Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jungkook didn’t expect Namjoon to show up.

Not really. Not even after their mom said, over the phone last week, “He said he might come this year. Don’t get your hopes up, baby.”

He didn’t.

It’s been four Chuseoks since the last time Namjoon came home. Two since Jungkook stopped asking about him outright. Half a year since they last saw each other at all—just after Seollal, when Namjoon stopped by for a night on the way back to Busan. He’d brought fancy fruit and drank exactly one and a half cans of beer. Slept on the couch with his socks still on. Woke up early, like he always did, and left a note that just said, “Thanks, Jungkook. Take care of Mom.”

Now he’s standing at the bottom of the driveway in a hoodie that doesn’t look like it’s been washed properly, hair too long, sleeves tugged halfway over his hands. Jungkook sees him from the window first, just the curve of his shoulder, the shape of him and something in his body lurches like instinct.

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches.

Namjoon’s got one of those stupid little suitcase bags, the wheels barely rolling over the cracked cement. He doesn’t look up at the house. Doesn’t even seem sure what he’s doing there.

The doorbell rings once.

Their mother gets there before Jungkook does. She always does when it’s Namjoon.

“Oh my god,” she breathes when she opens the door, already reaching to pull him in. “Namjoonie.”

Jungkook hears the way her voice lifts, sweet, relieved. He comes into the hallway and sees her cupping Namjoon’s face like he’s just come back from war.

She always touches him like that.

“Hi, Mom,” Namjoon says softly, eyes closed as she kisses his cheek.

It still catches Jungkook off guard sometimes, the way he calls him that—Mom. He’s not hers by blood, but she never hesitated with him. If anything, she spoiled him more. Maybe because he was soft-spoken. Maybe because he was rare. Maybe because he was an omega.

He was their father’s first son. From the first wife. The one no one really talks about anymore.

And still, Jungkook’s mother held Namjoon’s hand through every fever. Bought him a silver necklace when he presented. Bought him better clothes, if Jungkook’s being honest.

“Come in, you must be cold,” she says now, ushering Namjoon inside. “You didn’t tell me you booked a ticket.”

“It was last minute,” Namjoon murmurs, slipping off his sneakers. “Didn’t want to make a big thing of it.”

Jungkook’s standing there in socks, t-shirt, sweatpants, trying not to stare.

Namjoon finally glances up.

“Hey,” he says.

His scent’s stronger up close. Softer than Jungkook remembers. Thicker. Like he hasn’t been suppressing it as hard lately.

“Hey,” Jungkook says back. His voice is lower than it used to be.

Namjoon smiles, just a little. It doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.

Their mom takes Namjoon’s bag before he can argue, wheels it into the guest room like it’s a ceremony. “I washed the sheets this morning. I made yukgaejang, the way you like. You still eat meat, right?”

“I still eat meat,” Namjoon says, soft.

He glances around like he’s trying to recognize the house again. Like he’s not sure he belongs in it anymore.

Jungkook stands back, watching. His arms are crossed. His jaw’s tight, even if he tries not to make it obvious. The scent’s what’s doing it, Namjoon smells like crushed herbs, hot water, like clean skin and the underside of something sweet. Like the start of a heat he hasn’t named yet. Jungkook knows the markers. He’s been trying not to track them his whole life.

“Go wash your hands,” their mom says, already headed for the kitchen. “We’ll eat early. You must be starving.”

Namjoon makes eye contact with Jungkook again before he turns away.

He still walks the same. Still a little knock-kneed. Still soft at the hips. His hoodie rides up a little when he stretches, and Jungkook sees the shape of him, his waist, his ass, the way the curve dips where Jungkook’s fingers want to press. He looks away fast. Too fast. Like it’s instinct.

He hears the bathroom door close.

Then silence.

Jungkook walks into the kitchen, leans against the doorframe. His mom’s ladling soup into a bowl like it’s her religion.

“You didn’t tell me he was actually coming,” he says, careful.

“I wasn’t sure he would.” She doesn’t look at him. “He’s been quiet since the breakup.”

“Right.” He keeps his voice flat. “The alpha guy.”

“Someone from work,” she says, placing the bowl on a tray. “Older. A manager, I think. It wasn’t a good situation.”

Jungkook swallows.

Namjoon had never talked to him about any of it. Not the presenting, not the dating. Not the man who apparently had his hands on him for who knows how long.

“You knew?”

“He told me a little. Not everything.” She wipes her hands, sighs. “He sounded tired. I think he just needed to feel taken care of.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. His scent’s creeping out more than he means it to, sharp at the edges, instinct getting high off the fact that Namjoon came home sad. That he’s vulnerable. Soft.

That there’s room again.

“Try to be kind,” his mother adds, almost absentmindedly, like she doesn’t know she’s cutting him open.

“I am kind.”

She gives him a look like she knows better.

Jungkook waits at the table while they eat. Namjoon sits across from him, hair still a little wet from rinsing his face. His sleeves are rolled up now. His hands are pale and long, fingers wrapped around the chopsticks like he’s forgotten how to hold them. He eats quietly. Slowly. Grateful, but not hungry.

He looks thinner.

His scent is heavier now. Sits low in the room. Jungkook feels it every time he breathes in.

“Work’s been busy?” Jungkook asks. It comes out stiffer than he meant.

Namjoon doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

Then: “Lot of new hires. Restructuring. You know how it is.”

He doesn’t ask Jungkook anything back. That’s fine. Jungkook wasn’t looking for conversation.

He watches Namjoon eat. Watches the way he chews—carefully, lips just barely parted, like he’s afraid of taking up space even now. His fingers look slimmer than before, wrists narrower. He’s not wearing a scent blocker. He usually does.

Jungkook can smell everything.

The undertone of heat. The lingering scent of someone else’s alpha, old, fading. And underneath that: clean laundry, tired skin, something warm. Something soft.

It’s barely-there, but Jungkook’s never forgotten it.

“You really broke up?” he asks, too directly.

Namjoon blinks at him.

Their mom’s in the kitchen again, back turned, humming quietly. She’s letting them talk. Letting it happen. Jungkook doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

Namjoon sets his chopsticks down.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Yeah.”

Jungkook watches him too closely. “He treat you bad?”

“Jungkook.”

“It’s just a question.”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. His shoulders rise, then fall, like he’s exhaling something heavy.

When he finally speaks, his voice is light. Flat. “He wasn’t what I needed.”

That lands too close. Jungkook swallows around it. He picks at his rice.

Their mom talks from the stove. “Namjoon’s staying the week.”

Jungkook nods before he can think about it.

Namjoon clears his throat. “I can get a motel if it’s weird.”

Jungkook looks up. “Don’t be stupid.”

Namjoon meets his eyes for a second. His lips twitch like he almost wants to smile. But it dies before it can get there. He goes back to his soup.

Later, Jungkook hears the guest room door close.

He stands outside for a second too long.

The hallway is dark, quiet. He stares at the closed door like it might look back at him.

He should go to bed.

Instead, he walks back to the kitchen.

The table’s still a mess. He clears the dishes slowly, rinses them under cool water, lets the sounds of it fill up the silence.

He thinks about Namjoon’s voice. The way he said he wasn’t what I needed. Like there was a version of need Namjoon was still figuring out. Or hiding.

Jungkook’s always known what he needs.

He dries his hands. Flicks the kitchen light off.

Before he goes upstairs, he walks to the hallway again.

Namjoon’s door is still closed.

But the air near it is thicker.

Warm.

His scent bleeds faintly under the crack, just a little. The start of something Jungkook isn’t supposed to notice.

He leans closer.

Breathes in.

And then walks away before he does something worse.

For now.

Jungkook remembers the rain more than anything.

It had been falling since morning. Thick and slanted, hammering the tin gutters, turning the yard into sludge. His mom lit candles early that day because the power flickered twice. The house smelled like floor polish and wet socks, and the windows sweated with condensation.

He was on the couch when the headlights cut through the curtains.

His father was home early.

Jungkook didn’t move. He had a blanket wrapped around him and a book in his lap he wasn’t really reading. He heard the car door slam. Heard a voice that wasn’t familiar.

Then the front door opened, and everything changed.

His father stepped in, soaked and panting, and beside him was a boy. A little older than Jungkook. Slighter. Wearing a yellow raincoat that was too big for him, sleeves past the knuckles. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks red from cold. He was clutching a backpack like it was the only thing he owned.

“This is Namjoon,” his father said. “He’s staying with us now.”

That was it. No warning. No easing into it. Just: he’s here now.

Jungkook stared.

Namjoon didn’t meet his eyes. He looked down at his shoes, wet on the tile. His chin wobbled once. He didn’t cry.

Not yet.

That night, Jungkook lay in bed and listened to the murmur of voices from the hallway. His mom was saying something soft. His dad answering. Another voice, quiet, high said thank you.

It was the first time Jungkook heard Namjoon speak.

The next morning, there was an extra pair of shoes by the door.

A toothbrush on the sink.

A new bowl on the breakfast table.

—

It was something small.

Jungkook came into the living room with a bottle of banana milk and saw it: Namjoon, curled on their mother’s lap, crying.

It was stupid. He’d dropped a plate. A crack down the middle of one of the fancy ones they only used for holidays. He wasn’t bleeding. He wasn’t even scolded.

But he was crying.

And their mother—Jungkook’s mother—had taken him gently into her arms, sat him down in her lap like he was still small, and stroked his back as he shook.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t.”

Namjoon nodded, but the tears kept coming.

And Jungkook watched from the doorway.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t stop staring at the way Namjoon curled into the warmth. The way his body folded, soft and pliant, the curve of his back, the slope of his neck, the way his small, pretty hands gripped her sleeve.

It was the first time Jungkook thought the word omega and felt something ugly twist behind his ribs.

He turned and walked away.

He didn’t know why he was angry. Just that he was.

—

Namjoon came into Jungkook’s room once, holding a controller. They were probably eleven and fourteen each. 

“Wanna play?” he’d asked.

Jungkook was on the floor, stretched out on his stomach, flipping through a game manual.

He looked up. “We’re not playing brothers.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend.” Jungkook’s voice had a mean edge he didn’t know he had. “I know you’re not really part of this family.”

Namjoon’s face didn’t change at first. Just… dimmed. Like someone turned the light down inside him.

He didn’t say anything.

He just turned around and left.

Jungkook didn’t follow.

But when he lay awake that night, he replayed the look on Namjoon’s face again and again.

It made his stomach hurt.

It made his palms sweat.

It made something start.

—

At age sixteen Jungkook realized something he shouldn’t have. 

It was nothing.

Namjoon was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, grading papers.

The TV was on low. Jungkook was behind him, pretending to scroll through his phone.

Namjoon reached up to scratch his neck, pulling the collar of his shirt down a little. And Jungkook saw it, just a glimpse of the top of his spine, the curve of his shoulder, the hollow there.

It was a normal thing.

A harmless thing.

But Jungkook’s mouth went dry.

And for the first time, he looked at Namjoon’s body and thought: divine.

Not pretty. Not handsome. Not brother.

Divine.

And then he wanted.

Badly. All at once. A full ache in his chest that made him look away too fast.

That night, he came in the shower and bit down on his own forearm so no one would hear.

Namjoon’s folding towels. Of course he is.

There’s a basket at his hip and two stacks on the dryer, each folded down to mechanical precision. He does it without looking, muscle memory from years of helping out in a house he never quite believed he belonged to.

Jungkook watches from the doorway. Leans on the frame like he’s just passing through, though he isn’t.

Namjoon notices him too late. His hand stills on the last towel. “Hey,” he says, too casual, like he hadn’t flinched. “Didn’t know you were there.”

“You fold those for fun, or…” Jungkook tilts his head. “Trying to make Mom think you’re useful?”

Namjoon gives a weak smile. “She likes it done a certain way.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t make you do it.”

Namjoon shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

He looks away as he says it. His hands keep moving.

Jungkook steps into the room. Quietly. The dryer hums under the weight of the basket. It’s warm in here, and Namjoon smells stronger. His scent bleeds in the heat, like laundry powder, yes, but also that buried sweetness Jungkook’s never been able to ignore.

“You always do this shit,” Jungkook says.

Namjoon pauses again. “What?”

“Act like you owe us.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Jungkook says, voice flat now. “You’ve always tried too hard.”

Namjoon exhales through his nose. Picks up the last towel and smooths it unnecessarily.

He places it on the stack.

“You made it clear a long time ago,” he says, not facing him. “That I’m not really part of the family.”

Jungkook lets that hang.

Then: “Still believe that?”

Namjoon hesitates. “Sometimes.”

Jungkook steps closer.

Namjoon doesn’t move.

Jungkook’s right behind him now, close enough to feel the tension in his shoulders, the faint tremble in his arms. Namjoon doesn’t look back. He never looks first.

“You used to flinch whenever I walked into a room,” Jungkook says, voice low.

Namjoon swallows. “You never wanted me there.”

“You believed that because I said it. Not because it was true.”

Namjoon finally turns his head. Just enough to catch Jungkook’s eyes.

“You were cruel.”

“I was a kid.”

“You still are.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “But you kept coming back.”

Namjoon blinks slowly.

“I mean—” Jungkook lifts his hand, presses it against the wall beside Namjoon’s head. Not touching him. Not quite. But it cages him in. “You could’ve gone anywhere for Chuseok. Stayed in Busan. Faked being busy. Said you had plans.”

Namjoon stares forward.

Jungkook lowers his voice. “But you came here.”

Namjoon exhales shakily. “I came for Mom.”

“No,” Jungkook says. “You came for me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t gloat. Just lets the weight of it press between them like heat.

Namjoon turns his head back toward the towels. “That’s not true.”

But his scent spikes, sweet and shameful.

Jungkook doesn’t miss it. He leans closer.

“You still want me to like you,” he says, soft. “Even after everything.”

Namjoon’s breath catches.

And he doesn’t deny it.

Namjoon leaves the laundry folded.

He says something soft, “goodnight,” maybe, or just breathes it and walks past Jungkook like nothing’s wrong. Like he didn’t flinch when Jungkook got too close. Like his scent didn’t spike, shame-sweet and warm under the fluorescent light.

Jungkook watches him go.

Watches the way he walks. Straight spine, soft hips. Bare feet. The hem of his sweatpants dragging just a little behind him. He turns the corner, disappears into the guest room like a habit he doesn’t know how to break.

Jungkook doesn’t follow right away.

He stands in the hallway. Lets the silence settle. Thinks about the way Namjoon looked when he said, “You were cruel.”

He wasn’t wrong.

But that’s not the point.

Jungkook goes to his own room. Doesn’t close the door. Just leaves it cracked—like an invitation. No, not even that. Like a challenge.

He waits.

A few minutes.

Then five more.

Still nothing.

He pads back down the hallway.

The light under the guest room door is still on. He knocks once. Doesn’t wait.

Namjoon’s sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands again. He looks up. Doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not sleeping,” Jungkook says.

Namjoon shrugs. “Neither are you.”

Jungkook leans against the frame. “You want the couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “I’m good here.”

A beat passes.

Then Jungkook says it—simple. Quiet. Like he’s not daring anything at all.

“Come to my room.”

Namjoon stills.

Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“You don’t have to sleep in there,” Jungkook says. “But you won’t sleep here either.”

Namjoon’s throat moves when he swallows.

“I don’t—”

“It’s not about what you want,” Jungkook says, voice low. “It’s what you always do.”

Namjoon says nothing.

Just lowers his eyes to the floor like he’s measuring something invisible. Like he’s about to say no. Like he wants to.

But Jungkook can already smell the answer on his skin.

He steps back, leaves the door open.

He knows Namjoon will follow.

He leaves the door open on purpose.

No light, no sound, just the soft hush of the hallway spilling in. He sits on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor, hoodie half-zipped. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t pace. He just waits.

He’s good at that.

Jungkook learned early that Namjoon comes when he wants to feel safe. He tells himself it’s for their mother, or because the house is familiar, or because the sheets are softer than his one-room apartment in Busan.

But Jungkook knows it’s him.

It’s always been him.

The way Namjoon lingers where Jungkook is. The way he watches when he thinks Jungkook isn’t looking. The way he lets himself be pressed against walls and never really says yes, but never pulls away either.

Jungkook doesn’t need a confession.

He already knows what Namjoon is to him.

And he knows what he is to Namjoon.

So he waits.

Fifteen minutes pass. The house stays quiet. Still.

Then comes soft steps in the hallway.

Jungkook doesn’t look.

The steps pause at the door. Hangs there.

For a second, Jungkook wonders if Namjoon will close it. Turn around. Go back to the couch.

But he hears the air shift.

A breath drawn in.

Then Namjoon steps inside.

Jungkook feels it before he sees it. The way the scent deepens. Omega. Sleep-warm and a little shaken, like he’s ashamed of being here. Like he knows he shouldn’t be.

Jungkook turns his head.

Namjoon’s standing just past the door, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, like he’s still trying to look smaller. Like he doesn’t know he’s already inside the lion’s mouth.

Jungkook doesn’t speak.

He just shifts back on the bed, slow and steady, and nods once.

That’s all it takes.

Namjoon moves closer.

Jungkook pulls back the blanket.

Namjoon slips in.

He doesn’t look at Jungkook. Doesn’t say anything. He lies on his side, facing the wall, pulling the blanket up to his chin like a kid. Like a guest.

Jungkook watches his back.

The slope of his shoulders. The edge of his jaw. The way his body curls slightly in on itself, but not far enough to hide.

He climbs in behind him.

Lies down. Close, but not touching. The heat between them is quiet. Clean. It doesn’t rush.

He breathes in.

Namjoon’s scent is stronger like this, warmth and skin, something deeper underneath. Not slick, not yet. But there.

Always there.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jungkook says softly.

Namjoon doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t leave.

Jungkook closes his eyes, his face close to Namjoon’s neck, his breath warming the back of his hoodie.

And when Namjoon shifts an inch back, just enough for his ass to brush Jungkook’s thigh, barely, softly, like it didn’t mean anything at all.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

But he smiles.

“You hear from him?” Jungkook asks, voice casual.

Namjoon blinks at the ceiling. “Who?”

“Your alpha.”

Namjoon’s lips press into a line. “No.”

Jungkook hums. “Didn’t think you would.”

He shifts closer. Namjoon’s head tilts slightly, like he’s waiting to be told to move. Or leave. Jungkook doesn’t say anything. “Was he nice to you?” he asks.

Namjoon hesitates. “He tried.”

Jungkook scoffs. “That’s a no.” He leans in, letting his voice drop. “You let people try you too easily. Anyone who looks at you soft, you fold.”

Namjoon flushes, eyes still on the ceiling. “I just… I wanted to be good to him.”

“You always want to be good.” Jungkook’s hand reaches out, rests lightly on Namjoon’s chest. “Even when people treat you like shit.”

Namjoon freezes under his touch.

“You’re not wearing anything under this,” Jungkook says, brushing his thumb over the fabric. “You knew I’d notice.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “That’s not why—”

“You always wanted me to look,” Jungkook cuts in. “Since we were kids.”

Namjoon’s breath catches. “You hated me back then.”

“You kept trying anyway,” Jungkook says, soft and cruel. “Used to follow me around like a lost thing. Asking me what I was reading. If I wanted to play games. You remember that?”

Namjoon doesn’t speak.

“I do,” Jungkook murmurs. “You were always like this. Desperate for me to like you.”

His thumb brushes over Namjoon’s nipple again. It stiffens instantly under the shirt. Jungkook smiles, slow.

“Don’t,” Namjoon whispers.

“Why not?” Jungkook says, dragging the shirt up, warm hand sliding underneath. “You never stopped wanting this.”

Namjoon closes his eyes. His breathing’s gone shallow.

“I just wanted you to be nice to me,” he says quietly.

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “And look where that got you.” He leans down, licks slow across the hard little peak. Namjoon shudders.

“You said you hated being around me,” Namjoon whispers, voice breaking. “Said I was annoying. Fake. Weak.”

Jungkook closes his mouth around his nipple and sucks, slow and wet. Namjoon whimpers.

“You were,” Jungkook murmurs against his chest. “But you were always mine.”

Namjoon shakes his head, but his hips shift, just slightly. Like his body can’t help it.

“I said no,” he says again, but his voice is smaller now. Pleading more than resisting.

“You’ve been saying no for years,” Jungkook replies, “but I see how you look at me. Like you’re still hoping I’ll say you’re good.”

He kisses down Namjoon’s chest, mouth hot and unrelenting. Namjoon gasps when Jungkook pinches his other nipple.

“You’ve always wanted me to want you,” Jungkook whispers. “You just didn’t know what it’d feel like.”

Namjoon’s thighs twitch under the blanket. Jungkook slides his hand down, pressing between them. The fabric’s damp. Soaked.

“You’re dripping,” Jungkook says, voice dark. “Just from me sucking on your tits.”

Namjoon’s hand grabs at his wrist, not to push away. Just to hold. Just to anchor himself.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

“You never do,” Jungkook says. “You just want to be seen.”

He kisses lower, down Namjoon’s stomach, and peels the blanket back. Namjoon’s hips lift without thinking, letting Jungkook tug the shorts off. His cunt is wet, flushed, spread open like it’s been waiting.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathes. “You’ve always been pretty, but this…”

Namjoon hides his face in the pillow, trembling.

“You want me to stop?” Jungkook asks.

Namjoon doesn’t answer.

So Jungkook touches him. Slow and easy, dragging fingers through slick folds, circling his clit. Namjoon moans into the pillow.

“You really thought someone else could take care of you better than me?” Jungkook murmurs. “You thought he saw you?”

Namjoon sobs softly. “I just wanted someone to stay.”

“I never left,” Jungkook says. “You just stopped begging.” He spreads Namjoon open and licks, deep, slow, firm tongue through slick heat. Namjoon cries out, thighs shaking, back arching off the mattress.

“You taste like you’ve been waiting for this,” Jungkook mumbles into him.

Namjoon doesn’t answer, but his body is saying everything. Writhing under his mouth. Hands gripping the sheets like if he lets go he’ll float away.

“You’re mine,” Jungkook says, licking him open. “You always were.”

Namjoon doesn’t argue. He just opens his legs wider.

Jungkook sinks deeper between Namjoon’s thighs, shoulders firm against soft skin. Namjoon’s already shaking, a mess of twitching muscles and bitten-off sounds, but Jungkook’s not anywhere close to done.

“Breathe,” he says, voice muffled against Namjoon’s cunt.

Namjoon tries. He really does. But his chest rises in shallow, unsteady hitches, his mouth open like he’s caught between crying and begging.

Jungkook spreads him wider with two hands, thumbs parting the slick folds. His cunt’s soaked, wet enough that it clings to Jungkook’s lips with every slow drag of his tongue.

“You taste fucking unreal,” Jungkook says, tongue flicking lightly over his clit now. “You ever let him go down on you like this?”

Namjoon whines, hips jerking.

“Didn’t think so,” Jungkook answers for him. “You don’t give this part of yourself to just anyone.”

Namjoon’s fingers knot in the sheets. He’s panting now, soft gasps, trembling legs threatening to close around Jungkook’s head. Jungkook doesn’t let them. He keeps him open and helpless, licking slow and deep, then pulling back just enough to suck on the clit, wet and obscene.

“Too much,” Namjoon breathes, voice small and shaking.

“It’s not,” Jungkook says. “You can take it. You want to take it.”

Namjoon doesn’t argue. He just whimpers when Jungkook’s mouth seals over his clit again, sucking hard enough to make his whole body jolt.

“Shit—Jungkook, I—” His words break. His thighs tremble harder.

Jungkook groans into him, hungry now, messy with it—his chin wet, his tongue pressing inside before sliding back up to focus where Namjoon’s most sensitive. He’s pulsing against Jungkook’s mouth, wet and twitching, and Jungkook knows the signs.

“You’re gonna come,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already there.”

Namjoon shakes his head, but it’s hopeless, his body’s already deciding for him. His back arches, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as the orgasm hits, sudden, sharp, rolling through him with nowhere to hide.

Jungkook doesn’t let up. He licks him through it, slow and firm, hands still holding him open even as Namjoon tries to twist away.

“Jungkook, please—wait, I can’t—”

“You can,” Jungkook says, locking eyes with him. “You’re gonna give me another one.”

Namjoon sobs, high and raw and helpless. His skin’s flushed all over, sweat sticking the shirt to his back. He tries to move his hips away, but Jungkook follows him, relentless. He focuses on Namjoon’s clit again, now extra sensitive and trembling under every touch. He sucks it slow, then fast, then lets his tongue flutter quick and shallow while Namjoon’s entire body shakes.

“Too much,” Namjoon cries out again, voice cracking.

“You’re already close,” Jungkook growls. “You like how it feels.”

Namjoon’s thighs tremble violently now. His hands reach for Jungkook’s hair, trying to pull him away—except there’s no force behind it. Just instinct. Just overwhelmed.

Jungkook wraps his arms around Namjoon’s thighs, pinning him in place, and sucks hard.

Namjoon screams. His second orgasm crashes into him full-force, legs locking tight around Jungkook’s head. His whole body curls in on itself, hips twitching with every aftershock as he cries out over and over, voice broken into wet, breathless sounds.

Jungkook lets him ride it out. He only pulls back when Namjoon goes limp, chest heaving, eyes glassy and stunned. His cunt’s a mess, slick, flushed, still twitching.

Jungkook wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and stares down at him.

“You gonna tell me to stop again?” he asks.

Namjoon blinks slowly, lips parted, too dazed to speak.

Jungkook smiles. Real slow. “Didn’t think so.”

The room smells like sex. Faint, but it’s there, salt and skin and that sweet heat Jungkook can still taste if he thinks about it too hard.

Namjoon’s awake. He’s pretending not to be, curled on his side, back to Jungkook, like if he stays still long enough the awkward will go away. Like Jungkook won’t remember the way he came last night—twice, loud and shaking, hands gripping the sheets like they’d save him.

Jungkook remembers. He sits up slowly. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t touch him.

The floor’s cold. The kitchen’s quiet. He doesn’t make coffee for two.

By the time he comes back with his own mug, Namjoon’s sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blanket like a shield. His shirt’s rumpled, collar stretched. The top of one tit peeks out. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Jungkook does.

“Morning,” Namjoon says, voice cautious.

Jungkook nods. “Yeah.”

“You sleep okay?” Namjoon asks.

“Fine.” He doesn’t ask Namjoon if he did. Just takes a slow sip of his coffee and looks out the window like he’s got better things to do. Like last night didn’t happen.

Namjoon shifts on the bed. Tucks his legs under himself. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird,” Jungkook says, not looking at him.

“That’s not what I—” Namjoon stops. Rubs his thumb over the rim of the mug Jungkook didn’t hand him. “You’re being quiet.”

Jungkook shrugs. He feels Namjoon’s eyes on him. That look, soft, unsure, a little too hopeful. The same one from years ago, when Jungkook used to ignore him in front of people and Namjoon still tried to sit beside him on the couch anyway.

It’s pathetic.

It’s addictive.

Jungkook finishes his coffee and sets the mug down.

“You hungry?”

Namjoon blinks. “I—I could eat.”

“There’s cereal.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook walks past him. Doesn’t offer to get it. Doesn’t tell him to come. Just leaves the door open behind him and waits.

Namjoon follows. He’s barefoot, blanket still draped around his shoulders. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And a little like he wants to disappear.

Jungkook leans against the counter while Namjoon opens the cabinet. He reaches for the cereal on the top shelf, and the blanket slips down. Jungkook sees the mark on his chest. His own bite. Low, just above his nipple.

Namjoon sees him looking. He flushes, pulls the blanket up again.

“Don’t cover it,” Jungkook says, voice low.

Namjoon freezes. “I didn’t mean—” he stammers. “I just—it’s cold.”

Jungkook pushes off the counter and walks toward him. Slowly. Namjoon backs up instinctively until his hips hit the edge of the counter.

“You always act like I’ve done something wrong,” Namjoon says, voice quiet. “Then you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to touch me again.”

Jungkook steps in close. “Maybe I am,” he says.

Namjoon’s breathing picks up. His hands fist the blanket tighter around his chest. “Don’t,” he says.

Jungkook’s hand slides under the edge of it. “You sure?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. Just stares up at him, wide-eyed.

Jungkook tugs the blanket open. The shirt slips again, collar dragging low. His tits are still flushed. Sensitive. Waiting.

Jungkook cups one. Warm. Soft in his hand like it was made for him.

Namjoon gasps. “Jungkook—”

“You think I forgot?” Jungkook says, thumb brushing over the nipple. “The way you moaned for me last night?”

Namjoon’s thighs press together.

“I didn’t,” Jungkook whispers. He dips his head and licks over the nipple once. Just once. Namjoon exhales like he’s been punched.

“Don’t do this,” Namjoon breathes. But his back arches when Jungkook’s mouth wraps around him. His hands go flat against Jungkook’s chest, not pushing. Just bracing.

Jungkook sucks, slow and deep. Mouth wet, tongue flicking. He groans low in his throat. “You don’t want me to stop,” he murmurs against Namjoon’s skin. “You never fucking do.”

Namjoon doesn’t deny it. He just lets the blanket fall, bare from the waist up, breath caught in his throat, chest rising under Jungkook’s tongue.

And Jungkook? He sinks lower, licking, mouthing, sucking until Namjoon’s hips start to shift, like they remember everything too.

Namjoon’s panting now. His shirt’s bunched up under his arms, tits flushed and shining where Jungkook’s mouth has been. His hands are clinging, first to the counter, then to Jungkook’s shoulders, shaking like he doesn’t know if he’s trying to pull him closer or push him off.

Jungkook doesn’t give him the chance to decide. He drags his mouth down to the other nipple, tongue flicking, sucking it in and groaning like he’s starving. Namjoon lets out this tiny sound, barely a whimper and it goes straight to Jungkook’s cock.

And then. “Namjoon-ah?” Their mom’s voice, faint from upstairs.

Namjoon jerks like he’s been shocked.

“Are you awake?”

His whole body stiffens. Jungkook doesn’t even lift his head. Just sucks once more, slow and deliberate, before pulling off.

Namjoon pushes him. Both hands this time. Not rough, but panicked.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes wide.

“She’ll come down—” He’s already fixing his shirt, fumbling with it like it matters. Like it covers anything.

“She never comes down before ten,” Jungkook says, calm.

But Namjoon’s already backing away, grabbing the blanket off the floor like it’s armor.

“Don’t,” he says. Again. But this time it’s sharper. Not sexy. Just scared. He doesn’t wait for Jungkook’s reply. He’s out of the kitchen in two seconds flat, blanket dragging behind him.

Jungkook stays still for a beat. Then he smiles.

He licks his lips, slow, lazy. The taste is still there, warm and sweet and impossible to forget. Namjoon’s tits. His brother. 

Soft in his mouth, the way they moved when he sucked, the way Namjoon gasped when his teeth grazed the tip. Fucking addictive. He leans back against the counter and exhales through his nose. Every cell in his body feels sharp. Hungry.

He wanted him for years. Told himself he hated him, resented him, ignored him to keep the distance sharp and clear. Now? He’s tasted him. Felt him tremble under his hands. Heard the way he moans when he thinks no one else can hear.

And Namjoon can run all he wants. He can pull his blankets tight and hide in the guest room again, pretend nothing happened.

But Jungkook knows. He knows Namjoon’s chest will still be flushed under that shirt. He knows the skin will still burn where his mouth was. He knows Namjoon is soft, sensitive, and easy to bend under the right kind of voice. The right kind of pressure.

And now that Jungkook finally found a crack there? He’s not stopping. He’s going to ruin Namjoon. Slowly. Sweetly. Make him want nothing else. No one else. Make him beg to be kept. Make him forget how to be anything but his.

It was the middle of summer, the kind where the air sat heavy and still. Jungkook had just stepped out of the shower, hair wet, shirt clinging to his back. He was halfway through brushing his teeth when it hit him, that strange pull in the air, thick and sweet and wrong.

He froze. Sniffed again. Then again, slower.

The scent curled around his spine like smoke. Soft. Warm. Slick underneath. Not floral. Not artificial. Natural. A little shy, almost embarrassed. Like it had tried not to be noticed but failed miserably.

He knew what it was. He just didn’t believe it.

Namjoon’s door had been cracked open. The hallway was dark. The smell was strongest there.

He shouldn’t have looked. He knew that. But he did.

Namjoon was curled on his bed, back to the wall, the fan whirring weakly across the room. His shirt was soaked with sweat, collar tugged down like he’d been yanking at it. His thighs were bare, shorts hitched up high, one leg bent, hips rolling soft and slow, like he was trying to ease something he didn’t understand.

He was whimpering. Not loud. But enough.

Jungkook had gripped the doorframe. It hit him hard and fast, that heat tearing through his chest, his stomach, shooting straight down. Not just arousal. Need. Full-blown. Nauseating. He’d swallowed hard, breath catching. His cock was half-hard already and he hadn’t even touched himself.

Namjoon shifted on the bed again. One hand between his thighs. The other pressed over his mouth.

And Jungkook wanted. Not just to touch. Not just to fuck.

He wanted to ruin Namjoon. Wrap his hand around that soft throat, bite into the skin, own him. He wanted to see him cry. Not in pain, just in overwhelm. In surrender.

It made him sick. It made him harder.

He’d stumbled back, slammed his own bedroom door shut, leaned against it like that would stop the heat from bleeding through the wood. His hand was already in his shorts. Already pulling. He jerked off fast, rough, teeth clenched. No fantasy. No imagination. Just Namjoon’s scent in his head and that sound, soft, breathy, needy looping on a loop.

He came in under a minute.

Hard. Too hard. He collapsed forward onto the bed, breath shaking. And when it was over, the shame sank in but it didn’t matter.

Because it was too late. Jungkook understood now. This thing in his chest? It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t even want. It was obsession. And it wasn’t going anywhere.

He spent half the night twisted in his sheets, heat-sick and half-hard, Namjoon’s scent thick in the air no matter how wide he opened the window. He showered twice. Cold both times. It didn’t help.

Worst part? He didn’t even feel clean after. Not really.

By morning, the light was too bright. The whole house felt wrong. Too quiet. Like it knew what he did.

He dragged himself into the kitchen, hair damp, hoodie thrown over the same boxers from the night before. He hoped, begged, really, that Namjoon was still in bed. That maybe the heat had broken overnight and he’d come down normal. Safe.

No such luck. Namjoon was already there.

Back turned at first, leaning over the counter, pouring cereal into a bowl. Same oversized shirt from yesterday, sleeves too long, collar slipping off one shoulder like it didn’t even belong to him.

He looked over when he heard Jungkook step in. Eyes puffy. Cheeks pink.

And his scent, fuck. It was worse in the daylight. Stronger. Sweeter. Still laced with heat, still soaked into his skin like it wanted to be found.

Jungkook froze in the doorway, muscles locked. “Morning,” Namjoon said, voice soft.

No limp. No daze. No idea what he’d done to Jungkook the night before. Just standing there, sleepy and sweet, spooning cereal into his mouth like he hadn’t ground his hips into his own hand until he soaked the sheets.

Jungkook swallowed. His throat was dry, palms sweaty.

Namjoon smiled, a little shy. “You want me to pour you some?”

No.

He wanted to push him up against the fridge. Shove that shirt up and see if he was still wet. Still swollen. He wanted to put his mouth where Namjoon’s fingers had been and find out what he tasted like when he came. But what he said was, “No. I’m good.”

And he walked past him like he wasn’t losing his fucking mind.

Namjoon turned back to his cereal, humming under his breath. That soft, careless sound? Jungkook felt it in his teeth.

He opened the fridge just to have something to do. Stared at the juice carton like it could save him.

“I had weird dreams last night,” Namjoon said quietly.

Jungkook’s fingers tensed around the carton.

Namjoon kept going. “I don’t really remember them. Just that it felt… weird. Warm. Like I couldn’t stop moving.”

Jungkook’s pulse was in his mouth now. Loud. Thick.

Namjoon looked over his shoulder again. “That’s normal, right? For—um. You know.”

Jungkook forced a nod. Kept his face blank. “Yeah. It’s normal.”

Namjoon smiled like that was all he needed. And Jungkook? He stared at him, at those flushed cheeks, that damp hair, the soft curve of his chest under that shirt and he knew.

This wasn’t going away. This thing inside him. This need. He was going to want Namjoon for the rest of his life. Crave him like a sickness.

And one day, he was going to have him.

Not just the scent or the sound. Every inch. Every heat. Every breath.

Until Namjoon forgot what it felt like to want anything else.

Namjoon avoids him the entire day. 

Doesn’t show up to lunch. Spends dinner in the garden with their mom. Sneaks upstairs early. Won’t look Jungkook in the face. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

It would’ve been convincing, if Jungkook couldn’t smell the ache under his skin. Couldn’t feel it every time Namjoon passed too close. The way his eyes dropped. The way his hands fidgeted, restless and wanting.

Jungkook doesn’t chase him. He waits.

The house is silent now. That dead-hour quiet between night and morning, when even the walls feel like they’re breathing slow.

Jungkook pads down the hall. Bare feet. Calm.

Namjoon’s door isn’t locked. He never locks it. He’s curled up on top of the blanket, not sleeping. Of course he’s not. His back is to the door, but his breath catches when Jungkook steps inside.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” Jungkook says, voice low.

Namjoon stiffens. “Please don’t.”

Jungkook closes the door behind him. “That’s not a denial.”

“I can’t—” Namjoon starts, voice breaking already. “I can’t keep doing this with you.”

Jungkook comes closer. Slowly. “You keep saying that. But your body never listens.”

Namjoon turns over to face him. Eyes wide, scared, glassy. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Jungkook kneels on the bed. “You always mean it.”

Namjoon tries to move back. Jungkook’s hand presses against his hip, firm. He leans in, nose brushing Namjoon’s jaw.

“You’re shaking,” Jungkook whispers. “Why?”

“I don’t want this.”

“Don’t lie.”

Namjoon whimpers. “Jungkook—”

“You ache for it.” Jungkook’s hand drags up under his shirt, over his stomach, to cup one warm, familiar breast. “You’ve been wet all day. I can smell it on your thighs.”

Namjoon grabs at his wrist. “I’m begging you.”

Jungkook’s mouth curls into a smile. Not cruel. Not soft. Just sure. “Then beg me right.”

Namjoon’s lip trembles. His eyes flutter shut.

Jungkook tugs his shorts down.

Namjoon gasps. “No—just—at least use a condom—please, just—”

Jungkook smiles and kisses his throat. “Why?”

Namjoon stutters. “I don’t know. It’s—it’s safer—”

“It’s better like this,” Jungkook says, voice deep now. “You want to feel everything. You want me to fill you. Mark you. Stay inside you.”

Namjoon’s thighs fall open with a shiver.

“You say no with your mouth,” Jungkook growls, rutting against him now, cock heavy and leaking, “but your cunt’s fucking crying for me.”

Namjoon moans. One broken sound, high in his throat.

Jungkook lines himself up. “Raw,” he says, pushing in. “Just like you need.”

Namjoon sobs, chest arched, arms around Jungkook’s shoulders like he can’t stop it now. Can’t stop any of it.

Jungkook sinks in deep. Slow. So damn slow.

Namjoon’s cunt takes him greedy, wet and hot and pulsing like it knows who he is.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” Jungkook grits out. “Should’ve bred you the first time you went into heat.”

Namjoon whines under him, hips rolling, soft and overwhelmed.

Jungkook fucks him slow at first. Then harder. Filthy. Deep. He watches Namjoon fall apart with every thrust, eyes fluttering, mouth open, legs trembling, begging even when the words don’t come.

And when he feels it coming, the tightness coils and his knot begins to swell, he presses his mouth to Namjoon’s ear and says: “You’re gonna take all of me.”

Namjoon claws at his back, broken and close and fucked raw already. And when Jungkook knots him, it hits like a shockwave. Namjoon’s back arches, cunt gripping tight, body locked around him.

Jungkook moans into his throat, voice hoarse. “Mine.”

Namjoon comes again. Harder. And Jungkook stays inside him, buried to the hilt, knot thick and throbbing. Just like he always knew he would.

It’s been an hour. Namjoon’s trembling underneath him.

His chest is rising too fast. His arms are still clinging around Jungkook’s shoulders like he forgot how to let go. Sweat beads at his hairline. His thighs twitch every few seconds around Jungkook’s hips.

They’re still tied. Jungkook’s knot thick inside him, pulsing slow. It’ll be a while before he softens enough to pull out.

Namjoon breathes like he’s been crying.

Jungkook brushes his thumb over his cheek, catches the dampness there. “You okay?”

Namjoon flinches. Doesn’t answer.

“You’re full,” Jungkook murmurs. “Tight as fuck around me. Your body’s not confused. You know that, right?”

Namjoon shakes his head against the pillow. “Don’t talk.”

Jungkook kisses his jaw. “Why not?”

“Because you’re going to ruin it.”

Jungkook stills. Then laughs, low and quiet.

“Hyung,” he says. “I already did. I ruined you.”

Namjoon closes his eyes.

“I fucked you raw,” Jungkook whispers. “Knotted you. Filled you up like it was my right.”

“It wasn’t.”

“But you let me.”

Namjoon’s breath shakes. “Because I didn’t know how to say no.”

“That’s not true.” Jungkook’s mouth brushes his temple. “You said it. Over and over. You just didn’t mean it.”

Namjoon swallows hard.

Jungkook slips a hand down between their bodies, slow. Presses over the bulge in Namjoon’s lower stomach. “You feel that?”

Namjoon tries to turn his head. Jungkook holds him still. “That’s me,” he whispers. “I’m in you. Deep.”

Namjoon shudders and Jungkook kisses his mouth, soft, slow, ruinous. “You asked me to use a condom.” He says. “You begged, remember?”

Namjoon lets out a quiet, broken sound.

“And I said no.” Jungkook’s voice is pure warmth now. Sweet. Almost gentle. “Because I’m never using one with you.”

Jungkook kisses his cheek. “You’re mine now. That’s what this is. Not a mistake. Not confusion. You belong to me.”

Namjoon tries to turn away. Jungkook doesn’t let him. “You wanted to be wanted, didn’t you?”

Namjoon bites his lip. Jungkook kisses it. “Now you are.” His knot throbs again and Namjoon chokes on a breath.

Jungkook just smiles against his skin and whispers, “I’m not letting you go.”

Their mom is in the entryway, shoes on, half-distracted as she rifles through her purse.

“You’re coming too, right?” she asks, looking at Namjoon. “They want to see how tall you’ve gotten. I told them you look like a professor now.”

Namjoon smiles politely, the way he always does when he doesn’t want to go but won’t say it.

Before he can answer, Jungkook cuts in. “I was hoping to keep hyung here today,” he says. Calm. “Just something brotherly. Catch up a little. I’ve been kind of shit about it.”

His mom glances between them, surprised. Then she laughs. “Really?” she says, amused. “Didn’t know you two were suddenly attached at the hip again.”

Jungkook shrugs. Smiles easy. “Trying to be.”

She waves a hand. “Fine, fine. He’s yours. But if I come back and he looks exhausted, I’m blaming you.”

Jungkook’s smile twitches. “Deal.”

She leaves ten minutes later. The front door clicks shut, the car pulls out of the drive. The silence after is sharp. Full.

Namjoon’s still standing awkwardly in the hallway. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says, quiet.

“I know,” Jungkook says. “But I wanted to.”

Namjoon’s fingers tug at the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t meet Jungkook’s eyes. “I’m fine, you know. I don’t need—”

Jungkook steps in, cuts the space between them without warning, and scoops him up.

Namjoon yelps. “What—Jungkook, what are you—”

“Don’t make it weird,” Jungkook says, already carrying him down the hall. “You’re lighter than I thought.”

Namjoon writhes a little, not really trying to get away. “Put me down.”

“No.” He pushes open his bedroom door with his foot. Crosses the room. Lays Namjoon down on his bed like it’s where he’s always belonged.

And maybe it is.

Namjoon blinks up at him, breath unsteady. His cheeks are already going pink. He looks so fucking pretty it’s insane. 

“I used to lie here,” Jungkook says, crawling over him. “Every night. Thinking about this. About you.” Then he noses along his jaw. “You want to know how long I’ve wanted to fuck you in this bed?”

Namjoon exhales through his teeth. “Don’t—”

“I used to imagine it in detail,” Jungkook murmurs. “You’d come into my room after a fight. Cry on my shoulder. Try to tell me it was okay.”

His hand slips under Namjoon’s shirt. Warm palm against soft skin. “And then I’d touch you. Slowly. Pretend I was helping.”

Namjoon shivers but doesn’t pull away. When did he ever? 

“I wanted your tits in my mouth right here,” Jungkook whispers. “On these sheets. I wanted to taste the sounds you’d make. I wanted to keep you up all night.”

Namjoon turns his face into the pillow. “Jungkook, please—”

Jungkook lifts the shirt up, over his chest, exposes him fully. “You never said no in my fantasies.”

“I didn’t know,” Namjoon breathes.

“But you do now.”

He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, hot and wet. Namjoon gasps, arches, one hand gripping the bedsheet. Jungkook licks across the bud, then the other. Kisses down his stomach, mouthing at the skin like it’s his last meal. Namjoon’s already panting by the time Jungkook slides his shorts off. He doesn’t tease. Just spreads his legs and sinks into him, raw and slow.

Namjoon cries out.

“Shh,” Jungkook says, hand on his chest. “You’re okay.” The stretch is deep. His walls flutter around him, too warm, too tight. Jungkook has to bite down on a groan. “You feel better than I ever imagined,” he grits out.

Namjoon’s fingers clutch at his arms. He turns his face again, hiding like that’ll help.

Jungkook thrusts, slow, deep, dragging his cock through that wet heat like he owns it.

“You love being here,” he whispers, lips at Namjoon’s ear. “You just won’t say it.”

Namjoon whimpers.

And Jungkook keeps going, rocking into him steadily, watching his tits bounce, watching his mouth part around every held-back sound. He’s going to keep this pace until Namjoon breaks. Because now that he’s had him here, in this bed, there’s no going back.

Namjoon’s breathing is ragged. Quiet moans caught in his throat, his body trembling under Jungkook’s hands. He’s so warm inside, wet, tight, soft in a way that makes Jungkook feel like he’s going to lose it.

Every thrust is slow. Heavy. Deep enough that Namjoon arches every time, chest flushed, nipples stiff from Jungkook’s mouth and the stretch inside him.

He’s not pushing him away. But something’s shifting.

His brows draw in. His lip trembles. His hands stop clinging and start gripping, not in pleasure, but in desperation.

“Jungkook,” he breathes.

Jungkook doesn’t stop. Rolls his hips in again, groaning low. “What?”

Namjoon swallows. His eyes shine, wide and scared and so, so vulnerable. “What is this?”

Jungkook blinks.

Namjoon keeps going, voice shaking now. “What are we doing? What are you doing to me?”

Jungkook exhales through his nose. Thrusts again, slower this time, more deliberate. Feels Namjoon shudder beneath him.

“You know what I’m doing.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Namjoon says. “You say all these things—you’re mine, I wanted this for years, like I’m supposed to just—just belong to you now.”

“You do.”

“No, Jungkook—”

“Yes,” Jungkook says, and stops moving.

Namjoon gasps like he’s been left out in the cold.

Jungkook leans over him. Palms his face. “You want to know what this is?”

Namjoon nods once, breath caught.

Jungkook looks at him, really looks.

“It’s obsession,” he says. “It’s years of me wanting you so badly I thought it would kill me. It’s knowing your scent better than my own. It’s jacking off in the dark when I was seventeen, pretending it was your pussy or mouth. It’s dreaming about knotting you until I forgot what normal desire feels like.”

Namjoon stares at him, stunned.

“And now that I’ve had you,” Jungkook says, “I’m not going to stop.” He thrusts in again, harder this time. 

Namjoon gasps, body jerking.

“I’m going to keep you,” Jungkook says, voice thick. “Fuck you until you stop asking what this is. Because you’ll already know.”

Namjoon moans, raw, broken.

And Jungkook starts moving again. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s proving it with every stroke.

Namjoon’s hands tremble against his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He takes it. He takes all of it.

And that, Jungkook thinks, is the answer.

Namjoon’s close. Jungkook can feel it, every part of him fluttering, trying to stay quiet but breaking apart anyway. His legs are trembling. His hands keep grabbing and letting go, like he doesn’t know what to hold onto anymore.

Jungkook fucks into him deep, dragging each thrust out like he’s carving space for himself inside.

And then, he feels it. The ache. The burn. The way his knot starts to swell.

Namjoon senses it too. “Jungkook,” he breathes, high and scared.

“Shh,” Jungkook murmurs, mouth at his throat. “It’s okay.”

“No, wait—don’t—”

But it’s too late. Jungkook pushes in one last time and knots him.

Namjoon cries out, body arching, cunt clenching around the thick swell inside him, stretched and full and pulsing.

Jungkook groans low, buried to the hilt. “Fuck, baby—fuck.”

Namjoon whimpers. One hand over his mouth, face turned to the side, cheeks flushed all the way down to his chest.

Jungkook holds him, really holds him. One hand behind his back, the other cradling his face.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Namjoon nods, barely. His breathing’s shaky. His eyes are wet.

Jungkook kisses his temple.

They stay like that, tied, warm, stuck together in every way that matters. And then Jungkook feels it.

Namjoon relaxes. Little by little. His hands uncurl. His legs stop trembling. His face tilts up toward Jungkook’s chest, nuzzling just barely under his collarbone like a cat asking for attention. 

That’s when it hits Jungkook hard, like a shot straight to the heart.

Namjoon’s blushing. Not from embarrassment. Not from shame. He’s flustered. Flushed. Shy after being filled. Like he wants to be here. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how it feels.

Jungkook goes still. Then, he smiles. Not the sharp, biting thing he usually wears. This one’s softer. Dangerous in a different way.

Because he’s drunk on it. The fact that Namjoon’s looking at him like that. Quiet. Warm. Needy without even realizing.

He brushes his knuckles over Namjoon’s cheek. “You look so pretty like this.”

Namjoon flushes deeper. Hides his face. “Shut up.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “No. Never shutting up about this.”

Namjoon buries himself further into his chest. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re mine,” Jungkook whispers.

Namjoon doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t deny it, either. Because little by little, Jungkook’s breaking Namjoon open.

Namjoon’s already dressed when Jungkook wakes up.

The bed’s cold where he should be. The air smells like fresh laundry and not enough regret.

Jungkook hears the soft clink of dishes in the kitchen. Muffled footsteps. That forced kind of movement that’s trying not to wake anyone, even when there’s no one else around.

He waits a minute. Then another. Then he gets up.

Namjoon doesn’t flinch when he walks in. Doesn’t look at him, either. He’s standing at the sink, rinsing a bowl that’s already clean, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from his shower. That same loose shirt from yesterday. The same soft scent clinging underneath.

“You were gone when I woke up,” Jungkook says.

Namjoon hums. Neutral. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Jungkook steps closer. “You don’t bother me.”

Namjoon puts the bowl down. Wipes his hands. “Do you want coffee?”

“No.”

Namjoon grabs a dishtowel. Folds it too carefully. His voice is even when he finally speaks again. “Last night was… intense. I get it if you want to just leave it there.”

Jungkook watches him. “You want to leave it there?”

Namjoon’s lips twitch. He sets the towel down. “We’re not normal, Jungkook. This isn’t normal.”

“Did it feel wrong?”

Namjoon closes his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“I think it is.”

Namjoon’s breathing changes, tightens. He turns, arms crossed like a shield over his chest. “We keep doing this and pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’m not pretending.” Then with more conviction. “I’ve never pretended,” Jungkook says, stepping in. “You’re the one pretending it didn’t wreck you when I knotted you. You’re the one pretending you don’t blush every time I touch you now.”

“I’m not blushing,” Namjoon mutters, cheeks red.

“You’re unraveling,” Jungkook says. “And you don’t know how to stop it, so you’re trying to act like you’re fine.”

Namjoon opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Jungkook gets closer. Not touching. Just there. “You think if you stay quiet enough, I’ll stop wanting you?”

Namjoon’s throat moves when he swallows. “I think if I stay quiet enough, I’ll stop wanting you.”

Jungkook’s chest tightens. He exhales slowly. “You won’t.”

Namjoon’s lip trembles. Just slightly. And Jungkook sees it. The fear. The guilt. The ache. So he reaches out. Slowly. Fingers brushing Namjoon’s jaw, tilting his face up.

“Stop trying to undo it,” Jungkook whispers. “It’s already happened.”

Namjoon closes his eyes. “I don’t know how to be with you like this.”

“You don’t have to know,” Jungkook says. “You just have to stop running.”

Namjoon opens his eyes again. They’re glassy. And Jungkook, for the first time, softens all the way. He leans in. Presses a kiss to Namjoon’s forehead. Holds it there.

“You’re not nothing to me,” he says. “Stop acting like you are.”

It’s quiet again, but in a different way.

Namjoon’s not avoiding him anymore.

He’s just… softer. Like something inside him finally gave in and stopped fighting. He lets Jungkook linger in the same room. Stands a little closer when they brush shoulders in the hallway. Doesn’t flinch when Jungkook reaches for him.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s trust, thin, breakable, real. And it makes Jungkook feel fucking invincible. Until the phone rings.

He’s sitting on the couch, scrolling absently, when he hears Namjoon’s voice in the hallway. Light. Tentative.

“Hey. I didn’t expect you to call.”

Jungkook doesn’t move at first. Just listens.

Namjoon laughs, soft, nervous. “Yeah, I’m home. Just for the holiday.”

The hair on the back of Jungkook’s neck lifts. He gets up and walks slowly to the hallway.

Namjoon’s leaning against the wall, phone pressed to his ear, a hand tucked into his sleeve. His head is tilted down, smiling a little.

Jungkook stops just short of him.

Namjoon glances up and the smile falters. He doesn’t say anything. Just turns his back slightly and walks into the guest room, door closing quietly behind him.

Jungkook stands there for ten seconds. Then twenty. Then he follows. He doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open and walks in.

Namjoon’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, phone in his lap. His expression shifts the second he sees Jungkook, nervous, guilty.

“Hey,” he says.

“Who was that?”

Namjoon hesitates. “It was nothing.”

“I asked you a question.”

Namjoon picks at a thread in the comforter. “My ex. He just—wanted to check in. Said he saw something that reminded him of me.”

Jungkook stares at him. His pulse is loud in his ears.

“And you answered.”

Namjoon looks up, confused. “Yeah? I didn’t know I needed your permission.”

That’s what does it. Jungkook steps in fast, grabs his jaw, not hard, just firm, enough to make Namjoon go still. “You let me fuck you raw in my bed three nights in a row,” Jungkook says, voice low. “You let me knot you. You let me mark you.”

Namjoon’s lips part and his eyes look like he’s twelve again. 

“And now you’re picking up the phone for someone else?”

“It was a call—”

“You were laughing.”

Namjoon swallows. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” Jungkook leans in closer. “You miss him?”

“No.”

“You still get wet thinking about him?”

Namjoon flinches.

Jungkook’s hand slides down to his chest, grabs a handful. “This?” he growls. “Did he ever touch you like I do?”

Namjoon shakes his head.

“Then why the fuck are you still letting him call?” Jungkook exhales hard, lets go, pacing now. “You don’t get it. I don’t share. I’ve waited too fucking long to play it cool now.”

Namjoon looks up at him, eyes wide, throat tight. “I didn’t answer because I want him.”

“Then why?”

“Because I didn’t know if I could have you.”

That stops Jungkook cold.

Namjoon’s voice is quiet now. “You think I’m the only one unraveling? You’ve been tearing me down for years, Jungkook. I didn’t know if this was just something you’d get tired of. I didn’t know if this is another way you’re playing with me to hurt me in the end.” Namjoon lowers his eyes. “But I didn’t miss him.”

Jungkook walks back over. He kneels. Takes Namjoon’s face in both hands, gentler this time.

“You have me,” he says, voice shaking. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Namjoon nods. Just once.

But something in Jungkook’s chest doesn’t settle. It tightens. It coils and burns. That stupid disgusting part of him. And instead of kissing him, he laughs. Cold and bitter.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Namjoon looks up, startled.

Jungkook lets go of his face. Stands. “You think this means something? That just because I’m here, you’re safe?”

Namjoon blinks. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to.” Jungkook’s pacing now. “You were always so easy to break. I didn’t even have to try.”

Namjoon flinches like he’s been hit.

“I spent years trying to hate you,” Jungkook says, voice rising. “Because you made me want you. With your pretty face and your fucking softness and the way you looked at me like I was worth something.” And then he glances at Namjoon. “And now you’re here. Letting me fuck you. Letting me mark you. And you still picked up the phone for him.”

Namjoon whispers, “I didn’t want him.”

Jungkook looks at him, eyes hard, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he says. “Well, maybe he didn’t want you either.”

The silence is instant and heavy. 

Namjoon goes still.

And Jungkook sees it, the way his shoulders drop. The way his eyes go glassy, mouth falling open just a little. Like he’s trying to breathe around something sharp.

Jungkook regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. But he doesn’t take it back. He just grabs his jacket, storms past him, and leaves the room.

The door slams behind him.

The air outside is sharp.

Jungkook breathes it in like punishment, hands shoved deep in his hoodie, teeth clenched. His jaw aches from how tight he’s holding it. His heart feels like it’s clawing at his ribs.

He shouldn’t have said it. He didn’t mean it. But he did.

Because some ugly part of him meant every fucking word. He walks down the road, past the front gate, into the little patch of woods behind the house where he used to go when he was younger. Where he’d sit under the trees and think about hitting things. Where he’d think about Namjoon. He sits down on the grass. Leans back against the trunk. And just… breathes.

The silence is too much. He’s not good at this part.

Not at wanting someone and not knowing what to do with it. Not at being so full of someone that it spills over and turns into rage. He thought once he had Namjoon, it would get easier. It hasn’t. It’s worse now.

Because Namjoon looks at him like he’s precious. Like he’s breakable. And Jungkook doesn’t know how to be gentle. Not with this. Not with him.

His hand fists in the grass. Pulls until the dirt breaks loose.

A breeze moves through the leaves and suddenly, he’s not here anymore.

He’s seventeen again.

Back in his room.

Back in the past.

—

Namjoon was sitting cross-legged on Jungkook’s bed, talking about some friend from school. Some alpha. Big glasses, kind smile. Name started with a Y—Jungkook didn’t remember it. Didn’t care.

What he remembered was Namjoon laughing.

Soft. Open. The kind of laugh he didn’t give to everyone. The kind that made Jungkook feel like the sun cracked through the floor just for him.

Except it wasn’t for him. It was for someone else.

Jungkook was standing by his desk, pretending to scroll through his phone. Jaw locked. Trying to look normal.

“I think you’d like him,” Namjoon had said. “He’s really smart. Quiet, but funny.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

“You okay?” Namjoon asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Namjoon paused. “You just… seem tense.”

“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. And when Namjoon stood up, came closer. 

Jungkook snapped. “You talk about him a lot,” he muttered. “You sure you’re not dating him?”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“I mean, you light up like that every time his name comes up. I’m just wondering.”

Namjoon looked stunned. “Jungkook, he’s just my friend.”

“Right.”

“You’re being weird.”

“Forget it.”

Namjoon reached for him. “Come on, what’s going on?”

And Jungkook said it, quiet, vicious. “You make it so easy to forget you’re just like everyone else.”

Namjoon froze. “What does that mean?”

“It means you beg for attention and then act surprised when people stop giving it to you.”

Namjoon took a step back. “That was mean.”

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Namjoon said, voice small.

And Jungkook had wanted, desperately, to take it back. To pull him in, hold him, say he was sorry. Say he was scared. Say it was jealousy and self-hate and confusion. Say anything. But he didn’t.

Some part of him couldn’t. Some ugly, awful part that wanted to keep Namjoon small. Afraid. Dependent. And Namjoon, he’d looked at him, eyes wet, lip trembling, and said the softest thing Jungkook had ever heard: “I’m sorry.”

Like he had done something wrong. And Jungkook just stood there.

Let him leave without saying a word.

—

The memory fades like static.

Jungkook’s head drops back against the tree, eyes burning. Nothing’s changed.

Namjoon still says sorry for things he didn’t do. And Jungkook still doesn’t know how to love him without breaking something. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. Breathes through the guilt, the want, the ache.

The house is too quiet when Jungkook slips back inside. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t make noise. He already knows where Namjoon is. Knows what he’ll find.

The guest room door is cracked, just like before. The light is off. Inside, the shape of Namjoon sits curled on the bed, back against the headboard, knees pulled up to his chest, blanket over his shoulders like armor.

He doesn’t look up when Jungkook steps in. Jungkook closes the door behind him anyway.

The silence stretches.

And then, softly, like he’s scared. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Jungkook moves closer. “Did you want me to?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Jungkook sits on the edge of the bed. Close. Not touching.

Namjoon turns his face toward him, eyes red, lips raw from biting back whatever he couldn’t say while Jungkook was gone. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

Jungkook tilts his head. “You didn’t.”

Namjoon blinks. “Then why did you say those things?”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. Just leans forward and brushes a strand of hair off Namjoon’s cheek. “You’re always sorry,” he says, voice low. “Even when it’s not your fault.”

Namjoon’s breath hitches. “I don’t want you to hate me,” he whispers. “I’m scared you already do.”

Jungkook’s thumb brushes his lower lip. “Then let me touch you.”

Namjoon shudders. “Please,” he whispers, eyes fluttering. “Please touch me.”

Jungkook kisses him, slow, like forgiveness. But this isn’t forgiveness. It’s winning. He lays Namjoon back, pushes the blanket off his shoulders, peels the shirt over his head. Namjoon helps. Wordless and obedient. His hands tremble as he reaches for Jungkook, eyes already going glassy with want.

“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” Jungkook murmurs as he trails kisses down his chest.

Namjoon swallows hard. “That if I say no again, you’ll stop wanting me.”

Jungkook smiles against his skin. “I’ll never stop.” He moves lower, between Namjoon’s thighs. Parts him. Finds him wet, soaked, dripping onto the sheets. “Still aching for me,” Jungkook says, dragging his tongue through the slick.

Namjoon moans, one hand fisting in the sheets.

“You think he ever made you this wet?” Jungkook asks, voice dark. “That pathetic alpha you let touch you before me?”

Namjoon shakes his head, breath ragged. “N-no.”

Jungkook groans into him, eating him out filthy and slow, tongue curling inside, lips sucking, nose brushing against his clit with every stroke. “You let him knot you?” Jungkook growls.

Namjoon sobs. “Once—didn’t mean anything—”

“Bet he didn’t even know how to make you come first.”

He sucks hard, and Namjoon’s whole body jerks.

“I’m the only one who knows this cunt,” Jungkook snarls. “The only one who deserves it.”

Namjoon whimpers, legs falling open wider. And Jungkook doesn’t stop until Namjoon’s soaking his mouth, thighs trembling, voice broken into little desperate gasps.

Then Jungkook gets on top of him. Guides himself in one long, slow thrust.

Namjoon cries out, arching into him.

And Jungkook fucks him, deep, slow, possessive, while whispering everything the ex never said. Everything Namjoon wanted to hear and was too scared to ask for.

“You’re mine now.”

“No one else gets to call you pretty.”

“No one else gets to fill you like this.”

And when the knot starts flaring again, when Namjoon’s legs wrap around him, when his cunt clenches tight around Jungkook’s cock, he says: “Bet he never made you feel like this.”

Namjoon sobs his name.

And Jungkook knots him again, hips locked deep, heart pounding.

He feels high, drunk on the feeling. On owning Namjoon, breaking him and knowing Namjoon will let him do it again and again. 

His chest is rising in short, shallow breaths. His arms are wrapped around Jungkook’s shoulders, but they don’t hold him. They just cling. Like instinct. Like if he lets go now, he won’t come back from it.

Jungkook’s knot is fully swollen, deep, locked, throbbing.

Namjoon’s cunt pulses around him in little aftershocks, raw and spent, like even his body doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s whimpering, soft and half-silent. His legs twitch every few seconds. His face is turned away. He won’t look at Jungkook.

And Jungkook just stays there. Still inside him. Still pretending this is normal.

The room is filled with the kind of silence that comes after ruin. And in that silence, Jungkook thinks: This isn’t love. It’s never been love.

It’s obsession, twisted up in years of resentment and hunger and the ache of not being wanted enough. It’s the rotten part of him that saw Namjoon being soft with someone else and thought if I can’t have him gently, I’ll take him like this.

He shifts slightly, just a tiny rock of his hips. Namjoon gasps, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even try.

And Jungkook feels it again, that voice in his chest. That heavy realization. I’ve gone too far.

He knows what this is, he knows what he just did. What he took. But he also knows something else, above all that, he doesn’t want to stop. 

If this is how he gets Namjoon, shaking and quiet, clinging to him because he’s scared to be unloved, then he’ll take it. If this is how Namjoon stays, he’ll keep him like this.

He presses his mouth to Namjoon’s temple. Feels the heat there. “You’re mine,” he whispers again, quieter this time. Not a threat, just a fact.

Namjoon nods and Jungkook closes his eyes. 

They don’t see each other the entire day after because Jungkook doesn’t know how to navigate his feelings. He thinks he’s got it under control, won’t let out the ugly simmering jealousy and hatred from before but it’s hard. Especially when Namjoon is so good at taking what Jungkook gives. No matter how bad or worse. 

Namjoon’s always been like that, hasn’t he? All their life. Maybe Jungkook is addicted to hurting him too. Maybe not. 

He thinks he’s had enough of waiting and pads to the guest room. 

Namjoon’s sitting on the floor again. Same hoodie. Different posture. His legs are pulled up tighter tonight, back against the wall this time, like he wants less space. Like he’s already made himself small.

Jungkook steps inside and doesn’t knock. The door clicks shut behind him.

Namjoon doesn’t look up. 

“You skipped dinner,” Jungkook says.

Namjoon shrugs.

“Mom asked where you were.”

“Tell her I had a headache.”

“You didn’t.”

Namjoon finally glances up. “Didn’t feel like eating.”

“Right.” Jungkook crosses the room. Drops his phone onto the bed without care. “Or maybe you just didn’t want to see me.”

Namjoon’s voice is quiet. “Did you want me to?”

“Wouldn’t have cared either way.”

Namjoon hums at that. Not amused. Not angry. Just… done.

Jungkook hates that sound. It’s too final. Too sure. “You always do this,” he says.

Namjoon tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Pull away the second I stop playing nice.”

Namjoon breathes out a tired laugh. “Jungkook. You don’t play nice. You play like I’m something you’re still deciding on.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”

“You go hot. Then cold. Then nothing. Then you touch me like you need me to breathe.” Namjoon shakes his head. “And I take it. Every time. I let you.”

Jungkook folds his arms. “You could’ve said no.”

Namjoon looks at him. “Would it have mattered?”

That lands harder than Jungkook expects.

Namjoon keeps going, voice too steady to be calm. “You make everything feel like it’s my fault. Like if I’m hurt, it’s because I stayed. If I’m confused, it’s because I’m soft. If I’m here, it’s because I wanted it. And maybe that’s all true, but you—” his voice falters just slightly, “—you know exactly how to twist the knife without ever getting blood on your hands.”

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Namjoon sits back, hands gripping the fabric of the hoodie. “You talk like I’m weak. Like I’m fragile for wanting you. But you’re the one who can’t stand being seen.”

Jungkook laughs, but it’s sharp. Defensive. “You think you see me?”

Namjoon nods. “Every time you say something to make me smaller. Every time you pull me in just to let me down. Every time you look at me like you hate that I still want you.”

Jungkook stares at the wall behind him, like it’ll give him the words.

Namjoon wipes at his face with his sleeve. “You make me feel like I’m crazy for wanting more.”

“You don’t even know what more is,” Jungkook mutters.

“Yes, I do,” Namjoon says. “I just stopped asking for it because you always made it sound like too much.”

There’s a long pause. Namjoon doesn’t break it.

Jungkook does. “You think you’re better than me?”

Namjoon looks up, stunned. “What?”

Jungkook exhales. “You act like you’re this victim. Like I’m some villain you keep forgiving.”

Namjoon stares. Jungkook waits for a denial. Doesn’t get one.

Instead, Namjoon says, low and even, “You hurt me.”

The silence between them thickens. “You hurt me,” Namjoon repeats, voice shaking now, “and then you act like I imagined it.”

He doesn’t cry right away. His face stays still. His hands stay still. It’s only when he blinks, slow and deliberate, that the tears start to gather. He doesn’t sob. Doesn’t breathe heavy. He just lets it fall.

Like he’s been holding it in for too long, and now there’s no one left to hold it for.

Jungkook can’t move. He watches the first tear slip down Namjoon’s cheek, then another. Watches him try to breathe through it. Try to keep quiet.

Namjoon presses his hand over his mouth. His shoulders shake.

And Jungkook doesn’t speak.

Because for the first time, he doesn’t have anything left to throw. No edge. No shield. No twisted logic to hand over like a weapon.

Only the sight of Namjoon, curled up on the floor, crying into his own palm like he’s ashamed of being hurt again.

And Jungkook knows. He’s the reason. Not once. Not twice.

Every single time.

And suddenly the room feels smaller. Tighter. Hot in a way it shouldn’t be. The walls closer. The guilt louder.

He watches Namjoon fold in on himself.

And he thinks I've gone too far.

No words. No apology. Just that. Just the weight of it, finally settling on his chest.

This time, he knows: If he doesn’t change, Namjoon won’t come back.

The table is crowded, eight, maybe nine of them total. Cousins from Daegu, a couple from Busan. Their mom’s beaming, setting out one last side dish even though there’s barely room for it. Everyone’s talking over each other, passing plates, laughing too loud.

Namjoon sits next to Jungkook.

Of course he does, he always does now. An old little habit where Jungkook realised he’s always been a little desperate for Jungkook’s attention like this. And Jungkook’s been good. For almost the whole afternoon, eyes on his food. Hands in his lap. Smile polite.

But Namjoon’s wearing one of Jungkook’s sweaters, oversized, sleeves swallowed around his knuckles, neckline wide and dipping over his collarbone. His thighs are bare under the table. He didn’t expect to be seated this close.

Jungkook’s not good anymore. He waits until the plates are full. Until everyone’s busy talking. Then he shifts slightly, leans in under the guise of grabbing the water pitcher, and lets his hand fall into Namjoon’s lap.

Namjoon freezes.

Jungkook doesn’t look at him. Just keeps his gaze on the table, on a cousin talking about some new office job in Seoul, and slips his fingers higher.

Namjoon inhales, soft, sharp, his legs tense. Jungkook finds the hem of the sweater. Trails his hand underneath. Slides across warm, bare skin until he finds what he’s looking for.

Namjoon’s already wet.

Jungkook smiles, slow and secret, and presses two fingers between slick folds. Namjoon chokes on a sound, half-cough, half-gasp.

Someone across the table glances over. “You okay, hyung?”

Namjoon nods, face flushed. “Yeah. S-sorry. Just… bit of rice went down wrong.”

Their aunt offers water. Jungkook presses his fingers in. Namjoon’s legs jolt under the table.  

Jungkook strokes slow, steady. Watches the way Namjoon’s breathing changes. The way he shifts in his seat like he can’t find a position that doesn’t make it worse.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Jungkook murmurs, lips barely moving.

Namjoon doesn’t respond, just grips his chopsticks too tight.

“You’re gonna soak the chair.” Jungkook crooks his fingers just right.

Namjoon whimpers, too quiet for the table to hear, but not too quiet for Jungkook. He leans in, lips brushing Namjoon’s ear, and says, “Smile. Or they’ll know.”

Namjoon tries. It’s weak. Wobbly. It’s so sweet. 

Someone asks him a question about work. He stammers through a reply, voice too high, knees pressed together and trembling.

And Jungkook just keeps fingering him, slow, deep, deliberate, like they’re alone, like no one else exists.

Because in Jungkook’s head, they don’t. It’s just Namjoon and Jungkook’s hand, just slick and heat and that slow fall into a ruin that Namjoon can’t stop anymore. Not even in front of family. 

Namjoon’s close. Jungkook can feel it in the way his thighs keep tensing, in the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, staring blankly at a plate of food like he can’t remember how to function. His breathing is short, his lashes fluttering, and the slick is making it so easy, Jungkook’s fingers drag in and out with this soft, soaked sound he knows Namjoon can hear but no one else can.

He curls his fingers just right.

Namjoon jerks. Across the table, their cousin refills his own glass and keeps talking.

Jungkook leans in close, mouth barely moving. “Come for me.”

Namjoon shakes his head. His hand fists in his lap, gripping the fabric of the sweater.

“You’re already there,” Jungkook whispers. “Just let it happen. Be good for me.”

Namjoon trembles and then comes. Quiet and sharp, a strangled breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and unblinking. His body locks, back straightening just slightly, and Jungkook feels it, feels the way his cunt flutters around his fingers, tightening, pulsing, spilling slick down his wrist.

Namjoon grabs his water glass like he’s drowning. Takes a shaky sip, cheeks flushed crimson.

Jungkook slowly pulls his fingers out and licks them clean.

Namjoon doesn’t look at him again.

Not until ten minutes later, when the meal starts winding down and their cousins begin gathering their things.

And then he does. It’s murderous. 

Namjoon grabs Jungkook by the wrist, stands up too fast, mutters a sharp “We’ll be upstairs” to no one in particular, and drags him out of the room.

Jungkook laughs under his breath as they hit the hallway. “You mad?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He throws open Jungkook’s bedroom door, pulls him in, slams it shut behind them.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Namjoon hisses.

And Jungkook’s eyes darken. He grabs Namjoon by the hips, pushes him against the wall. “You came for me under the table. Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

Namjoon glares. “You made me—”

“You let me.”

“I should’ve—”

“What?” Jungkook leans in, grinds against him. “Said no? Or asked for more?”

Namjoon gasps, hips bucking forward.

Jungkook kisses him, hard, messy, tongue deep, teeth dragging. Namjoon moans into his mouth, fists gripping his shirt.

“I need it,” Namjoon breathes. “I need you—”

“I know.” 

Jungkook doesn’t waste time. He drags the sweater off. Pushes the shorts down. Turns Namjoon around and bends him over the edge of the bed in one motion, hand firm on the back of his neck.

“Cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs, lining up. “Cuter when you’re full of me.”

And then he’s inside. Deep. 

Namjoon sobs, body curling, hands grabbing for anything. Jungkook thrusts in slow and rough, dragging every sound out of him. “Still mad?” he grunts.

Namjoon whines. It’s such a lovely sound. 

“You wanted my knot the second I touched you.”

Jungkook’s hips are rolling slow now. The drag is thick, every thrust dragging his knot a little deeper into Namjoon’s dripping heat.

He’s not pulling out this time. He’s claiming.

Namjoon’s gasping into the mattress, face flushed, body shaking. Sweat slicks his back. His cunt is so soaked it’s leaking around Jungkook’s cock with every grind, messy, perfect.

“You’re perfect,” Jungkook groans, hands gripping Namjoon’s hips, fingers bruising. “Fucking perfect.”

Namjoon moans, high and helpless.

“You feel what you’re doing to me?” Jungkook growls, voice thick with it. “You’re milking me. Begging for my knot with your cunt.”

Namjoon cries out. “Please—”

“You want it?”

“Yes—yes, Jungkook, knot me—”

Jungkook thrusts deep and stays there, hips grinding, knot swelling thick, locking them together.

Namjoon screams into the sheets, body pulsing around him. And Jungkook moans, loud and wrecked and full, as he fills him.

He stays like that, breathing hard, chest against Namjoon’s back, knot pulsing with every aftershock. But he’s not done. He shifts, slowly. Slides a hand under Namjoon’s chest, dragging him up, back pressed to Jungkook’s chest now, thighs still spread over the edge of the bed.

Jungkook’s hands move to his tits, cups them. Lifts and squeezes them like they’re made to be held.

“Look at you,” he whispers into Namjoon’s neck. “So soft. So fucking good for me.” He rolls one nipple between his fingers. Namjoon arches with a gasp. “Your tits were the first thing I ever jerked off to,” Jungkook murmurs. “Used to dream about sucking on them while I filled you up like this.”

Namjoon moans, high, shivering.

Jungkook grins. “Want my mouth on them?”

Namjoon nods, desperate. “Please.”

Jungkook leans forward, mouth hot and open, tongue dragging over one nipple while he palms the other. He sucks slow, wet, messy, moaning against his skin like it’s feeding him.

Namjoon’s thighs twitch again. His walls clench around the knot, locked and pulsing.

“You take me so well,” Jungkook whispers. “All of me. Like your body was made to be fucked full. Made to be fucked by your brother.”

Namjoon whimpers, head falling back on Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook kisses his throat, his shoulder, both tits in turn, worships them with tongue and teeth, still buried inside him. Whispers filth and praise into his ear while his cum leaks slowly out around the seal of his cock.

The light coming through the blinds is muted, overcast, soft the way mornings shouldn’t be after a night like that.

Jungkook’s still inside the mess of it.

The sweat, the scent, the weight of Namjoon’s back against his chest. The sheets stink of sex. His thighs are sticky. His arm’s draped over Namjoon’s waist, fingers just barely brushing the curve of his stomach. Every inch of his skin still feels like it remembers last night in full.

And Namjoon hasn’t moved in over twenty minutes. Not a shift. Not a breath too deep. Like if he stays still long enough, maybe it won’t be real. Maybe he can lie his way out of this with silence.

Jungkook doesn’t move either. He stares at the back of Namjoon’s neck, where the skin is warm and flushed, where he bit down the night before without thinking. A mark that didn’t break skin, but bruised. Quiet and deep. The kind of thing you’d cover up in the mirror and not talk about.

That’s what this is turning into, isn’t it? A thing they’re both too afraid to name.

He pulls his hand back, rolls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. His mouth is dry. He swallows. Feels the ghost of his own voice, what he said when he was fucking Namjoon through his second orgasm. The words still float in his throat like a splinter.

He could say it again now.

He doesn’t.

Namjoon speaks first. Voice low, shaky. “Do you want me,” he says, “or do you just want to own me?”

It cuts through the quiet like glass shattering. Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. There’s a voice in his head that says: Lie. Laugh. Say something stupid. And another one, lower, older, real, that says: You should’ve known this was coming. He exhales slowly. “Is there a difference?”

Namjoon turns his head. His face is blank. A little tired. Like he’s already prepared for the worst version of that answer. “That’s not funny,” he says.

“I wasn’t joking.”

Jungkook watches the ceiling again. The crack in the plaster. The way the fan blade leans slightly to the left. “I don’t know how to love people halfway,” he says, voice quieter now. “And I don’t know how to want something without needing to own it.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond.

Jungkook looks at him again. His jaw is tight. His eyes are red in the corners. Not from crying, just not sleeping. Not knowing how to sleep next to someone who fucked you and called you theirs and didn’t say anything after.

“I used to think if I had you like this,” Jungkook says, “it would fix something in me.” Then quietly. “I was wrong.”

There’s a beat. Then Namjoon, almost whispering, asks: “Then why keep going?”

Jungkook rolls onto his side. Closer. Hand brushing Namjoon’s arm.

“Because not having you is worse.”

Namjoon’s throat works. He looks away. “That’s not love.”

“No,” Jungkook says. “It’s not.”

Namjoon closes his eyes. “Then what do we call it?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t have a word for it. Not this obsession that’s grown teeth. Not this heat between them that eats every soft thing before it can form. Not the way he wants to kiss Namjoon’s forehead and fuck him into the mattress at the same time.

He’s silent too long.

Namjoon turns on his back. Doesn’t look at him. “I don’t know how to be with you like this,” he says. “Every time I think I’ve got footing, you pull it out from under me.”

Jungkook swallows again. And this time when he speaks, it’s softer. “You think I know how to do this?” he says. “You think this is what I wanted?”

Namjoon looks over, looking a little surprised.  

Jungkook shrugs. “I wanted you. That’s all I knew.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when you hated me?” Namjoon asks.

Jungkook laughs, sharp and dry. “Especially then.”

Namjoon’s brow furrows.

“You followed me around like a fucking puppy,” Jungkook says, eyes on him now. “You smiled at me when I ignored you. Said sorry when I was cruel. And I hated you for it. Because you kept coming back.”

Namjoon’s voice is barely audible. “I just wanted you to like me.”

“I know.” And that’s what made it worse.

Jungkook leans in, thumb brushing Namjoon’s cheek. “You made me feel like I was worth something. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Namjoon’s breath catches. So Jungkook keeps going. “When you talked about your ex? I wanted to break something. Not because I thought you loved him, but because he got softness I never let myself have. He got the version of you that I used to watch from the doorway and tell myself I didn’t need.”

He lets that sit. Heavy. Then, quietly: “I don’t want to ruin you.”

Namjoon’s voice cracks. “But you already are.”

Jungkook presses his forehead to Namjoon’s. “I know.”

And he stays there. Breathing with him. Not asking for forgiveness. Not giving answers. Just staying. Because he doesn’t know how to stop.

But maybe he can learn how to stay without pulling Namjoon under with him.

Jungkook’s still pressed against him, forehead to forehead, like proximity can fix what’s already splintered. But Namjoon doesn’t close the distance. Doesn’t reach for him the way he used to, not like before, when silence meant permission.

Now it just means wait. Namjoon exhales through his nose, voice steadier this time.

“You say you don’t want to ruin me,” he says, “but you do it anyway.”

Jungkook’s fingers tighten around the blanket between them. “Because I don’t know what else to do with how I feel.”

“Then don’t touch me when you’re trying to hurt me,” Namjoon says, eyes pinned on his. “Don’t kiss me when you’re jealous. Don’t fill me up like I’m yours and then walk away from the parts that make me human.”

Jungkook flinches. It lands. All of it. “I never walked away,” he says.

Namjoon shakes his head. “You never showed up. Not the way I needed.”

Jungkook looks at him like he’s trying to memorize the shape of that anger. That ache. The real part of Namjoon that never went away, not even after all the orgasms, the moans, the shaking sobs against the mattress.

“You think this is easy for me?” Jungkook asks, voice rough now. “You think I don’t go fucking crazy trying to figure out how to hold you without owning you?”

“Then let me go,” Namjoon says.

The silence that follows is loud enough to hurt. “I can’t,” Jungkook says.

Namjoon breathes in like he’s preparing to say something final, but Jungkook cuts in. “I can’t because if I let you go, I’ll never get this chance again. To have you. To keep you.”

Namjoon’s lip trembles. But he doesn’t break. Not yet. “I was never trying to leave you, Jungkook,” he says quietly. “I just wanted to be loved without being controlled.”

“I don’t know how to separate them,” Jungkook says. “Not with you.”

Namjoon swallows hard. “Then what are we doing?”

Jungkook’s voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

They lie there, breathing in the heavy quiet, every inch of space between them filled with everything they haven’t said for years.

Jungkook finally shifts, turns fully onto his side. Reaches out, tentative, hand resting just at Namjoon’s waist. “I’m trying,” he says.

Namjoon looks down at the hand. “You’re trying now. After everything.”

Jungkook nods once. “It’s all I know how to do.”

Namjoon’s chest rises with a shaky breath. “I’m scared,” he admits.

Jungkook closes his eyes. “Me too.”

It’s not a fix. But it’s true.

And for now, that’s the only thing left holding them in the same bed.

The quiet settles again. Not cold this time. Just tired. Honest.

They’re still lying there, chest to chest, breath syncing and unsyncing in the spaces between words neither of them have the guts to finish. Jungkook’s hand rests at Namjoon’s waist, but he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t pull. Doesn’t push. Just waits. And Namjoon stares at him like he’s trying to decide if this is a mistake he’s willing to make again.

It takes a long time for him to reach up. Fingertips brushing Jungkook’s jaw. Not firm. Not certain. Just there.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Namjoon’s thumb traces along the line of his cheekbone. “You look younger when you’re quiet,” he says, voice hoarse.

Jungkook lets out the faintest laugh. “You used to say that when we were kids.”

“I always wanted you to be quiet,” Namjoon murmurs. “Back then, it felt like the only time you weren’t looking for a way to remind me I didn’t belong.”

Jungkook opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn’t have an excuse.

Namjoon’s hand lingers on his face. “You were always cruel to me,” he says softly. “But I think the worst part is I never hated you for it.”

Jungkook swallows hard. “I didn’t want you to love me.”

Namjoon tilts his head. “You didn’t?”

“I wanted you to need me,” Jungkook admits. “It felt safer than being wanted.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch. Not a smile. Not even close. Just recognition. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he whispers.

Jungkook nods once. “Yeah.”

Namjoon leans in. Presses his forehead to Jungkook’s. They stay there.

Then Namjoon’s hand moves. Slides down, over Jungkook’s chest. Slow, deliberate. Like he’s testing the version of him that isn’t asking for control. That isn’t trying to win.

Jungkook lets him. He doesn’t say a word.

Namjoon’s palm moves lower. Past the dip of his stomach. Over the waistband of Jungkook’s sweats.

“Can I?” he asks.

That breaks something open in Jungkook. That Namjoon still asks when Jungkook doesn’t. Still gives him the space to be touched. To be wanted.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, voice barely there. “Yeah, you can.”

Namjoon wraps his hand around him. Careful. His touch is steady, not teasing, not rushed, not punishing. Just real.

Jungkook groans, soft and helpless. His eyes flutter shut. His hand comes up to Namjoon’s shoulder, not to guide, just to hold.

Namjoon kisses his jaw. “You don’t have to earn me with control,” he says quietly.

Jungkook breathes deep. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m trying to remember how to just… be.”

Namjoon strokes his cock slow. Listens to his breath catch. “You’re not as good at pretending as you think you are.”

Jungkook huffs a laugh. “That obvious?”

“You’re scared of being loved,” Namjoon murmurs. “But you’re starving for it.”

Jungkook’s hips jerk. Not from the hand. From that.

Namjoon kisses him once, soft, real. Then again, just a little longer. And Jungkook, who’s fucked Namjoon half-conscious, called him his, bitten him, knotted him, said mine a thousand ways, feels like he’s being touched for the first time.

Namjoon’s hand is still around him, slow, warm, focused. Not teasing anymore. Just steady. And Jungkook can’t breathe right. His skin feels like it’s cracking open under every touch. His chest hurts with how much he wants to be kept in this.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m gonna—”

Namjoon leans up. Kisses him again. Then pulls his hand away.

Jungkook chokes. “What—?”

Namjoon just looks at him. “No,” he says. “Not like that.”

Jungkook’s eyes search his face. “What do you mean?”

Namjoon swings a leg over him, straddles his hips.

That’s when Jungkook gets it. Namjoon reaches between them, guides Jungkook’s cock to his entrance, already wet, already ready, and sinks down slowly.

Jungkook groans, loud and choked, hands gripping Namjoon’s thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Fuck—fuck, hyung—”

Namjoon rolls his hips once, smooth and deep. “You don’t get to come unless I take it.”

Jungkook stares up at him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, his heart punching through his chest. “You’re gonna ride me?”

Namjoon smiles, soft but wrecked. “I’m gonna ride you till you knot me. You think I forgot how full you get when you’re close?”

Jungkook moans, deep and wrecked, cock twitching inside him.

Namjoon leans down, mouth at his ear. “I want it again. That knot. The stretch. The way you sound when you realize you can’t pull out.”

Jungkook shudders.

Namjoon kisses his jaw. “So give me that.” Then he starts to move. Slow at first, grinding down, taking every inch. His hands plant on Jungkook’s chest. His thighs tighten. His face is flushed already, mouth open, lashes fluttering.

Jungkook can barely see. “You’re so tight,” he pants, hips bucking up once, and Namjoon rides through it.

“You’re not allowed to come,” Namjoon says again, voice thin and shaky but sure. “Not until I say.”

And Jungkook, who never lets go, never gives up control, nods.

Namjoon picks up the pace. Each roll of his hips is smoother, deeper, more demanding. He grinds down like he’s chasing his own release, like he needs the knot just as much as Jungkook does.

Jungkook’s fingers dig into his waist. “I’m close—fuck, hyung, I’m—”

Namjoon leans down. Nips his earlobe. “Then knot me.”

Jungkook’s back arches. And it hits.

The swelling. The heat. The sharp, undeniable pressure as his knot expands, locks him in place. Namjoon cries out, hips twitching, cunt pulsing around him with every wave.

Jungkook roars into his shoulder as he fills him, pulse after pulse, buried deep, completely lost.

Namjoon rides through every twitch. Grinds until Jungkook’s cock is overstimulated and soaked and knotted so tight they won’t be moving for minutes.

Then finally, finally, he stops.

Jungkook looks up at him, his hyung, his obsession, his anchor, and thinks: Maybe this is what it means to be wanted back.

It’s a dumb gathering.

Leftovers warmed up, two cousins too lazy to catch their train. The Bluetooth speaker’s playing something nostalgic and everyone’s pretending not to be tired of each other yet. Jungkook sits on the floor near the couch, plastic cup in hand, nodding at whatever their cousin Daemin is saying about a girl he met through work.

Namjoon is across the room, perched on the armrest of a chair, legs crossed at the ankle. One of Jungkook’s old sweatshirts hangs off him like it was made for it, draped, soft, neckline wide enough to show skin that should be hidden. Jungkook can see the faint purple mark blooming just above his collarbone.

He should’ve covered it. Or at least had the sense not to leave it where someone could trace it with their eyes and draw a conclusion.

But he didn’t. Because some part of Jungkook wanted this. The slow reveal. The maybe-they-know, maybe-they-don’t tension that curls in his spine like a knife.

He can’t stop looking. Namjoon hasn’t looked at him once. It’s driving Jungkook insane.

The mark. The mouth Jungkook had cried into two nights ago. The skin he’d bitten, the hips he’d gripped hard enough to leave shadows. And then it happens.

“Hyung,” Jihyun says, voice lilting like a joke but sharp underneath. “You’re really flushed today. You feeling okay?”

Namjoon blinks, caught mid-sip of water. “Yeah. It’s just hot.”

Jihyun leans back. “Mmh. Or someone’s been biting you.”

Jungkook’s body locks. The air doesn’t shift. No one gasps. The music keeps playing, and no one turns their head except Jungkook, who turns too fast.

Namjoon doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But his shoulders go tight.

Jungkook answers before he knows what he’s saying. “He was sick last night.”

Namjoon looks at him. Sharp.

Jihyun grins. “Sick? Looked like hickeys to me.”

Jungkook shrugs, mouth dry. “Wasn’t your kind of party.”

Jihyun’s eyes flick between them. Not suspicious—just… entertained. He doesn’t know. But Jungkook does. He knows what he saw. What he felt. That slow freeze in Namjoon’s body. The tension behind his smile. The stillness in his eyes that said: you just outed me.

Namjoon stands. “I’m gonna get some air.” His voice is calm, too calm.

Jungkook watches him leave. Watches the porch door close behind him. Then he tosses his cup into the trash and follows.

The back porch is cold, damp from the earlier rain. The kind of air that sticks to your skin without doing anything to cool you off.

Namjoon’s standing at the railing. Hands wrapped around the banister like he needs something to grip or else he’ll fly out of his own body. He doesn’t turn when Jungkook steps out behind him, but Jungkook knows he’s not surprised. He always knows when Jungkook’s near.

For a second, neither of them say anything.

Jungkook watches the way Namjoon’s back moves as he breathes, shallow and tight, like he’s holding everything in his chest.

“You should’ve let me say I burned myself cooking,” Namjoon says finally, still facing the yard.

Jungkook leans against the railing beside him. “You didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

Jungkook doesn’t argue. There’s no defense to make. He did fuck up. He let it show. He let them show. “I panicked,” he says.

Namjoon lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but hollow. “That’s the problem. You only panic when someone else might see.”

Jungkook shifts, jaw tight. “What do you want me to say?”

Namjoon turns now. Not fully. Just enough to face him, arms folded over his chest, shoulders curled in like he’s bracing for impact. “I want you to admit you don’t know what to do with me outside your bed.”

Jungkook’s chest tightens.

“I don’t think you actually know how to want me when I’m dressed,” Namjoon says, voice quieter now. “When I’m in a room with other people. When I’m not crying into your shoulder or begging for your knot.”

“Don’t—” Jungkook starts, but Namjoon cuts him off.

“You looked at me like I was yours,” he says. “And maybe I am. Maybe I keep letting you claim me because some part of me wants to believe it means I’m finally wanted. But not like this. Not when someone else can see it and I feel like I’ve done something wrong just by breathing.”

Jungkook stays silent. Because he doesn’t know how to explain that he did look at Namjoon like he was his. Because he is. And Jungkook doesn’t know how to turn that off in front of other people.

Namjoon leans back against the railing, fingers rubbing the inside of his palm like he’s trying to soothe himself. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. “But I’m ashamed of how I let you make me feel.”

Jungkook winces.

“I’m ashamed of how fast I gave in. How easily I let you crawl inside me and stay.”

“You didn’t let me,” Jungkook says. “I broke in.”

Namjoon swallows. “So fix it.”

Jungkook turns to him fully. “How?”

Namjoon lifts his head, eyes steady now. “Start by hiding it.”

Jungkook’s stomach drops.

“I don’t mean forever,” Namjoon says quickly. “I just mean, until I can carry it without flinching. Until I can look at you and not wonder who else is looking.”

It makes sense. It hurts, but it makes sense. Namjoon’s not ready to be seen like this. Not as Jungkook’s.

Not when the way Jungkook wants him still feels too close to hunger. Jungkook exhales, slow. “Okay. I’ll try,” Jungkook says. “I don’t know how to pretend I don’t want you, but I’ll try.”

The silence stretches.

Namjoon shifts. His voice goes soft. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

They go back inside after that.

Namjoon walks a few steps ahead. Jungkook keeps his hands in his pockets like that’ll stop them from twitching toward him. The kitchen’s half-quiet now. Someone’s cleaning up. Jihyun’s gone, thank god. The music is off.

No one says anything. Namjoon slips away upstairs without a word.

Jungkook doesn’t follow. He stays in the kitchen. Washes two cups that aren’t his. Wipes down the counter. Waits until everyone’s tired enough to peel off to their own rooms or roll out bedding in the den.

He doesn’t look up at the stairs once. He wants to.

Wants to climb them and crawl into the space between Namjoon’s shoulders and the wall. Wants to press his face into his neck and breathe until he can’t remember what it felt like to be told to hide.

But he waits. It’s the first thing he does for Namjoon that doesn’t come from want.

—

Later, long after the house is still, he creeps upstairs to wash up. Quiet, careful, every creak in the floorboard making him feel like a thief in his own house.

He doesn’t go to his room. He doesn’t go to Namjoon’s. He stretches out on the small sofa in the hall. Hoodie still on. Light off. Phone screen dim. Just waiting. He doesn’t hear the door open.

He just feels it, the shift in air. Then a whisper: “You’re so fucking dramatic.”

Jungkook lifts his head. Namjoon’s standing barefoot, wrapped in a blanket. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, that tired kind of softness in his eyes that only shows up when he’s worn down enough to stop hiding.

Jungkook blinks at him. “You said to keep it quiet.”

Namjoon walks over. Stops in front of him. “I said hide it,” he says. “I didn’t say don’t come back.”

Jungkook’s heart kicks. “I didn’t want to push,” he says. “Not again.”

Namjoon looks at him for a long time. Then sits beside him on the sofa, knees touching. Doesn’t speak for a while. Then, without looking at him: “I don’t know how to feel safe with you when everything between us still feels like a power play.”

Jungkook’s throat closes.

“I want to,” Namjoon says. “I keep waiting to feel different. I keep waiting for this to feel soft.”

Jungkook swallows hard. “I don’t know how to make it soft.”

“I think you already did,” Namjoon murmurs.

Jungkook glances over when Namjoon reaches out. Touches his hand. No heat. No teasing. Just… warm.

“I saw you trying,” he says. “Tonight. In that room. You didn’t look at me like you usually do.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook admits.

“I know.”

Namjoon turns his hand over in Jungkook’s. “You scare me,” he says. “But you also make me feel wanted in a way no one else ever has.”

Jungkook exhales. “I don’t want to scare you.”

Namjoon nods. “Then keep showing me this part.”

“What part?”

“This one,” Namjoon says. “Where you wait.”

—

That’s the start of something else.

Something quieter.

Still not clean. Still not healed. But different.

Jungkook sits with him until he dozes off on the couch, curled into his side.

And when Namjoon’s hand slips into his without asking, Jungkook doesn’t tighten his grip.

He just holds it there.

On the day their extended family visit, Namjoon and Jungkook share Jungkook’s old room. Twin beds on opposite walls, leftover Taeyang posters curling off the corners, the desk still cluttered with old notebooks and tangled phone chargers that haven’t worked since high school.

The door is locked. Jungkook twisted it behind them like muscle memory.

Outside, the house is alive. Their mom’s in the kitchen, chopping something. Their dad’s watching something loud on TV, probably that panel show he always ends up shouting at. Their aunt and uncle just arrived; Namjoon heard them dragging suitcases in fifteen minutes ago.

None of that matters. Because Namjoon is on his back now, shirt rucked up, one thigh hooked over Jungkook’s shoulder, and Jungkook’s cock is sliding into him slow, slick, and bare.

He presses in deep, too deep, and Namjoon’s back arches. He makes a noise he’s not proud of.

Jungkook pauses. Not to check if he’s okay, he knows Namjoon’s fine. Just to listen. They hear laughter from the hallway. Footsteps. A door creaking open somewhere down the hall.

Namjoon grabs the pillow next to his head and pulls it over his face.

“You think that’s gonna keep you quiet?” Jungkook murmurs.

Namjoon doesn’t answer.

Jungkook rolls his hips once, grinding in, and Namjoon jerks under him. The pillow shifts.

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, voice calm. “You’re too far gone for that now.”

He fucks him slow. Steady. Not soft. Every movement feels deliberate, like Jungkook’s making a point.

Namjoon’s tits bounce with each thrust. They’re sensitive, flushed, nipples already hard. Jungkook palms one, thumb rolling over it while his cock drags deep inside Namjoon’s cunt. Namjoon tries not to moan. It comes out anyway, breathy and muffled.

Outside the room, someone knocks on the door across the hall. They both go still.

“Jungkook-ah, have you seen the garlic?” their mom calls.

Jungkook doesn’t move. He stays seated inside him, cock twitching, his hand still full of Namjoon’s breast.

“No,” Jungkook calls out, voice even. “Check the bottom drawer.”

There’s a pause. Then footsteps fading. Namjoon exhales slowly. He peeks out from under the pillow, face flushed to his ears.

“You’re insane,” he whispers.

Jungkook leans down until they’re chest to chest, face hovering just above his. “I told you,” he says. “You started leaking the second we got upstairs.”

Namjoon glares at him. “You locked the door.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Jungkook kisses him, slow and deep, then pulls back and starts to move again. His thrusts are shallow now, more grind than pump, his knot not quite swollen yet, but starting. Namjoon can feel it. 

“Still not using a condom,” Namjoon whispers, quiet, breath shaky.

Jungkook looks at him. Doesn’t stop. “I know you’re on the pill.”

Namjoon swallows.

“But if you weren’t,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low and wrecked, “I’d keep going anyway.” His next thrust is deeper. Namjoon’s breath catches. “I’d stay inside,” Jungkook says, dragging his cock out slow and pushing back in until Namjoon’s cunt squeezes around him. “I’d fill you up until it took.”

Namjoon doesn’t look away. His eyes are wide. Not scared. Not even embarrassed.

That ruins Jungkook. “You want that,” he says. “You want me to ruin you for good.”

Namjoon lets out the softest noise in his throat.

Jungkook groans, hips starting to stutter. “Fuck. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore.”

Namjoon grabs at his shoulders, pulls him in closer, his cunt fluttering with every slow press of Jungkook’s cock.

“Do it,” Namjoon breathes, barely audible. “Knot me.”

Jungkook shoves in deep and stays there. His knot presses hard, almost there. Namjoon spreads his thighs wider, breath hitching when the stretch starts.

“You’re gonna take it,” Jungkook growls, quiet but shaking. “You always do.”

The knot pops in slow. Namjoon gasps, cunt clenching hard around it, body going taut as Jungkook pushes all the way in and holds.

He comes with his face buried in Namjoon’s neck. His cock throbs inside him, pulsing with every wave. Hot, thick release floods him. The knot keeps it all in.

Namjoon shivers, tits rising with every breath. Jungkook’s still holding one, like he forgot to let go.

Outside, a pot clatters in the kitchen. Someone opens the fridge. Inside the room, they stay still. Locked. “I’m never pulling out again,” Jungkook whispers into his skin.

It’s quiet for a while after.

Outside, the kitchen fan hums. Someone opens the cabinet. Probably looking for tea.

Jungkook shifts slightly. Not enough to move. Just enough to press a kiss to the top of Namjoon’s shoulder. “You’re still clenching,” he murmurs.

Namjoon huffs into the pillow. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“You never do.” Jungkook smooths his hand down Namjoon’s belly, then lower, palm resting just above the stretch of where they’re joined. It’s warm there. Soft. Faintly rounded from how deep he is.

Namjoon shivers.

“Feels full,” Jungkook says.

“You are full.”

Jungkook hums. His fingers move slow, lazy circles over Namjoon’s skin. “You’re keeping it, right?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. They’re still catching their breath. There’s slick smeared on the backs of Namjoon’s thighs, pooled under them on the sheets. His tits ache, sensitive from where Jungkook had gripped them, squeezed, sucked, pawed at like he was in rut, like they were some part of him he needed to claim.

They probably are.

“You were quiet today,” Jungkook says after a beat. “Downstairs.”

Namjoon hums. “You were watching me the whole time.”

“‘Cause I knew what you were thinking about.” He kisses the back of Namjoon’s neck. “This,” he adds, rolling his hips just barely. “The way I stuff you full and lock you down.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“I don’t want to be.”

Namjoon exhales. The knot’s still thick. It throbs a little when Jungkook shifts again, just enough to remind them both what they’ve done.

“What if someone comes in,” Namjoon says, not really a question.

“They won’t.”

“And if they do?”

Jungkook presses his mouth to Namjoon’s ear. “You’ll take it.”

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. His cunt clenches slow, involuntary.

Jungkook groans. “I think you like being knotted when people are home.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re lying.”

He slides his hand up to Namjoon’s chest again, cups the curve of one breast, thumb rubbing over the nipple, slow and light. “You start leaking again,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna take that as proof.”

Namjoon swats his hand weakly. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am.”

The fan clicks off. Their mom says something faint, too far to catch. A door closes.

Jungkook’s knot twitches again. Still firm. Still locked inside.

Namjoon’s body shifts around it. “You’re not softening,” he mutters.

“I know.”

“You’re getting hard again.”

Jungkook grins against his skin. “I know.”

Namjoon groans into the pillow.

Jungkook drags his teeth along his shoulder and breathes, “Think you can take another load before dinner?”

Namjoon doesn’t say no.

Jungkook stays inside, still hard, still throbbing.

They’re not going anywhere. 

Namjoon’s fingers thread weakly through his hair. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then like a confession he whispers: “I have to go back.”

Jungkook lifts his head. “What?”

Namjoon’s voice is quiet, like he’s already trying to pull away. “Work. Tomorrow. The break’s over.”

Jungkook swallows. His knot is still locked.

“You’re leaving?” he says, voice flat.

“I have to.”

Jungkook’s chest feels like it caves in around that.

But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t panic. He just says, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Namjoon blinks, startled. “What?”

“I’m not staying here.”

“Jungkook—”

“You’re not walking back into your life like none of this happened.”

Namjoon stares at him, eyes wide, throat working.

“You don’t have to say yes to any of it,” Jungkook says. “You don’t have to let me fuck you. You don’t have to call me anything.”

Namjoon’s voice shakes. “Then why—”

“Because I don’t want to leave your bed empty.”

The words land heavy. Jungkook strokes his thumb over Namjoon’s waist. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want.”

Namjoon’s lip trembles. “You’d really come?”

“I don’t know how not to,” Jungkook says. “You’re the only thing I want, hyung. I don’t care where you are. I just want to be there.”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He just lifts his hand. Cups Jungkook’s cheek. Pulls him down into a kiss that says I don’t know how to do this either. But I want you to try.

Jungkook kisses back like he’ll never get another chance.

They stay knotted until dawn after Jungkook dumps another load into him. 

And when Namjoon packs his bag later that morning, Jungkook’s toothbrush is already in it.

Namjoon’s apartment is small.

Two rooms. Warm beige walls. A single window above the bed that pours light onto the floorboards when the sun hits right. There’s a calendar above the desk, a collection of fine-tipped pens, post-its stuck to the edge of the monitor. It smells like laundry detergent and bergamot, and there’s a throw blanket on the couch that has little embroidered moons in the corners.

Jungkook fucking hates it.

Not because it’s ugly. It’s not. It’s clean, soft, lived-in.

He hates it because it’s Namjoon’s, and everything in it is private. Untouched by him.

There are no sheets he’s ruined here. No walls he’s pressed Namjoon up against. No mark of his heat, his sweat, his voice in this space.

It feels like walking into someone else’s life. And for the first two hours, Jungkook tries to be good.

He leaves his bag by the door. Waits to be told where to sit. Watches Namjoon unpack in silence, folding sweaters into his drawers, putting a toothbrush in the cup next to his own like it doesn’t mean anything.

It’s quiet and normal. It’s torture.

—

They eat dinner with the TV on low. Some cooking show neither of them are really watching.

Namjoon talks a little about work, emails, meetings, a project that got bumped. He doesn’t ask Jungkook anything. Jungkook doesn’t volunteer. He eats slowly. Doesn’t touch Namjoon’s knee under the table. Doesn’t press against his side on the couch.

He doesn’t let himself want and it makes him insane.

Namjoon leans back into the cushions, laughing at something on the screen, and Jungkook just stares. At his mouth. His throat. The line of his neck in the collar of his t-shirt. He remembers what that skin tastes like.

Remembers how Namjoon sounds when he’s split open and gasping, saying Jungkook’s name like it’s the only thing he knows.

But here?

Now?

There’s a mug of tea in Namjoon’s hands. There’s a pair of glasses slipping down his nose. And he’s so fucking far away, even sitting this close.

Jungkook’s palms itch. He wants to touch. Wants to take. But he said he’d behave.

So he stays quiet and waits for something to shift.

It starts with nothing. A stretch.

Namjoon reaching up to grab a glass from the cupboard the next morning. Shirt riding up. The curve of his waist exposed for just a second, bare, soft, flushed from sleep.

He knows Jungkook is watching. Doesn’t say a word. Just keeps going like it’s normal.

At breakfast, he’s sitting cross-legged at the small kitchen table, one hand tucked under his thigh, the other lazily dragging a spoon through his cereal. He lifts it to his mouth. Lets a bit of milk drip down his chin. Doesn’t wipe it.

Jungkook stares.

Namjoon glances up. Innocent. “What?”

Jungkook grits his teeth. “You know what.”

Namjoon blinks. Sucks the milk off his thumb. “I’m just eating.”

“You’re dripping,” Jungkook mutters.

“Guess I’m messy.”

The smile that follows is shy. Bratty. Beautiful.

And Jungkook wants to ruin him.

Wants to drag him onto the table and fuck that little smile straight off his face. Wants to press Namjoon’s knees up to his ears and show him just how messy he can get.

But he doesn’t. Because this isn’t the house. This isn’t their bed back home. This is Namjoon’s world.

And Jungkook is trying to fit into it without devouring it.

Namjoon finishes breakfast like nothing happened. But his legs brush Jungkook’s under the table the whole time.

—

Later, it gets worse.

Namjoon’s fresh out of the shower. Towel-drying his hair in the hallway, skin still pink, droplets clinging to his collarbones. His shirt’s too big. Hangs low off one shoulder.

Jungkook’s standing at the bathroom door, towel around his own neck, toothbrush in hand, and Namjoon walks by with this lazy sway in his hips, barely even noticeable.

Except it is. And Jungkook freezes.

“Hyung,” he warns.

Namjoon turns. Smiles. “Yes?”

“You keep doing that—”

Namjoon cocks his head. “Doing what?”

Jungkook steps forward. His hand brushes Namjoon’s waist. The fabric is still damp, clinging a little to the curve of his hip. “You’re teasing me.”

Namjoon shrugs, looking up at him under thick lashes. “Maybe I like what it does to you.”

Jungkook’s throat goes dry.

And that’s when it lands. Namjoon’s cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, mouth parted, wanting. Every inch of him is vibrating with want. He’s not trying to take control.

He’s trying to be taken.

And Jungkook, god, Jungkook has seen this version of Namjoon a hundred times before, panting under him, begging to be filled, blushing when Jungkook kisses his tits or holds him open and says mine. 

But this? This teasing, bratty, eager version?

Jungkook made him. Turned guilt into want. Fear into heat. Turned Namjoon into someone who knows how to beg with a smile.

He doesn’t remember crossing the space between them.

One moment, Namjoon is teasing, towel over his shoulders, that coy little smile hiding something real beneath it. The next, Jungkook’s got both hands on his waist, thumbs brushing skin that’s still warm from the shower, breathing hard like he’s been holding something in all day.

Namjoon looks up at him, eyes round and bright. “Are you gonna kiss me or just breathe at me like a creep again?”

Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smirk. He just leans in, slowly, deliberately, and kisses Namjoon like it’s the first time.

Namjoon melts. Soft, warm, lips parting without hesitation. His hands slide up Jungkook’s chest, not to pull him closer, just to feel him. His whole body leans in like gravity’s decided for him.

Jungkook walks him backward. Into the bedroom. Onto the bed. The towel falls somewhere along the way.

Namjoon doesn’t hide. Not anymore. He lies back, shirt rucked up over his stomach, bare thighs parted, skin flushed with anticipation and something sweeter, something like trust.

Jungkook kneels beside him. Just looks. “You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “You’ve seen me naked a dozen times.”

“I’ve never seen you like this.”

Namjoon blinks. “Like what?”

Jungkook reaches out. Palms his chest, gentle. “Open. Here.”

His thumbs stroke over Namjoon’s nipples, and Namjoon gasps, back arching slightly.

“Sensitive?” Jungkook asks.

Namjoon nods. “Always.”

Jungkook leans down and sucks. Soft at first. Then deeper, lips wrapping around one nipple while his hand kneads the other breast, reverent and slow. Namjoon whines, hips twitching.

Jungkook doesn’t stop. He kisses down, tongue trailing over ribs and belly, settling between Namjoon’s thighs like he belongs there, which he does.

Namjoon is already wet. Already dripping, slick and warm and open like his body’s been waiting for this all day.

Jungkook groans softly. “Look at you.”

Namjoon’s hand covers his eyes. “Don’t say it like that—”

“Like I’m obsessed with you?” He presses a kiss to the soft inner thigh. “Like I want to spend hours just here?” Another kiss, closer to the heat. “Like I love this cunt?”

Namjoon moans, legs falling further apart.

Jungkook finally licks him, slow, deep, one long stripe that makes Namjoon cry out and grab at the sheets. He eats like it’s worship. Like it’s devotion. Tongue circling, dipping, teasing. One arm locked around Namjoon’s thigh, the other hand palming his breast again, thumb brushing over his nipple as his mouth moves in rhythm below.

Namjoon comes quietly, whole body curling, breath catching, thighs trembling around Jungkook’s shoulders.

Jungkook kisses up his stomach as Namjoon shivers beneath him, licking sweat from his skin, murmuring soft, filthy praise.

“So good for me.”

“You taste like fucking heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

Namjoon pulls him close, breath still shaky.

“Then do it.”

Jungkook doesn’t rush. He lines up carefully, fingers laced with Namjoon’s, forehead resting against his. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt, and Namjoon’s gasping, blinking up at him like it’s too much in the best way.

They stay like that for a moment. Just breathe and then Jungkook starts to move. Long, deep strokes. No rush. No power. Just need.

Namjoon clings to him, legs wrapped around his waist, whimpering with every thrust. “I missed this.”

Jungkook kisses his cheek. “Me too.”

The pressure builds. Slowly. Naturally.

Jungkook feels the burn of his knot swelling, feels Namjoon tighten around him like his body wants it. “Okay?” he whispers.

Namjoon nods. “Please.”

So he knots him,slow, steady, buried as deep as he can go.

Namjoon sobs. And Jungkook holds him through it, kissing his temple, stroking his side, whispering how perfect he is.

The room’s gone still.

The only sounds are Namjoon’s breathing, deep, uneven and the faint hum of the city outside his window. Traffic three stories down. Someone’s dog barking across the street.

But here, it’s quiet.

Jungkook’s knot is still locked inside him.

Namjoon’s skin is sticky with sweat and come, his hand loose in Jungkook’s hair. He hasn’t spoken since he came. Just breathed through the aftershocks, blinked up at the ceiling with that stunned look like he still doesn’t know if this is real.

Jungkook watches him from above, resting on one elbow, his free hand tracing slow circles on Namjoon’s chest. It’s not a question of want anymore. He’d die wanting Namjoon.

This is something else.

Eventually, Namjoon blinks. Clears his throat. “How long… does it stay?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Sometimes thirty minutes. Sometimes longer.”

Namjoon hums. Doesn’t shift.

Then, softly: “You’re really staying?”

Jungkook looks down at him. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. He just nods. “Yeah. I’ll get a job here, closer to you.”

Namjoon’s brows pinch. Like it hurts a little to believe that.

Jungkook leans in, brushes his nose against Namjoon’s cheek. “I didn’t come here to fuck you and leave.”

Namjoon’s voice is quiet. “You used to act like you hated me and now you’re here.”

“I used to think I had to.”

“Why?”

“Because if I let myself want you, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Namjoon looks at him then. “You scared me,” he says.

“I scared myself,” Jungkook admits.

Silence again. But this one feels different. Warmer.

Namjoon shifts slightly, winces when the knot tugs. Jungkook stills his hips, wraps an arm around Namjoon’s waist. “I’ll stay,” he says again. “Not just in your bed.”

Namjoon swallows. “What if I don’t know how to… do this?”

Jungkook smiles for real now. Presses a kiss to Namjoon’s damp temple. “Then we figure it out. Slowly. Together.”

The job isn’t just a job. It’s cool.

Quality assurance at a mid-tier game studio, testing builds, filing bugs, playing unreleased content before anyone else. It’s not glamorous yet. Long hours, screen fatigue, the occasional rage-quit over broken mechanics.

But it’s real. It’s stable. It pays very well and it’s his. And when he steps into the apartment at the end of the day, key turning in the lock, bag slung over his shoulder, he finds the only thing that matters:

Namjoon. On the couch. Hood up. Book in his lap. Half-asleep with one hand tucked under his cheek.

The moment Jungkook walks in, Namjoon blinks up. “You’re home.”

“Barely.”

Jungkook drops his bag by the door. Kicks off his shoes. His feet hurt. His eyes burn. But his chest’s full.

Namjoon sets the book aside, gets up with a stretch, and walks over like it’s habit now, arms sliding around Jungkook’s back, face pressed to his chest.

“You smell like electricity and office coffee.”

“You say that like it’s hot.”

Namjoon hums a sleepy laugh. “Everything on you is hot.”

Jungkook kisses the top of his head. “Missed you.”

“You were gone for eight hours.”

“Exactly.”

They stay there, swaying lightly in their quiet little kitchen like the world outside doesn’t matter.

And then Jungkook says, against Namjoon’s hair: “I got it.”

Namjoon leans back. “The game job?”

Jungkook nods. “Official. Started today.”

Namjoon blinks. Then lights up, smile lazy and warm. “You didn’t tell me!”

“Wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Namjoon laughs, full and sweet. “You’re such an ass.”

Jungkook cups his cheek, brushing a thumb under his eye. “I want to take care of you.”

Namjoon goes still.

“I mean it,” Jungkook says. “I want you to let me keep you. Stay home. Rest. Let me work. Let me come back and find you here. Safe and warm.”

Namjoon stares. “You want to… keep me?”

Jungkook nods. “Like a kept omega. Like my wife.”

Namjoon lets out a breathy laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Good,” Jungkook says, leaning in. “You deserve ridiculous.”

Namjoon looks away, blushing so hard his ears pink. “I don’t know how to be that.”

“You already are.”

And he is. In the way he saves the last dumpling. In the way he writes little notes on Jungkook’s post-its. In the way he always reaches for him first, even if he doesn’t realize it.

Namjoon isn’t a wife.

He’s home.

And Jungkook wants to give him everything.

It was a weekend if Jungkook remembered precisely. The time he learned to apologise to Namjoon in his own ways. 

Dinner table full. Something bubbling on the stove. His mom was in a good mood, buzzing around the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up, humming a song Jungkook didn’t know. His dad was peeling fruit like it was a special occasion. Like they had guests.

Except they didn’t. Just Namjoon.

Namjoon, sitting at the table, wearing Jungkook’s dad’s sweater because he’d spilled soy sauce on his own shirt earlier and his mom had laughed. Laughed. Said it looked better on him anyway.

Namjoon, who kept leaning into his dad’s shoulder to point at something in the newspaper, and who got his hair ruffled every time he did it.

Jungkook watched from the doorway. Silent. Burning. He stepped into the room, slammed the fridge too hard just to be heard.

No one looked. Not even Namjoon.

“Why do you always act like this is your family?” Jungkook snapped.

Namjoon blinked, confused. “What?”

“This isn’t your house,” Jungkook said. “You’re just a guest.”

The room went still. His dad’s hand froze mid-peel. His mom stopped at the sink. Namjoon sat back in his chair, the smile slipping off his face like it had never been there at all.

Jungkook expected someone to say something. Defend him. Correct him. Anything.

But his mom just said, soft and disapproving, “Jungkook.”

Namjoon didn’t argue. He stood. Quiet. Took the sweater off. Folded it. Set it gently on the back of the chair.

“I can eat in my room,” he said.

His voice was even. His eyes weren’t. And then he left. 

Jungkook didn’t feel bigger. Didn’t feel seen. He felt exposed. Like he’d cut someone open just to prove he existed.

Later that night, Jungkook stood outside Namjoon’s bedroom door. Didn’t knock. Didn’t speak.

Just listened to the sound of the ceiling fan turning, slow and constant. And realized: hurting Namjoon didn’t stop the ache.

It just gave it a face.

One he couldn’t stop seeing.

—

It was late. Maybe past midnight.

The hallway was dark, quiet except for the buzz of the fridge and the distant tick of the wall clock. Jungkook padded barefoot through the kitchen, the floor cold under his soles.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the inside of the fridge. Like it might give him an answer.

Finally, he pulled out the last tangerine. The good kind. The ones his mom bought special. The kind Namjoon liked.

He peeled it slow, trying not to tear the skin. Split it into neat pieces. Arranged it in a shallow bowl. Then stood there with it in his hands like a fool. He told himself he’d leave it outside Namjoon’s door. No note. No knock.

Just an offering.

But when he got there, the light under the door was still on. He hesitated. He knocked and then he heard Namjoon. “Yeah?”

Jungkook swallowed. “It’s me.”

A pause. Then the door opened.

Namjoon was in a hoodie, sleeves pushed over his palms, eyes tired behind his glasses. He didn’t look angry. Just worn out. 

Jungkook held the bowl out without meeting his eyes. “You didn’t finish dinner.”

Namjoon blinked.

“I thought—” Jungkook cleared his throat. “Maybe you wanted something.”

Namjoon didn’t speak. Just stared at the little crescent slices. Perfect. Sweet. After a long pause, he took the bowl. “Thanks.”

Jungkook nodded. “Don’t tell Mom I gave you the last one.”

Namjoon smiled, barely. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jungkook turned to leave, fingers clenched and kept walking when Namjoon’s scent bloomed a little. 

Namjoon’s thighs are already trembling.

Not because of pressure. Not because Jungkook’s been rough. This time, he hasn’t. This time, he kissed Namjoon’s inner thigh like it was the last piece of him he was allowed to touch. He licked slow. Teased with patience, with worship, with knowing.

Namjoon came once already, quiet, flushed, back arched off the bed. Now he’s sensitive. Over-sensitive. And Jungkook’s still between his legs, tongue slow and steady, fingers laced through Namjoon’s.

It’s quiet. Safe. Until the phone buzzes.

Namjoon gasps, body twitching. He reaches blindly for the nightstand, nearly dropping the phone when he flips it.

Jungkook glances up but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause.

Namjoon groans, half-laughing, half-wrecked. “It’s—mmf—one of the cousins.”

Jungkook hums against him.

Namjoon whines.

“I—I should answer. They’ll—fuck—think something’s wrong—”

“Then answer,” Jungkook murmurs, mouth brushing slick skin. “I won’t stop.”

Namjoon moans, breath shuddering. He taps the screen. Brings the phone to his ear with trembling fingers. “Hello?” His voice is thin. Too high.

Jungkook flicks his tongue just right—presses in deep—and Namjoon jolts, barely swallowing a gasp.

“Yeah, I’m—mmh—I’m good,” he stammers.

Jungkook smiles. Sucks slow and deep.

Namjoon’s thighs clamp around his head for a second. On the other end, the cousin keeps talking—asking something about a bank transfer, or an address. Namjoon’s barely tracking. He bites his fist. His eyes roll back.

“Y-yeah, just text it to me—” His voice breaks mid-sentence.

Jungkook holds him open and licks, deep and wet and worshipful, like Namjoon’s pleasure is the only truth he’s ever believed in.

Namjoon barely ends the call. He drops the phone somewhere, lets it slide off the bed. “Jungkook—please—”

And Jungkook finally pulls back. Not out of mercy. Out of reverence. He climbs up, kisses Namjoon’s open mouth, licks into him slow and filthy like he belongs there. “You’re getting so good at staying quiet,” he says against his lips.

Namjoon blushes, panting. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re beautiful when you’re wrecked.”

And then he presses inside, slow, hot, thick, and Namjoon gasps, eyes fluttering, body arching into the stretch like he needs it.

Like this is the only way they make sense. And maybe it is.

Jungkook’s cock presses deep, again, slow enough to make Namjoon tremble beneath him. No roughness. No games. Just skin, sweat, closeness, intention.

Namjoon clings to him. Hands in his hair. Mouth open. Breathing like this is too much and not enough at the same time.

Jungkook leans in, lips brushing his jaw. “You okay?”

Namjoon nods, barely.

Jungkook pulls out halfway. Slides back in deeper. The drag is smooth, thick, soaked with how ready Namjoon is.

Namjoon moans, soft and close to his ear. “Feels too good.”

Jungkook kisses him. Not fast. Not messy. Just real. “You know how long I wanted this?” he whispers. “You. Like this. Letting me in.”

Namjoon shivers. Tightens around him.

“I didn’t think I’d get to keep you,” Jungkook breathes, moving slow and full, pace more like prayer than fucking. “I thought I’d ruin it.”

Namjoon cups his face. “You didn’t.”

Jungkook thrusts again, deep. “Feels like I did.”

Namjoon arches into him. “You didn’t,” he says again. “You… brought me here.”

Jungkook groans, rests their foreheads together.

“You let me fall for you,” he says. “I don’t think I know how to get back up.”

Namjoon wraps his arms around his back. Holds him through it.

Jungkook fucks him gently until they’re both trembling. Until Namjoon comes again with a soft cry, clenching tight around him, and Jungkook follows, burying deep, gasping, pressing into every inch he can’t live without.

It happens fast.

Jungkook’s at work when Namjoon calls. Not a text. Not a voice note. A real call.

He’s halfway through lunch, something lukewarm and forgettable when the screen lights up. He’s outside. Traffic’s loud. He almost misses it.

“Hyung?”

There’s no answer. Just breathing. Tight. Wet. The kind that sounds like it’s trying not to exist.

“Hyung,” he says again, already standing. “What happened?”

Namjoon’s voice is barely there. “It’s Daemin.”

Jungkook goes still. Daemin. One of the cousins. Always too smug. Always looking too long, like he was cataloguing sins he didn’t understand.

“What did he say.”

Namjoon exhales hard. It turns into a sob halfway through. “He came by. He said—he knows, Jungkook. He said he’s going to tell the whole family. Said I’m disgusting. That I’m—ruined.”

Jungkook’s already moving. Grabs his keys. Doesn’t tell anyone he’s leaving. Doesn’t care.

“I’m coming home.”

—

He finds Namjoon curled against the wall of their room, sleeves balled up in both fists, eyes red and glassy like he hasn’t blinked in too long.

Jungkook drops to his knees in front of him, hauls him close like gravity demands it.

Namjoon folds fast. Like he’s been waiting to collapse. He hides his face in Jungkook’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then, quietly, “He said I’d embarrass Mom.”

Jungkook closes his eyes.

“He said she’d never look at me again. That she’d disown us both.”

There’s a part of Jungkook that wants to say he’s wrong. That he’s bluffing. That Daemin’s just bitter and cruel and always has been. But that part gets drowned under something louder.

Namjoon whispers, “I believed him.”

That’s the part that breaks Jungkook in half. Not the threat or exposure. But the sound of Namjoon’s voice.

He’s heard Namjoon cry before. A handful of times. Childhood. Teenage years. Each time after something Jungkook did. Each time, that same sound: small. Cracked. Like a heart too used to being dropped.

And now it’s back.

Jungkook presses their foreheads together. Namjoon’s breath catches. “No one gets to take you from me,” Jungkook says, soft and low. “Not him. Not anyone.”

Namjoon doesn’t speak.

“If you’re scared,” Jungkook murmurs, “I’ll fix it.”

Namjoon’s eyes flutter shut. “How?”

Jungkook knows. He’s always known.

Because for all the things Namjoon’s been afraid of, there’s always been one person he’s never wanted to lose. Their mother.

Jungkook kisses his cheek, then his temple, then the back of his hand. “I’ll talk to her,” he says. “Before anyone else can.”

Namjoon shakes his head, but it’s weak. “She’ll hate me.”

Jungkook swallows hard.

He remembers a younger Namjoon, nine, maybe ten, when Jungkook let him sit beside him on the train once instead of across the aisle. Namjoon didn’t stop smiling the whole trip. He remembers the summer Namjoon scraped his knee and Jungkook called him weak because he couldn’t stand the thought of Namjoon playing with other kids and the way Namjoon cried as he called for Jungkook. 

He remembers every little thing. Every time he gave Namjoon just enough to hope for more. Every time he pulled away. Every time Namjoon cried because he couldn’t hold onto what he thought was love.

He’s been a monster, in ways no one else ever saw.

And now? He’d burn down every room in this house to keep Namjoon warm. He’d rip his own name out of family records if it meant Namjoon would never hear himself called ruined again.

He holds him tighter. Doesn’t let go.

—

He calls their mom the next morning.

No script. No buildup. Just a straight line from gut to mouth. “Can I come by?”

She hears it in his voice. “Of course,” she says.

Jungkook hangs up and looks at Namjoon, still in bed, blanket pulled to his chin. He doesn’t say it’s going to be okay. He just squeezes his hand once and means it.

His hands sweat the whole train ride there.

Even after he wipes them on his jeans. Even when he tells himself it’s not fear. It isn’t, not exactly.

It’s just the weight of it. Knowing this conversation, this one moment could shift everything. Could shelter Namjoon for good. Or break him open again.

Jungkook steps into the house like he’s sixteen. Takes his shoes off by the door. Doesn’t call out.

She’s already in the kitchen. He hears the scrape of a knife against the cutting board. Garlic. The smell’s sharp. She doesn’t glance up when he walks in.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“I thought maybe you’d show up with Namjoon.”

He swallows. “He’s not ready.”

She stops peeling. Lifts her eyes to his.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, palms slick.

“I’m not here to explain,” he says. “I’m here to tell you.”

Her face stays even. No flicker. No shift.

Jungkook breathes in, then out. He looks down once, then back up. “I’m in love with Namjoon.”

There’s no shock. She just waits.

“I’ve loved him since before I knew what it meant. And I was cruel to him for a long time because of it.”

She doesn’t respond.

“But he stayed. He forgave me. And now we live together. We have a life. I work. He cooks. I bring him flowers when he’s having a bad day. He steals my hoodies. I bring him tea when his hands shake.” His throat tightens. “And I’d do anything to protect that.”

She nods once. “So protect it.”

He blinks. “You’re not angry?”

Her mouth softens a little. “You think I didn’t know?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

“I saw it,” she says. “Before either of you did. The way you looked at him. The way he always smiled bigger when you were near—even when you were horrible. The way you stared like he was something you wanted but didn’t have the words for. The way he used to laugh like it hurt to love you.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose.

“I wanted to protect him from you back then,” she says. Not cruel. Just honest. “Because no matter how much I love you, Jungkook…” She lets the sentence breathe. “…Namjoon’s my baby.”

She sets the garlic aside. Walks over. Stands in front of him. Puts a hand on his cheek, gentle. “I prayed you’d grow out of it. Or grow up.”

His voice cracks. “And did I?”

“You grew,” she says. “The rest is between you and him.”

Jungkook swallows hard. Then, quieter: “Daemin threatened him.”

“I heard.”

“He thinks it’ll shame you.”

She scoffs. “Daemin barely graduated and still lives off his parents. He doesn’t get to say what shames me.”

Jungkook’s breath slips out rough. Almost a laugh.

Then she says it: “Namjoon’s mine. He always has been. You just took a little longer to see it.”

She steps back. The words land heavy. Full of time. Of the years Namjoon spent flinching when Jungkook said things too sharp. Of all the moments she didn’t interrupt but noticed.

Jungkook lowers his eyes. “I know.”

“He’s soft in places the world won’t be,” she says. “And if you want him, you love him like he’s breakable. And you carry him when he’s tired.”

“I do,” Jungkook says. “I want to.”

She nods.

“Then take care of him. Keep him warm. Make sure no one makes him feel ashamed of how he was born to love.”

—

When he gets home, Namjoon’s curled up small on the couch. Blanket around his shoulders. Eyes wide and uncertain, like he hasn’t let go of the worst-case scenario yet.

Jungkook kneels in front of him.

“She told me,” he says.

Namjoon blinks. “What?”

“She told me you’re her baby.” Jungkook’s voice is low. “And I believe her.”

Namjoon’s breath catches.

“She knows what we are,” Jungkook says. “And she told me to love you like you’re soft. Like you’re worth protecting.”

Namjoon’s hand shakes when he reaches for him.

Jungkook takes it. Kisses each knuckle, one by one. “Because you are.”

They go back the next weekend.

Namjoon doesn’t say much on the train.

He sits close, fingers hooked in the cuff of Jungkook’s jacket. Keeps fidgeting with the seam, rubbing at the thread like it’s holding him in place. His knee bounces. His other hand is clenched in his lap.

Jungkook doesn’t tell him it’s going to be okay. He just stays still and lets Namjoon keep holding on. They both know what this is. What they’re walking into.

It’s different now. Not hidden. Not something that needs to be softened, trimmed down for comfort. The worst part already cracked open.

This time, the truth is waiting.

—

Their mom opens the door before they knock.

“Hi, baby,” she says, voice light. Her eyes go straight to Namjoon. Not to Jungkook.

Namjoon stops short on the step. There’s a half-second where his body tenses, shoulders drawing up like he might turn around. Like muscle memory hasn’t caught up to the new shape of things.

And then she steps forward and wraps her arms around him. Both arms. No hesitation. No checking to see if he’s ready.

Namjoon exhales like he’s been punched. His hands come up slow, unsure, like he doesn’t believe this part is real yet, but once they land on her back, he sinks in. Quiet, all the way down.

Jungkook watches it happen from the side. Still holding their overnight bag, still wearing his shoes. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just watches.

Her hand is on the back of Namjoon’s neck. Her cheek is pressed to his hair. “You came home,” she murmurs.

Namjoon doesn’t answer. Just nods against her collarbone. Shaky.

Jungkook watches her close her eyes for a second, like she’s holding something back. When she opens them again, they flick to him. She gives the smallest nod.

It means thank you.

It also means he’s safe now.

—

Later, it’s quiet.

They’re in the living room, lights dimmed. A few dishes left on the low table. Steamed fish, rolled egg, some radish banchan she packed into tiny plates like she always does. The heater’s on low. It smells like garlic and detergent and something warm.

Namjoon’s lying on the couch. Head in her lap. Body slack. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up. One hand curled near his chest, the other draped across her knee.

She’s brushing his hair back with slow fingers.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, arms folded, shoulder pressed to the wall. He doesn’t come in. Just watches. Like if he moves too fast, the whole thing might dissolve.

“You always needed touch,” she says, soft.

Namjoon swallows. “I didn’t know if I could.”

“You never had to ask.”

He blinks hard. Jungkook sees his throat move. Doesn’t say anything.

Then, after a beat. “Does Dad know?”

She smiles. Fingers still in his hair. “He does.”

Namjoon stills.

She chuckles lightly. “He said—‘I always thought those two looked at each other weird.’”

Namjoon huffs. Half-laugh, half-sob. “He doesn’t mind?”

“He minds if you stop coming home,” she says. “That’s it.”

Namjoon covers his face with one hand. Hides under his sleeve. Then, voice cracked: “I thought if it came down to choosing between us… you’d leave me.”

Her hand pauses in his hair. Then starts again. Slower. Steadier.

“I’m so glad I was wrong.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just leans down and presses a kiss to the top of his head. Soft. Final. Her hand stays where it is.

Jungkook stays in the doorway. He hasn’t sat down once. He hasn’t said a word since they walked in.

But watching this, watching them, he feels something give in his chest. Like a door that’s been locked since he was too young to know how to open it.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like, he thinks. Not permission. Not forgiveness. Just belonging.

Then his mom looks up at him, eyes twinkling now that the air’s cleared. “You’re not getting him back,” she says, brushing Namjoon’s bangs from his eyes. “He’s mine now.”

Jungkook straightens a little. Blinks. “I know.”

Namjoon groans. “Mom.”

Her gaze doesn’t move. “I carried him. Fed him. Held him when no one else knew what he needed.” Her hand doesn’t stop stroking Namjoon’s hair. “You just get to borrow him.”

Namjoon’s whole face turns red.

Jungkook clears his throat. “Understood.” He grins, mouth twitching, the relief curling in his ribs finally giving him space to breathe.

Namjoon tries to bury himself under the blanket. He’s flushed and looks like a ripe strawberry and Jungkook doesn’t stop looking at him for the rest of the night.

The house is quiet by ten. Their mom went to bed early. Lights out in the hallway. The kind of silence that only happens in old houses, full of familiar creaks and doors that don’t shut all the way.

They’re in Jungkook’s old room.

The posters are gone, but the bookshelf’s still crooked. The sheets smell like detergent and something slightly sun-warmed. Jungkook turns off the overhead light and switches on the small lamp near the bed.

Namjoon stands near the doorway, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves hanging past his hands.

“You okay?” Jungkook asks.

Namjoon nods. Then, quietly: “Just thinking.”

Jungkook doesn’t ask what. He already knows. He walks over slow, reaches for Namjoon’s wrists, and peels his arms open.

They don’t kiss at first. Jungkook just presses their foreheads together, lets them breathe.

Then Namjoon whispers, “I want you.”

Like it’s not a secret anymore.

Jungkook undresses him slow. Hoodie first, then his shirt. Fingers sliding under the hem, not to tease, just to feel. Namjoon shivers when Jungkook’s hands trail over his stomach, his chest. His nipples are flushed already. Sensitive. Jungkook thumbs one, watches him breathe through it.

Namjoon undresses Jungkook, too. Shaky hands. Focused. He leans in and kisses his neck. Then his shoulder. Then just leans there, like he needs the contact to keep standing.

They move to the bed.

Namjoon on his back, legs parted. Jungkook between them, hands steady. His cock slides in slow, bare, deep, inch by inch. Namjoon’s body opens for him like it’s used to this now. Like it wants it.

Jungkook kisses him. Gentle. Mouths at his throat, his chest. Sucks lightly at one nipple until Namjoon gasps and arches.

It’s not fast. Jungkook fucks him slow. Rolls his hips like he wants every thrust to say something. His hand stays on Namjoon’s chest. His other hand twines with Namjoon’s on the pillow.

Namjoon’s eyes stay open the whole time.

Like he’s afraid to blink and miss it.

Then, softly, halfway between breaths: “I can’t believe I get to have this.”

Jungkook pulls back enough to look at him. “You do.”

Namjoon nods, jaw tight.

Jungkook leans in and kisses the corner of his eye. “You do.”

Namjoon’s breath hitches.

He tries to say something else, but his voice breaks.

Tears slip out quiet, almost like he doesn’t notice.

Jungkook slows even more. Keeps moving. Keeps whispering. “I’ve got you.”

Namjoon cries through it. Not loud. Not messy.

Just quietly, hand gripping Jungkook’s, chest rising too fast, every thrust pushing the tears out like they’ve been waiting years to fall.

And Jungkook fucks him through it. Gentle. Steady. He doesn’t stop.

He just holds his hand and says, “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Namjoon comes like that. Trembling. Cried-out. Loved so fully it undoes him.

Jungkook follows close after, whispering I love you against Namjoon’s throat until he falls asleep still inside him.

—

Namjoon falls asleep like he always does now, tucked up into Jungkook’s chest, warm and flushed, skin still damp from sweat and come and whatever’s left of the night. The blanket’s half-kicked off. There’s a mark under his collarbone Jungkook doesn’t remember putting there, but it’s his. Most things are.

Jungkook stays still for a while. One arm around Namjoon. The other under his head, going numb. He doesn’t move.

There’s no reason he should feel like this, wrecked in a way that isn’t physical. Namjoon’s the one who got fucked full three times before breakfast. Jungkook just… held on.

He stares at the ceiling. He thinks he might be a monster.

Not in the fairytale way. Not in the tragic, misunderstood way either. Just, slowly, over time. Quietly. The kind that makes people smaller just by being near them. Not because he meant to. But because he could.

He thinks about how he’s always been like this. Possessive. Selfish. Mean, even when he was a kid. Namjoon never needed to be taught how to love. Jungkook never needed to be taught how to take.

He thinks about the years. The pushing. The slow, invisible shaping.

Namjoon didn’t just fall into his arms. He got cornered there.

Jungkook thinks about leaving, sometimes. The healthy thing. Packing a bag. Giving Namjoon a real shot at a life that doesn’t smell like his sweat, doesn’t ache between the legs when he laughs. But the thought of it makes his throat close up. Makes something in him break.

He’d rather die. He needs Namjoon the way lungs need oxygen, every second, even when you’re not thinking about it. He knows it’s mutual, now. Not because Namjoon says it, but because Jungkook’s seen it.

He remembers. All the little things.

When they were kids, Jungkook barely spoke. Barely looked at him. But the one time he let Namjoon sit next to him during dinner instead of across the table, Namjoon smiled so hard his rice slipped off his spoon.

When Jungkook handed him a melted lollipop from the bottom of his bag, Namjoon looked like he’d been handed a fucking crown.

When he knocked his knee into Namjoon’s under the kotatsu and didn’t move away, Namjoon sat there frozen, like he didn’t want to risk messing it up.

It didn’t take much. Never did. Just crumbs. And Namjoon ate them up like he was starving.

That’s what ruins Jungkook the most, maybe. How little it took to make Namjoon happy. How easy it would’ve been to be good to him from the start.

He’s got his whole life to atone for that. And he’s going to. Slowly. Right.

Later, when Namjoon shifts against him, murmurs something incoherent in his sleep, Jungkook waits. He lets him settle. Then rolls to the drawer in the nightstand.

“Wait,” he says, voice cracked from disuse.

Namjoon blinks up at him, hair stuck to his cheek. “Hm?”

Jungkook pulls out the paper. It’s soft at the edges. Folded into fourths. The kind of old that feels fragile, even if it isn’t. He opens it and places it in Namjoon’s hands.

Two stick figures. One with messy hair. One with glasses.

Tiny hands drawn between them. And between those hands, a crooked little circle. A ring.

Namjoon stares. Breath catching somewhere in his chest.

Jungkook clears his throat. “I drew it when we were maybe eight. After I heard someone at school say only some people could get married.”

Namjoon looks up slowly. “You drew us?”

“I didn’t know why I did,” Jungkook says. “I just knew I wanted to keep you somehow. Even then.”

Namjoon blinks too fast.

Jungkook shifts closer. Takes his hand. “I’m not good at asking things the right way,” he says. “But if you’ll still have me—if you still want this—”

Namjoon kisses him. It’s slow. Wet. A little shaky.

Then he pulls back, holds the paper between them like it’s delicate. “I always wanted it,” he says, quiet. “Even when I thought I’d never get it.”

Jungkook brushes a thumb under his eye. Doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, simply: “Then it’s yours.”