Chapter Text
They’re sitting together in limbo, and somehow Jimin still manages to take his breath away.
‘Hey, Tate,’ he says casually. ‘Do you remember what I asked you a few weeks ago? I’ve been thinking a lot about it recently…’
It’s supposed to be shameless, casual, a low dip of the voice that’s unmatched with anything and yet, it runs down Taehyung’s spine without even meaning to. He almost knocks his Macbook off his lap, but saves it just in enough time with light fingers.
Those fucking jitters. Taehyung wonders if he’s ever going to feel the right way again, where every word Jimin says doesn’t sound like sex and promises built into one, and Taehyung wouldn’t have to clamp his thighs together to keep from getting hard. It’s unremarkably addictive, but it doesn’t stop the way he bites into his bottom lip at the topic. Cringes, on the inside.
‘Jim, we talk about a lot of things,’ Taehyung responds warily.
‘Yeah,’ Jimin allows, ‘but this was a sex thing, you know, with sex things.’
Taehyung hiccups in slight embarrassment, and feels it creeping around the edges of his cheeks and down the curves of his neck. Of course it’s something like that. Why wouldn’t it be?
But that doesn’t make it any easier, especially not when it’s dancing around Taehyung’s ears like a particularly bad, but catchy Crayon Pop song played on repeat for an hour. He appreciates Jimin’s look. It’s a little hard not to do that these days.
‘Tae, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable or anything,’ Jimin says lowly. ‘I was just thinking, that’s all. If you don’t want to then—’
‘No!’ Taehyung almost yells, and then dies inside. ‘I want to but I—have a paper? To do?’
Jimin’s grin is almost blinding.
And he coils himself around Taehyung’s shoulders like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do, snooping on Taehyung’s tabs and wrinkling his nose at the choice of a Spotify playlist. He’s picky, but he’s warm against Taehyung.
Despite it all, Jimin minds his own business for the most part. Taehyung is a master of distraction, but he also knows how to deflect that annoying instinct to swat at someone doing something in the corner of his eye. Jimin’s hand is warm where it rubs up and down his thigh, fingers slightly splayed, rings giving just the hint of a massage—and Taehyung admits that’s pretty nice. He tries to mind his own business, and pretends he doesn’t feel the way Jimin’s hand falls lower until it’s right there.
Taehyung is four pages into his argument on why social media is almost necessary in the modern world when he feels Jimin nosing along the edge of his neck.
That fucker, he thinks with all the esteem he can manage. It’s hard when his soul feels like a runaway train trying to creep out against the prison it’s in, but he can’t help the way he sighs about it, tilts into the touch and leans against Jimin even when he notices the annoying, know-it-all chuckle.
It’s just unadulterated confidence. Taehyung has it to when he tries, but right now? He can’t offer anything more than easy excuses—simple murmurings of i can always finish this later and a twisted spin, why can’t i ever let myself have nice things? He pushes his laptop off his lap, swallowing a gasp, tilting his chin so that Jimin might be able to taste more.
If nerves had a taste, it would be mid-morning pancakes and waffles, thick with syrup and diet Coke to drown out the aftertaste of cheap Corona. Taehyung’s sure he even smells a little bit like it at this point, but figures he tastes like brief anxiety. Who, what—when, where—why? Always those unnecessary questions despite the cost.
Despite everything probably, but Jimin is mouthing against his skin and it’s creating tiny fires. They ignite all the way through his skin, like a sound that rubs him the same way. Taehyung bites his bottom lip and hides a sigh.
Jimin is like lava. Slow but calculated, especially with the way he leads like he was always meant to. The hand against Taehyung’s thigh has now snuck up his hoodie to play with the sensitive, light hairs of his stomach. Taehyung has to pretend they don’t tickle, has to pretend that he isn’t moving his own hands to cup Jimin’s while humming out a soft ‘More, please’ like that’s all it ever takes. Jimin laughs, and the gush of it tickles.
‘Your paper?’ Jimin murmurs. Innocent, but dripping.
‘Too late now, asshole,’ Taehyung replies back, trembling voice. How unlike him, he’d say if it were. ‘I’m— I’m hard now.’
Honesty is the best policy, and there’s nothing else more satisfying than the confused growl of someone who wasn’t expecting it. Jimin always sounds so excited, but it doesn’t stop other hand from reaching down, seeking proof through the thickness of Taehyung’s jeans.
Taehyung doesn’t even get an oh shit, you’re right before something absolutely terrifying comes from Jimin’s vocal cords. It’s a mixture of a laugh and a choking noise, so un-sexy it somehow makes matters worse. It doesn’t stop Taehyung from turning his head to seek a kiss, a touch so much better when reciprocated (—and soft, pliant, somehow so tender despite their state of nothing that it almost hurts more than the thought of being alone when winter ends.)
It can’t become anything if Taehyung doesn’t let it. It can’t be a defining moment if he pretends it doesn’t exist, pretends that closing his eyes would make it just him humming a song in the shower, slender fingers around his own dick—
‘Damn, you weren’t kidding,’ Jimin says.
‘Fuck off—’
It’s embarrassing, so very much so how Taehyung reacts to something so miniscule. A massage, the hinted promise from another time, and the very real kisses being pressed against the nape of his neck. The ones Jimin knows he’s weak to. The ones Jimin gives him best.
‘You wanna see it, don’t you?’ he asks shakily, squeezing Jimin’s wrist. ‘You wanna see how I fuck myself when you aren’t—’ Mine. ‘—here?’
Jimin’s eyes are fucking weak when he manages to pull away, filled to the brim with wonder and amazement like Kim Taehyung is the best goddamn thing he’s ever seen. It doesn’t help that Jimin never quite stops looking at him like he’s hung the moon, not even when he’s bringing him closer and closer with the wave of a hand to their shared little room, so small and cramped, but worth it. Jimin sits on his bed like a good boy, chin tilted to the side.
Taehyung reasons he’s a work of art. He’s tall, lithe, a little thin but broad at the same time. A genius in his own right, and if he’s honest? A whole lot of a fucking pervert who enjoys even the grossest of things.
So it’s not too much when he’s reaching under his bed for the box with those damned dildos in it, selecting one, and grabbing lube without really considering it. Taehyung grins over his shoulder, pulls off his shirt, and does a cheeky little dance just because he can when he pushes down his sweats. It becomes that much sharper, just a little more angled.
Because Jimin isn’t breathing, not when he’s pressing his own hands against his thighs in tight little fists like he’s been told not to reach out. Not to touch, not to blink, not to breathe, and that’s a bit funny. Odd and peculiar, tinged with a little bit of wistful appreciation— and it’s enough to encourage butterflies once again because Taehyung isn’t sure he hasn’t ever seen someone look at him with so much interest before.
‘You like what you see?’ he asks.
Jimin doesn’t respond, but maybe it’s because he’s too mesmerized by the way Taehyung lathers his fingers in lube, not even bothering to warm it first. Prepping is quick if he’s completely honest, a little sting, but the kind that’s good enough to bring more static to his skin. It burns right in his veins like something new, and it helps that Jimin’s mouth hangs slightly open when he presses that first finger in, shifting against it and sighing.
Because it’s the second finger, and then the third—how easy it is to slide them in, and Taehyung whines just knowing Jimin’s watching with some kind of intent, like he might forget if he blinks just once. This is what he asked for, what he wanted and maybe even needed if it goes that far, and that’s okay. Taehyung makes the neediest noise, and shakes his head when Jimin tries to get up.
‘Yeah,’ Jimin says softly, ‘I like what I see.’
He’s got it, pleasantly true, when he’s sliding his knees apart so he can line up the dildo with his ass and sit. He slides a hand over his own cock, laughs when he thinks about the envy on the other side of the room.
It’s not until Taehyung is sitting on the dildo that he realizes just how much this all is. He has attention, and it makes his skin tingle, and when he shifts, he can hear Jimin take a small breath just from seeing it. And when he rocks his hips, really fucks down onto it, it’s not even his own groans that distracts him, but Jimin’s.
Because how fucking into it do you have to be? He’s not getting touched, but when Taehyung glances over his shoulder, it’s like there’s something truly interesting happening besides Taehyung grinding on something that isn’t him.
Jimin’s intuitive, or just that much of a voyeur. He’s palming his dick through his pants, just barely, and Taehyung can’t help but feel proud. He did that, it’s because of him, and that’s all that really matters. Taehyung moans softly, narrows his gaze— enjoying it way too much when Jimin copies the sound, unfocused, and way too gravelly to be something easily forgotten.
It’s like music.
It’s better than music, because Jimin is shifting to lay down, chest heaving with arousal and it’s all Taehyung can do to not shiver.
‘Baby, come fucking here,’ Jimin growls.
It could be a growl, but it’s a bit softer than that. A rasp, but Taehyung listens even if he forgets how to function for a moment, stumbling over like it’s not awkward to move with something up your ass. Jimin wants it, just the right amount of forceful when he grabs Taehyung’s wrist, coaxes him to straddle just so Jimin can press his fingers against the gummy suction—
and pushes it up so that Taehyung has to gasp, squeezing his eyes shut. There are fucking
stars
in his eyes when he opens them, a little dizzy when he leans forward, precum dewing on the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, darkening. Jimin’s just a
shit
that he lets the dildo slide out again just so he can push it back in, way too interested in that harsh cry that keeps coming out of Taehyung’s lips at it.
‘Skin, skin—’ Taehyung gasps, bunching the hem.
Jimin is so giving in the way he lets Taehyung push up his shirt even if it strangles him just the littlest, enough so that he can grind his cock right into Jimin’s sternum. But it’s hot, so fucking hot the way Jimin encourages the way Taehyung grinds back against his hand like it isn’t enough.
That’s what makes it worse, you know. The attention to detail, and the tiny way Jimin is sucking on his own bottom lip like this sight isn’t enough. Taehyung cries at the touch and presses a thumb against the tip of his cock, curling his toes. There’s so much attention on him, a tender and caring look that doesn’t match who they are, and it’s getting harder to pretend.
Hiccup, i love you, and the other things that don’t really belong. Jimin cups Taehyung’s hips, brushes a soothing touch over the jutting bone like that’s enough to make the heat go away. But Taehyung is sweating, in over his deep, and drowning in exertion.
That’s what you do when you really want it. When you need it, and it’s not a fantasy anymore. Reality is so much hotter anyway, because Jimin’s cheeks are getting rosier by the minute, hair fucked up and lips spitty and swollen just from the amount of teasing he’s done to them. Taehyung likes that look on him best, and feels proud.
He put it there. He could put it there again if he asked for it under the guise of stress, needing something to let loose. He swallows his words, liking the sting but hating the stick, all too in love with the way Jimin looks at him.
‘You feelin’ good, yeah?’ Jimin breathes.
It’s been oddly silent. Nothing more but their gasps, and that’s dangerous, because Taehyung can’t stop clinging to Jimin and he can’t keep the quivering out of his hands. It burns, and he can’t stop the way he looks away just to keep from admitting.
‘I like it, Jiminie,’ he whispers, knows there’s something else on his tongue.
‘You like it?’
I like you.
‘Yes, yes, I like it—’ Taehyung whines.
And it’s an honest to God whine too, because he can barely breathe without it becoming something else. His cock sits pretty on Jimin’s chest, and the way Jimin keeps that dildo pressed in tight against his skin is enough to send lightning down his skin every time he moves. It doesn’t help that Jimin is coaxing him, kneading his ass and lathering him with the right look— so appreciative it isn’t even embarrassing when Taehyung’s hips stutter, and he’s spilling helplessly just like that against Jimin’s chest.
‘Shit, I’m—’
It should be sorry, but when Jimin’s cheeks are even worse than before, and he’s sputtering out nonsense and shaking his head. Taehyung sits up and moans because of it, reaching behind him to lend a helping hand and finding out he doesn’t quite have to.
‘Jiminie?’ he asks slowly.
‘Yes?’ Jimin replies.
Mild hesitance, but it’s not like it can be helped. The front of Jimin’s sweats are the slightest bit tacky and warm, and he’s laughing a little bit like he doesn’t expect it.
‘In my defense,’ Jimin says, ‘you were fucking hot, okay?’
Taehyung doesn’t really think about it before he does it, mostly because he thinks he doesn’t have to. He leans forward and presses a kiss right against Jimin’s plump mouth, letting out a shuddering breath and knowing Jimin has him.
It’s not until later he feels it. He’s pressed against Jimin’s side, both of them nude, half-asleep and feeling dainty and faint. It’s an end to a punch-drunk evening, even as Jimin snores lightly, arm curled around Taehyung’s waist. A heavy stone of dread right in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach— and he’ll never believe how quick it was that his skin turned cold.
He doesn’t sleep for two nights, too busy staring at the wall.