Archive of Our Own

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t like being told what to do. He doesn’t like early morning appointments, clinical offices that smell like disinfectant and fake lavender, and he especially doesn’t like being forced into a leather couch opposite a stranger half his size who won’t even flinch under his glare. But here he is, thirty years old, CEO of a billion-dollar company, a man whose name makes investors sit up straighter and whose face graces magazine covers, and yet, according to his board, he’s a liability . All because he likes sex. Because he needs it. Because it’s the only thing that makes his skin feel less tight, his mind less chaotic.

Jungkook has sex like it’s a coping mechanism because, for him, it is. At least three nights a week, sometimes more, he fucks omegas he barely remembers by morning. Strangers pulled from curated apps and hotel lobbies. He keeps it transactional, clean, surface-level. No one asks questions. No one stays. It’s not about intimacy. It’s not even about pleasure, not really.

It’s about the silence that follows. The few hours where his mind finally shuts off.  Where his body feels spent enough to sleep without dreams.

But lately, even that isn’t working. The emptiness creeps back faster each time. He comes, and within minutes, it’s hollow. Like he’s stuck inside himself and can’t get out. He’s not addicted to sex for the sake of it. He’s addicted to the distraction, the numbness it used to bring.

And even that’s starting to fail him.

Lately, it’s starting to affect everything especially work. His temper is shorter than ever. He snaps during meetings, tears into people over the smallest delays, and rewrites proposals at 3 a.m. because nothing ever feels good enough. His employees tread lightly, and his assistant, who’s been with him long enough to recognize the signs is two seconds away from quitting.

“You’re impossible when you don’t sleep,” he’d muttered last week while slamming a coffee down on Jungkook’s desk. “Maybe try therapy instead of fucking half the city.”

Jungkook had rolled his eyes. But the worst part? He knew the guy was right. He just didn’t know how to stop.

He lounges in the couch with one arm slung over the backrest, long legs spread in an unapologetic sprawl. The top two buttons of his black shirt are undone, like always, and a Rolex glints beneath the edge of his sleeve as he drums his fingers on the armrest, pretending not to be sizing up the omega across from him. But it’s impossible not to. Park Jimin, the specialist they’ve assigned to “handle” him, looks nothing like the stiff, greying therapist Jungkook expected. He’s young, twenty-nine, maybe. Blond hair, fair skin so smooth it looks almost unreal, and full, plush lips that curl just slightly at the corners, like he’s already several steps ahead.

The white coat he wears is unbuttoned over a fitted soft pink shirt, and even though Jimin sits with one leg neatly crossed over the other, clipboard balanced in his lap, there’s something quietly sensual about him. The soft curve of his small chest is visible beneath the fabric, subtle but impossible to ignore. His presence is both clinical and… disarming. Jungkook hates that. Hates how his eyes drift for a moment too long before snapping back up.

“So this is the famous Jungkook,” Jimin says, voice calm, smooth, not mocking but definitely not deferential. “You’re taller than I thought.”

“And you’re younger than I expected,” Jungkook mutters, cocking a brow. “Don’t you need a few more decades under your belt before they let you fix people like me?”

Jimin doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t need decades of experience to tell you you’re exhausted. Stressed. Probably overstimulated. And definitely on edge.”

Jungkook lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You’re quick, huh?” His gaze narrows. “Watch it, sweetheart.”

But Jimin doesn’t even blink. “See? Proving my point.”

The silence between them thickens like smoke. Jungkook leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on Jimin’s face as if waiting for some sign of weakness. But there’s nothing. No nervous fidgeting, no downcast glance. Just that unreadable stare calm and collected. He’s small, beautiful, and unshaken. Jungkook finds himself irritated by how perfectly composed he is.

His gaze dips for a second, first to the soft rise beneath Jimin’s shirt, the faint outline of small round breasts barely hidden, then to the neat little name tag clipped to his coat pocket. Dr. Park Jimin.

“My stress levels aren’t your business,” Jungkook says, jaw tight. “And I don’t need therapy. I need a few hours alone and someone who knows how to swallow.”

Jimin doesn’t react. No blush, no offense, just the same, even tone. “That’s why you’re here. Because you don’t know the difference between coping and escaping. Your cortisol levels are through the roof. Your ruts are erratic. You’re spiraling, and if you keep using sex like this, it’s going to catch up to you—fast.”

Jungkook scoffs, leaning back, legs spread wider. “What, you gonna give me breathing exercises and scented candles?”

Jimin stands, walks over to the small counter behind his desk, and pours a glass of cold water. He moves gracefully, hips swaying just slightly, not in a way that feels deliberate, just natural. Effortless. Jungkook hates how his eyes are drawn to him again. He smells good, too. Sweet, like caramelized citrus and warmth. Not overwhelming. Just enough to make Jungkook clench his fist on the armrest.

Jimin sets the glass of water on the table beside him. “Drink. You’re dehydrated. And based on your intake logs, you haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “You went through my records?”

“It’s my job.” Jimin sits back down, crossing his legs again. “And right now, your body’s screaming for regulation, not release.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t have to. Your body tells me everything I need to know.”

Jungkook’s cock twitches at that, and he mentally curses. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. 

“This is a waste of time,” he says, pushing himself to stand.

“No,” Jimin replies simply. “What you’ve been doing is a waste of time. You’re burning out. I’m here to make sure you don’t crash and take everyone around you with you.”

Their eyes lock again. This time, Jungkook doesn’t look away. There’s something unsettling about Jimin’s gaze, not warm, not cold, just steady. Unflinching. Like someone who refuses to back down, even from an alpha twice his size with too much money and too many problems.

“You really think you can fix me?”

Jimin doesn’t flinch. “Only if you let me.”

The tension between them is a live wire, buzzing hot beneath the surface. Jungkook stares for a second longer, then smirks, teeth flashing.

“We’ll see,” he says, voice low.

He turns on his heel and walks out without looking back, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Jimin exhales slowly, picks up his pen, and begins scribbling on his clipboard.

Session Summary – Dr. Park Jimin (Confidential Notes)

Subject: Jeon Jungkook / Session 1 / Time: Evening Initial Consultation

Uncooperative.
Guarded.
Hypersexual.
Sex addiction used as a stress response.
Severely touch-starved.
Possibly unaware.
Extremely volatile.
Extremely handsome.
Extremely sexy.
Extremely dangerous.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Jungkook arrives thirty-two minutes late.

Not that he cares. Let the pretty omega wait. Let him sit there in his neat little office with his neat little desk, all polished and professional.

The receptionist doesn’t stop him when he storms in. His cologne mixes with alpha pheromones and the faint hint of sweat, like he’s just come from the gym or a fuck, or maybe both. He doesn't knock. Just pushes the door open and walks in like he owns the place, like every room he enters was built to accommodate him.

Jimin is sitting exactly as before. Back straight, legs crossed, clipboard in hand. He doesn’t look up right away, flipping a page slowly like he hasn’t even noticed the time. Like Jungkook isn’t a storm ready to shatter the calm.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten,” Jimin says softly.

Jungkook shrugs, tossing himself into the chair with a low sigh. “Got busy.”

“With work?” Jimin asks, glancing at him now, eyes sharp beneath those delicate lashes.

Jungkook smiles lazily, spreading his legs wider. “With an omega.”

He waits for a reaction, discomfort, embarrassment, even envy. But Jimin just writes something down and looks back at him like he’s nothing but a case study. Jungkook hates how it makes his cock twitch again. How badly he wants to get under Jimin’s skin.

“Did it help?” Jimin asks, calm. “Did the sex make you feel less stressed?”

Jungkook laughs. “It made me come twice.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Jungkook leans back, studying him. “You always this uptight? Or is it just me?”

“I’m not here to flirt with you, Jungkook.”

“Good. You’d lose.”

That earns him a glance. Jimin sets his clipboard down and laces his fingers together, resting them in his lap. The motion makes the fabric of his shirt pull tighter across his chest, and Jungkook swears he sees the faintest hint of nipple beneath the thin material. His mouth goes dry.

“You’re here because you’re showing signs of compulsive sexual behavior and stress-related hormone imbalance,” Jimin says. “You’ve had three partners in the last forty-eight hours. You haven’t been sleeping. You’re refusing suppressants. And your rut is out of cycle. Tell me, how exactly is that working out for you?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

He hates that Jimin knows all that. That he’s probably already combed through every medical record, every scent signature logged during contact with past partners. That he’s seen Jungkook’s ruts charts, his hormone spikes, the way his body has been running on fumes and adrenaline and unresolved tension.

“I’m fine,” Jungkook mutters eventually. “I don’t need a handler.”

“I’m not a handler. I’m a specialist.”

“Still sounds like you think I’m broken.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Do you feel broken?”

Jungkook’s nostrils flare. His hands clench on the arms of the chair, leather creaking faintly beneath his grip. He wants to say no. Wants to snap something sharp, something cruel. But his throat locks.

Instead, he shifts the focus, eyes narrowing as he leans in. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re an omega, right? Do you even know what it’s like to need?”

Jimin blinks slowly. “Need what?”

“To fuck. To lose your mind until your knot’s buried and your cock’s empty and you can finally breathe.”

There’s a beat of silence. Jimin exhales softly, reaches into his desk drawer, and pulls out a slim silver device. It looks like a hormonal monitor, one Jungkook recognizes from high-end clinics, used to track heat, pheromone activity, even arousal in some cases.

He places it on the table, calm as ever. “Put your finger here.”

Jungkook frowns. “Why?”

“Because you’re two minutes from a spike. I can smell it from here.”

Jungkook almost growls. “You watching my cock now, Doctor?”

“No. I’m watching your pupils dilate every time I move. I’m watching your heart rate climb the longer you sit in this room. And I’m watching an alpha who clearly thinks he’s in control while falling apart at the seams.”

That gets to him.

Jungkook stands abruptly, pacing once, twice, like a caged animal. The scent of frustration hangs heavy in the air. He hates this room. Hates the quiet, the steady rhythm of Jimin’s voice, the way nothing he does seems to rattle him. Most omegas shy away from alpha his type, this one leans in. He’s not submitting, he’s studying.

And worse, Jungkook wants him. Not like the others. Not just for a night. He wants to bend him over that desk, yes, but he also wants to know what Jimin sounds like when he finally breaks. When that pretty mouth moans his name instead of calling him out like a fucking case file.

“You think I’m some animal to sedate?” he snarls.

“No,” Jimin says quietly. “I think you’re someone who hasn’t been touched right in a very long time.”

Jimin stands too, slower, crossing the room until there’s barely a foot of space between them. He’s so much smaller. Jungkook could lift him with one hand. Pin him to the wall and tear every button open. And yet, he doesn’t move.

Jimin’s voice drops, softer now. “You confuse sex with control. You confuse pleasure with distraction.”

For the first time in years, Jungkook doesn’t have a response. He just stares, breathing heavy, caught somewhere between rage and arousal.

“Come back when you’re ready to be cooperate,” Jimin whispers. Then he turns and walks away.

Jungkook watches him go, chest heaving, cock straining against his slacks, throat dry. The scent of sweet omega lingers in the air, and he hates how it comforts him.

He leaves without another word, door slamming behind him.

Jimin doesn’t look up from his notes.

Session Summary – Dr. Park Jimin (Confidential Notes)

Subject: Jeon Jungkook / Session 1 / Time: Evening Heightened Stress Observation

Patient remains volatile.
Hypersexual.
Using aggression to mask dysregulation.
But he stayed longer.
And he listened.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Three days pass, and Jungkook doesn’t fuck anyone.

He tries. He even goes to one of his usual spots, a sleek underground bar where alphas and omegas meet under dim lights but the moment someone touches his thigh, he flinches. Her scent is too sharp, too artificial. Her voice too high. Her skin, though soft, isn’t the one his body aches for. She smells wrong.

He goes home that night alone, pissed off, half-hard and wired with tension. He tries to jerk off in the shower, water pounding his back, hand slick with soap and spit. But his mind won’t stay still. He keeps seeing soft blond hair, a tight soft pink shirt pulled across a small chest, lips that move like they’re never in a rush to please. He imagines those lips pressed to his ear, not whispering filth, but truth . Things no one else ever dared say to him.

You haven’t been touched right in a long time.

Jungkook groans, squeezing his cock harder, trying to come fast, to shut the thought down, but it doesn’t work. His orgasm fizzles out just as it’s about to crest, leaving him panting, throbbing, and even angrier than before.

He doesn’t sleep. His sheets smell like frustration, like sweat and a phantom scent that doesn’t even belong to him. The need twists in his gut, deep and sharp. Not just to fuck, but to be soothed. To be wanted . Not for power, not for his cock. Just for him.

By the time the next evening rolls around, Jungkook is desperate. He hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept, hasn’t responded to half the emails his assistant flagged as urgent. The company can burn for all he cares. His skin feels too tight, his chest too shallow, and everything inside him screams for release .

So he does something he’s never done before.

He shows up unannounced at Jimin’s clinic.

It’s after hours. The main lights are dimmed, and the lobby is empty. A flicker of hesitation runs through him as he pushes open the private hallway door, heart pounding like he’s doing something forbidden. Which, technically, he is. But he doesn’t stop.

Jimin doesn’t intend to stay this late. His sessions ended hours ago, but he remains, tucked into the quiet corner of his office, reviewing files, scribbling observations, letting the silence settle around him like a familiar blanket. He often works long after the building empties, not out of obligation, but because the stillness gives him room to breathe. The office isn’t his home, not technically, but it feels more lived-in than his apartment. Here, surrounded by warm lamplight and routine, he doesn’t have to think about the emptiness waiting elsewhere.

Jimin’s office door is cracked open, golden light spilling through. And he’s there, curled in the corner of the couch with a tablet in his lap, reading. His hair is tousled, glasses perched on his nose, shirt loose over soft pajama pants like he never expected company. He looks warm. Safe. Untouched.

He looks like home.

Jungkook doesn’t knock. Just stands in the doorway, breathing heavy, fists clenched.

Jimin looks up slowly. Sees him. Blinks once.

“You’re not scheduled until Thursday.”

Jungkook steps inside. His voice is rough, wrecked. “I couldn’t wait.”

Jimin doesn’t move. Doesn’t invite him in, doesn’t ask him to leave. Just studies him in silence.

“I haven’t had sex. Since last time.”. He’s seated across from Jimin with his arms crossed over his chest, gaze unreadable.

Jimin nods slowly, neutral. “Did it help?”

. “No.”

Jungkook’s eyes find his favorite thing to look at. His gaze drifts, slowly and shamelessly, down to Jimin’s chest. His breasts have always drawn Jungkook’s attention, but lately, there’s something different. Fuller. Slightly more pronounced beneath the crisp white blouse. The change is subtle, barely noticeable, but Jungkook picks up on it instantly. His frown is faint but real.

Jimin doesn’t seem to notice at first. He’s focused on organizing notes when he casually mentions, “There won’t be a session next week.”

Jungkook’s head lifts. His gaze has already been lingering on Jimin’s chest. Jungkook’s cock begins to harden slowly in his slacks, blood rushing fast, low and heavy. He shifts slightly, legs parting more on the couch.

Jimin glances over, his eyes flick down, catching the shape pressing against Jungkook’s pants. His breath catches. Something in him stirs violently, his omega bristling under the surface. Heat prickles under his skin as he presses his thighs tightly together, trying to suppress the sudden throb between them. It doesn’t help.

“Why?”

“It’s for personal reasons,” Jimin replies without looking up.

Jungkook doesn’t drop it. His eyes narrow slightly. “Is your heat close?”

The pen in Jimin’s hand stills. His eyes flick up to meet Jungkook’s and he says nothing for a full second. Then, without a word, he tugs lightly at the panels of his white blouse, pulling them close across his chest.

Jungkook watches the movement with a small, miserable whine bubbling out of him. “Don’t hide the-e-e-e-em.”

Jimin doesn’t dignify it with a reply.

Jungkook sulks for the rest of the evening, jaw tight, eyes pinned to anywhere but Jimin’s chest, which, of course, doesn’t help at all.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

A week passes. Jungkook doesn’t see Jimin, not once. No updates, no scent, not even a trace of that caramel softness that clings to Jimin’s skin like a drug. It grates at him, ruins his focus. His hand is around his cock every other night, but it’s useless. His release is hollow. He can’t come without thinking about Jimin, and even then, it feels wrong. Empty. Not enough.

When he finally returns to the clinic the week after, everything is quiet. Too quiet.

He opens the door to Jimin’s office, expecting to find the omega waiting. Instead, he finds the room empty. Just the soft scent of Jimin lingering faintly in the air warm and familiar.

Jungkook assumes Jimin must’ve stepped out briefly. A bathroom break, maybe. Grabbing tea. Something simple and routine before their session.

Jungkook sits in his usual seat. He doesn’t pace. He walks to the couch, the one where Jimin’s patients sit, and drops down with a frustrated sigh. His cock is already aching in his slacks, swollen and heavy from a week of unmet need. He stares at the empty seat across from him. Imagines Jimin there. Imagines him flushed and soft, thighs pressed tight together like that day before his heat started.

He unzips his pants. His cock springs free, already hard. Red, thick, and veiny. He wraps his hand around it and strokes slowly, lazily. Just enough to soothe the ache.

He doesn’t stop when he hears the door open.

Jimin freezes in the doorway. The scent of Jungkook’s arousal hits first. His eyes drop to the couch.

Jungkook is sprawled there, cock in hand, fingers wet with precum. His eyes open slowly, zeroing in on Jimin the second he enters. And he doesn’t stop.

Jimin’s body betrays him immediately. Even though his heat is over, his omega is still sensitive. Seeing Jungkook like this with his thick cock pumping through his fist, does something to him. It makes him needy .

He clears his throat, trying to calm the heat bubbling back under his skin. He crosses the room on shaking legs and sinks into his chair, hands folded tightly in his lap, as if the posture alone will shield him.

Jungkook watches him the whole way. His hand keeps moving.

“Okay,” Jimin says softly, trying to sound unaffected but it comes out too breathy. He clears his throat again. “We’ll start today’s session once you’re done.”

His hands stay pinned between his thighs, trying to anchor himself. But he can hear it. The wet sound of Jungkook’s palm working over his cock.It tortures him. He wishes he could bury his face in a pillow to block it out, but he knows Jungkook would be far too pleased to see him squirm.

“See?” Jungkook breathes, low and wrecked. “That’s what not seeing you for a week does to me.”

Jimin’s eyes finally leave Jungkook’s cock and lift to his face.

Jungkook looks ruined . Not wild, but simmering. He’s been edging himself on purpose, waiting, drawing it out like it means something. “I couldn’t come last week,” he says. “Not once. Not without your scent. I tried. Over and over.”

Jimin’s fingers tighten in his lap. His thighs squeeze together. He tries to pretend it doesn’t affect him. That he’s immune. But he’s not.

And Jungkook knows it.

He can smell it now, clearly, overwhelmingly. Jimin’s slick. Sweet, unmistakable, that warm caramel scent blooming slowly into the room like steam. It clings to the air, coats Jungkook’s tongue when he inhales too deeply. The scent is so rich it makes his head swim.

And Jimin… he’s not holding it together. His bottom lip is red, bitten raw from trying to stay quiet, to stay still. He’s barely holding back. Jungkook sees the shine of wetness in his eyes, the way his thighs twitch like he’s seconds from grinding down into the chair.

“Don’t hurt your pretty mouth,” Jungkook murmurs. “You’ll bleed if you keep biting like that.”

He lets go of his cock for a moment, and it smacks against his lower belly with a wet, heavy noise that makes Jimin flinch. The sound is obscene in the quiet room.

“So during this time,” Jungkook says, voice lazy, laced with something dangerous, “I kept thinking maybe I didn’t want to hook up with random people anymore.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He can’t. His mouth is dry, and his body is fighting to stay still.

“There’s only one person I want,” Jungkook continues. “One omega.”

He doesn’t even try to hide how he’s staring at Jimin now. Not just his face, his whole body. Jungkook’s eyes roam over him like he owns the right to look. Like he’s already touched everything under those clothes.

Cute. Pretty. Beautiful. That’s what he always thinks. But it’s not just that. Jimin’s body is gorgeous, his soft breasts, perfectly sized for Jungkook’s hands. His thighs, thick and tempting, hidden beneath slacks that do nothing to hide the curve of his hips when he shifts in that chair. And fuck, his ass, Jungkook remembers it even from behind the lab coat. Fat and full. Everything about him screams indulgence. But the only thing Jungkook really wants to see, the only thing that haunts his dreams, is his pussy.

“Every night,” Jungkook murmurs, head tipping back, breath catching, “I dream about you. Fucking you. Eating you out.”

The back of his head hits the couch with a soft thud. His cock twitches against his abs, leaking more precum just from the thought.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, doc.”

Jimin swallows hard. His heart feels like it’s caught in his throat.

“T-That’s…” he stammers, and it’s the first time Jungkook hears his voice falter. His breath hitches, the line between professionalism and instinct crumbling with each passing second. He’s trying to stay calm, trying to control the way his scent threatens to bloom again.

“That’s not how it works, Jungkook.”

But it doesn’t come out firm. It’s barely a whisper, soft and fragile. Jungkook can see the flush spreading down Jimin’s neck, the way his lashes flutter before he forces himself to keep eye contact. He’s trying so hard not to fall apart.

Jungkook’s lips part slightly as he watches him. The image of Jimin flustered is more intoxicating than any pornographic fantasy he’s ever conjured. And he has conjured them. Over and over again. Bent over the edge of the desk. Spread out on the couch. On his knees with flushed cheeks and teary eyes. But seeing him like this real, flushed, trying and failing to maintain composure is even better.

He strokes himself again, slower this time, watching the way Jimin's eyes dart down for half a second before guilting themselves back up. Jungkook’s voice is lower now, dangerously calm.

“You’re so pretty when you pretend not to want it.”

But he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t gloat. His voice stays low, too serious to be teasing. Because it isn’t just about wanting Jimin anymore. It’s about needing him. Obsessively. Completely.

Jungkook jerks himself again with a rough twist of his wrist, and the confession rolls off his tongue like a growl.

“I used to be addicted to sex,” he says. “To the chase. The release. The distraction. I thought I wanted everything, anyone—whatever would make it stop.”

His eyes lock on Jimin’s, dark and raw.

“But now?” he breathes. “Now it’s just you. You ruined everything. I can’t even get hard for anyone else. I see blond hair, soft skin, sweet scent—I close my eyes, and it’s still not you. It’s not enough.”

He leans his head back again, jaw tense. “You’ve replaced the addiction, Jimin. I don’t want relief. I want you. ”

Jimin’s fingers curl tightly into his lap. His breathing is uneven. Every word is feeding something dangerous in his body, something that’s no longer just physical. It’s chemical. His omega is responding to the sound of his name on Jungkook’s tongue like it’s the only thing it wants to hear.

And Jungkook knows it.

“Me?” Jimin breathes, his voice unsteady. “How—?”

“Don’t act innocent,” Jungkook cuts him off, sharper now. His hand moves again, slower this time, and he applies pressure around the base of his cock thumb and forefinger forming a tight ring, squeezing just enough to hold back the edge. His jaw flexes with restraint.

He watches as Jungkook spreads his thighs a little wider, cock twitching between them, heavy and flushed. Jimin knows exactly where this is going.

His fingers dig into his thighs.His omega stirs hard under the surface, no longer quiet, no longer manageable. It claws its way up his spine, drunk on the scent of Jungkook’s cock, alpha, his. Jimin’s heat only ended two days ago, but his body doesn’t care. He’s still swollen inside, still oversensitive and his scent, sweet and thick with caramel and a hint of citrus, is blooming again without permission. He feels hot. Dizzy. Dizzy in the way only an omega can feel when instinct starts to blur with desire. And for a terrifying, blissful second, it’s not Jimin in control. It’s the part of him that wants to be bred.

“Come,” Jungkook says, the command simple but bossy, the kind of tone Jimin imagines him using at work.

Jimin rises on shaky legs and crosses the room slowly. He stops just in front of Jungkook, then kneels. His knees hit the floor with a soft thud, and he folds to sit on his calves, spine straight, thighs pressed close. The soles of his shoes dig into the underside of his ass, creating a dull pressure he tries not to react to. But if he moves his hips just right, he knows he could rub his sensitive clit.

His eyes settle on Jungkook’s cock, still hard, still glistening, not the least bit softened despite being untouched for minutes. It pulses with need, and from this distance, Jimin can smell Jungkook’s scent stronger than ever. Musky, thick, possessive. It hits him like a wall.

“Have you ever had a cock in that pretty mouth, doc?” Jungkook asks, leaning forward slightly, his clean hand lifting to touch Jimin’s face. His thumb strokes across Jimin’s bitten lip, lifting his chin just enough to make him look up.

“Yes,” Jimin answers, trying to stay calm.

“How many? A lot?” Jungkook tilts his head as he asks, tone lower, dangerous, not jealous.

“Maybe two,” Jimin starts, voice unsure, barely audible. He shifts his weight a little where he kneels, thighs tensing as he thinks, then quietly adds, “Or three.”

Jungkook nods slowly. “Mine’s about to be the fourth then?”

He reaches out and pushes Jimin’s blond hair back, the gesture strangely intimate. His fingers thread into the soft strands, gripping a handful at the back of Jimin’s head. It’s soft under his touch, delicate, like the rest of him.

Jimin lets out a soft whine, instinctively leaning forward, but Jungkook holds him still. The grip tightens just enough to keep him there, not enough to hurt but enough to make Jimin gasp.

And Jungkook feels him trying to move, to come closer. He releases the hold with a quiet exhale, fingers loosening until his palm cradles the back of Jimin’s head instead. Softer now.

Jimin leans in, eyes fluttering low, and lowers his head toward Jungkook’s lap. Jungkook holds his cock upright for him, fingers curled loosely at the base. Jimin’s lips part slowly, hesitating for a breath before they stretch around the thick crown of Jungkook’s cock. He takes it in carefully inch by inch with his jaw tense as he adjusts to the girth. Jungkook watches it all unfold, eyes dark and hungry.

Jimin’s mouth looks obscene around him. The way his lips struggle to accommodate the width, the faint tremble in his cheeks, the sudden rush of saliva pooling fast beneath his tongue and dripping down the base. Jungkook groans deep and broken, hand twitching at his side.

The sound punches straight through Jimin’s core. His body jolts with it, slick leaking out again, soaking his underwear where the arch of his sole presses now against his clit. He moans around Jungkook’s cock, helpless, and the vibration makes Jungkook groan louder.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathes, hips barely rocking. 

His head tips back again, hitting the cushion behind him with a soft, dazed thud. He watches Jimin, watches his swollen lips stretch wide around the thickness of his cock, cheeks hollowing as he works slowly, obediently. There’s saliva everywhere now

And there is only one think Jungkook is thinking about.

The words tumble out in a breathless chuckle as his eyes meet Jimin’s. “I’m so fucked,” he says again, voice hoarse.

Jimin blinks up at him, mouth still full, and drags the flat of his tongue along the underside of Jungkook’s cock as he pulls back. His hand replaces his mouth briefly, stroking him with the same rhythm while his tongue follows the curve, slow and reverent.

Jimin swears he can feel every pulse of every vein against his tongue. Each one thrums with heat and tension, pulsing so vividly it sends a shiver through him. The weight, the shape, it overwhelms his senses, and he knows he'll remember this feeling long after it's over.

“You’re ruining me,” Jungkook breathes, more to himself than anything. “Fucking ruining me.”

It doesn’t take long after that. Jungkook barely lasts another minute. The second Jimin’s mouth slides back down, tongue flattened and warm, suction perfect around the thickest part of his cock, it’s over.

He groans loud and guttural, chest heaving as his head drops back hard against the couch. His hips twitch involuntarily, and his hand fists in Jimin’s hair.

“Shit—Jimin—” he gasps.

The orgasm hits him like a wave. He comes hard, cock pulsing on Jimin’s tongue, thick ropes of cum spilling into the omega’s mouth. It’s so much more than either of them expected. Jimin chokes for a second, swallowing quickly, trying to take it all. Jungkook tastes good.

Jimin doesn’t stop until Jungkook’s hips sag slightly, until the sharpness of his groans fades into quiet panting. He pulls back slowly, lips wet and red, and leans in again to lick Jungkook’s cock clean. Every drop. Every streak.

He’s still on his knees, face flushed, eyes lowered. But his tongue works with need, like he’s still desperate to taste more.

And Jungkook watches him like he’s just sealed his fate.

Session Summary – Dr. Park Jimin (Confidential Notes)

Subject: Jeon Jungkook / Session 3 / Time: Evening, post-heat cycle

Patient exhibited elevated tension, impulsive behavior, and unresolved sexual fixation upon reentry into the therapeutic setting following a week-long break. Alpha instincts appear increasingly entwined with obsessional attachment toward physician (myself). Psychological dependency is no longer limited to physical release, there are signs of imprint-like behavioral patterns, though patient denies emotional vulnerability.
Control of the session was compromised.
There was… a breach.
My body is still reacting. Scent unstable. Knees sore.
I must reevaluate boundaries.
Next session… I don’t know. I need time.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

The next session arrives too soon.

Jimin braces himself the second he hears the front door open. He’s been dreading this dreading Jungkook’s eyes, his voice, the weight of his presence in the same room after what happened. He’s dressed differently this time: layers higher, neckline tighter, posture stiff. No more softness. No more slip-ups.

But when Jungkook enters, the energy is..different?

He looks good and relaxed. Like he slept for once. His hair is styled neatly, cologne subtle but expensive. And when he sits down, there’s no scowl, no tension riding his shoulders. He even smiles faintly, like the last session hadn’t ended with his cock down Jimin’s throat.

“Morning, doc,” Jungkook says easily, legs spreading as he sinks into the seat across from Jimin. “You look well.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He just nods, flipping open his notebook even though his hands are trembling faintly.

“I’ve been doing better,” Jungkook offers, tone almost casual. “Sleeping. Focusing. Haven’t had the urge to pick up a single omega.”

“That’s… good to hear,” Jimin says, keeping his voice neutral. He doesn’t ask why. He already knows.

Jungkook leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Guess you were right about needing the right kind of outlet.”

Jimin’s fingers tighten around his pen.

“This is a professional setting,” he says quietly. “What happened last time shouldn’t have happened.”

Jungkook doesn’t argue. He just watches Jimin, head tilted slightly, eyes too perceptive.

“Sure,” he says. “But it helped, didn’t it?”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He keeps his gaze pinned to his notes, but the words on the page blur at the edges. His scent is tightly controlled, muted behind layers of scent blockers but his body still remembers. His throat tightens with every breath Jungkook takes, every slow blink of his eyes. He tries not to fidget. Fails.

Jungkook hums under his breath like he already knows he’s won something. He sits back again, legs spread comfortably. The posture is too relaxed. Too smug.

“I’ve been productive, too,” he adds after a beat. “Closed a few deals. Started sleeping through the night. My assistant said I’m less of a dick.”

Jimin forces a nod. “I’m glad the rest helped.”

“It wasn’t the rest,” Jungkook replies smoothly. “It was you.”

That makes Jimin’s heart skip. Just for a second.

He writes something down to avoid looking up. Something useless, just to make his hand move.

Jungkook watches the motion and tilts his head.

“You’re quiet today.”

“I’m trying to keep this session on track.”

“You’re trying to pretend my cock wasn’t in your mouth five days ago.”

Jungkook leans forward again, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “You can lie to yourself all you want. Pretend you’re fine. Pretend it was just the heat talking.” His eyes flash. “But you didn’t have to obey.”

Jimin doesn’t deny it. He can’t. Not when every cell in his body is still humming from the memory.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shallow, but doesn’t look up from his notes. Not because he’s unaffected, but because if he does, he knows he’ll unravel.

“I obeyed because I wasn’t in control,” Jimin says finally. “That’s instinct.”

“Okay, doc. As you want,” Jungkook says with a shrug, and he leans back against the couch like he’s letting it go, for now.

Jimin finally feels the tension start to slip off his shoulders. His lungs feel less tight, his spine less rigid. For the first time since Jungkook walked in, he allows himself to settle in the chair. His pen rests loosely between his fingers now. He doesn’t let his guard drop entirely, but the room stops spinning.

He can breathe again.

So he starts.

Clears his throat gently, flips to a clean page in his notebook. “Let’s go back to where we left off,” he says, voice steadier than he expected. “You mentioned improved focus, less impulsive behavior. Have there been any changes in your personal routines?”

Jungkook raises a brow, lips curling faintly. “Back to doctor mode already?”

Jimin doesn't rise to the bait. He lifts his pen. “Answer the question.”

The alpha sighs dramatically, but relents. “I’ve been going to bed earlier. Eating better. No more back-to-back meetings. Cut off two side hookups I was stringing along for no reason.”

Jimin nods, taking notes. He doesn’t comment on the last part, even though it hits him harder than he wants to admit. “That’s good progress.”

Jungkook hums. “Told you. You work better than pills.”

Jimin lets out a breath through his nose, a tiny huff of a laugh, more air than sound. He’s not amused, not really. But something about the dry honesty of it pulls the reaction from him before he can stop it.

He regains his composure quickly and gestures for Jungkook to continue. “And emotionally?” he asks, eyes flicking to the page again. “Any mood swings, compulsions, or irritability since last week?”

Jungkook shrugs lightly. “Less compulsions. Less pacing. I haven’t been restless the way I used to be.”

Jimin hums as he notes it down. “And irritability?”

Jungkook’s smile flickers, just slightly. “Only when I think about you not being there two weeks ago.”

Jimin’s pen stutters across the page, barely for a second, but Jungkook catches it.

“No real outbursts,” he continues, his voice more grounded now. “No yelling at staff. No impulsive calls. No calls to old flings."

Jimin swallows that too-personal note without comment and scribbles something down.

“Any dreams?”

Jungkook breathes out a short laugh. “You really want to go there?”

“I want honesty,” Jimin replies.

Jungkook meets his gaze evenly. “Then yeah. Dreams. About you. Almost every night.”

Jimin looks down again, pretending to jot something, but the tip of his pen doesn’t even touch the paper.

He doesn’t ask what the dreams are about. He already knows.

But now they’re acknowledged, out in the open, his omega stirs restlessly and his body responds before his brain can suppress it, his scent twitching just faintly, that telltale flicker of warmth and sweetness escaping the blockers he reapplied too quickly that morning.

Jungkook notices.

Of course he notices.

He leans forward just slightly, voice dropping to something that almost sounds reverent.

“They’re not nightmares, if that helps.”

Jimin doesn’t look up. He can’t. His face feels hot, skin prickling with the awareness of how easily Jungkook reads him now. And the worst part is he doesn’t even try to deny it.

He clears his throat again, softer this time. “Sleep disruption, then,” he murmurs, writing nothing at all. “How do you feel when you wake up?”

“Hard,” Jungkook says without hesitation.

Jimin finally lifts his eyes and sighs. Jungkook is already watching him, mouth tugged into the ghost of a smirk.

“But calm,” he adds, quieter now. “Focused. Like I’ve already gotten what I needed.” He leans back again, arms draping loosely over the couch cushions. “You’ve replaced the chaos, Jimin. The craving. I still want you, but it doesn’t feel desperate anymore.”

Jimin doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

Session Summary – Dr. Park Jimin (Confidential Notes)

Subject: Jeon Jungkook / Session 4 / Time: Morning, post-intimacy boundary breach

Patient presented in noticeably improved condition: relaxed posture, improved hygiene, sustained emotional regulation. Reports increased sleep quality and decreased compulsive behaviors. No recent sexual activity with other partners. Admits to vivid dreams of a sexual nature involving myself. Suggests fixation remains exclusively directed at me.
Patient is highly observant and perceptive of nonverbal reactions. He identified fluctuations in my scent and likely interpreted them correctly. I attempted to maintain professional boundaries. Partially succeeded.
My responses are no longer fully within control. Patient’s presence is… destabilizing.
Future session prep must include stronger blockers and firm verbal reinforcement of professional lines.
I fear he will test them again.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

The session is scheduled for late afternoon, like usual. Jimin expects Jungkook to arrive composed, clean-cut, maybe a little smug just like every other time. But the man who walks in isn’t the same.

Jungkook looks wrecked.

His shirt is wrinkled, the top two buttons undone like he couldn’t bear the constriction against his neck. There’s no jacket, no tie, no effort to keep up appearances. He slumps into the couch without a greeting, eyes dull with exhaustion, his jaw slack in a way that looks more defeated than relaxed.

Jimin watches him quietly, closing his notebook. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook mutters, running a hand over his face, slow and rough. “Just been... irritable.”

His voice is low, but not angry. Not directed at Jimin. It’s weary, like something raw is scraping underneath his skin.

“How long have you felt like this?”

Jungkook shrugs, then winces. “Three days. Maybe four. Couldn’t sleep. Snapped at a few people. Fired someone this morning.” He leans back, head tipping against the cushion, eyes closed. “Everything pisses me off.”

Jimin studies him more closely. Sweat shines at Jungkook’s hairline, even though the office is cool. His fingers twitch on his thigh, his foot bounces faintly. He can’t stay still.

“And physically?” Jimin asks. “Any changes? Appetite, temperature, libido?”

Jungkook gives a breathy laugh that’s not really a laugh. “I mean… I always want to fuck. That hasn’t changed. Figured it was normal.”

Jimin doesn’t respond immediately. He flips to a clean page in his notebook, more to steady his hands than to write. He’s already putting it together the scent in the room has shifted since Jungkook walked in. At first, it was faint. But now, with every breath, it’s getting thicker.

Hot and heavy like spice and earth, sharp at the edges and grounded in something darker. And underneath it, Jimin’s own scent stirs faintly in response, involuntary.

“It’s not just stress,” Jimin says quietly. “You’re in pre-rut.”

Jungkook opens his eyes, confused.

“You didn’t notice because your cycle’s irregular,” Jimin continues. “All that pressure you’ve been under, it throws things off. The signs don’t come like they should. Your body’s been building toward rut for days, but the symptoms were too close to your usual baseline, so you missed it.”

Silence hangs heavy between them.

Jungkook breathes in through his nose and that’s when he notices. The way his scent has changed. The sharpness. The weight. And how much worse it gets now that Jimin’s standing this close. He stiffens.

“I need to go,” he says, standing too fast. “If I’m heading into rut, I can’t stay here.”

Jimin moves before he can think. One step toward the door. Just enough to block the path, not enough to challenge.

“You can’t go out like this,” he says, soft but firm. “Your scent’s unstable. Your body’s gearing up to lose control. You won’t make it to your car without someone noticing, and even if you do, what then? Go home alone? Get into heat territory on the street?”

“I can handle it.”

“You can’t,” Jimin replies. “You’re already spiraling. You just haven’t felt the full crash yet.” His fingers curl slightly at his sides, and his voice comes out softer, shakier. "I—I can’t let you go like this."

Not when you smell this good , he thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud.

He’s close now so close that the warmth of Jungkook’s body brushes against his own with each shallow breath. Then, carefully, Jimin leans in and rests his forehead against Jungkook’s shoulder. A quiet surrender.

He lets out a soft whine before he can stop it.

Jungkook goes completely still.

The sound, the scent, the touch it’s too much. He’s been dreaming of this, aching for it in silence, imagining it in every corner of his mind. But nothing could prepare him for how it feels. Jimin, warm and close, melting against him like he belongs there.

Jungkook thinks he might actually explode. His skin feels too tight. The restraint he’s barely holding onto starts to fray. The touch of Jimin so simple, so small,  might be the thing that finally breaks him.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides, fighting the instinct to grab, to hold, to flip Jimin onto the nearest surface and lose himself. But then he breathes in again, caramel and citrus, soft and sweet and dangerously close and something in him snaps.

“If I stay here,” he grits out, voice dark and low, “I might fuck you on every surface in your office.” He leans in, his breath grazing the shell of Jimin’s ear. “And I won’t miss a single one.”

He swallows hard, but it does nothing to help the thickness in his throat. He doesn't move away. If anything, he presses in closer his forehead still against Jungkook’s shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve like he needs something to hold onto.

“Then don’t stay,” Jimin whispers. It’s barely a breath. “Unless you mean it.”

It takes a second to register in Jungkook’s fogged-out brain, but when it does, something shifts.

Jungkook grabs Jimin by the waist firm and possessive, his fingers spanning easily across his narrow frame and pulls him in. Their chests press together, heat bleeding through their clothes, the contact almost dizzying. Jimin gasps softly at the sudden grip, but he doesn’t resist. He lets Jungkook handle him, mold him into the shape of his hands like he’s been waiting for it.

“I always mean it,” Jungkook says, voice barely above a growl.

And then he kisses him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s a hungry, messy crash of mouths and teeth scraping, breath hot, lips parting like it’s the first and last time they’ll ever get to do this. Jimin’s arms wrap around Jungkook’s shoulders without thinking, his body rising to meet every desperate pull. The groan Jungkook lets out against his mouth is feral like something finally unleashed.

And as their hips press flush together, Jungkook’s hard cock straining behind his zipper, Jimin realizes he’s trembling. Because this isn’t just rut. It’s him. It’s them.

And they’re past the point of turning back.

The kiss turns frantic messy, uncoordinated, almost brutal in how hungry it is. Jungkook can’t control himself anymore, not with Jimin in his arms and that scent wrapping around him like silk and heat. He devours Jimin’s mouth like he’s starving, like this is the only thing that will calm the storm burning through his bloodstream.

Jimin doesn’t push back. He just takes it. Whimpers into Jungkook’s mouth, lets himself be kissed open, lets himself be moved and molded like his body doesn’t belong to him anymore.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere rough and desperate and claiming.

One hand grips Jimin’s ass hard, fingers digging in to feel the plush weight of it. The softness spills between his fingers like it was made for him, and he groans into the kiss, pulling Jimin tighter until there’s no space left between them.

His other hand slides up between their bodies, palming Jimin’s chest, cupping one of his breasts through the fabric and it fits perfectly in his palm. His thumb brushes over the peak, and Jimin lets out a broken whine high and needy, hips twitching forward.

It’s too much. It’s so much.

Jimin’s blouse slips off one shoulder, collar hanging wide, exposing the smooth curve of skin Jungkook has only dreamed of. He pulls back just enough to look,  just enough to see what he’s touching and his eyes darken further.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathes. “You’re unreal.”

Jungkook presses forward until the back of Jimin’s thighs bump against the couch. He pauses, breath heavy, his eyes never leaving Jimin’s. Then, with a firm grip on Jimin’s hips, he pushes him down makes him sit.

“Down,” he murmurs, almost like an order, and Jimin obeys without a word, sinking into the cushion with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

He looks up at Jungkook like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Like he’s already overwhelmed. But Jungkook knows exactly what to do.

He drops to his knees in front of him. Jungkook’s hands trail up Jimin’s thighs, spreading them just enough so he can press in between then reaches for the buttons of his blouse.

“Open it,” Jungkook says, already brushing his hands over the fabric.

Jimin hesitates for a second, then gives in. The white blouse parts slowly, one button at a time, until the fabric slips off his shoulders and pools at his sides revealing soft, pale skin and the delicate swell of his chest the small mounds rising and falling with each rapid breath. 

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispers. “I knew they’d be like this.”

His hands hover at first before they cup the soft curves of Jimin’s chest, thumbs stroking beneath the gentle roundness.

They’re perfectly shaped, pretty in a way that makes Jungkook’s heart ache.

His nipples are light pink, already tightening from the air, and Jungkook swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful. His thumbs brush over them once, twice, and Jimin gasps, body tensing, head tipping back just slightly.

“You’ve been hiding these from me,” Jungkook mutters, voice low and awed. “All this time. Under those damn lab coats. Buttoned up like you're untouchable.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to the inner curve of Jimin’s left breast, mouth open, tongue tasting salt and skin. His hands follow every motion, cupping both breasts, brushing thumbs over the hardening nubs again.

He leans in and drags his tongue slowly over one nipple, then sucks it into his mouth without hesitation. Jimin gasps, arching into it, hands flying to Jungkook’s hair.

It’s too overwhelming. Jimin lets out a whimper, hips twitching where they sit pressed against the couch, thighs slightly parted now, slick already beginning to soak through his underwear. His omega is too loud, too present. All he can do is breathe and tremble and try not to fall apart too fast.

Jungkook mouths at Jimin’s immaculate skin, unable to stop himself from claiming every inch he can reach. It’s flawless and unblemished, practically glowing in the low light but that only fuels him more. He sinks his teeth in gently, lips dragging over the curve of Jimin’s collarbone, and then lower. One after another, red marks bloom under his mouth. He wants everyone to know Jimin’s his. Even if no one else ever sees them, he ’ll know.

While his tongue toys with the nub flicking, sucking, gently biting, his free hand moves down. He undoes his belt with one hand, barely looking, his movements frantic with need. The zipper follows with a low rasp, and then he shoves his pants down just enough to free his cock. It slaps up against his abs, flushed and wet at the tip.

Jungkook fists himself immediately tight, slow, stroking from base to tip while his mouth keeps working over Jimin’s chest. It’s all too much. The taste of Jimin’s skin, the weight of his breasts in his palm, the little sounds he makes every time Jungkook’s tongue drags over the same sensitive spot he’s losing control.

He groans low against Jimin’s skin, sucking hard before easing up again, leaving the nipple red and soaked.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pumping his cock with a firm grip. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Jimin’s head tips back against the couch, eyes glassy, mouth parted as he struggles to stay quiet. Every lick of Jungkook’s tongue sends another wave of heat down his spine, another pulse of slick between his legs. His underwear clings to him now completely soaked, the soft fabric sticking uncomfortably to his folds.

It’s embarrassing. Or it should be.

But it’s not. Not with the way Jungkook is on his knees, mouthing at his chest like he’s starving, fisting his cock with long, slow strokes that match the drag of his tongue.

Jimin’s thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close but Jungkook is already between them, keeping him open and exposed.

He shifts slightly where he sits, and the movement makes him flinch. The slick has already begun to drip, leaking past the edge of his underwear, sliding along the underside of his ass and soaking into the cushion beneath him.

He knows it’s a mess. Knows the couch is probably ruined.

But that’ll be a problem for another day.

Right now, all Jimin can think about is how badly he wants Jungkook to know . To read his mind. To pull off his pants and fuck him right here, without hesitation.

He bites his lip and watches Jungkook’s hand pump over his wet cock wishes he had the courage to beg for it.

“Smell so fucking good, baby,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss just above Jimin’s belly button. His nose brushes along the warm skin there, his breath fanning out across it heavy with arousal and reverence. The scent of Jimin’s slick is thick in the air now, unmistakable, soaked between his thighs and pulling Jungkook in like gravity.

“Hips up,” the alpha says, rougher now. “Wanna see you so bad.”

Jimin lifts his hips without hesitation, and Jungkook wastes no time. His hands are on the front of Jimin’s white pants, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down. His cock twitches against his stomach, standing flushed and hard between them as he peels the pants and soaked underwear down in one motion.

The cotton sticks to Jimin’s pussy lips, wet and hot, making him wince slightly from the cling of it but once it’s gone, once the fabric is discarded somewhere to the floor, Jungkook groans.

Because now he can see everything.

Jimin’s cunt glistens in the soft light, flushed and needy, folds slick and pink and inviting. Jungkook stares like he’s been waiting his whole life to look at him like this.

“Don’t need fingers,” Jimin finally says something, voice trembling but certain, lips brushing against Jungkook’s as he pulls him into a messy kiss. “You can fuck me.”

Jungkook groans into his mouth, kissing him once, twice more, like he’s grounding himself with the taste of him.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes. “Open your pretty legs for me.”

Jimin leans back, slumped into the couch, thighs spread wide. He knows how he looks flushed, ruined, pink cunt wet and ready, presenting himself to the very patient he was supposed to treat, not fuck. But here he is, legs open in his own office, waiting for Jeon Jungkook to fill him.

That same thick cock he’d had in his mouth just weeks ago.

Jungkook grips the backs of Jimin’s thighs, lining himself up. He pushes in slowly, carefully, eyes locked on Jimin’s face the whole time. The stretch burns, Jimin gasps, head falling back, lips parted as he tries to breathe through it. His body clenches hard around the intrusion, tight and trembling, trying to take all of him.

“Shit,” Jungkook groans, one knee up on the couch for leverage. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“It—ahh—it’s okay,” Jimin pants, arms gripping Jungkook’s forearms for balance. “Just keep going.”

And Jungkook does.

He starts to move slow, deep thrusts that make Jimin’s body jolt with each stroke. The slick sound of it fills the room, obscene and wet, as their hips meet again and again. Jungkook watches every twitch of Jimin’s face every moan, every flutter of lashes, every flush that blooms down his neck.

Jimin brings a hand to his mouth, trying to muffle his sounds but Jungkook shakes his head, pulling it away gently.

“No,” he growls. “Wanna hear you. Wanna hear you moan while I fuck you deep, right here. In your office.”

And Jimin does he lets go. Lets the moans spill out, lets his body rock into the rhythm, lets his omega instincts take over while Jungkook fills him over and over again.

Jungkook’s pace quickens, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the office with each deep thrust. His breathing grows ragged, voice breaking between words as he leans over Jimin, hips snapping forward with purpose.

“You have the prettiest pussy ever,” he pants, eyes dropping to where they’re joined his cock disappearing into Jimin’s slick cunt with every roll of his hips. “The tightest I’ve ever had, doc.”

Jimin lets out a whimper, eyes half-lidded, lashes fluttering like he can barely stay conscious under the weight of it. His mouth stays open, sounds spilling from his throat, soft, desperate, needy , as his back arches instinctively into each thrust. The stretch still burns at the edges, but it only makes it worse in the best way.

Jungkook leans in, lips brushing Jimin’s jaw as he keeps moving. “Maybe that’s what I needed all along,” he murmurs between gritted teeth. “The best omega. One who could actually fucking please me.”

A crooked smirk pulls at his lips, but his eyes stay dark, hungry, locked onto Jimin’s face like he never wants to look away.

Jimin tries to respond, but the only thing that comes out is a high-pitched cry, followed by another broken moan. His hands scramble for something to hold bracing against the backrest of the couch, trying to steady himself as each thrust knocks the breath from his lungs. His body rocks with every push of Jungkook’s hips, thighs trembling from the effort of keeping himself open and grounded.

His slick coats everything, the back of his thighs, Jungkook’s cock, the leather beneath him. He’s utterly wrecked, and Jungkook hasn’t even slowed down.

Jungkook grunts as he drives his hips forward again, cock sinking deep into Jimin’s soaked cunt with a sharp slap. His hand grips the back of the couch beside Jimin’s head, keeping himself steady as he pounds into him.

“You don’t talk a lot during sex, doc,” he pants, eyes glued to the way Jimin’s breasts bounce with each thrust.

Before Jimin can respond, Jungkook slams in harder once, deep and brutal forcing a choked sound out of him, more a whimper than a word.

“And I hope you’re on birth control,” Jungkook growls, watching Jimin’s breasts move. “Because by the end of my rut, you’ll be fucking pregnant.”

Jimin lets out a breathy moan, biting down on his bottom lip, blinking through the haze clouding his thoughts. “Can’t get pregnant,” he manages, voice hoarse. “’M on birth control.”

Jungkook slows down so suddenly it’s cruel. He drags his cock out almost all the way before pushing back in with a lazy, grinding thrust. Not enough friction. Not enough pressure. Just enough to make Jimin’s toes curl in frustration.

“Is it worrying that I almost feel sad about it, doc?” the alpha murmurs, his tone quiet but dangerous, laced with something too close to obsession. “That I can’t knock up this pretty cunt right now?”

His eyes flicker down, watching the way Jimin’s hole stretches around him, how slick clings to the base of his cock with every slow roll of his hips. Jimin whines, hips twitching, wanting more, but Jungkook just keeps that maddening pace.

Jimin hates it. Hates how good the stretch feels even when it’s slow. Hates how it leaves him teetering on the edge with nothing to tip him over.

Still, he thinks maybe he should be grateful. Because later, when Jungkook’s full rut crashes into him, he’s not going to get a break. The alpha is going to fuck him senseless, ruin him completely, and Jimin knows he’ll beg for it.

Jungkook doesn’t last much longer after that.

The tension coils in his belly, hot and unstoppable. Jimin’s body feels too good, too tight, too warm, too slick and Jungkook is too far gone to stop it. He pulls out at the last second, chest heaving, and cups Jimin’s jaw with one hand as he mutters, “Mouth.”

Jimin obeys without hesitation, dropping to his knees between Jungkook’s spread thighs, lips parting just in time for Jungkook to slide his cock past them. Jimin’s mouth is hot and wet, tongue familiar and greedy, and it only takes a few strokes one hand in his hair, another tightening on his own thigh before Jungkook groans low and spills down Jimin’s throat.

Jimin swallows every drop.

They both breathe heavily in the aftermath, skin flushed and clothes disheveled. Jimin’s mouth is pink and wet, his chest still rising and falling fast, but Jungkook is already pulling out his phone with shaky fingers.

He texts his driver, miraculously managing to type.

Fifteen minutes later, the sleek black car is parked in the private garage below the clinic. The driver doesn’t ask questions he never does. He just nods politely from the front seat, eyes forward, separated from the back by a tinted glass partition. Smart enough to know better than to comment when the CEO steps into the car with messy hair and a clearly touched omega pressed close to his side.

Thankfully, the separation keeps the scent in. Their pheromones still thick with sex and pre-rut heat stay contained in the backseat, where Jungkook can hardly keep his hands to himself. He palms Jimin’s thigh shamelessly, fingers sliding higher every time the car turns a corner, until Jimin has to grip his wrist to keep him still.

In the elevator, Jungkook’s control shatters again.

Jimin’s back is to him, and Jungkook wastes no time slipping both hands around his waist, one dragging low to grab his ass now dressed in soft, everyday clothes instead of his clinical white uniform. Jungkook groans quietly into the back of Jimin’s neck, fingers digging into the swell through the fabric.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he mutters.

Jimin’s legs feel weak. He barely registers entering the penthouse. He doesn’t remember the layout, the walls, the furniture. Just that Jungkook scoops him up bridal-style, carries him like he weighs nothing, and drops him on a bed that smells like expensive everything—polished wood, clean marble, fine linens and beneath all of it, Jungkook’s scent. Alpha..

Jimin barely has time to think before he’s naked again, knees spread, chest against the mattress.

Jungkook slaps his ass once before positioning himself behind him. One hand grips Jimin’s hip, the other presses between his shoulder blades, pushing him down flat against the bed.

The angle has Jimin arching automatically, back dipped, his ass high and ready.

Jungkook doesn’t waste time. He thrusts in, slow but deep, the tip of his cock immediately brushing against Jimin’s sweet spot. Jimin cries out, arms giving way as his cheek presses against the comforter.

“You’re so big—fuck—”

The stretch burns again but it’s addictive. Jimin moans, eyes rolling back, drool slipping past his lips and onto the covers. The pressure behind him, the weight of Jungkook’s palm between his shoulders, the possessive groan the alpha lets out it all crashes into him at once.

His body shakes. His pussy clenches.

He’s already seeing stars.

Jungkook fucks him until he comes with his hips pressed flush to Jimin’s ass as his cock pulses inside him. A broken groan spills from his chest, heavy and breathless, and he collapses forward, his full weight pressing down over Jimin’s back.

Jimin grunts at the pressure, still panting, his body trembling with aftershocks. Jungkook is heavy and sweaty his breath hot against the back of Jimin’s neck. He doesn’t move.

After a minute, Jimin shifts beneath him. Jungkook groans again, but takes the hint and slowly rolls off, settling on his back with one hand over his chest, staring at the ceiling.

He hasn’t knotted Jimin. Not yet.

Jimin stays there for a moment, catching his breath, before finally pushing himself up. He sits back on the mattress and looks around for the first time. The room is massive. The bed alone could fit three people easily, and the space itself vaulted ceilings, broad windows, dark walls and marble accents, feels like half his apartment.

He starts to slide off the edge of the bed, reaching for the clothes they’d discarded somewhere on the floor. But before he can move far, a warm hand closes around his arm.

“You’re staying there,” Jungkook mumbles, eyes still closed.

“Unless you want me to pee on your bed, I really need to go to the toilet,” Jimin mutters.

Jungkook exhales through his nose. “Okay, go. I’m not into that.” He releases Jimin’s arm with a faint smirk. “But don’t get lost. It’s big here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, already leaning over the side to grab whatever’s closest. He finds a shirt first black, soft, clearly expensive material. Jungkook’s. That’ll do. He pulls it on quickly, the hem falling almost mid-thigh.

Even though it’s just the two of them, Jimin moves cautiously toward the door. What if the bathroom has floor-to-ceiling windows or some fancy open-air design? He’s not risking walking around naked in a house like this, not when his legs are already unsteady and his pussy’s leaking Jungkook’s cum.

He takes his time, freshens up, and when he returns, he carries two bottles of water with him. He drops them on the bedside table before looking down at the alpha still stretched out across the mattress like he hasn’t moved an inch.

“How do you feel?” Jimin asks calmly.

Jungkook opens one eye, glancing at him. His voice is lazy, half amused. “Oh, are we still doing therapy even during sex?”

“Consider this your treatment,” Jimin replies dryly, spotting his bag beside the bed and reaching into it. 

He pulls out his folder and flips it open, clicking a pen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t look up.

Jungkook watches him in silence for a moment, arms folding behind his head against the pillow. “Is this a special treatment just for me?” he asks. “Or do you let your other patients fuck you too?”

“I don’t whore myself.”

He finally sits down on the edge of the bed, a small wince passing over his face as he adjusts his hips sore, his thighs aching from how hard Jungkook had held him up.

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the shift in Jimin’s posture, catching the way the oversized shirt, his shirt slips off one shoulder, hanging loose and open down the middle. The fabric parts just enough to expose the curve of Jimin’s chest, one pink nipple visible. Faint red marks scatter across his skin, Jungkook’s marks, left by his mouth an hour ago. He doesn’t comment right away. Just lets his gaze drag slowly, indulgently, back up to Jimin’s face.

“…Good,” he says finally.

And he means it.

Jimin flips through the pages slowly, trying to focus, trying to stay in control of the situation. But he’s still sore, still aching between his thighs, and Jungkook hasn’t looked away from him once.

“So?” Jimin says, not lifting his eyes. “You didn’t answer me. How do you feel?”

There’s a pause. Then a low, satisfied hum.

“Incredibly good,” Jungkook answers.

Before Jimin can write anything down, a strong arm snakes around his waist. He barely has time to react before he’s being pulled into the center of the bed, his back pressed against Jungkook’s front, bare skin on bare skin, the alpha’s warm breath already ghosting over the side of his neck.

“Like so fucking good,” Jungkook murmurs, nuzzling into the soft curve beneath Jimin’s ear. “It’s been so long.”

Jimin stiffens slightly, spine straightening out of reflex. But Jungkook doesn’t push further just buries his nose in Jimin’s neck and inhales deeply, his chest rising and falling in sync with Jimin’s slow breaths. The scent of his omega sweet and sticky-soft with lingering slick and post-orgasm heat settles around them like a fog.

Jungkook groans softly, like the smell alone makes his brain short-circuit.

From his position behind him, his eyes drift downward. He can see the pages of Jimin’s notes, the ones resting loosely against Jimin’s thighs, angled just enough for the scrawled writing to peek through.

Jimin notices.

In one motion, he flips the notes down and inward, hiding the text from view.

“This is confidential,” Jimin says, voice returning to its usual firm cadence. “You can’t look at it.”

Jungkook lifts a brow, still pressed against him. “It’s about me, but I can’t look at it?”

“You’re still my patient,” Jimin replies, not backing down. “That hasn’t changed.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh into the side of his neck. “Doesn’t feel like I am.”

“You’re not fucking me right now,” Jimin says coolly. “We’re talking. So yes—you are.”

Jungkook just hums again, lips grazing Jimin’s shoulder lazily. “Then maybe we should stop talking.”

Jimin exhales slowly through his nose, trying to ignore the warm weight of Jungkook’s arm around his waist, the subtle roll of muscle against his back every time the alpha shifts. He lifts his pen again, flips to a fresh page, and taps the tip against the paper.

“You said it’s been a long time,” he murmurs, professional again. “What do you mean by that? Emotionally? Physically?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy mouthing lazily at Jimin’s shoulder, not kissing, not biting, just there . Jimin feels his lips brush skin, again and again, and it’s starting to get distracting.

“Emotionally,” Jungkook finally says. “Physically. All of it. I haven’t wanted someone like this in years,” Jungkook continues. “Haven’t needed someone like this. It’s like I’m starving, but you’re the only thing that works.”

Jimin’s scent pulses faintly in the room, he can’t stop it and Jungkook notices. Of course he does.

“You’re leaking,” the alpha whispers against his ear, lips brushing so lightly it makes Jimin’s thighs twitch. “Even now. When you’re trying to act in control.”

Jimin doesn’t move. His hand tightens around his pen.

“I’m not acting,” he says quietly. “I am in control.”

Jungkook’s smirk presses into his skin. “If you say so, doc.”

Jimin doesn’t respond immediately. His lips are parted, breath shallow, and he forces himself to focus on the page in front of him instead of the sensation of Jungkook’s mouth, still brushing lazily across his skin like it belongs there. The warmth of the alpha behind him is overwhelming, more so with every passing second.

And then he feels it.

The subtle shift against his lower back where Jungkook’s cock, once softened, begins to swell again. It presses up between them, heavier, thicker by the second. Jimin doesn’t need to look. He can feel the way it twitches against the base of his spine, the way the alpha’s hips adjust slightly as his body reacts.

Jungkook’s voice drops to a near whisper, hot against his neck. “What more questions do you have for me, doc?”

Jimin swallows. His fingers tense around the pen, though the tip no longer touches the page. His notes are forgotten. His thighs clench instinctively, as if that will stop his scent from blooming again but it’s too late.

Behind him, Jungkook inhales deeply and groans low in his throat.

“God, you smell so fucking good right now,” he mutters, dragging his nose up along the column of Jimin’s neck. “You keep pretending you’re in charge, but your body’s already given in.”

“I’m still working,” Jimin says, voice quieter now. “You said you wanted help. This is part of it.”

Jungkook’s arm tightens slightly around his waist, not enough to hurt just enough to anchor.

“Then help me,” he murmurs. “Ask your questions. Just know I might answer them while my cock’s inside you.”

Jimin’s breath catches when Jungkook shifts behind him his cock now fully hard, thick and hot against the small of Jimin’s back. He doesn’t move when the alpha nudges closer, hand slipping low across his belly, pulling him back gently.

“You can keep going,” Jungkook murmurs, voice low and rough, his lips brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear. “Ask me anything.”

Jimin swallows hard. His pulse jumps at his throat.

This is wrong. This is beyond any line he should’ve drawn weeks ago.

But when Jungkook grinds his cock slowly between his cheeks, slick already smearing between them, Jimin doesn’t stop him.

Instead, he shifts forward just slightly enough to tilt his hips, enough to line himself up.

Jungkook takes the hint.

One hand stays firm on Jimin’s waist, anchoring him in place. The other guides his cock, nudging at Jimin’s entrance, and with a slow, heavy push, he slides in.

Jimin gasps, eyes fluttering shut. The stretch is familiar now, but no less overwhelming. His cunt is slick and sensitive, pulling tight around the thick intrusion as Jungkook sinks in inch by inch, groaning behind him.

“Fuck…” the alpha breathes. “Every time—so tight.”

Jimin exhales shakily, his notes still half open in front of him. His pen rests awkwardly in one hand, twitching slightly.

“I asked…” he says, voice breathy, “…about emotional connection. You said you hadn’t wanted someone like this in a long time.”

Jungkook bottoms out with a slow grind of his hips, groaning into Jimin’s neck. “Still trying to keep this clinical, huh?”

Jimin presses his lips together, focusing on the page. “Answer the question.”

Jungkook pulls back an inch, then pushes in again, slow and firm. Jimin’s thighs twitch. His pen scrapes across the paper without meaning to.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says roughly. “It’s been years since I felt anything like this. Anyone I fucked before, just noise. You’re the first one I don’t want to forget after.”

Jimin’s heart stutters.

The thrusts stay slow and measured but it’s a losing battle.

And still, he keeps trying to write.

Keeps pretending he’s still in control while Jungkook fucks him gently from behind, voice rasping against his skin.

“You gonna ask the next one?” Jungkook teases. “Or do I have to fuck it out of you?”

Jungkook slows his thrusts even more pulling back so slowly it makes Jimin’s insides ache, then pushing back in just as deliberately. Deep. Dragging. Hot.

“Next question, doc,” he taunts. “Come on. Ask me something.”

Jimin tries. He really does. He glances at the paper, at the lines of questions he’d planned for the session. They blur and Jimin drops the pen. His hands find the bedsheets instead, gripping tight as a moan rips from his throat, uncontained.

He doesn’t try to speak after that.

Because it’s already over. He’s lying on his side, spooned up against Jungkook’s chest, bare and flushed, letting a patient fuck him so slowly it feels like worship. Jungkook’s body molds to his back, all warmth and muscle, one heavy arm curled around Jimin’s waist while the other braces under his head. His leg is hooked over Jimin’s to keep him open, grounded, while his cock moves in slow, deliberate thrusts inside him, deep and dragging, like he wants to savor every second. Slick coats Jimin’s thighs, sticky and warm, proof of how many times he’s already come.

It’s maddening.

Jungkook is so deep, and so unhurried. Every time his hips roll forward, the head of his cock brushes over that sweet spot again, and again, and again. The drag of it is enough to make Jimin twitch, his thighs clench instinctively, trying to pull away from the pressure, but there’s nowhere to go. Jungkook’s arm is locked around his middle, holding him in place, palm splayed low across his belly like he owns it.

And then that hand drifts lower.

Fingers slip down the slope of Jimin’s stomach, slow and sure, until they find the swollen bud between his slick folds. He rubs over it gently, circling once, twice, just enough to make Jimin gasp and jolt. His pussy clenches down hard around Jungkook’s cock in response, the tight squeeze pulling a broken groan from Jungkook’s chest.

The room is quiet, save for their breath and the soft, wet sound of Jimin’s pussy taking every slow push of cock. Slick coats everything between them, sticking to their skin, smearing over Jungkook’s thighs.

And still, Jungkook moves like he has all the time in the world.

Jimin’s omega is trembling. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets out a soft, pitiful sound without meaning to. 

Jimin swears he can feel him in his belly. Every slow thrust sends a rush of warmth spiraling through his chest, light and fluttering, like butterflies caught beneath his ribs. It’s too much and not enough all at once, the stretch of it addictive, grounding, and dizzying in equal parts.

“Please,” he breathes.

It’s not loud. It’s not bold.

Just a quiet, aching plea.

Jungkook pauses mid-thrust, cock still buried deep inside him. Then his lips curl against the back of Jimin’s neck, voice like velvet and gravel all at once.

“Hm?” he murmurs. “What came out of your pretty mouth?”

He rocks his hips forward again just enough to make Jimin gasp and then stays still, waiting.

Jimin’s breath hitches. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to suppress the heat flooding his face. But his body is already too far gone, and his pride can’t stop his mouth anymore.

“Please,” he whispers again. “Please… go faster.”

Behind him, Jungkook groans softly, his cock twitching inside the omega’s dripping cunt.

“There we go,” he says, tightening his arm around Jimin’s middle. “Knew you’d beg for it eventually.”

Jungkook doesn’t make him beg again.

Then he thrusts.

Hard.

Jimin gasps, body jolting forward but Jungkook doesn’t let him go. He drags him right back, keeps him close, his cock plunging in deep with a slick sound that echoes in the quiet room.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, pace immediately changing no more lazy rhythm, no more teasing. He fucks Jimin properly now, strong, steady thrusts that make the bed creak beneath them and the air turn humid with heat and scent.

Jimin moans without meaning to, high and breathy, and the sound only spurs Jungkook on.

One hand holds tight to Jimin’s hip, grounding him, but the other slides upward over his belly, across the his chest until his palm cups one breast, fingers spreading wide to feel the weight of it.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathes into his ear. “You’re so soft, baby. Look at you— taking it so well.”

His thumb brushes over Jimin’s nipple, already swollen and flushed, and Jimin whimpers, pushing his chest forward instinctively into the touch.

“You love this, don’t you?” Jungkook says, breath ragged. “Love being filled like this. You’re so wet, baby.”

Jimin’s only answer is a choked moan, his head tilting back against Jungkook’s shoulder, lips parted in open surrender. His body’s pliant now completely at the alpha’s mercy every slick thrust making him see stars, every roll of Jungkook’s hips dragging over that perfect, devastating spot.

He can’t stop the tremble in his thighs. Can’t stop the way his cunt tightens around Jungkook’s cock, already fluttering toward orgasm again.

And Jungkook feels it.

“Close?” he growls. 

Jimin just nods, helpless.

Jungkook keeps the pace hard, deep, dragging his cock through Jimin’s slick folds with precision now chasing every twitch of muscle, every soft whimper he pulls from the omega’s throat. His hand stays locked around Jimin’s breast, fingers kneading roughly, thumb brushing over the swollen peak again and again until Jimin’s moans start to spiral into something breathless, broken.

He feels it Jimin feels it the way his body tenses, the build like a wire pulled too tight. His clit throbs with every thrust, the thick head of Jungkook’s cock grinding into his g-spot with punishing rhythm.

And then it snaps.

The orgasm hits like a jolt violent, sudden, blinding.

Jimin cries out, his voice cracking mid-moan, and his body shakes . His cunt clenches down so hard around Jungkook’s cock that the alpha groans through gritted teeth, struggling to keep thrusting through it.

Clear, hot fluid sprays out of Jimin’s pussy, soaking the sheets, splattering messily past the base of Jungkook’s cock and down both of their thighs. It’s so much gushing with each contraction, too wet, too obscene.

Jimin tries to close his legs, overwhelmed by the release, instinctively curling in on himself but Jungkook’s leg is slotted between his, keeping him wide open, exposed.

He holds him there, keeps him open , watching, panting, completely wrecked by the sight.

“Fucking hell, Jimin,” Jungkook groans, rutting harder now, chasing his own high. “Can’t believe this is all for me.” Jungkook breathes, stunned, as he watches slick drip from where they’re joined. 

Jimin’s body convulses, overstimulated and twitching, mouth open as drool slips from the corner of his lips. His pussy is still fluttering around Jungkook’s cock, sucking him in with each shallow thrust.

That’s what finally breaks Jungkook.

His grip on Jimin’s waist tightens as he buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing deep inside that slick, messy heat. His orgasm crashes into him with a choked gasp, hips jerking forward as he fills Jimin thick, hot cum spilling deep into his cunt in hard pulses.

He doesn’t pull out.

Just stays there, locked inside him, panting against Jimin’s neck, his cock still twitching inside that flooded, spasming pussy.

It’s a mess. It’s a claim.

And Jungkook’s never come so hard in his life.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Eventually, they find a moment to clean up.

Jimin insists they shower separately. He doesn’t trust Jungkook to keep his hands to himself not with the pre-rut still lingering in his scent, not with the edge in his voice. Something is shifting in him. Jungkook’s rut is close, too close , and even though he’s trying to keep control, Jimin sees it in the way his eyes linger, in how long he holds Jimin’s wrist before letting him walk away.

When Jimin returns from the bathroom, skin flushed and towel-dried, he’s wearing one of Jungkook’s oversized black t-shirts and a pair of loose boxers that barely cling to his hips. Jungkook’s watching from the bed, eyes hooded, scent thick and heavy in the air. He raises a brow.

“There’s no point putting clothes on,” he mutters, voice low and tired, but amused. “We’re just gonna end up back in bed.”

Jimin is sore, overstimulated, and exhausted. He wants sleep, needs it, maybe more than anything.

But around 3 a.m., that fragile peace dissolves.

The room is dark. Still. And then, it’s not.

Jungkook stirs beside him, breathing erratic, muscles tense beneath the sheets. A frustrated groan leaves him, sharp and low. Then hands strong and urgent, find Jimin’s hips and pin him down on his back, pulling him flat against the mattress.

Jimin whines softly, confused and barely awake. “What are you—”

“It hurts,” Jungkook breathes, wrecked, his voice raw and feral. “It hurts so fucking bad, baby.”

His scent has changed. Gone from possessive to ravenous . Thicker, hotter, flooding the bed like heat from a fever. There’s no mistaking it now.

His rut has hit.

Jimin blinks, trying to push himself up but Jungkook is already between his legs, already pulling his underwear down and off, already pressing the blunt weight of his cock against Jimin’s cunt, still slick and aching.

“What hurts—?” Jimin starts, but the words die in his throat as Jungkook begins to push in.

There’s no warning. Just the thick, slow stretch of his cock spreading Jimin open in the dark, sliding deeper with each breathless groan. The burn is instant too deep, too sudden but Jimin’s body takes it, folds around it, welcomes it like it’s what it was made for.

And maybe it was.

Jungkook pants against his neck, trembling with restraint that’s already slipping.

“I tried to wait,” he rasps. “But it’s too much, can’t stop now.”

He thrusts in hard, deep, until his hips are flush against Jimin’s ass. And Jimin feels how much hotter Jungkook’s skin is, how slick his chest is with sweat, how his whole body shakes with the force of holding back.

The rut isn’t just in his cock, it’s in his breath, in the way he groans Jimin’s name like it’s salvation, in the desperate clutch of his fingers around Jimin’s hips.

And underneath all of it, Jimin’s omega stirs overwhelmed and breathless, flooded with a kind of warmth that isn’t just arousal.

He chose us.

The thought echoes loud in the hollow of his chest. Out of anyone, Jungkook chose him , his body, his scent, his presence to spend his rut with. To fuck into, to hold onto, to need. And maybe, Jimin thinks, it’s more than just need. Maybe it’s not just instinct or timing. Maybe he’s the thing Jungkook’s been searching for through every meaningless hookup, every addiction-fueled escape. The answer to all that chaos. The calm in it. The cure. Something that makes his body melt into Jungkook’s hands even as his mind fights to stay detached.

And something in Jimin’s core unravels at that.

He wraps his arms around Jungkook’s back, pulling him in close as the alpha begins to move, really move , fucking into him in long, powerful strokes that shake the bed. His legs fold up instinctively, knees drawn in tight, thighs open wide. Jungkook groans at the new angle, thrusting deeper now, hitting the same devastating spot over and over again.

Jimin cries out, already breathless.

“Good,” Jungkook pants, his hand slipping under Jimin’s thigh to hold it higher. “Stay like that. Let me fuck you through it.”

The bed creaks. The room spins. 

“Take what you want,” Jimin babbles between moans, eyes fluttering shut, voice wrecked. “Take what you need—just don’t stop, please—don’t stop.”

Jungkook’s rhythm starts to falter, hips jerking forward in shorter, harder thrusts. His breath is ragged, every exhale punched out through clenched teeth, and his hands grip Jimin’s hips like he’s afraid to let go. His knot begins to swell, thickening right at the base, pressing hard against the rim of Jimin’s cunt with every deep grind forward.

Then he comes.

With a guttural moan torn straight from his chest, Jungkook slams in one final time, cock buried to the hilt. His knot catches, stretching Jimin open even further until it locks them together. Jimin gasps, overwhelmed by the sensation so full, impossibly full. He feels every twitch of Jungkook’s cock inside him, every pulse as thick ropes of cum spill deep into his pussy.

The stretch should hurt. But it doesn’t.

Jimin’s body welcomes it.

His omega purrs beneath the surface, satisfied, pliant. This is what he was made for, being filled, being knotted, being bred.

He presses soft kisses to Jungkook’s cheek, his jaw, the sweat-slicked skin at the corner of his mouth.

Jungkook’s arms are still tight around him, his entire body trembling under the weight of release. Jimin can barely breathe, Jungkook’s broad chest is pressed flush to his, heavy and unmoving.

“You’re crushing me,” Jimin mutters with a half-laugh, voice soft and dazed.

That seems to snap Jungkook out of it just enough.

He groans and carefully rolls onto his back, taking Jimin with him, never once slipping free. Jimin ends up sprawled across his chest, legs on either side of Jungkook’s, knot still locked deep inside.

The air is warm, damp with sweat and scent and sex.

Jimin shifts, grimacing at the way the oversized t-shirt sticks to his damp skin. The cotton clings uncomfortably to his back and shoulders, soaked through with sweat and slick. With a tired sigh, he peels it off, tossing it somewhere to the side, letting his bare skin finally breathe.

Now naked, flushed, and filled, Jimin slumps back down against Jungkook’s chest, cheek resting just above the alpha’s heartbeat.

The first time, Jimin had begged for it.

The second time, he'd moaned through it.

But now, sometime deep in the night, his body sore, his pussy aching, and his mind fogged with exhaustion,  he barely reacts when Jungkook starts moving inside him again.

They’re still tangled together in the sheets, Jimin curled up on his side, Jungkook spooned tight behind him, knot softened but his cock still half-hard and heavy where it rests against Jimin’s ass. The alpha’s breath has grown uneven, shallow his hips rocking lazily, grinding against Jimin’s backside in slow, needy rolls.

Jimin stirs only slightly, a soft whimper slipping from his lips, but he’s too tired to fully wake. His body takes it anyway, sleepy and slick, cunt wet with the mess from their last round, so sensitive now that even the laziest thrust makes his thighs twitch.

Jungkook groans into his hair, scent thick and feral. He can’t help it. His rut is clawing at him again, and Jimin is right there.

He fucks him gently. Barely lifting his head from the pillow, one arm heavy around Jimin’s waist, holding him close while his cock sinks in and out of the omega’s body like it belongs there.

And Jimin just… sleeps through it.

Not deeply. His breath catches every so often, his mouth parts in a faint moan, and sometimes he shifts his hips without even realizing. But he doesn’t wake. Not really.

Not until Jungkook’s phone starts vibrating on the nightstand, sharp and insistent against the wood.

He groans, thrusts faltering as the device lights up the dark bedroom.

Jimin whines, eyelids fluttering. “‘s loud…”

Jungkook reaches out blindly, slapping at the surface until he grabs the phone. He glances at the screen.

And then he freezes.

“Fuck.”

Jimin’s eyes crack open just enough to make out the tension in Jungkook’s body.

“What?” he rasps.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens. “It’s my assistant. It’s almost eight.”

He sits up slowly, cock still buried in Jimin’s slick cunt, and lets his head drop forward with a long, wrecked sigh.

“Says I missed a board call I was supposed to lead. He’s losing it.”

Jungkook lifts his phone and shows him the flood of messages:
"WHERE ARE YOU."
"You didn’t block the calendar. I told you to warn me if your cycle was near."
"We had a high-stakes meeting scheduled this morning. Everyone is waiting."

Jimin lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “You’re literally inside me.”

“I’m also a CEO,” Jungkook deadpans.

Jungkook doesn’t panic, but he does move fast.

He groans as he pulls out of Jimin carefully, his cock still thick, sticky with cum, but his mind already shifting gears. Jimin whimpers at the sudden emptiness, blinking up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Jungkook mutters, voice hoarse, pressing a quick kiss to Jimin’s damp forehead. “Don’t move.”

Jimin doesn’t. He’s too sore to try.

The alpha disappears into the ensuite bathroom. Jimin hears the sink running, the low hiss of water, and the faint, rhythmic splash as Jungkook splashes his face. The mirror cabinet creaks open. A bottle of cologne clicks.

He’s getting himself together.

Five minutes later, Jungkook reappears with damp hair slicked back, a plain black t-shirt clinging to his chest, and grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. He’s barefoot, but his scent still dominates the space powerful and grounded, even after a full night of rut-driven sex.

Coffee in hand, he crosses the room in two strides, tosses himself into the leather chair at his desk, and wakes his computer with a quick tap of the trackpad.

The glow of the screen lights up his face as he adjusts his posture. He smooths a hand through his hair once, takes a sip of the coffee, and exhales slowly.

From one second to the next, Jungkook shifts.

Gone is the feral alpha panting into Jimin’s neck. Gone is the man who begged to be touched, fucked, claimed.

What sits behind the desk now is Jeon Jungkook, CEO. Focused. Calm and ready to command.

He clicks into the video call.

“Morning,” he says smoothly, eyes sharp on the screen. “Apologies for the delay. Let’s begin.”

The meeting starts without a hitch. Jungkook’s camera is on, his mic crisp, and his voice carries the same calm authority it always does. He speaks clearly, pulls up graphs, clicks between financial slides with practiced ease. No one, not even his closest staff, would guess he’s battling the sharp edge of a rut that hasn't fully let go.

On the screen, his assistant looks tense, his eyes flicking between Jungkook and his notes. “We pushed the product forecast briefing to the top of the hour, sir,” he says. “You’ll need to lead that part.”

“Of course,” Jungkook replies smoothly.

He barely moves. His posture is clean, spine straight, shoulders broad and still.

But under the desk, he’s hard again. Painfully so.

His cock twitches with every pulse of arousal, already sticky against the inside of his sweats. The taste of Jimin’s scent is still fresh in his lungs. His knot aches, not swollen yet, but threatening. His balls are heavy, tight, and the longer he sits still, the more unbearable it gets.

He shifts once in the chair, trying to adjust.

It only makes it worse.

The ache sharpens. A quiet groan slips out before he can stop it, and he has to mute his mic fast, cutting both audio and video for a moment.

His jaw clenches.

“Jimin,” he hisses, voice low, strained, turned away from the screen. “Come here.”

From across the room, there’s the rustle of sheets. Then soft steps padding across the hardwood floor.

Jimin drops to his knees beneath the desk without saying a word.

The moment Jungkook feels his hands tugging at the waistband of his sweats, he exhales hard, knuckles white against the armrests of his chair. His cock springs free red, already leaking. Jimin doesn’t hesitate. He wraps one hand around the base and leans in, lips brushing softly over the head.

Jungkook unmutes.

“I agree with the revised timeline,” he says, voice steady, barely, as Jimin’s mouth closes around him. “Push development back one quarter.”

He keeps his face blank for the camera. Expression hard, professional. His assistant keeps rattling off stats, unaware that just beneath frame, the CEO’s cock is buried in a warm, wet mouth, his therapist’s lips working slow and deep around him, tongue pressing flat against the underside.

Jungkook’s fingers dig into the leather of the chair.

He lets out a soft breath through his nose. Focuses on the numbers. Pretends the pressure of a throat tightening around his cock isn’t sending heat curling up his spine.

The only clue,  the only sign at all is the faint flush rising at his collarbones. But even that could pass for lighting.

He looks composed.

But under the desk, he’s unraveling.

And no one but Jimin knows.

On screen, he speaks clearly, assertively, head tipped slightly forward as he clicks through a slide deck filled with Q2 forecasts and global market projections. His tone is clipped but smooth alpha-like in the way he commands the room, even through a laptop. Every board member listens. No one interrupts.

And beneath the desk, Jimin can barely keep from falling apart.

He hadn’t meant to get like this, his knees sore against the floor, lips swollen, breath shallow. But the longer he kneels there, the more he hears Jungkook’s voice, that voice, low and steady, full of cold, powerful focus, the more something in him melts .

It’s not just the feel of Jungkook’s cock in his mouth. It’s the way he sounds while it’s happening.

Still in charge. Still composed. Still completely untouched, as if having an omega at his feet isn’t driving him insane. As if he doesn’t need this, doesn’t need him.

Jimin shifts slightly, thighs tightening.

His hand trails between his legs without thinking, his slick makes everything easier, and when he brushes his fingers over that sensitive, neglected spot, finally, after all this time, he shivers, hips twitching subtly forward.

It’s hard not to react every time Jungkook speaks.

Hard not to moan when he clears his throat mid-sentence or drags out a syllable like he’s barely holding it together.

Harder still when his cock twitches in Jimin’s mouth, heavy and hot against his tongue, and Jimin instinctively swallows around it but not too deep, because his throat still doesn’t know how to take him fully. He pulls back a little and licks at the head gently instead.

Above him, Jungkook’s fingers flex on the desk.

“...we’ll need to re-evaluate the Seoul rollout before we scale into Tokyo,” he says, voice still smooth but slightly lower now, just slightly breathless. “Move the meeting with R&D to Thursday morning. That buys us time.”

Jimin closes his eyes, fingers working slower, pressure building deep in his gut.

And when Jungkook shifts, just barely, his knee brushing Jimin’s shoulder Jimin moans softly around the fat tip of his cock.

Jungkook’s hand slides under the desk, unseen by the camera, and his fingers curl into Jimin’s blond hair. Not to guide. Just to remind him: I know you're there.

One by one, the board members drop off the call. Screens blink out. Tabs close. The meeting wraps with a few final formalities and clipped goodbyes.

All except one.

Jungkook exhales through his nose as the last window remains open. His assistant is still there, expression deadpan, tie slightly crooked, posture stiff with frustration. The only one who didn’t log off.

Jungkook doesn’t even bother pretending. He slouches back in his chair, finally letting his shoulders relax as he reaches to mute the mic again. His hand stays tangled in Jimin’s hair, loose now, absentmindedly stroking. His other hand lifts the coffee cup to his lips. Lukewarm. Bitter.

“You motherfucker,” his assistant says flatly, crossing his arms on his screen.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. Just sips and mutters, eyes half-lidded: “Fuck off,” as he casually presses the button to activate his mic again, making sure the insult lands loud and clear.

“I told you to warn me,” the assistant hisses. “I begged you to block your calendar when you’re even close to rut—”

“I didn’t know it was starting,” Jungkook grits out. “And now I do. Congratulations. You survived.”

The assistant pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing hard. “You’re a public figure. You have a board of directors. And you have a camera on your face, Jungkook. ”

“I didn’t come on camera,” Jungkook mutters, a little smug.

“You looked like you wanted to.”

Jungkook barks out a quiet laugh. The kind that sounds half-wrecked, half-pleased with himself. His eyes drop to Jimin kneeling between his legs, still obediently sucking him off, cheeks flushed and lips stretched. Jungkook’s fingers stroke gently through his hair, guiding the pace with slow, practiced movements, helping him bob his head up and down with a loose grip.

He doesn’t care if his assistant can see the crown of soft blond hair moving in and out of frame. Let him wonder.

Jungkook meets the camera again, expression barely keeping a straight line.

“I’m taking the rest of the week off,” he says, tone suddenly neutral, cool. “Unless the company’s burning to the ground, don’t call me again.”

Then he ends the call.

Screen: black.

And Jungkook groans, letting his head drop back against the chair, thighs twitching as he finally lets go.

The second the call ends, Jungkook lets out a heavy breath and looks down at Jimin again.

Still kneeling, still flushed and dazed. Still beautiful.

“Come here,” he growls.

He doesn’t wait for Jimin to stand. He grabs him by the wrist and pulls him up effortlessly, then lifts him onto the edge of the desk with barely any effort like Jimin weighs nothing. The wood is cool against the backs of Jimin’s thighs, but the alpha’s heat quickly chases that away.

“Kept your mouth shut like a good omega,” Jungkook says, eyes flicking hungrily down Jimin’s body. “Now I get to fuck you the way I wanted to the whole time.”

“Yes,” Jimin breathes, eyes heavy and lips parted. Jimin’s barely recovered from the orgasm he almost had under the desk, but there’s no time to gather himself.

Jungkook shoves him forward bends him over the desk with a hand between his shoulder blades. Jimin gasps, palms bracing against the flat surface as his chest presses down.

His shirt rides up. His slick thighs part on instinct.

He knows what’s coming.

And he wants it.

Jungkook grabs his hips,  grinds against Jimin’s bare ass once, twice, then—

Smack.

The sound is sharp, echoing in the office. Jimin chokes on a moan, legs trembling slightly.

Smack.

Again, firmer this time. Jimin’s ass jiggles from the impact, and Jungkook groans behind him, staring like he can’t believe this is real.

“Fuck,” the alpha mutters. “Look at you. Bent over my desk, dripping like this.”

His hand slips between Jimin’s legs and finds him soaked , slick still leaking down his thighs from earlier. He spreads the mess with his fingers, teasing the folds, rubbing slow circles against the sensitive bud until Jimin gasps, pushing his hips back.

“Please,” Jimin whines, too far gone to care about anything but being filled again.

“You want it?” Jungkook rasps. “Use your words.”

“Yes—want your cock, please—”

That’s all he needs.

Jungkook lines himself up and sinks in deep with one hard thrust.

Jimin’s head drops forward with a wrecked cry,  so full again , stretched wide, the angle forcing Jungkook’s cock to hit deep, relentless spots inside him. His moans turn high-pitched almost immediately.

Jungkook doesn’t ease into it.

He grips Jimin’s hips with both hands, dragging him back into each thrust, fucking into him hard enough to make the desk creak beneath them. The slap of skin on skin fills the office, louder than anything else now. Jimin is crying out , hands fisted uselessly on the desk’s edge, unable to stop the way his body bounces with every thrust.

And then another sharp slap to his ass. Jimin jolts, crying out again, cunt clenching down tight around Jungkook’s cock.

“You’re fucking loud now, huh?” Jungkook growls, leaning over him. “You were so quiet during the meeting. Now you’re moaning like a little bitch for it.”

Jimin sobs through a moan, hips twitching back again for more. “Can’t help it—feels so good—”

“You like being punished for being good?” Jungkook grits out, cock slamming back in. “That it?”

Another thrust. Another spank. Jimin’s thighs shake beneath him.

His cheek presses to the desk, drool slipping past his open lips as he whines, too fucked-out to form real words.

His pussy clenches again tightly, slick gushing around the thick length pounding into him and Jungkook loses it .

He grabs a handful of Jimin’s hair, pulling him up just slightly so he can hear every sound, every breath. His other hand returns to Jimin’s ass, spreading the cheeks wide to watch his cock disappear into that soaked, fluttering cunt again and again.

Jimin is a mess, moaning, trembling, babbling into the air.

And Jungkook has never seen anything so perfect.

“God, this pussy’s fucking made for me,” he snarls, panting against Jimin’s ear. “I should fuck you on every surface in this apartment, told you earlier that I would. Make sure you remember what you’re good for.”

Jimin whines, mouth open, breath catching so close, too close, the rhythm pushing him toward another orgasm fast.

“You gonna come for me ?” Jungkook growls. “You gonna squirt all over my desk this time?”

Jungkook stills inside him deep and seated to the hilt, breath ragged against Jimin’s nape. His grip on Jimin’s hips softens, just slightly, enough for the moment to catch between them. The only sound in the room is the sharp inhale he takes before speaking.

“How am I supposed to live without you,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel, “after my rut ends?”

Jimin blinks, dizzy from the rhythm that’s just been ripped away, but the words hit harder than any thrust.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

He stays buried deep in Jimin’s body, cock pulsing faintly, still rock-hard. His chest presses flush to Jimin’s back, arms wrapping around his middle like he’s afraid the omega might vanish if he lets go.

“There’s a lot of space here,” Jungkook says quietly. “Too much sometimes. I wake up and don’t remember what I did the day before. I work. I shower. I come home to silence. Every day.”

His nose brushes the side of Jimin’s neck. He breathes him in like it hurts not to.

“I’m not… against company,” he adds, softer now. “Not when it’s you.”

Jimin doesn’t reply right away. He feels the alpha’s breath against his throat, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to his back.

“I need to fuck your pussy every damn day of the week,” Jungkook mutters, tone slipping into something lowe. “I can’t go back to jerking off.”

He presses a kiss to the back of Jimin’s shoulder.

“I’ll lose my mind.”

It’s not just about the rut. Jimin’s scent is soaked into Jungkook’s sheets now. His voice still lingers in the air. And Jungkook can’t stop thinking about the way he looked, kneeling, stretched, moaning his name in between meetings, in the dark, in the shower, half-asleep.

The house smells like him now.

And when it doesn’t anymore?

It’s going to destroy him.

“You came here to help me,” Jungkook says, cock still hard inside him. “And now I’m worse off than I was before.”

He pushes in just a little deeper like the idea of separating from Jimin is physically painful.

“I don’t think I can let you go.”

Doesn’t slow down. It’s like that confession broke something open in him and now all that emotion pours out in the only language he knows: claiming, touching, fucking.

They lose time.

Hours blur together.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

By late morning, Jimin is bent over the kitchen island, hands slipping on the polished marble while Jungkook fucks him from behind, teeth pressed to his shoulder.

By noon, it’s the bathroom sink. Jimin’s knees are on the cold counter, legs spread wide, thighs trembling. Jungkook licks the slick from between his legs like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. He eats until Jimin’s sobbing and clawing at the mirror, until his own legs give out from how hard he came.

The bed again. The couch. The rug in front of the fireplace, where Jungkook presses his palm to Jimin’s belly as he thrusts in deep, feeling the bulge of his cock inside him, growling something like “you’re made for this” while Jimin moans so loud he’s sure the soundproof walls are being tested.

They don’t talk about anything else.

There’s no room for words. Just skin and sweat and scent and instinct. Every time Jungkook knots him again, he moans Jimin’s name like it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded. Every time he spills inside, he groans like it hurts to let go.

Jimin can’t remember how many times he came.

Or how many times Jungkook said “mine.”

By the time the sun begins to set, painting gold over the expensive windows and sprawling skyline, they’re still wrapped together on the couch, knot locked deep again, breathing hard, chests heaving in sync.

They’re exhausted.

Wrecked.

Ruined.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Jungkook wakes up to sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the mess they made of it hours ago. His body feels light and empty in a good way. Human again.

The space beside him is cold, but he doesn’t panic. Jimin’s scent is still in the air, sweet and warm like caramel left too long on the stove. It leads him all the way to the master bathroom, where he scrubs away the sweat of three days, his rut finally burning itself out in his sleep. The shower clears his head, just enough.

And when he steps into the kitchen, towel-drying his hair, he sees him.

Jimin. In his kitchen.

Barefoot, soft, casual, wearing Jungkook’s sweatpants tied tightly around his tiny waist, the hem of his shirt knotted at the side to keep it from hanging like a dress. His hair is damp, curling at the ends, and there’s a pan sizzling on the stove. The whole room smells like butter and soy sauce.

It feels like home.

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He walks in slowly, quietly, until he’s behind him. He wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, leans in to kiss his cheek.

“Hands off,” Jimin warns, without looking up. “Unless you want to see your penthouse go up in flames.”

Jungkook chuckles, letting go with both hands lifted in mock surrender. “Okay, boss.” He backs away, lips curved into something softer than a smirk.

He leans against the counter behind Jimin, eyes scanning the space out of habit. He catches sight of a familiar notebook left open on the kitchen island.

Jimin’s notes. From the session. Or maybe from all of them.

Jungkook’s gaze lingers but he doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t even lean close enough to read. He knows better.

Jimin turns slightly, checking something in the pan, then pauses.

“How do you feel?” he asks, voice even.

It’s the same question he always asks. But something about the timing after everything makes it feel different. Like maybe Jimin is hoping for an answer that's real, not clinical.

But Jungkook answers like Jimin always told him to.

“Fatigue has subsided. Appetite’s back. Body feels responsive again, no residual tightness in the chest or limbs.” He pauses. “Cognitive clarity is decent. Focus is improving. Mood... stable.”

He watches Jimin’s profile, waiting for a reaction. But the omega doesn’t look back.

He just exhales through his nose.

“So we’re still doing that?” Jimin mutters, more to himself than to Jungkook.

And Jungkook stays silent, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Because yes, they’re still doing that. Still playing their parts.

Even after everything.

Jimin flips the burner off with a soft click , sliding the pan to a cooler part of the stove. He still doesn’t look at Jungkook, just leans on his palms slightly, shoulders rising with a slow inhale.

“Not everything needs to be a report.”

His voice is quiet, but it lands with weight.

Jungkook shifts his stance, leaning back harder against the counter. He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, suddenly too aware of how quiet the penthouse is without the usual background noise, without sex.

“Force of habit,” he mutters.

Jimin turns then. Not fully. Just enough that Jungkook can see the slight crease between his brows, the way his lips press together like he’s weighing his words.

“I asked how you feel. Not what your body’s doing. Not what your brain’s spitting out on autopilot.”

Jungkook stares at him. He doesn’t mean to, not like this, but it’s the first time in days he’s looking at Jimin without rut twisting everything out of shape. And he’s beautiful. In his clothes. In his kitchen. With sleep-soft eyes and the faintest curve of a healing bite mark on his neck.

“I don’t know,” Jungkook says eventually, voice lower. Raw. “I haven’t felt like… myself in a long time. So maybe I don’t know what feeling good is supposed to be.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything, just watches him now.

Jungkook swallows.

“I’m… calm,” he adds after a pause. “But I don’t know if that’s peace or just exhaustion. You fucked the fight out of me.”

Jimin nods at Jungkook’s answer, not probing further. He accepts it just like that and turns back to the stove, lifting the pan with practiced ease. He moves around the kitchen, still barefoot, still dressed in Jungkook’s oversized clothes. He doesn’t speak, but his quiet focus says enough: he’s doing this because he wants to.

Jungkook watches him the whole time, arms crossed loosely as he leans against the counter. There's something weirdly grounding about the sound of plates being set, cutlery clicking softly against ceramic, the warm scent of soy and garlic drifting through his home mixed with Jimin's caramel scent.

Jimin sets both plates on the dining table, then turns to get the water glasses.

That’s when Jungkook raises a brow.

“What are you now? My maid?”

Jimin pauses halfway to the sink and glances back over his shoulder, unimpressed.

“I cooked because I was hungry. You’re just lucky enough to benefit from it.”

Jungkook chuckles, low in his chest. He pushes off the counter and walks over, dropping into the chair across from Jimin as he settles in. The table feels too big for two people, too clean for how chaotic the last few days have been, but somehow, this moment still fits.

It feels like a reset.

“You’re wearing my shirt again,” Jungkook says he starts to eat.

Jimin doesn’t look up. “You’re not getting it back.”

“It’s okay,” Jungkook says, glancing at the t-shirt Jimin’s wearing. “It’s yours. I don’t mind—I have a hundred tees like that one.”

Jimin raises a brow, but doesn’t argue. He’s focused on dividing the food between their plates until Jungkook’s voice cuts through again, a little softer this time.

“And you? How do you feel?”

Jimin pauses. His hands hover over the dish in front of him, and when he looks up, his eyes are wide, almost startled.

“Huh?”

He wasn’t expecting that. He’s not used to being asked.

Jungkook smirks, amused. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, gaze fixed on Jimin.

“The sex. How was it?” he asks, tone light, cocky, but there’s something playful in it.

Jimin’s eyes dart back down to his plate immediately, ears pinking at the tips. The flush creeps across his cheeks in a slow, pretty bloom, and for the first time, he looks genuinely shy in front of Jungkook.

Jungkook watches the reaction with quiet delight. He likes it. He likes seeing Jimin soft like this, unsure and flustered, even after everything they’ve already done.

“Uh… good,” Jimin mumbles, stabbing at the rice like it’ll save him.

Jungkook makes a mock-offended face, letting out a dramatic sigh. “That’s it? I thought I did a great job.”

Jimin’s eyes flick up just briefly, then back to his food again, embarrassed.

“No—you… you did well,” he says softly. His voice is so small it barely registers over the clink of his chopstick.

Jungkook chuckles, leaning back in his chair. His voice dips, low and pleased.

“Shy now?” he murmurs. “Don’t worry. I know I did well.” He takes a slow bite of his food, then adds, “I still remember your face when you moaned my name. And how tight you were—how good you felt around me.”

His grin widens as Jimin hides behind his water glass.

But when Jimin finally glances at him again, it’s not annoyed. It’s soft. A little smile tugs at his lips, it’s subtle. Like he’s relieved he doesn’t have to say it out loud. Because Jungkook already knows.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Later that day, it happens again.

But this time, there’s no rut behind it. No urgency. No frenzy. Just the low hum of tension that never really leaves the room when they’re together and the growing ache to feel, to connect again.

They take their time.

Jimin kisses him first, slow enough to breathe through. His lips linger, parting slightly, pressing back in again like he’s learning Jungkook’s mouth all over.

“Want to see your pretty face,” Jungkook murmures as he lies back against the pillows, eyes heavy with want, hands resting calmly on Jimin’s thighs as the omega straddles him. No rush. No commands. Just watching.

Jimin moves slow, easing down onto him with a quiet gasp, the stretch still a little sore, but manageable. His muscles ache in protest, but his body is already fluttering open, welcoming the heat and weight of Jungkook’s cock filling him again.

Jimin looks at him, breath catching, hands planted against Jungkook’s chest for balance as he lifts and lowers his hips in a gentle rhythm. The angle is different and somehow more intimate and the way Jungkook looks at him makes his skin prickle. His lashes flutter, his lips part around little gasps and moans, and Jungkook watches all of it like he’s trying to memorize every second.

Eventually, Jimin leans forward his thighs shaking slightly with the effort and lets his body fold down against Jungkook’s. Jungkook meets him there, one hand trailing up to hold the back of his neck, the other splayed warm and wide across his waist.

He takes over the rhythm then, steady thrusts up into Jimin’s cunt, and Jimin buries his face in the slope of Jungkook’s neck. He moans directly into his ear, breathy and high, soft enough to make Jungkook’s stomach twist.

He wants to record it. Bottle it. Play it back on loop just to hear how Jimin sounds when he falls apart on top of him.

Jimin shudders, his lips brushing the underside of Jungkook’s jaw, and without thinking, he presses in and leaves a mark there his mark. It’s faint but possessive, a soft bruise blooming against skin that usually never bears proof of vulnerability.

Jungkook groans, tilting his head back, and their mouths meet again, kissing through the heat and tenderness and open-mouthed, lips dragging, breath shared.

It’s not just sex. Not anymore.

Not with the way they touch. Not with the way Jimin holds on.

The phone rings somewhere on the nightstand, vibrating sharply against the wood.

Jimin flinches, breath stuttering, but doesn’t move from where he’s draped over Jungkook’s chest, his lips still parted from the kiss they’d just broken. His body is slick and flushed, still wrapped around Jungkook’s cock.

Jungkook groans, reaching blindly for the phone with one hand, the other still curled around Jimin’s waist. He doesn’t even look at the screen before answering, knowing exactly who it is.

“What?” he mutters, voice rough from sex.

“Just checking in,” his assistant says crisply through the speaker. “You’ve got a 10 a.m. meeting tomorrow. Am I saving your ass again, or are you actually going to show up this time?”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, lips twitching faintly. He shifts slightly beneath Jimin, earning a soft whimper from the omega above him.

“I’ll be there,” Jungkook says, voice smoother now. “My rut’s done.”

There’s a pause on the other end, then a flat: “Uh-huh. And I hope you’re still attending those therapy sessions, too.”

Jungkook nearly laughs. He stifles it, biting down on his lip instead.

Because if only his assistant knew, if he had any idea that the very therapist Jungkook is supposed to see every week is currently impaled on his cock, muscles twitching around him, sweaty skin sticking to Jungkook’s chest, scribbling god knows what on his little notepad while Jungkook fucks him.

He clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “I’m keeping up with it.”

“Good,” his assistant replies. “You’re easier to tolerate when you are.”

The call ends with a click.

Jungkook tosses the phone back to the nightstand and exhales, his free hand trailing down Jimin’s spine. Jimin doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. But his hand keeps gripping the pen loosely in his fingers, and the notepad is still beside them half-full with Jimin’s handwriting.

Jungkook presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“You better not actually be writing right now.”

Jimin hums lazily.

“Some things are just for me.”

Session Summary – Dr. Park Jimin (Confidential Notes)

Subject: Jeon Jungkook / Session : Final session / Time: (x)

No standard observations. No clinical structure. No charts.
I didn’t track behavioral changes, nor did I correct them.
I didn’t lead the conversation.
I didn’t keep my distance.
I didn’t follow the rules.
Jungkook’s rut ended hours ago, but the imprint of it still lingers, in the air, in the sheets, under my skin. And strangely, I don’t feel afraid. Not of what happened. Not of what this could become.
He asked me how I feel.
I still don’t know how to answer that. But I stayed.
I cooked. I laughed. I kissed him like I meant it.
And I wrote this, because some things are easier to understand when they’re written down.
This note won’t go in his file.
It isn’t about the patient. It’s about me.
And maybe that’s enough.
He’s not addicted to sex anymore.
He’s addicted to me.
And God help me, I don’t think I want him to stop.