice when he was tired but still trying to be charming. Jimin was a warmth incarnate—humming always, reaching always, pulling Jungkook in without even trying to.
And Jungkook… let him.
Always.
That was how it had always been between them. Jimin led; Jungkook followed. Jimin taunted; Jungkook flushed. Jimin shone; Jungkook gravitated toward him like gravity itself had been rewritten.
But lately—lately, something was different.
And they weren't actually stopping. A hand resting behind his neck, its thumb brushing against the short hairs of his nape as Jimin stooped down to whisper something in his ear. Hands on the small of his back while crossing the road, protective, casual, and as if it were the most straightforward thing to do. An enormous hand on Jungkook's thigh as they sat on the couch, flipping a movie that was barely being watched.
Jungkook told himself not to read anything into it. But his body betrayed him. The flush climbing up his ears, the heart racing a beat too fast when Jimin leaned close, the stutter caught in his throat whenever Jimin's smile tilted just right-maybe all of it was giving him away. And late into the night, all alone in his room, with his phone abandoned on his desk, he found himself pressed into his bed, hand in between his legs, thinking about Jimin's voice curling like smoke down into his ear.
Baby.
My puppy prince.
The words rang in his head like they’d been branded there, sticky and sweet, impossible to scrub away no matter how hard he tried.
It was embarrassing. It was consuming. And worst of all—Jungkook already knew, deep down, that if Jimin ever asked, he would give him anything.
The shift was subtle enough that Jungkook almost convinced himself he was imagining it.
It started one evening at the 24-hour store. Leaning on the counter, bag of chips in hand, Jimin hollered through an aisle, "Hurry up, baby, I'm starving." The word had sort of just slipped out; it was so comfortable with Jimin that it seemed right there with him. Jungkook almost dropped his bottled water. Heat rushed to his ears, and he had to duck his head, hoping nature would be kinder enough not to show color creeping over his face under those cruel fluorescent lights.
The other time would be after dance practice, when Jungkook lay sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, sweat marking the shirt on his body. Jimin crouched beside him, enjoying his moment, pinching Jungkook's cheek.
“Good job, puppy. You worked hard.”
The pet name shot straight down his spine, the praise seeping into his bones like fire. Jungkook laughed too loudly, swatting Jimin’s hand away with a shaky flick of his wrist, but all he could think about for the rest of the evening was that voice—low, warm, curling around words that shouldn’t make him want as much as they did.
And then there was the couch incident. Jimin had stretched out comfortably, head tilted back, one arm draped over the cushion. Jungkook sat beside him, trying to focus on the screen, but Jimin had shifted closer, so close that their thighs pressed together.
“Pass me the remote, baby,” he murmured lazily. Jungkook did. Without hesitation. Without even thinking. The way his body obeyed without question was humiliating, and the flush on his cheeks burned hotter for it.
By the time he was home that night, Jungkook was restless. He’d showered, he’d scrolled through his phone, he’d even tried to sketch to distract himself. Nothing worked. When his hand finally slid beneath the waistband of his sweats, it was Jimin’s laugh echoing in his ears, Jimin’s hand on his thigh, Jimin’s words—good boy, baby, my puppy—that drove him to the edge. He bit his lip until it ached, ashamed of how easy it was, how fast he unraveled with nothing but the thought of his best friend’s voice.
He tried to tell himself it was just a phase, a side effect of being too close, of knowing someone too well.
But then Jimin started pushing further.
It was a small moment, barely even an accident—or so Jungkook wanted to believe. They were sitting at the kitchen table, half-laughing over takeout, when Jimin reached over to wipe away a smear of sauce at the corner of Jungkook’s mouth.
His thumb brushed Jungkook’s lip. Soft. Lingering.
Jungkook froze, chopsticks hovering in midair, heart pounding against his ribs. He didn’t breathe until Jimin leaned back, smirk tugging at his lips, as though he’d done nothing unusual at all.
And then, just when Jungkook thought his face couldn’t possibly get redder, Jimin hummed, low and satisfied: “Good boy. Knew you’d let me.”
Jungkook nearly choked on his food. His pulse throbbed in his throat, his palms damp with nervous sweat, every nerve ending in his body sparking at once.
He wanted to argue, to roll his eyes, to brush it off like all the other little touches and words he pretended didn’t undo him. But all he managed was a weak laugh, eyes darting to the floor, praying Jimin couldn’t see the way his body betrayed him yet again.
Jimin did see. Of course he did.
And the glint in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair told Jungkook one dangerous truth: This wasn’t an accident anymore.
After the thumb-to-lip incident, Jungkook started noticing everything.
How Jimin never seemed to leave his personal space untouched anymore. In crowded places, his hand found the small of Jungkook’s back, warm and firm, steering him through throngs of people like Jungkook belonged to him. In the practice room, he adjusted Jungkook’s posture with palms spread across his waist, fingertips pressing into muscle, voice pitched low with encouragement:
“That’s it, baby. Perfect.”
The word baby echoed in Jungkook’s head long after practice ended. He’d gone home that night sore for reasons that had nothing to do with dancing.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the way Jimin said them—casual, yet sharp enough to cut right through him. It was the way Jimin looked at him, eyes glinting like he knew.
One evening, they were sprawled on the living room floor, video game controllers abandoned after Jimin beat him three times in a row. Jungkook was sulking, arms crossed, when Jimin leaned over, close enough that Jungkook felt his breath against his cheek.
“Don’t pout, puppy prince. You’re still my favorite.”
Jungkook’s whole body went rigid. The controller slipped from his grip. His heart hammered so loudly he was sure Jimin could hear it. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and a groan.
Jimin chuckled, leaning back like it was nothing, eyes glimmering with quiet amusement. “You’re too easy, Kook.”
The teasing didn’t stop there.
Another night, they cooked together—if Jungkook could even call it that, considering Jimin insisted on taste-testing everything with a spoon before guiding it to Jungkook’s lips. Jungkook had leaned forward, obedient, mouth opening automatically, and when the spoon brushed his lips, Jimin’s thumb had followed, swiping an invisible trace away.
“Good boy,” Jimin murmured, soft and approving, like it was the most natural thing in the world to praise him for eating a bite of soup.
Jungkook nearly dropped the pot lid.
He thought maybe he could ignore it. Pretend none of it meant anything. But ignoring it became impossible when his body reacted before his brain could keep up. His skin prickled whenever Jimin was near. He flushed at the slightest touch. His throat dried at every pet name.
And Jimin noticed. Jimin always noticed.
The last straw came one rainy night. They’d been caught outside, both soaked through by the time they made it back to Jimin’s apartment. Jungkook was toweling his hair roughly when Jimin appeared behind him, plucking the towel away.
“Don’t do it like that, baby,” Jimin chided, voice gentle, already working the fabric through Jungkook’s hair with careful fingers. “You’ll hurt your scalp.”
Jungkook stilled, eyes slipping shut. The towel was warm, but Jimin’s hands—God, his hands—were warmer, massaging, soothing, sliding down to cup the back of his neck.
Then Jimin leaned in, breath ghosting against his ear.
“Always so obedient for me,” he whispered. “Such a good boy.”
Jungkook’s whole body went taut. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. A rush of heat shot straight to his gut, dizzying, overwhelming.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He spun, grabbing Jimin’s wrist before the older man could pull away. His voice cracked when he finally managed words, raw and desperate:
“You can’t—” Jungkook swallowed hard, chest heaving. “You can’t keep calling me that. Touching me like that. Unless you—” His breath hitched. “Unless you mean it.”
The words hung in the air between them, trembling and fragile, like they’d shatter if he breathed too hard.
Jungkook’s hand was still wrapped around Jimin’s wrist, grip trembling with the effort it took not to let go. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, every muscle in his body strung tight as a bowstring. He felt exposed, stripped raw by the confession he hadn’t even meant to give voice to.
Jimin didn’t pull back. He didn’t laugh it off, didn’t scold, didn’t soothe.
Instead, he tilted his head, studying Jungkook with an expression that made heat rush to the pit of his stomach. His lips curled—not into a full smile, but something sharper, the kind of smirk that said he’d known all along.
“Who says I don’t?” Jimin murmured, voice low, velvet wrapped in steel.
Jungkook’s breath caught. His grip on Jimin’s wrist faltered, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.
The room was too quiet, except for the heavy rhythm of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jimin’s face was close enough that Jungkook could count the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, see the damp strands of hair plastered against his forehead, watch the way his tongue flicked briefly across his bottom lip like he was savoring the taste of the moment.
It wasn’t fair—how composed Jimin looked while Jungkook felt like he was unraveling.
“Hyung…” Jungkook’s voice cracked, breaking on the single word. He didn’t even know what he was asking for—mercy, explanation, more.
Jimin leaned in just a fraction, close enough that Jungkook swore he could feel the ghost of his breath brush across his skin. His hand, still caught in Jungkook’s hold, flexed deliberately, the shift of muscle against bone sending a shiver straight through him.
But Jimin didn’t close the distance.
Didn’t kiss him.
Didn’t touch him more than he already was.
He just held Jungkook’s gaze, eyes glinting with something dark and knowing, and let the silence stretch taut, humming with tension.
“You really think I’d call just anyone my baby?” Jimin finally teased, voice soft and maddening.
Jungkook swallowed hard, throat dry, but no words came out.
And Jimin, damn him, only smiled wider, content to let him squirm.
Jungkook’s heart was still racing when Jimin finally leaned back, wrist slipping easily from his loosened grip. For a moment, Jungkook thought maybe—just maybe—that would be the end of it. That Jimin would laugh, brush it off, save him from drowning in the wreckage of what he’d just confessed.
But Jimin wasn’t merciful. Not when it came to him.
Instead, Jimin settled back in his chair, lazy as ever, and crossed one leg over the other. His eyes gleamed, fixed on Jungkook like he was a puzzle already solved. “You’re blushing again,” he said softly, almost sing-song, as if Jungkook wasn’t painfully aware of the heat burning his cheeks.
Jungkook ducked his head, trying to school his face into something neutral, but that only made Jimin chuckle. “God, you’re easy. A few little words and look at you.”
Jungkook stiffened, shame curling hot in his stomach. He opened his mouth to protest, but Jimin leaned forward before he could, elbows braced on his knees, voice dropping low enough to make Jungkook’s pulse stutter.
“You like it, don’t you? Being called my baby. My good boy.”
Jungkook’s lungs seized. The words were too much—too blunt, too heavy, too sharp. He could feel the blood surging under his skin, pooling low in his belly. He couldn’t even deny it, not when his body was already betraying him, shifting restlessly in his seat, thighs pressing together like he could will away the ache growing there.
Jimin noticed. The smirk that spread across his lips was devastating. Jimin didn’t stay in his chair. He pushed up slowly, almost lazily, and crossed the short distance to the bed. Jungkook’s breath caught as the mattress dipped under Jimin’s weight, the older man settling beside him like he belonged there, like he always did. Their shoulders brushed, the heat of Jimin’s body sinking straight into his skin.
Jimin leaned back on one hand, casual, deliberate, his knee sliding forward until it nudged against Jungkook’s thigh. Just a touch at first—barely there—before pressing in a little more firmly, closing the space until there was no mistaking the intimacy of it.
Jungkook’s entire body went rigid, blood rushing hot under his skin. The weight of that single point of contact was dizzying, more than enough to make his heart lurch.
And Jimin, so damn sure of himself, only tipped his head, watching him with that same wicked glint, as though Jungkook were a secret he’d been unwrapping layer by layer.
He leaned in closer, one knee sliding just far enough to press against Jungkook’s under the table.
The contact was electric. Jungkook sucked in a breath, eyes flying to Jimin’s, only to find him watching intently, gaze dark and steady. Jimin didn’t move, didn’t push further—just let his knee stay there, warm and solid against Jungkook’s, the smallest touch but enough to make his entire body tense.
“See?” Jimin whispered, tilting his head slightly, as though cataloguing every twitch of Jungkook’s reaction. “You’re hard already, aren’t you?”
Jungkook’s mouth went dry. His hands curled into fists in his lap, desperate to hide, to deny, but the way Jimin’s smirk deepened told him there was no point.
And then—just as Jungkook felt himself spiraling past the point of no return—Jimin shifted away.
The knee withdrew. The heat vanished. Jimin stood, stretching lazily, as though nothing had happened at all.
“I should shower before bed,” he said casually, ruffling Jungkook’s hair on the way past. “Don’t stay up too late, baby.”
The word, soft and sweet, was the final twist of the knife.
Jungkook sat frozen long after Jimin disappeared down the hall, skin still tingling where they’d touched, cock aching against the confines of his sweats. His chest heaved, shame and desire warring violently inside him.
He’d never hated and needed someone more in the same breath.
˖⁺‧₊♡₊‧⁺˖♡˖⁺‧₊♡₊‧⁺˖
The apartment smelled like garlic and soy sauce, rich and warm, and the sound of oil hissing in the pan mixed with Jungkook’s low hum. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms glistening with steam, hair messy from where he’d shoved it back with damp fingers after his shower.
Jimin leaned against the counter, watching. He always found excuses to watch.
There was something intoxicating about Jungkook like this—barefoot in his own kitchen, brow furrowed in concentration, lower lip caught between his teeth as he flipped the pan with practiced ease. Ordinary, but in Jimin’s eyes, devastating. Like even the simplest movement was a kind of worship, and he’d been lucky enough to be let this close.
And God, the way Jungkook reacted to him lately.
The blushes. The stammered replies. The way his body went taut under the slightest touch. Jimin had spent weeks prodding at those edges, delighting in every crack in Jungkook’s armor—every twitch of his lashes, every shiver down his spine when he whispered baby, puppy prince, good boy.
It was cruel, maybe. But Jimin couldn’t help himself. Jungkook made him want to test limits, to see just how far he could push before something snapped.
Tonight, he thought, might be that night.
“Smells good,” Jimin murmured, pushing off the counter. His voice dropped, deliberate, wrapping around the space between them like smoke. “You always take such good care of me, don’t you, baby?”
He saw it instantly—the stiffening of Jungkook’s shoulders, the falter of his spatula mid-stir. Color rose high on his neck. Jimin’s lips curved.
He closed the distance, slow, until his chest pressed lightly against Jungkook’s back. His hands found Jungkook’s hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the warm skin there.
“Always cooking for me. Always so sweet.” He lowered his head, mouth brushing the shell of Jungkook’s ear. “My good boy.”
The spatula clattered against the pan. Jungkook’s breath shuddered out, sharp and uneven, and for a moment Jimin thought he might fold entirely.
Instead, Jungkook turned in his grip—too fast, too desperate—and pressed himself back against the counter, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.
“Hyung…” His voice cracked, raw. “You—” He swallowed, tried again, words tumbling out like they were being dragged from somewhere too deep to cage. “You can’t keep saying things like that. You can’t touch me like this—like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Jimin’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected that edge of frustration, that tremor of pain laced through the want. Jungkook’s gaze was fierce, shimmering, like the dam had finally broken.
Jimin tilted his head, heart pounding hard enough to hurt, and let his smirk curl slow and deliberate across his lips.
“Who ever said it didn’t mean anything?”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged, as though the air itself had thickened between them. Jimin leaned in closer, close enough that their noses nearly brushed, close enough to watch Jungkook’s pupils dilate.
“You think I call just anyone my baby?” he whispered. “That I touch just anyone like this?” His hands squeezed at Jungkook’s hips, fingers digging in, claiming.
Jungkook’s lips parted, but no sound came out—only a small, wrecked whimper that went straight to Jimin’s gut.
Jimin smiled, softer this time, though no less hungry. “God, you don’t even know, do you? How much I want you. How long I’ve wanted you.” He leaned in, breath warm against Jungkook’s cheek. “All those nights, watching you squirm. Blushing when I call you mine. I knew you loved it. I knew it got you hard.”
Jungkook’s face went scarlet, his body trembling against the counter. Jimin’s words landed heavy, electric, and Jungkook’s hands fisted in the hem of his shirt like he needed something to hold onto.
Jimin let the silence drag, savoring the sight of him undone, and then chuckled low. “So tell me, puppy… Do you want me to stop?”
The question lingered like a spark about to ignite, dangling between them, daring Jungkook to answer.
And Jimin didn’t kiss him. Not yet. He stayed right there, lips hovering a breath away, his hands warm and unyielding at Jungkook’s hips, keeping him pinned. Teasing. Testing.
The waiting was torture—filthy in its promise, tender in its intent.
Because for Jimin, it was never just about making Jungkook want. It was about making him feel.
Jimin didn’t move back. He kept Jungkook pinned between his body and the counter, close enough that every shudder of Jungkook’s breath ghosted across his lips.
His fingertips wandered, feather-light, just beneath Jungkook’s shirt. A brush over his ribs. The faintest drag at his waist. Just enough to make Jungkook twitch.
“You don’t want me to stop,” Jimin murmured, voice velvet-soft, taunting. His nose skimmed the line of Jungkook’s jaw, his lips grazing but never giving. “I can feel it in the way you’re shaking. You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”
Jungkook made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a plea, fists knotting tighter in Jimin’s shirt.
“I—Hyung—” His words broke apart like waves on rock.
Jimin smirked against his skin, letting his tongue flick just barely over the shell of Jungkook’s ear. “So sweet when you beg without even knowing it.”
That did it.
With a low, guttural sound, Jungkook twisted out of his grip just enough to slap the stove off, the pan forgotten, and in the next breath Jimin was shoved back—his spine kissing the wall, Jungkook’s body pressing flush against his, raw and desperate.
Jimin’s pulse spiked. His smile widened. Finally.
Jungkook’s eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, his chest heaving like he’d been holding back for years. He braced a trembling hand against the wall beside Jimin’s head, the other curling at Jimin’s waist.
“I can’t—” Jungkook’s voice was wrecked, frayed with want. “I can’t take it anymore. If you don’t stop—if you keep touching me like that—I’m going to—”
His words cut off as he surged forward, mouth aiming for Jimin’s like it was oxygen.
But Jimin caught him. Not harsh, not denying—just a firm hand at the back of Jungkook’s neck, halting him an inch away.
“Shh.” Jimin’s voice was low, soothing, a thread of dominance wrapped in velvet. His thumb stroked the warm nape of Jungkook’s neck, grounding him. “Look at me, Kookie.”
Jungkook’s gaze lifted, dazed and hungry, trembling with restraint.
Jimin softened, though his grip stayed steady. “Is this what you want? Tell me.”
“Yes.” The word tore from Jungkook’s chest, breathless, immediate. His whole body leaned into Jimin’s hold like he’d collapse without it. “God—yes. Please.”
Something in Jimin unraveled.
He tugged Jungkook down the last inch and their mouths crashed together—messy, fevered, teeth clashing before melting into something wetter, hotter. Jungkook gasped against his lips, and Jimin swallowed the sound, guiding the kiss with practiced ease, tilting his head, coaxing Jungkook to follow.
“Good boy,” Jimin whispered between kisses, the words a murmur against Jungkook’s mouth. “My baby. Just like that—let me.”
Jungkook whimpered, clutching at Jimin like he was drowning, every kiss trembling with both nerves and sheer arousal. His hands fumbled at Jimin’s shirt, desperate, shaking as he tried to pull it over his head.
Clothes came off in a frantic blur—shirts tugged over shoulders, Jungkook’s fingers clumsy on buttons, Jimin laughing breathlessly against his mouth before helping him. Skin met skin, warm and slick, and the press of their bodies was both a collision and a confession.
Jimin kissed him like he’d been waiting his whole life for this—deep, guiding, always leading Jungkook through every hungry clash of tongues, every messy gasp for air. His hands roamed Jungkook’s back, his waist, his jaw, touching everywhere he’d dreamed of.
“You’re shaking,” Jimin whispered, breathless, kissing the corner of Jungkook’s mouth, the curve of his jaw. “So pretty when you tremble for me.”
“Hyung—” Jungkook’s voice cracked, helpless, his body arching into every touch. “I—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
And Jimin had no intention of stopping. Not now, not when the walls they’d built had finally crumbled, not when every touch was its own kind of truth.
He kissed him again, harder this time, urgency laced with relief, as if their mouths could say everything their words never dared to.
Jimin couldn’t stop kissing him.
Every sound Jungkook made was addicting—soft gasps, broken whimpers, the desperate little noises caught at the back of his throat when Jimin’s tongue stroked against his. He tasted like heat, like hunger, like the secret Jimin had been aching to pry open.
Shirts hit the floor first, then Jungkook’s hoodie, tugged off in a clumsy rush. Their skin clung together, chest to chest, slick with sweat. Jimin pressed him harder into the wall, swallowing another gasp from Jungkook’s mouth.
“Hyung—” Jungkook’s voice cracked, breathless, his lashes damp, lips swollen from kissing. He looked undone already, and Jimin hadn’t even really started.
“My baby,” Jimin whispered against his lips, letting the words sink deep. He felt Jungkook shiver, body jerking at the name.
A whine tore from Jungkook’s throat, needy and helpless. His hands fumbled over Jimin’s back, clinging like he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
Jimin kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate, dragging the tip of his tongue against Jungkook’s lower lip before pulling away just enough to watch him squirm.
“My good boy,” he murmured, voice low and husky. He let his hand skim down Jungkook’s side, fingers slipping under the waistband of his sweats.
Jungkook nearly buckled, a choked sound falling from his lips. His thighs tensed, arching into Jimin’s touch like he couldn’t help himself.
“And my sweet puppy prince.”
The name shattered him. Jungkook’s knees gave, and he would’ve slid down the wall if Jimin hadn’t caught him, holding him up with a firm hand at his hip.
“Fuck,” Jungkook gasped, hiding his face in Jimin’s shoulder. “You can’t—you can’t just—”
“I can.” Jimin’s lips brushed his temple, tender in contrast to the heat sparking between them. “And you love it. Don’t you, Kookie?”
Jungkook nodded into his skin, helpless, whimpering like the words themselves had unraveled him.
That was all the permission Jimin needed.
He kissed him harder, deeper, grinding their hips together until Jungkook was gasping into his mouth, every inch of him trembling. Jimin slid his hand down, pushing Jungkook’s sweats over his hips, swallowing the broken moan that followed.
“God—you’re so pretty like this,” Jimin breathed, dragging his palm over the obvious bulge in Jungkook’s briefs. “So needy for me. All mine.”
“Hyung—please—” Jungkook’s plea cracked into a whine, his whole body bowing into Jimin’s touch.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” Jimin soothed, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. “Just let me take care of you.”
And Jungkook did.
He let Jimin tug his briefs down, let himself be touched, stroked, teased until he was dripping and desperate. His fingers clawed at Jimin’s shoulders, trying to hold on as Jimin’s lips marked his throat, as his hand worked him open with slick, slow patience.
Every gasp, every whine, every whispered “Hyung” made Jimin’s chest ache with something deeper than lust. He didn’t just want Jungkook’s body—he wanted him. Wanted every tremble, every piece of trust he offered in return.
Jungkook shuddered as Jimin’s fingers stretched him open, slick and slow, pressing past resistance with patient insistence. Each drag of his knuckles, each curl inside him made his thighs quake, his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud.
“Hyung—” His voice cracked on the word, desperate, broken, his chest heaving. His nails dug into Jimin’s shoulders like he was holding on for dear life.
“Shh.” Jimin kissed along his throat, tongue flicking against the rapid pulse under his skin. “Relax for me, baby. Let me in.”
Jungkook tried—God, he tried. His body trembled around Jimin’s fingers, tight and wet, every thrust making him leak against his stomach, untouched. The kitchen smelled like spice and sweat, but all Jungkook could taste was Jimin, all he could feel was the weight of his touch and the rough drag of his voice.
When Jimin finally slid his cock into him, slow and careful, Jungkook’s entire body arched with a strangled sob. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first—just wide eyes, the sharp sting of being filled mixing with relief so potent it broke something in him.
“That’s it,” Jimin whispered, pressing kisses across his cheeks, his temple, anywhere his lips could reach. “You’re taking me so well. My good boy.”
The words made Jungkook tighten, made him gasp, whimpering into Jimin’s mouth as he clung tighter. Every pet name carved another crack in the dam holding him together.
“Please—don’t stop—please,” Jungkook begged, his voice high, desperate, needy. He shifted, hips rolling instinctively, his body betraying him with every shiver.
Jimin’s thrusts started slow, deliberate, letting Jungkook adjust, but soon the rhythm deepened, harder, sharper. Skin slapped against skin, the wet sounds of their bodies filling the kitchen. Jungkook’s head tipped back, his throat bared, as if offering himself up completely.
“My baby,” Jimin groaned, gripping Jungkook’s hip tight enough to bruise as he drove into him. “So fucking gorgeous when you fall apart for me.”
“Hyung—ah—” Jungkook’s whine pitched higher, his body trembling with each thrust. His cock leaked between their stomachs, smearing precum over Jimin’s skin. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
Jimin caught his chin, forcing Jungkook to look at him even as his eyes blurred with tears. “Look at me when you come,” he demanded, voice rough with arousal. “Let me see how good I make you feel.”
Jungkook sobbed on a gasp, his whole body jerking as Jimin shifted his angle, slamming into that spot inside him that made stars explode behind his eyes. His vision went white, his orgasm tearing through him like lightning. He came with a strangled cry, hot and messy between them, body convulsing as he clung tighter, shaking apart in Jimin’s arms.
“That’s it. That’s my sweet boy,” Jimin praised, fucking him through it, pressing their foreheads together as Jungkook gasped against his lips. “My puppy prince. Mine.”
Jungkook could only whimper, pliant and trembling, every nerve ending lit up, too overwhelmed to do anything but give himself over completely.
Jimin groaned, burying his face against Jungkook’s neck as his thrusts grew ragged, sloppy, the tight heat around him pulling him under. He bit out Jungkook’s name, grinding deep as he spilled inside him, holding him flush to the wall so he wouldn’t collapse.
For a long moment, all that existed was the sound of their breathing, harsh and tangled, the steady thud of Jungkook’s heartbeat against Jimin’s chest.
Jimin kissed him—slower now, lingering, lips soft even as his body trembled with aftershocks. “My baby,” he whispered, brushing Jungkook’s damp hair back from his forehead. “So good for me. So perfect.”
And Jungkook, ruined and pliant in his arms, just nodded, eyes glassy, clinging like he’d never let go.
Because this wasn’t just lust. This was love, messy and urgent, confessed in every kiss, every thrust, every whispered pet name.
Jimin stayed pressed against him for a moment, cock still buried deep inside, Jungkook trembling and gasping against his chest. The kitchen was silent except for the soft tick of the stove cooling, the faint hum of the fridge, and Jungkook’s wrecked little whimpers.
Slowly, Jimin eased out, holding him steady as Jungkook winced, flushed and overstimulated. His release slipped down his thighs, messy and wet, and Jimin couldn’t stop the rush of heat that hit him at the sight.
“Shh,” Jimin soothed, kissing the corner of his swollen mouth. “Stay here, baby. I’ve got you.”
Jungkook nodded, eyes hazy, fingers still curled in Jimin’s shirt like he couldn’t quite let go.
Jimin crouched, grabbed a clean dish towel, wet it under warm water, and returned to him. He spread Jungkook’s thighs gently, cleaning him up with slow, tender strokes, murmuring praise the whole time.
“You did so good for me. Took me so well.” He kissed Jungkook’s knee as he wiped between his thighs, careful with his soreness. “My perfect boy.”
Jungkook groaned, hiding his face in his hands, embarrassed and glowing all at once. “Hyung…”
“Don’t hide,” Jimin chided softly, tugging his wrists down just enough to see his flushed cheeks, damp lashes, the bashful little smile tugging at his lips. His heart clenched at the sight. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”
When he was finished, Jimin bundled the towel aside and bent, scooping Jungkook up into his arms. Jungkook gasped, startled, but quickly wrapped around him, legs clinging, arms looped around his neck.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.” Jimin smirked, kissing his damp hair as he carried him down the hall. “I want to.”
He laid Jungkook gently on the bed, tugged the covers down, and slipped in beside him. Jungkook immediately curled into him, pressing his face to Jimin’s chest, still catching his breath. His skin was warm and damp, his body loose in that post-release haze, but his hands clutched at Jimin’s sides like he was afraid he’d disappear.
Jimin stroked his hair, slow and soothing, tracing small circles into his scalp. He pressed a kiss to Jungkook’s temple, then another to his forehead, lingering.
"You're mine always, baby," he whispered into his skin, low and steady. "Took you long enough to notice."
There was a sound that could stand from half laugh to half groan escaping from Jungkook, who went on to bury his face deeper into Jimin's chest. "God, don't say stuff like that." His voice was muffled and shy.
Yet he did not loosen his grip at all. He clasped even tighter, his fingers clenched into fists around the fabric of Jimin's shirt as if for dear life.
Jimin smiled and kissed the crown of his head. "Too late. You are mine now, my sweet little puppy prince."
Again, Jungkook gave a soft groan, this time loud with happiness, completely relaxing his body against Jimin's.
They lay intertwined, heat against heat, their breaths settling. For once, there were no walls between them, no games, no teasing tension―just two people who have stopped pretending.
And as sleep descended upon them, there came a silent assurance that nothing between them would ever be the same—except that now, it has always been just as it was meant to be.
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{ T H E E N D }