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𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Previous Joel Fics: Mule [5.1K Words]

Summary: Marlene thinks Joel can save the fireflies. You’re not so sure.

Word Count: 10.2k!!!!

CW: LONG FIC. You have been warned! Slow burn Enemies to Fuck Buddies. Joel is 40 here, 10 years before the events of the game! Military and political themes because, say it with me now, “Jas loves plot”. Moody Joel, before Tess. Aggression. Slight gore. Power play. Hair pulling, f masturbation. Angst. Based off Game!Joel

Tease: “Look at you,” Joel growls. “Totally shameless.”

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

The white graffiti paint drips down the chipped terracotta walls of the hallway you were designated to patrol. Your feet ache in the brand-new leather boots gifted to you in the last donation drop-off, and you want nothing more than to crawl back to bed and ignore the arrival of this smuggler that had Marlene promising that she could take control of Boston in a fortnight.

“What a bunch of bullshit,” you scoff bitterly, picking at your cuticles. The skin is red raw under the fluorescent lighting, crimson blood pooling around your nails. It's a nervous habit you picked up since joining the Fireflies, marginally healthier than staying up all night but still torturing your body somehow.

There was no light to this way of life, no promise that the darkness would ever subside. It was a brutal cycle of killing a handful of soldiers only for them to execute swathes of Fireflies. You saw it in your dreams, your colleague's brains splattered across the streets in the exclusion zone, a carmine reminder that the military would not tolerate any form of mutiny within their controlled zones. Too many had devoted themselves to suicide missions, but still, you had nothing to show for it. How much longer could Marlene continue to hurl young lives at a promise she couldn't fulfil? The likelihood of finding an immune individual grew smaller and smaller each time squadrons of Fireflies failed to return home, and even the most faithful of individuals were beginning to lose hope that this martyr would ever arrive. That was despite your dogged leader insisting that there must be someone out there that could help provide the vaccine that would eradicate the Cordyceps virus.

You hiss sharply as you subconsciously pull a hang nail down your first knuckle, resulting in a stinging sensation that rips you from your pessimistic thoughts. It's light outside now, and you wonder how long you will have to wait to meet this smuggler that Marlene speaks of so highly. She had claimed that she knew the man's brother, stating that Tommy had fought valiantly for the cause until he found himself unable to justify putting his life on the line for someone that they weren't sure even existed.

As Firefly numbers dwindled, so too did the morale that held the frayed edges of the organisation together. Everyone had sacrificed something and lost someone dear for seemingly no reward. Marlene's fantastical idea that one lone smuggler could change the course of the firefly's suffering left you feeling that options were running out.

As you begin to resign bitterly to your seemingly inevitable end, a pair of footsteps sound down the corridor in an indication of your saviour’s arrival, broken bottles crunching beneath his boots. When you look up from your throbbing finger, now stripped to ribbons, you are caught off guard by the view.

Marlene's expression is grave; eyebrows pulled together in a stark and silent warning. Soldiers aren't coming home today. You had seen that gaunt visage before. Hell, you'd seen it almost every week recently. However, the most shocking sight was the person who accompanied her.

The man is old, much older than you had been expecting. His mousy brown hair, trimmed short, is greying to match the thick, peppery beard that coats his jaw. The edges of his eyes are creased, no doubt carved with the years he spent fighting to survive. His thin lips turn downwards, and his eyes are cold and hardy, indicating his desire to get the job done and escape Marlene’s control.

"Soldier," Marlene addresses you with an air of authority that can only indicate she is attempting to impress her guest, "You will be coming with me."

"Yes, ma'am," you stand at attention and cast your eyes over the guest of honour, who is yet to introduce himself. He doesn't look as though he intends to. He watches you with an air of caution as though he doesn't trust you. It doesn’t surprise you. Everyone in this new world order is a threat. Perhaps this wariness is how he survived so long.

Falling in line, you follow behind your superior. There is an uneasy silence settling amongst you. The Commander and The Smuggler don't seem comfortable in each other's presence.

"So, say you take back Boston. What then?" The man's gruff Texan accent cuts through the silence like a dull blade. It's agonising, an unwanted intrusion to the apparent mutual decision to remain quiet.

"I think you know," Marlene speaks with frustration, "Restore democratically elected government control.”

"Didn’t you say that at the beginning? It ain’t as though you are any closer than 10 years ago." The smuggler points out, his assessment lacking any form of amusement. He doesn't seem to revel in the Fireflies' losses, yet he has the confidence to call Marlene out on her ridiculous ambition.

Marlene shoots the stranger a look of indignation, clearly not appreciating his accurate assessment of the Fireflies’ track record. She doesn't attempt to argue, instead leading him into a room and ushering you inside.

“Joel,” she begins, naming the enigma that had walked in and undermined the entire principal of the organisation he had joined momentarily. Marlene closes the door and locks it for good measure before turning to face her ‘last hope’. “I need you to tell me the plan. I can’t just let you blindly lead the last of my men into a war zone-“

“Didn’t expect you to,” he answers lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his flannel stretch across his broad biceps, buttons straining slightly against his frame. You assume that his physique is thanks to lugging around the oversized backpack that rests over his shoulders, the worn nylon fabric practically bursting at the seams.

Marlene offers Joel a look, the kind that indicates she doesn't feel like joking around. He inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales as if preparing to begin a presentation at a job interview. In a way, that is exactly what this meeting was.

"Y’all can only gather the number of weapons you need from one place. You won't find this shit just lyin’ around. We'll have to take it from the military themselves."

You nearly choke on the oxygen in your lungs, rocked back by Joel’s confidence in his ability to steal directly from under the noses of the US Military. You knew that Marlene had faith in him, but this was lunacy.

"And just how do you suppose we do that?" Even Marlene, ever the optimist, looks at Joel as if he is crazy. There was no way to infiltrate the military bases that the Federal Disaster Response Agency sanctioned. They had the place secure, triple-locked to keep out humans and infected alike.

"We'll catch them on one of their supply runs," Joe answers her question simply, as though he thought of this already, “If we ambush during the night in the Outskirts, they’ll lack the defences to hold us off. At most, there'll be four of ‘em in the delivery vehicle.”

It's an insane plan. The soldier’s on the border of the quarantine zones are armed to the teeth to defend against the infected. The team would need to be stealthy, catching them off guard and dispatching them before they had a chance to call for backup.

Perhaps it's the kamikaze-like nature of Joel's plan, or maybe the lack of detail he’s sharing, but understandably Marlene seems unsure. "Do you think it'll be worth it, all that risk?"

"What, armin’ yourself and strippin’ them of their next lot of ammunition? Seems beneficial to me."

You can't help but wonder what Marlene is trading for Joel to run headfirst into a death trap like this. Likewise, is it wise for her to place all her bets on one man who seems intent on being captured and sentenced to execution?

The heavy sigh that rattles through Marlene's lungs indicates to you that she has nowhere else to turn. In exchange for Joel's basic scheme, she extends a nod of approval.

"You will be escorting Joel." It takes a second for you to realise that Marlene is talking to you, still caught up in shock. When you do, Joel looks less than pleased at the concept of having a babysitter. He drags his eyes over to you, expression flat. You can't say that you're precisely thrilled, either.

"Yes, ma'am," you offer confidently despite wanting to beg for mercy. She doesn't offer you the chance.

"Joel, gather all the men and firepower you’ll need." With that final comment, Marlene turns toward the exit, leaving the two of you alone in the unfurnished room. She seems animated and enthusiastic about getting this plot up and running.

Joel makes no move to leave, instead leaning against the wall and peering at the Firefly pendant that rests on your collarbone. You know what he's thinking, but he himself fails to speak the ‘why’ out loud. There’s an awkward edge to him, indicating a man who had grown too accustomed to surviving as a lone wolf.

"I heard your brother was a Firefly," you beat Joel to it, asking the question before he has the opportunity to interrogate you. This area of the conversation appears to irritate Joel, his eyes turning to the ceiling.

"Yeah, he wasn't happy with the way I did things. Said it was too violent. Instead, he joined you and continued his brutal crusade here despite criticisin’ mine." Joel scoffs, picking at the thread-worn sleeves of the flannel he wore. His words are bitter, leading you to believe that the brothers don't talk anymore.

"It's less of a crusade than an attempt to set things right," you justify.

"You're killin’ people," Joel accuses bluntly. It's as though he's tarring you with the same pitch-black brush as those who killed for their own benefit. It sparks a rage in you, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them.

"You kill people to survive this world. I’m trying my best to revert it to the old one. If I have to kill soldiers to do it, who, by the way, act worse than the infected most of the time, then so be it.”

Joel appears to let your argument settle before he nods, pushing himself from the wall and making his way to the door. His boots scuff the flooring, the grating sound punctuating the silence as you await his response, which he delivers with an air of finality.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit."

—————————————————

Joel has a wealth of knowledge that can only result from his smuggling adventures and the network of insiders he worked with. He is somehow aware of the military's next supply drop-off date, which just so happens to coincide nicely with his arrival. It gave the team two days to plan their attack. It was almost too good to be true.

Your suspicions against the smuggler grow with your inability to discern his reason for aiding Marlene. There was no question that he was no longer involved with his brother Tommy, the two seemingly ending their relationship on less than amicable terms, and there also appeared to be no love lost between your sergeant and Joel.

Yet despite his apparent limited reward, Joel was focusing all of his efforts on ensuring that this mission was successful. His rucksack, which he had held close to him since entering the Fireflies’ hideout, was filled to the brim with rudimentary grenades and modified firearms. He admitted his knowledge of creating these weapons had come from manuals scavenged throughout his time as a smuggler. Reluctantly, Joel shares the blueprints, and the mission squad are armed with Molotov cocktails and nail bombs by the end of the evening.

You wish you could say that Joel's helpfulness had warmed you to his presence; however, you find yourself increasingly irritated by his constant attendance. You see him arrogant and consistently standoffish despite your fellow member's attempts to appease him with light conversation.

Following the half-a-day-long effort to sufficiently arm the team, Marlene had pulled all on-site members of the Fireflies into a meeting room. She stands at a table, an aged, worn map of the Boston quarantine zone spread across the surface. From where you're standing, you can see circles marked in red ink along the border.

Something akin to optimism clings to the air of the dusty meeting room. You feel it when the group goes silent as Marlene raises her hand for attention. Joel stands by her side, eyes assessing the map as he awaits the beginning of the briefing.

"Everyone listen in," Marlene orders, authority drenching her tone as she commands her army, "I want everyone confident in their role on this mission. We only have one chance to get this right."

You swallow thickly, readying yourself to hear how Marlene had taken Joel's absurd mission plan and cultivated it into a scheme for which her troops would feel comfortable risking their lives.

"We have information that the military is due a supply drop from FEDRA in two days. We are almost certain that this restock will contain firearms and ammo that could help us take down the military presence in Boston." A series of murmurs sound, those in the room comforted by the prospect that they may no longer need to ration their supplies.

"It is crucial that we obtain these weapons to take control of the Boston quarantine zone. With civilian support, we could increase our numbers and once again focus our efforts on obtaining a vaccine for the Cordyceps virus."

It was an unspoken truth that the Fireflies' efforts to acquire a vaccine had ultimately fallen by the wayside, the lack of soldiers, weapons and equipment making it increasingly difficult to travel across the country to the medical facility at Salt Lake City where the trials were taking place. The Fireflies focused most of their resources towards protecting the medical officials integral to finding a cure. Taking control of the militarised zone would provide more than enough manpower, vehicles, and firearms to travel safely and restart the process of searching for an immune individual who could help turn the tide of the war against the virus.

"I can confirm that most supply drops are handed over on the east side of the quarantine zone. Our best option is catching the vehicle containing the cache in the Outskirts before it reaches the wall.”

The Outskirts are notoriously dangerous, their desolate plains unlit and infested with runners that try their luck getting past the military blockade. If you somehow managed to survive the creatures, you then had to contend with the snipers on the wall. Many Fireflies had lost their lives crossing these lands to supply the medical facility in Salt Lake City at the peak of testing.

"I will be handing the mission over to Joel to ensure we have the best chance of obtaining these critical supplies,” Marlene finishes, stepping back and letting Joel take control of the meeting.

Wasting no time, Joel points towards the circled area on the east side of the quarantine wall. "They plan to hand over the cache at the gate on the East wall. If we can intercept ‘em before they reach the lit areas surroundin’ the zone, we should be able to take out the soldiers and grab the weapons before they can call for backup."

You're unsure where your frustrations come from. Perhaps it's the simplicity with which Joel delivers his plans, but you find yourself questioning whether or not it was possible to succeed without losing enough men to bring the Fireflies to their knees.

"I assume you expect us to travel through the underground tunnels beneath the apartment buildings. Who's to say we won't run into Clickers and Runners that drain our resources or leave us late and unable to complete the mission?" You question Joel with sincerity, but he looks at you as though you’ve queried his authority.

Marlene opens her mouth to interject and scold you for insubordination, but Joel raises his hand.

"I am gonna do a run of the smugglin’ tunnels myself and sweep for any infected so that the path is clear for tomorrow evenin’," Joel answered smoothly, despite the obvious irritation laced between his words, "Shipment is due at 9 p.m. tomorrow. We're gonna move out at 5 to make sure that we have enough time to get to the Outskirts and set up for engagement."

Still, you find yourself concerned with Joel’s leadership. None of you knew him. He hadn’t developed trust between the team and himself; instead, he kept you all at arm's length and maintained distance.

“How do we know you won’t hand us all in and take the weapons yourself? You’re a smuggler; you’d earn a lot from them,” you accuse, not unlike the tone Joel had taken with you hours before.

“Soldier-!” Marlene speaks up, running out of patience with your disregard for her ‘smuggling saviour’. Once again, Joel keeps his hand aloft to quieten her and fight his own corner.

“This is a job,” he states with a gravelly tone that betrays his relaxed posture, “I ain’t for your little militia group, and I’m not against it. I will lead this mission, hand the weapons over, take my ration cards and my cut of the firearms and leave. You wanna distrust me and end up dead? Be my guest.”

You can’t help but scoff, taken aback by his inability to choose his side of the moral compass. To fight for good with the Fireflies or battle to maintain the new world order with FEDRA. Instead, he doesn’t even sit on the fence. He’s situated in the shadows, benefitting from either side only for himself.

Joel’s expression serves as a warning to interrupt him again, pointing to the map as he begins to detail the step-by-step of his mission.

“Plan’ll go like this….”

—————————————————

You can’t exactly claim to be surprised that you had been left out of the mission squad and ordered to remain at the hideout after questioning Joel’s leadership. ‘One loose link’ and all that. However, you find yourself wracked with nerves as you return to your room for the night. What if they needed you? What if everything went south, and you were the one pair of hands required to maintain a grip on the delicate situation?

That wasn't to say that you didn't have faith in your fellow soldiers to carry out the mission successfully. Joel had picked the brightest and most skilled of Marlene's troops to carry out this night raid, and you knew they had enough experience to achieve this critical assignment. But what if…?

Marlene had delivered her scathing reprimand following the meeting when she had dragged you down a corridor and insisted you get your act together. You hadn’t been able to look her in the eye, believing her reckless for putting the lives of her troops, your friends, in the hands of a man who couldn’t care less what happened to them as long as he got his payout.

Were you being naive? Was it foolish to believe that every surviving person not aligned with FEDRA should stand opposed to the regime and attempt to restore some level of order? Or had humanity evolved beyond the return to everyday life, much preferring to fight for themselves, to remain in the dog-eat-dog system this virus had granted them?

You find yourself fearing the answer.

As you enter the doorway to the barracks, you hear the rapid pacing of footsteps down the hallway approaching you. The sound drags you from your thoughts, but not before a hand firmly grips your collar and pushes your back to the wall so hard that you hit your head off the jagged brickwork.

Pushing his forearm across your chest, Joel stares back at you with rage burning in his pupils. The metal of a watch strapped around his wrist digs into your collarbone painfully, but you grit your teeth in response, standing firm against Joel's display of intimidation.

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, seemingly infuriated by your display in the meeting room. Despite his fury, his voice is relatively even. "You gotta problem with me?"

"Ha," you scoff, "That's funny. What was it you said? ‘Be my guest’?”

Joel answers first by applying pressure to your chest, his forearm balancing his weight and crushing your bones beneath it in a painful warning. You grab at the skin exposed by his rolled-up sleeves and dig your nails in, though it does little to de-escalate the tension.

"Look,” he sneers, brows creased together, “You don’t gotta like me. Ain’t even gotta respect me. But what you’re not gonna do is put doubt into your fellow soldier's heads. That shit’ll get them killed. You want that?”

"What's it matter to you? You don't care how many die as long as you get your payout," you dig in, not allowing Joel to think he could muscle you into submission.

He inhales shakily in anger, glaring at you as you attempt to pry his arms off. "The role Marlene gave me ain't to ensure the survival of your friends. My only goal is to guarantee y’all get your hands on those weapons, no matter the cost. So I suggest you assure their best chance of survival by keeping your mouth shut and your opinions of me to yourself."

"Aye, Aye, Captain,” you sneer.

"Atta girl."

The sarcasm dripping from those three syllables sets you off again. You grit your teeth while pushing hard on the limb that has you firmly pinned down, but your limited strength has little effect until Joel pulls away completely. Almost instantly, a bruising ache settles across your skin, and you suppose it's Joel's version of a parting gift.

There is a pause between the two of you as you take in Joel's command. He appears to be watching your expression for any sign of acknowledgement towards his order. You both breathe heavily, on the comedown from your respective anger aimed at each other. It's intense, the crackling tension in the air shared by both of you.

You're unsure how or why the mood shifts so violently in the room, but you can feel your heart racing as you watch Joel settle his hands on his hips. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as he exhales what must be the last of his anger. In this quiet moment, you note how handsome he is despite his weathered appearance. His usually aggressive, guarded expression is momentarily brought down and exposes the warm, earthy brown tone of his irises.

"Just…" Joel hesitates, searching for the correct words as he looks you in the eye. He's quiet for a long, drawn-out second as if processing you. "You ain't gonna like the guilty conscience of believin’ somethin’ you said is the reason your friends died. Trust me."

The gentle tone Joel offers indicates he has experience in what he's warning you against. When he offers this advice so calmly, who are you to deny this slither of kindness? So you just nod in acknowledgement, refusing to extend him any more appreciation.

Joel steps away whilst clearing his throat, appearing satisfied with your non-answer. He, too, provides little recognition, instead turning around and exiting your room in the direction he came.

You watch as he paces down the corridor, his broad back disappearing around the corner and leaving you alone to dissect what the fuck just happened.

—————————————————

On the morning of the mission, you see very little of Joel. It's all hands on deck, the mission team working hard to ensure they had the supplies needed for the hijacking. Every so often, you would catch glimpses of Joel's red tartan flannel or hear the rough intonation of his Texan accent. It was silly, but you began to think he was purposely avoiding you.

Yes, he had acted carelessly last night by cornering you the way that he did, though you're not sure that is entirely out of character for him. Instead, you believe that whatever happened that caused your heart to race when he pulled away was a shared experience.

Rather than concerning yourself with why he was skirting around you, intentional or not, you focus on enacting your promise from last night. You work hard to ready the troops for the deadline, a subtle nod that you approve of Joel's leadership to urge their confidence in him.

It is painful, but you take your time with each of them. There is almost a certainty that some may not return home, and so you commit them to your memory. It's something you did every time someone left to enter the field, but it felt especially pertinent considering how close the Fireflies were to shifting their luck. Those who died tonight wouldn't get to appreciate the spoils of their sacrifice.

By mid-afternoon, Marlene considered her soldiers ready for battle and ordered them at ease to relax and rest up before heading out. Some opted to share their last meal; others played card games while recounting the time they had spent together with fondness despite the difficulties shared.

Quietly, you had slipped away from the main halls and left them to their final goodbyes. You weren't going out there, so it felt disrespectful to sit amongst those waiting for the call to arms. Alternatively, you made your way to one of the medical bays to ensure that someone set up enough equipment for those who may come back wounded.

By now, you had set out multiple antibiotic syringes, readied bandages and sutures and prepped gurneys so that everything was ready should there be an emergency. You felt better this way, as though you had aided in the effort.

So caught up in the process, you failed to notice Joel leaning his shoulder against the doorway until he cleared his throat to alert you to his presence. When you look up, the sound having startled you, you find him watching you with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you… Uh-do you need something?" You offer awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Joel shakes his head, eyes flitting down to where you had laid out the medical equipment.

"No. Everythin’ is ready, and the tunnels are clear of infected. Just comin’ to tell you I'm headed out." He walks across the room towards the desk you are sitting at, stopping at the foot of the wooden table and laying his palms flat along the surface. You can see the veins raised through his skin.

You look at him through your lashes, swallowing back the nervous energy you feel creeping to the surface as he leans over the table.

"Why should I care?" You ask. You intend for it to appear nonchalant, but it just sounds breathy even to your ears. Joel raises an eyebrow in question.

"Woah Woah, easy. Still bratty then, I see," Joel points out, his tone flat. You cringe inwardly, knowing that that must have been his attempt to extend an olive branch. "Thought we could put this little disagreement behind us before heading out."

"There isn't one."

"Could’a fooled me," Joel chuckles, but it lacks humour. His gaze slips over your body and appears to take note of all the tiny details. You hope it's all in your mind, but you can feel your face heat up and your heart thrum in your chest again.

"You know, you really remind me of Marlene."

Of all the things you expected Joel to say, that certainly wasn't one of them. You look back at him slack-jawed as you feel the warmth of what you assume was a compliment wash over you.

"Huh?”

"She doesn't put up with none of my bullshit neither. Always tellin’ me to take a hike when I'm outta line and put me back in my place," there's a hint of a smile and Joel's face as he recounts their strange dynamic. A fondness touches his eyes, a fraction of warmth you hadn't yet seen in the hardened smuggler. "Thinkin’ that's maybe how she managed to keep Tommy in check for as long as she did."

You hesitate in your response, unsure how to approach this conversation due to the awkwardness from this morning. Turns out you don't have to because Joel continues.

"Only difference between y’all is that you have the balls to question things you feel ain't right. That's a high-value quality in a leader."

You feel as though you've been bowled over. Yet another compliment from the man who had attempted to strangle the life out of you nearly 12 hours ago. They were starting to make you think that maybe he'd succeeded and that you had entered a strange alternate dimension.

Laughing awkwardly, you shift the syringes around the tabletop in an attempt to keep your nervous hands busy. "Don't let Marlene hear that, shall consider it mutiny."

That earns you another elusive chuckle, the Texan shaking his head in amusement.

"Yeah, well, it ain't mutiny if I ain't part of her little militia army. Don't think I got much to worry about." This dynamic isn't friendship, you figure, though it's undoubtedly more amicable than tussling in your bedroom. It may be the closest Joel ever got to anything akin to amity.

It's not hard to assume that almost 20 years of solitary survival might make it challenging to establish emotional ties. Plus, you know nothing of Joel's ordeals getting to this point. Still didn't excuse his arrogance, though.

Again, silence creeps between you and you feel your stomach somersault while Joel maintains his close proximity. You dread to think what you look like, horrified that your expression could give away your internal panic. Even if it did, it wasn't Joel causing it. It wasn't.

"I'm off," Joel grumbles, standing up and pulling away from the desk and allowing you to breathe a silent sigh of relief. You watch him stroll leisurely towards the door, his hands on his hips. "I'll see you in the mornin’."

Most people in the Fireflies were surprisingly superstitious. It wasn't often you heard someone announce with such certainty that they would return from a mission. Regardless of its abnormality, it manages to ease your nerves – not that you were concerned about what happened to Joel.

"Good luck."

The flippant comment causes Joel to stop in his tracks, pausing in the doorway. He peers over his shoulder at you as if to make certain that you said it. He appears surprised.

"Yeah. Thanks."

—————————————————

Pacing.

You're pacing uncontrollably, circling the room in a failed attempt to ease the nervous energy pent up in your system. No matter how hard you attempt to block out the repetitive dialogue in your mind, it rushes back to the surface of your brain. What if, what if, what if –

Joel and his squad had moved out the minute the clock struck five, just as he had promised. Although Marlene had provided Joel with a walkie-talkie, the mission's reliance on stealth meant that no one intended to use it. You were completely cut off, uncertain of Mission status or if the squad was even alive.

Hoping it would make your wait more bearable, you turned your ticking clock to face the wall and put your watch inside your bedside drawer. It had helped initially, but now the sun had set, and you were expecting their imminent arrival. Every second your colleagues don't step back into the compound, your faith dwindles.

Though she maintained a stony expression, you knew Marlene was equally anxious. The most wanted woman in America, though able to defend herself, still depended heavily on her armed personnel. Reliant on this mission being a success, she had offered them up to Joel in the hope that their experience would assure victory. You can't help but wonder if she feels exposed without them.

What if they didn't come back? Could she survive without them?

It’s bordering on the edge of midnight when Marlene informs you she’s turning in for the night. You can’t say you blame her, needing to sleep on the off chance the team didn't return. She had informed you upon the group's exit that if the mission failed, the two of you would be heading to Salt Lake City at dawn.

You opt to stay awake, knowing well enough that you won't sleep until you are confident there will be no return.

Continuing your anxious circling of the room, you pick at your wounded cuticles. They are weeping blood down their knuckles thanks to hours of torture, yet you can't bring yourself to stop the self-destructive behaviour. Not while you wait for news.

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest at the sound of the main doors creaking open. It's so quiet you almost miss it in the silence, the sound of your blood rushing through the shell of your ear nearly drowning out the barely audible noise.

Grappling for your pistol, you release the safety and suck in a shaky breath. No one had announced themselves, and without guards on the door, there was no way to discern that those who had entered the building were Fireflies.

You shake with nervous energy, carefully stepping across the rickety wooden floor to conceal the sound of your movements. Had the US military found your hideaway? Surely not; they would have moved in before any threat to their organisation could be enacted

Leaning your back flush to the door frame in an attempt to conceal yourself, you listen out for any advancing danger. It's quiet at first, but you hear the scuff of a boot against the uneven floor cut through the silence. Inhaling swiftly, you ready yourself before lurching out from behind the door frame with your pistol aloft.

Shock wracks your body upon setting your eyes on the intruder that stands before you. Joel. Covered in blood from head to toe, his hands drip the viscous liquid onto the floor. The shoulder of his flannel is ripped open, loose threads sticking to his sweat-soaked skin.

"Oh-oh shit-“ you gasp out, horrified by the state you find him in. Given the state of his clothes and the sheer amount of blood that continues to run from his hair down his temples, your immediate thought is to check for wounds-but you can't see any. Sure, there is a scrape on his shoulder where the fabric of his flannel has ripped open and a cut that spans the length of his whole knuckle that you can see when he wipes the sweat from his brow, but other than that, you can't see any wound that would cause that much blood loss.

Joel, however, appears relatively unfazed as he points over his shoulder.

"Most came out with minor wounds," he states calmly, his gruff voice laced with exhaustion, "Lettin’ Marlene know we are back and that I have her guns."

It's as though Joel had just completed a simple sweep of the hideout parameters rather than one of the most dangerous and vital missions since the fireflies began their fight for humility, all without having received a single major wound.

As he walks away and leaves you gawping after him, frozen in place, you hear your team filtering in through the main doors behind you one by one. They are shouting your name and proclaiming their victory as they surround you, holding their hard-won weapons aloft. Despite their hollering, you can barely hear them over the frantic thoughts buzzing through your mind.

How?

It takes hours to ease the excitement and adrenaline buzzing through each of Joel's soldiers. You stitch up the wounded and listen to their battle stories in awe. They are enthusiastic about informing you of Joel's brilliance, frequently admitting that they could not understate how much of this victory they owed to him.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one laughs incredulously. "There were more than we had expected, but it didn't phase him. He took out two of them on his own, and when his gun jammed, he knocked them out with his fists!”

Turns out that the four soldiers the fireflies had expected were accompanied by another five unaccounted for. Joel hadn't let it affect the team, pushing them ahead with the mission. By blinding them with smoke grenades, the team had been able to ambush successfully, and despite the physical tussle that resulted in Joel's bloodbath, the mission had otherwise gone just as planned, the fighting all wrapped up within moments.

According to the many recounts told as you patched up your friends, the only reason it took so long was that the weapons boxes were heavy and made for a tight squeeze in the tunnels. You could have cried at the stupidity of it all.

Eventually, Marlene joined in with the festivities, having been woken by Joel to confirm "Mission accomplished." Leftover Molotov cocktails from the mission we used as celebratory drinks that had the majority of your colleagues wasted within the hour - including your commander.

As fresh, golden beams of sunlight peered through the windows, you excused yourself to bed despite the drunken protests of your colleagues. After explaining your exhaustion, thanks to your immense concern, they reluctantly allowed you to leave on the condition you would celebrate with them later. You imagined their hangovers would be too severe for further partying.

Practically clawing your way to your barracks, you breathe a sigh of relief as you walk through the open door. You can still hear the shouts of jubilation downstairs, noting that you’d probably have to drown out the sounds by covering your head with a pillow. The mattress calls to you like a siren, promising rest. You plan to skip removing your clothes and fall into bed as you are-

"Didn't expect to be greeted with a gun to my head."

The heavy, Southern drawl that sounds from your doorway behind you makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. You wish you could say it was a fear response or disgust, but your heart leaps in your chest with excitement.

Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to collect yourself before you turn to face him. Your inhale is so deep you feel the edges of your lungs ache at the strain before you turn around to face the Walking Headache.

Joel is leaning against the door frame as he had in the medical room before he left. He has bathed since you saw him an hour ago, scrubbing the gore from his body and dressing in fresh clothes. His hair is still damp, and you assume he’s been forced to borrow the outfit from one of his new-found friends, the seams a little too tight on his broad body.

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect to find a serial killer walking the halls either," you dig at the state he had returned in. It earns you a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, and you can't help but note the way you hold your breath to hear the pleasant sound better.

"That how you treat all your commanders?" Joel questions, his voice lilting with a hint of humour that you find dangerous, your heart stuttering at the drastic change in him since the last time you were in this room together.

You let out a scoff that doesn't quite match the indifference you were attempting to convey. "Don't flatter yourself. You were consulted to lead one mission; that doesn't make you a commander."

He doesn’t like that.

Standing gormlessly in the middle of the room, you immediately regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. Joel is gazing at you with an intensity in his earthy irises, taking in your feigned lack of respect with a slight arch of his brow. It's less of a look of surprise than it is an unspoken challenge. It makes your body flush with heat.

The sense of security you feel with him on the other side of the threshold to your door bursts the moment he effortlessly steps inside. He has no issue with invading your personal space, finding it even easier when you fail to find the words to protest his intrusion.

Joel doesn't hesitate, but he also lacks urgency, taking his time to leisurely bridge the space between the two of you. Again, he is close enough that you can see the intricacies of his face. There is a myriad of delicate freckles and a small, ruddy scar that kisses the bridge of his nose.

You're so wrapped up in the tiny details that you almost miss the flicker of consideration in his eyes. Despite his steady, authoritative body language, he’s questioning whether or not he can say what he has in mind as he studies your expression carefully.

He leaps.

"Insubordination results in punishment, don’t it, soldier?" His volume pitches right down, each syllable buzzing through your veins as he maintains heavy eye contact that has your knees melting beneath you.

It's only when he speaks that you realise you have stopped breathing, your lungs burning in a desperate attempt to shake you from the trance he’s put you in.

You have no explanation for your response. You don’t have the chance to argue, to insult him for playing this ridiculous role. Instead, each word forces itself from your mouth upon your shaky exhale, coming out in a broken whisper.

“Yes, Sir." Your answer is spoken embarrassingly quickly. There’s a flash of something powerful in his eyes, like he’s still buzzing on residual adrenaline left over from the mission. It surges forward at your answer, and he clings to it, taking control of the room- of you.

“Atta Girl.”

It drips through you like honey, coating your insides and warming them. Your body tingles and pleads for Joel’s attention despite your best efforts to fight the need he draws from it as he drags his eyes across its length.

A tiny voice in your mind rears its ugly head. He’s probably pent up from fighting, and you’re still stressed from waiting up all night. You could give in to what you want. Doesn’t mean you like him.

Joel seems to hear it too, his eyes searching for a hint of approval. You can see he’s itching to touch you, to release the anger that you’ve built in him back onto you with tongues and teeth.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“On your knees, soldier.” He commands, and it’s like his voice strokes something hedonistic inside of you because your body surges with arousal at the implication of his order.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

Against your better judgement, you slowly sink to your knees in front of Joel, eyes pin-set on the toes of his dirtied boots. The wooden floor smarts your knees, but you maintain your position in an effort to appease him.

Joel doesn’t move, feet firm in their place on the floor as you bow before him. He’s making you wait, arms loose at his sides. You don’t dare to lift your head to look at him, to urge him forward, instead straining your eyes upwards to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Prickling heat teases at your skin, your arousal triggered, knowing he was watching you submit to him so easily. The tension grips you, finding it ironic that Joel entered every situation all-guns-blazing yet had utmost patience when it came to prolonging your suffering.

Your need condenses, acutely aware of Joel’s entire being. It’s as though you can feel his eyes trail over your body like a feather-light touch, and you swear that you can smell the dampness of his hair. Most of all, you focus on Joel’s even, quiet breathing, the expansion and deflation of his lungs acting like a metronome in the silence.

Then- God, then he’s moving his hand forward achingly slowly, fingertips pressing delicately against your left temple. The brush of his fingerprint over your skin ignites a humming arousal between your thighs, and you subconsciously press them together when he pushes his digits into your hairline.

Your jaw drops, slack as you exhale shakily. So starved for Joel’s touch, you’re more than grateful for the innocuous brush of his fingers along your scalp. It’s probably so obvious to him, your desperation, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he takes a step forward, his boot settling into the wooden planks you’re kneeling on, his feet on either side of your thighs.

Joel is so close you can feel the fabric of his jeans brush against your forehead. So frequently worn, the denim has lost that rough texture and could almost pass for cotton. You don’t dare to move, knowing if you so much as twitched, your nose would graze over his crotch through the material.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmurs, unironically this time, his voice rumbling in his chest. It cuts through the quiet so suddenly that it makes you jump, almost loud to your ears. He sounds pleased with your reception of his proximity, rewarding you by taking a firm but painless grip on the roots of your hair.

It’s as though you can read his mind. His pulse thrums in his palm against the soft flesh of your scalp, matching the thumping pace of your own. Joel doesn’t speak his thoughts out loud, yet it’s like he whispers into your ear. ‘Good soldiers get rewarded.’

The pressure he applies to the crown of your skull is minute, but it’s enough to push your face into his crotch. Your gasp of surprise is so loud that it almost drowns out the resonant hum that he releases, gripping tighter to your hair as you nuzzle into him.

Rock hard beneath your cheek; you can feel Joel’s cock twitch at the delicate friction you gift him. Having plunged so deep now, you no longer have to reason with yourself to take what you want, kissing the shaft of his dick through the fabric he wears. Again, your reward is to be pushed closer to him, the adrenaline pulsing through Joel’s veins causing a heavy-handedness that makes the walls of your pussy flutter.

“Look at you,” Joel growls as your tongue drags across the fabric his cock strains against, as if resorting to desperate measures to taste him, “Totally shameless.”

You can’t contain it, the whimper that bubbles in your throat. It sounds around Joel’s twitching cock, and it seems to rile him up, momentarily cracking his composure when he thrusts his hips forward slightly.

Fuck, it’s like he’s hypnotising you with his grunts and groans, your body liquidating as they heat you from the inside out. Heaving breaths indicate the magnitude of your desire, and you’re kneeling up before you can even think of the consequences of taking matters into your own hands.

Pushing your nose into the seam of the crotch in his jeans, you use the tip of your tongue to search for the zipper. The brass is warm when it brushes your tastebuds, a metallic tang coating them as you slide your tongue beneath it.

Carefully, you take the fastening between your teeth, lowering your head to drag the zipper down. You probably only manage four links of the chain before Joel’s hand shoves itself between you and the fabric, bumping your nose as he tears the button of his jeans open with a stuttery exhale.

He releases his cock from the confines of his pants, and God, you’re so thankful he does. A thatch of thick curls frames the base of his cock, a subtle curve to the veiny shaft that stands at attention beneath your gaze. The tip gleams in the low light seeping through your thin curtains, coated with precum that weeps from the head that’s flushed a dusty purple. He’s not too big, with a perfect girth and length to him that has you convinced he’d fit inside you just right-

Joel doesn’t allow himself to examine how you practically melt at the sight of him, wrapping his fingers around his shaft and steadying it with his thumb. In any other situation, the gentle slap of his cock against your cheek would have you leaping from the floor and throttling him, but you’re both so needy that you open your mouth greedily without prompt. It drives Joel insane.

“Hah,” he heaves, pressing the tip of his dick to your flat tongue, “Shit- oh shitshitsh-“

Joel sheathes himself inside your mouth with one long stroke of his hips, and you’re almost sure your throat stretches beyond its limits to accommodate him.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel curses heavily, watching your eyes brim with tears at the intrusion as you fight your gag reflex. When you glance up at him through your watery lashes, you catch the way his upper lip arches at the sensation of your tongue tracing the underside of his cock. He’s sweating, brow glistening with evident arousal on his brow, and your stomach flips at the concept that you were the one making him feel this way- breaking his almost impenetrable composure.

Carefully, you inch him further down your throat until the tip of your nose buries into the curls framing his pubic bone. A musky smell that is uniquely Joel coats your senses, and you find yourself almost dizzy at the concept of being totally surrounded by him, filled by him. Just hours ago, you couldn't stand him, couldn't bear to be around him, and yet now you think you'd cry if you pulled away.

Joel groans above you as you swallow around his length, his fingers grappling with your hair for purchase and gripping tightly to the strands at the crown of your head. You use Joel’s distraction to begin bobbing your head, slowly pulling off him and feeling him drag against the walls of your throat until the tip of his cock rests over the flat of your tongue. Before he can complain, you sink back down and take all of him back into your mouth, and you swear that you can see Joel’s eyes roll back into his school in your periphery.

"Ah- fu-“ Joel appears entirely enraptured by the sensation of the head of his cock catching on each little ridge of your throat, and you can see him watching you work him in and out of your mouth at a lazy pace. "Look at you- Hnng- So fuckin’ good."

As you get used to the sensation of the velvety skin bumping against your throat, you begin to experiment a little more. You use the slow, steady pace to drag your tongue over the length of his fraenulum and swirl it around the head. The salty taste of the precum beading at the slit pushes you further, feeling him twitch with your ministrations.

Throbbing aches begin to settle in your knees, complaining about kneeling against the wooden floor but are drowned out by Joel's heady groans and the tight coil of arousal between your thighs. It's as though you can feel your pulse throughout your body, complaining about the lack of attention, but also invested in the way Joel appears to be losing his composure that you can't find it in yourself to protest.

“Christ-“ Joel groans out above you, suddenly taking a firm grip of your hair and pulling you up and off of him. The burn in your lungs has you gasping for air as you look up at him in concern. Had you messed up?

Opening your mouth to ask him what you’d done wrong, you find the words die in your throat when Joel pushes the tip of his weeping cockhead against your lips again. He’s staring down at you with this look in his eyes, something dark and potent swirling in his pupils. You taste him on your tongue again, and Joel pushes your head down onto him again.

He's unable to control himself, driven by the sensation of your mouth around him. The comprehension makes your mind spin with pride, and again you submit to Joel.

It’s rough, your hair wrapped around his fingers to better his grip as he forces you to still. Your eyes tear up, leaking tears down your cheeks as he begins to fuck your mouth at a brutally satisfying pace. Despite the bruising sensation of his cock hitting your throat, you’re practically dripping in your underwear when seeing the way Joel snarls at the overwhelming bliss.

Grasping desperately onto his hips to brace yourself, you cling on as Joel fucks deep into your throat. The hinges of your jaw ache at the effort of holding your mouth open for him, but Joel doesn’t let your efforts go unnoticed.

His free hand brushes his rough knuckles across your cheekbone, sliding down your face so his palm can cup your throat. Joel lets out the most wicked groan, applying pressure to your neck to feel himself slide in and out of you.

“God- You feel that?” He laughs out incredulously, his cock twitching, “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” He’s mouthing off, a lot more talkative than usual. You put it down to the blood having rushed from his head to his co-

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and it’s like the oxygen he’s starving you of begins to make you think you’ve imagined it. Your eyes flutter and blink back tears, your brain working to figure out if he honestly said it. It’s only when he yanks your hair in an attempt to wordlessly urge you to do as told that your hands snap down to your waistband.

Blindly, you push your fingers beneath the waistband of your trousers, practically sobbing with relief as your fingertips clumsily brush your clit. It sparks white hot, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they brace your weight on your knees.

“Mhmmm fuck,” Joel rumbles, watching your face as he fucks into it, noting how your brows pull up at the pleasure you draw for yourself between your thighs.

It drives him insane. You can feel it. His dick twitches against your tastebuds, and you can feel his pulse in the thick vein that runs down the underside of his cock. Joel’s fingers paw at the back of your head, pushing you down onto his length and making you take him impossibly deeper. You’re choking on him, gagging around his girth. It makes your eyes stream, yet it just makes your fingertip swirl around your clit quicker, seeking that high you craved.

“Nuh-uh,” you hear Joel’s gruff voice, his palm patting you harshly on the cheek. Just enough to sting. “Focus right here, right here.”

Blinking through the teary haze and the surging arousal that grips your muscles, you only notice with a particularly sharp slap to your cheekbone that you had closed your eyes. Joel’s urging has you looking up through your wet eyelashes as he continues with his harsh thrusts.

Sinking your digits into your heat, you melt against the intrusion in your throat as the walls of your cunt flutter around your fingerprints. Severely neglected, your pussy aches and arches towards orgasm at breakneck speed. Under the weight of your body, your thighs tremble at your ministrations, and your brows pull together as if to brace against the impending crest of ecstasy.

“Oh fuck, yeah, just like that,” Joel rumbles under his breath, eyes set on your twisted expression as his hips begin to stutter. You feel his pulse on your tongue and draw clumsy, sloppy circles over your clit to match.

The groan that tears its way through Joel’s throat when he cums almost startles you, and you’re almost sure it does the same to him. His fingers are white-knuckling your hair in an attempt to brace for the surge of pleasure, his cum streaking down the back of your throat.

He watches as you desperately stroke over your throbbing clit and swallow his load without prompt. Even through your blurred vision, you can see his awed visage as he watches you take everything he gives.

Perhaps it’s the apparent appreciation he shows you when you hear him mumble a muffled ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ’, or it’s finally rendering the argumentative Joel Miller borderline speechless. Still, you hurtle off the edge with barely any warning other than a split second of a hot white crackle up your spine.

Your body contracts inwards as you rub yourself through the crescendo, grateful Joel was with it enough to remove himself from your mouth just before. The ragged gasp you exhale sounds strangled, your orgasm blinding you in its onslaught. Your vision spots and slides out of focus, seeing double as the warmth ebbs away.

Soon, the only thing your hearing focuses on is the inhale and exhale of your lungs, sharp and clawing at the oxygen that keeps you from blacking out. Had you stopped breathing?

Joel turns away for a moment to right himself, pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt again. The afterglow of such an earth-shattering orgasm makes everything slow, and you can’t help but smile almost dopily to yourself as you watch him ruffle his salt-and-peppered brown locks.

A sharp inhale drags you from your brain-melting comedown, settling back on your haunches and stretching out your aching legs as you watch Joel struggle for words. He looks conflicted, opening his mouth to speak and then firmly pressing his lips together in frustration.

Cotton sticks to your back thanks to the perspiration beading there, patches of the khaki shirt you wear stained with darker sweat patches. The birds are singing to fill his silence, allowing him a moment to approach his thoughts without awkwardness. You don’t push him.

“You wanna help me?” He tests the waters, mahogany eyes flicking to your face to gauge your reaction, “You know… Takin’ some time to smuggle instead’a doin’ this militia suicide task?”

It’s like he douses your sticky sweet, pleased muscles in ice-cold water in your shock. You certainly hadn’t expected him to like you, let alone ask you to work for him. It’s your turn to be speechless, the oxygen you had fought so hard to breathe catching in your throat and choking you.

“I-“ You swallow thickly, wanting to approach this carefully, “Joel, I made a promise.”

He nods slowly, eyes shifting to the wooden floor and seemingly tracing the rough surface of each plank as though it were the most exciting art installation he had ever had the time to take in. Perhaps it was. Joel didn’t seem the type to stop and smell the roses.

“I have to fulfil my promise to help find a cure,” you tread delicately, but it’s almost pointless because Joel agrees with a nod of his head, neither forceful nor resentful. He appears to take your word, wordlessly encouraging you to chase that ‘pipe dream’, as he had once called it.

“You got it,” he clears his throat roughly, clasping his hips with both hands as he exhales slowly, letting the implications of your decision sink into his bones. Certain death. There wasn’t much else out there for a Firefly, and you weren’t naive enough to think any different.

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

You couldn’t turn away now. Not when these guns he’d hand-delivered made that light almost close enough to touch.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you watch him slowly pace to the door, wood creaking beneath his weight. He leans his palm against the frame, glancing back at you momentarily.

“There’s a spot for you, y’know? If you change your mind.”

A melancholy smile plays at the corner of your lips. The likelihood that you’d survive long enough to begin sufficiently regretting your decision and change your mind was slim, but the thought that Joel was willing to set a place aside for you…

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper, shocked to hear your voice crack with emotion with the gratitude you show him.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“Mhm,” he nods awkwardly, thumb brushing against the circumference of the watch that had dug into your collarbone 48 hours ago. There’s a tenderness in that touch, something that your cheekbones ache to experience. Instead, you ignore the infuriating pining of your body for the man who had irritated you only moments before, watching as he steps out into the hallway and out of sight, no doubt to grab his stupidly oversized backpack and slink away into the darkness of the underground tunnels and return to his regular trade.

Your heart strains in your chest, but it doesn’t mean you like him.

It doesn’t.

END

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gimmethatagustd · 2 months

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venor (11) | kth + jjk

The barista at the university’s café keeps telling Jungkook not to come back, but Jungkook is too busy daydreaming about kissing the beauty marks on his face to be paying attention to his warnings.

○ Pairing: Tiger!Taehyung x Bunny!Jungkook

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Hybrids, predator/prey, college au, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, light angst, eventual smut

○ Word Count: 8,963

○ Warnings: Bunny Koo is really cute (when is he not?), Jai wrote too much about ceramic pottery but now if you ever want to make your own terracotta flower pot you'll know how!, hand jobs, blow job, anal fingering, what the gworlies call self-lubrication aka slick, that awkward moment when you know your roommate heard you having sex and you're afraid to confront them in the living room

○ Notes: Me, in my pirate voice: There be smut ahead, mateys! For real though, I wrote this chapter with scrambled eggs for brains, so I apologize in advance for it being so… niche and weird jhsdkfjs. I hope you like it despite that.

○ Post Date: March 24, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Cross-Post

○ What was Jai listening to? The series playlist

Series Masterlist

Jungkook eventually goes home, but only after eating a hearty breakfast prepared by Hoseok at his insistence. There was no point in arguing with him; Hoseok’s hospitable nature would never let Jungkook leave without being fed and ensuring he had everything he needed to shower and freshen up for the day.

Such kindness leaves Jungkook buzzing with happiness as he makes the short but winding journey through campus to get to the prey side, smelling like Taehyung’s shampoo and carrying his small duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t even care when people stare at the hickeys on his neck as he bounds up the stairs of his dormitory two at a time, not even bothering with the elevator so he can do something with the energy bottled inside him.

Surprisingly, even Yoongi’s nagging doesn’t make Jungkook less enthusiastic about life. He gives Yoongi a dopey smile and shrugs off his pestering questions.

“Where have you been! You didn’t answer my texts or calls! I thought you died,” Yoongi huffs as he follows Jungkook down the hall.

Yoongi’s somewhat bristly orange tail swings back and forth. Jungkook feels bad thinking about how Taehyung’s tail moves more elegantly, even when he’s angry. He doesn’t feel bad enough to stop thinking, though. He has reached the most hopeless part of having a crush, the part when simply breathing reminds him of Taehyung.

“Why would I have died?”

“You went to a predator’s house party, Jungkook-ah. How else am I supposed to react to you never coming home?”

Twirling around, Jungkook reaches their bedroom and flings the duffle bag onto his bed. He shrugs at Yoongi again and lets his body fall onto his bed next to the duffle bag, with his arms flopping lifelessly at his sides.

“I feel all loopy, hyung,” Jungkook smiles at Yoongi, eyes lidded and a permanent upturn of the corner of his lips. “The party got a little intense, but spending the night with Taehyung was so nice. He’s so sweet, hyung, you don’t even understand.”

Yoongi pouts with his arms crossed against his chest. He isn’t genuinely angry, just concerned. Jungkook finds Yoongi’s reaction endearing, considering there really isn’t anything to be worried about. Jungkook is more than fine, even if the situation with Byungchul shook him slightly. Jungkook thinks he understands Byungchul now. There’s no fear left in him for the wolf hybrid, only pity.

“What do you mean by intense?” Yoongi asks with narrowed eyes.

“It was nothing, hyung. I’m just happy I got to spend time with Tae.”

Watching Yoongi’s gaze drop from Jungkook’s face to his neck, Jungkook quickly lifts his shoulders and tilts his head to hide the splotches still dark on his skin. Taehyung told him that they would fade eventually, but sometimes, depending on how easily a person bruises, they can last a long time. Jungkook doesn’t know for sure, but he has a hunch that hickeys won’t fade from his skin for a long time.

“You better be careful,” Yoongi gestures to Jungkook’s neck, “Or else he’ll accidentally mate you.”

“Hyung!” Jungkook sits up and tries not to whine when Yoongi smirks at him.

“What? I’m just saying.”

“We’re not going to mate,” Jungkook mutters, a bit of the euphoria seeping out of him. “We’re not even together.”

Yoongi snorts at that. He rests his shoulder on the doorframe and gives Jungkook a curious look.

“You’re going on dates. You scent each other. He’s been courting you for months. How are you not together?”

Yoongi is right; Taehyung’s affections are obvious. If Jungkook were to make an assumption, he would think Taehyung probably even views their relationship as monogamous, even though they haven’t officially discussed their relationship status. Just the thought of Taehyung with anyone makes Jungkook feel sick.

“I guess…”

Yoongi rolls his eyes and lifts himself off the doorframe.

“Just tell him how you feel and get it all over with, Jungkook-ah. I can’t deal with this weird dance the two of you are doing around each other,” Yoongi mutters as he goes down the hall, his slippers shuffling along the hardwood floor.

“Easier said than done,” Jungkook groans and flops back onto his bed.

It shouldn’t be so difficult to talk to Taehyung. As Yoongi pointed out, they already behave like a couple. Perhaps that would be enough for some people, but Jungkook needs confirmation and a title. He may be old-fashioned or naive, but he’s always dreamt of having a real boyfriend, not the blurred lines that come with the hookup culture that’s more popular now.

The thing is, in Jungkook’s dreams, it was always a prey boyfriend. He’s sure that if Taehyung has dreamt of a boyfriend, too, it has always been a predator boyfriend.

If someone had told Jungkook that transferring to a new university would potentially bring him heartache and an existential crisis, he wonders if he would still have run away to Seoul with wide eyes and a pair of disappointed parents in his wake.

Rolling onto his stomach, Jungkook leans off the end of his bed to grab his drawing tablet from his desk. Lying down while he sketches will hurt his lower back later, but he wants to burrow in his blankets and wait for the day to pass him by. Besides, at this rate, he might finish Taehyung’s portrait before everyone goes home for winter break.

Assuming it won’t be too late.

Upset with himself for letting so many doubts sour his bubbly mood, Jungkook pulls up his favorite Twitch streamer to rewatch her latest gameplay while he colors in the little beauty mark artfully placed on the tip of Taehyung’s nose that he regrets not having kissed yet. At least he has kissed the one on Taehyung’s lip, which he moves onto once he’s finished with Taehyung’s nose. As much as Jungkook loves all of Taehyung’s little details, his lips consume much of Jungkook’s aimless thoughts.

As if summoned by those aimless thoughts, multiple text messages from Taehyung interrupt the video Jungkook is only somewhat paying attention to.

vante95

hey bun

wyd

do you miss me yet

jkookie

Maybe

Do you miss me yet?

vante95

maybe

“Oh my god,” Jungkook huffs with a roll of his eyes, but his thumbs fly across his phone screen with a demanding response he’s sure won’t work but is worth a shot.

jkookie

Leave early

vante95

lol i can’t

we’re short staffed anyway

jkookie

Tell them you’re sick

vante95

wow bun

this whole time i thought you were a law abiding citizen

now look at you

you punch one predator and you’re a villain

evil incarnate

Maybe Taehyung is right; Jungkook won’t admit it, though. A sense of responsibility was ingrained in Jungkook at a young age. It has taken very little time with Taehyung for that previous priority to dissipate in Jungkook’s mind.

jkookie

Stop it 😠

vante95

cute

jkookie

If you’re not going to leave early then go back to working!

vante95

whatever bun wants

hope you’re ready for our PG date 😘

Is Jungkook ready? Considering he has to kick his blankets off because his body grows too warm and the way his ears fall forward to hide his face when he faceplants into his pillow, he isn’t so sure.

–

Not to be a meme, but graphic design is Jungkook’s passion. He feels most at home with tablets and laptops, hunched over his desk with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a spinach-banana smoothie beside him. So when Taehyung holds open the door to the sculpture studio, and Jungkook is hit with the dusty scent of dried clay that cakes his nostrils and parches his throat, his confidence in his creative abilities immediately plummets.

“Hardly anyone uses the studio on the weekends, and if they do, it’s on Sundays,” Taehyung beckons for Jungkook to follow him deeper into the studio, “So we should be alone.”

Alone.

Jungkook’s throat tingles when he inhales, maybe from the dusty air or the spike in Taehyung’s scent when he utters that loaded word. They’ve spent so much time together alone; it shouldn’t feel different today. So why does it?

Taehyung’s tail flicks around his ankles as he weaves through the wooden tables scattered around the room. They’re covered in thick fabric that leaves dusty marks on Jungkook’s black sweatpants when he brushes against them. The entire room is blanketed with a thin layer of ceramic dust. No wonder Taehyung brought a travel-sized bottle of lotion in his backpack. Jungkook can only imagine how dehydrated the skin on his hands will be by the end of the afternoon.

Along the cinder block walls are shelves of pottery and little bottles of what, upon further inspection, Jungkook learns are ceramic glazes used to paint the pottery.

“The kiln is in that room,” Taehyung explains as he points to an unmarked door on the opposite side of the room. “And that’s the pug mill. I’ll show you how to use it, but you need an apron first.”

“Kiln, pug mill,” Jungkook repeats the odd words to himself.

Taehyung nods enthusiastically as if he’s proud that Jungkook is learning. It’s cute to watch Taehyung navigate the room with so much confidence. He’s in his element, even more so than he had been at the museum. This time, it’s clear that Taehyung owns this space. It’s his domain.

Along one wall is a row of clay-caked aprons hanging on brass hooks. Taehyung slips one over his head and ties the apron’s strings behind his back to secure the fabric protecting his ripped jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt.

Jungkook smiles shyly when Taehyung grabs a soft, forest-green apron to loop over his head. His large hands are gentle when they squeeze Jungkook’s hips to turn him around so he can tie the strings around his waist.

“Don’t want to mess up your clothes,” Taehyung murmurs softly, his touch lingering on Jungkook’s body. He slips his fingers under the hem of Jungkook’s hoodie, letting out a pleased hum when his fingers lightly skirt the smooth skin of Jungkook’s waist because he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath.

Jungkook shivers when Taehyung pulls away.

“Your clothes,” Jungkook corrects and feels heat spread across his cheeks when Taehyung winks at him.

On the walk to the academic building that houses the art department, Taehyung tasked Jungkook with brainstorming what he wanted to make at the studio and the method he wanted to use: hand-building or the potter’s wheel. Now that Jungkook has seen the three low-seated electric potter’s wheels in the corner of the room, Jungkook isn’t sure he wants to experiment with something that looks so intimidating. Still, he’s also worried about how crude his pottery will look if he molds it by hand.

“You still don’t know what you want, do you?” Taehyung quirks an eyebrow at Jungkook as he folds his sleeves, pushing them past his elbows.

“Not really...”

With a bitten bottom lip, Taehyung pauses to look over Jungkook again. He huffs when he releases his bottom lip and subtly smirks.

“Well, I know what I want.”

Jungkook may be naive, but he’s sure Taehyung isn’t only talking about making art.

“You were going to show me how to use that?” Jungkook changes the subject quickly, unsure if he can survive whatever Taehyung is pulling. He gestures to the odd cylinder machine Taehyung had referred to as the pug mill.

Taehyung lets out what sounds like a purr when he slips past Jungkook to remove the lid of a giant bin beside the machine. He explains that the bin is full of terracotta clay. He shows Jungkook how to load the pug mill with clay and watches as the machine spits the lumps back out as a smooth cylinder. Using a short wire with little wooden handles at the end, Taehyung cuts off the clay for Jungkook to carry to the table.

“It packs the clay and gets all the air out,” Taehyung explains as he gathers more tools for Jungkook, including a bowl of water with a squishy, worn-looking sponge floating in the middle.

“Why?”

“If the clay has air bubbles in it, it might explode when it gets fired in the kiln, and then you’ll fuck up your art and everyone else’s.”

“Oh,” Jungkook gasps as he lowers onto a wobbly, dusty stool at the table. He’s pleased when Taehyung sits beside him, bumping their shoulders together playfully. “Has that happened to you before?”

Taehyung watches Jungkook with a small smile. He props his head up by resting his elbow on the dusty table and holding his chin in his hand. The studio’s windows aren’t large, but they’re high on the walls, and the golden sun rays of the dying autumn day make Taehyung’s amber eyes glow.

“Someone else’s project exploded and broke mine once,” Taehyung finally looks away to start cutting off a lump of clay for each of them.

“What was your art of?”

“A figurine of a mushroom that was actually just a dick,” Taehyung flashes Jungkook a wicked grin, “I was really immature in high school.”

“I thought this date was supposed to be rated PG.” Jungkook scrunches his nose, and Taehyung throws his head back with a deep laugh, making Jungkook’s skin prickle.

“How many curse words and dick jokes am I allowed?”

“To be considered PG? I don’t think any!”

Imagining a teenage Taehyung is funny. Jungkook sees a tall, lanky boy with a sparkle of mischief in his eyes and a rebellious streak that means he isn’t afraid to be himself, even if his interests are unique – that’s precisely why people are drawn to him. The image greatly differs from Jungkook’s teen years, when he was a shy little bunny who spent more time playing video games and talking to his friends on instant messaging platforms than exploring the outside world.

“Bun?”

Blinking, Jungkook quickly looks away when he realizes he’s been staring at Taehyung. Just when he thought he’d moved past his dreamy thoughts about Taehyung, they swoop back to snatch him up.

“Sorry, I’m paying attention.”

Smirking, Taehyung turns back to the lump of clay they each have in front of them.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to use the wheel.” Taehyung chuckles when Jungkook fervently shakes his head. “So these are the tools you’ll probably want to use to help you shape the clay into what you want–”

“A little flower pot, like the one you gave me,” Jungkook interrupts, keeping his eyes on the small wooden tools on the table. They’re smooth and lightweight in his hand and safer to look at than Taehyung’s heavy gaze.

“A flower pot is a great idea.”

Taehyung’s voice is so soft that Jungkook immediately looks up, and his insides turn to jelly from how sweetly Taehyung observes him. It’s a brief expression, quickly disappearing once Taehyung’s been caught.

Clearing his throat, Taehyung continues explaining how Jungkook should approach making his flower pot using wooden tools and a bowl of water to keep the clay wet and pliable. Jungkook only half listens. It’s too easy to fall into the low lull of Taehyung’s voice, so gentle and smooth, like velvet against skin.

“For our next date–”

“You think I’ll want to go on a third date with you?” Jungkook interrupts, peeking at Taehyung’s shocked expression in his peripheral vision.

“Wow, okay, rude.”

“I’m kidding!” Giggling in a way that cutely accentuates his front teeth, Jungkook squints up at Taehyung and bumps their shoulders together.

“Nah, it’s fine. We don’t have to go on another date.”

Jungkook gives Taehyung a gentle, but still sharp, kick to the shin that makes him try to scoot his stool away, the metal legs screeching horribly against the concrete floor.

“Tell me what you were going to say!”

“What I was going to say …” Glaring at Jungkook with mock indignation, Taehyung sniffles dramatically, “Was that for our next date, I want to do something to learn more about your tech stuff.”

“Tech stuff.”

Taehyung side-eyes him.

“Yeah, tech stuff. You get what I mean.”

“Video games.”

“Yeah, video games.”

The back of Jungkook’s hand is the only clean part, so that’s what he presses to his mouth to stifle his laughter at Taehyung’s ridiculous request, not because of the request itself, but how he requests it.

“We can do that,” Jungkook says with a scrunched nose and rounded cheeks that he knows Taehyung can’t resist, even if he pretends not to think Jungkook’s giggling is cute.

By now, Taehyung should know that Jungkook will agree to anything he requests.

Crafting a flower pot, even a small one meant to hold a tiny succulent similar to the one Taehyung gifted Jungkook, proves difficult for Jungkook, though. If he isn’t pressing too hard into the clay and denting it in a way that makes it uneven on one side, he’s accidentally making the walls too thin or thick.

“It’ll shrink in the kiln. All the moisture evaporates,” Taehyung points out when Jungkook’s first flower pot is too small. Despite Taehyung politely telling Jungkook that he is doing his project incorrectly, it warms Jungkook’s chest when Taehyung explains the process to him.

His second attempt is an acceptable size but wonky and oddly shaped, even if Taehyung insists that it’s cute. Jungkook doesn’t want a cute flower pot; he wants a proper flower pot. Meanwhile, Taehyung’s flower pot is perfectly shaped and decorated with an intricate design he carved on the exterior with a sharp wooden tool. It’s a bit infuriating how lovely it looks.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Jungkook makes two more flower pots until he is satisfied with his final outcome. Flower Pot #4 fits in two hands and is deep enough to accommodate plant growth, giving room for roots to stretch out in the soil.

“I still think it would have been easier if you’d let me show you how to use the wheel,” Taehyung comments after Jungkook shows off Flower Pot #4.

Jungkook shakes his head.

“It looks scary.”

“Like me?” Taehyung teases, his boyish grin growing wider when Jungkook playfully slaps his arm.

Jungkook gasps in horror when he realizes he has left behind a handprint of clay on Taehyung’s shirt.

“I’m so sorry.” Jungkook swivels around in his stool with both hands held up. There must be something to clean Taehyung off with?

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“Bun, you’re fine,” Taehyung insists, standing up. “Come on.”

Taehyung shows Jungkook how to use another machine to flatten the leftover clay so he can carve out little shapes to attach to the side of his pot as three-dimensional decorations. It’s cliche, but Jungkook meticulously carves out petals to create little flowers scattered about the pot, using one of the tools to draw little cuts into the clay and using the wet sponge and a bit of slippery clay to attach the decorations.

“What you’re doing is called scoring.” Taehyung carefully maneuvers Jungkook’s flower pot to inspect his hard work once they’ve sat back down. “You scratch the surface of each piece so they fit together, and then you use the sponge and really wet clay, sort of like glue, to adhere the pieces together. That’s called slick.”

“What ?” Jungkook squeaks, turning to the side so quickly to look at Taehyung that he almost falls off his stool.

A pretty pink blush blooms on each of Taehyung’s cheeks. He clears his throat and continues cleaning up the excess water droplets and wet clay from the flower pot, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze.

“It’s called slip,” Taehyung quietly corrects himself in a gruff voice. “Slip.”

Jungkook is unsure whether he should be embarrassed or amused by such a terrible mixup. Part of him wants to tease Taehyung over the Freudian slip, but he doesn’t want to rub salt in the wound.

The thing is, now Jungkook has slick in his head, and his brain doesn’t seem to want to move past it. The slip is slippery against his fingers as he finishes binding the final decorations on his flower pot, slippery like something else. It makes Jungkook think about the night before, the image of Taehyung on his knees in front of Jungkook hooking its claws in his brain and refusing to let go. He can practically feel phantom kisses tingling up his legs, Taehyung’s face nuzzling in the crease of his thigh.

“Are you done?”

Taehyung’s question forces Jungkook out of yet another daydream.

“Oh, um, yes,” Jungkook says quietly.

Despite the studio’s cold temperature due to its location in the basement and the windows letting in a slight draft, Jungkook feels like he’s burning up under his sweatpants and hoodie. It doesn’t help that Taehyung’s irises look a bit darker now, and his pupils a bit wider; however, those things could just be the studio’s lighting playing tricks on Jungkook.

Unfortunately, there’s no denying how Jungkook’s scent spikes when Taehyung leans into his personal space. They lock eyes with each other, neither willing to break the link they’ve created as Taehyung reaches out to pull Jungkook’s flower pot toward him by the piece of cardboard it’s sitting on. Taehyung’s forearm brushes against Jungkook’s chest, and he exhales sharply. It’s embarrassing, especially since all Taehyung is doing is taking Jungkook’s pot to place it alongside his own on a shelf to dry before Taehyung’s professor loads it into the kiln with the other students’ art.

“Do you want to keep the other pots?” If Taehyung’s voice sounds rougher once he has returned to lean against the table, that could be Jungkook’s ears playing tricks on him from how quiet the studio is.

“They’re ugly,” Jungkook pouts and gets a roll of Taehyung’s eyes in return.

“No, they’re not. They’re unique.”

“I hate them.”

“Alright, the pretty bunny gets what the pretty bunny wants.”

With a teasing smile, Taehyung grabs the remaining three flower pots and drops them into the large bin of clay near the pug mill.

So much unadulterated attention from Taehyung is beginning to overwhelm Jungkook. It’s the damn slip! It’s got his brain all scrambled and his body feverish.

It takes the violent vibration of Jungkook’s phone on the table, disturbing dust that makes Jungkook sneeze, to knock his brain back into place. Unable to answer it because his hands are caked in clay, Jungkook stares up at Taehyung with wide eyes and a helpless pout. His phone is already dirtied from the dusty table; he should have slipped it into his apron’s front pocket.

“Tae, help me.”

“You’re so cute,” Taehyung laughs and motions for Jungkook to follow him to the industrial sink in the back of the studio so they can wash their hands.

Jungkook tries his best not to think about how pretty Taehyung’s hands are, with wide palms and long, slender fingers. Jungkook thinks Taehyung has what the classic writers would describe as the hands of a pianist, deft and sensual. He wonders if Taehyung knows how to play any instruments, and wouldn’t be surprised if Taehyung knew how to play everything.

“It was Yoongi hyung asking where I am,” Jungkook announces once his hands are clean and he can safely check his phone.

Taehyung hums as he puts away their aprons and retrieves his backpack from where he stashed it out of the way.

“Does he think I murdered you for real this time?”

Jungkook stops sending a text to Yoongi so he can cover his face with his hands and groan. Yoongi’s reaction to Jungkook sleeping over at Taehyung’s dorm was embarrassing; Jungkook should’ve never told Taehyung about it. He’s sure Taehyung will never let it go.

“Hey, bun,” Taehyung laughs as he wraps his hands around Jungkook’s wrists to pry his hands away from his face. He ducks his head, forcing Jungkook to look him in the eyes. “I’m teasing you.”

“I know, but it’s still embarrassing, and I wish I hadn’t told you what he said,” Jungkook pouts again and wiggles out of Taehyung’s grasp.

With a gasp and a hand clutching his heart, Taehyung stumbles back in offense.

“Bun, friends don’t keep secrets from each other.”

Jungkook laughs Taehyung’s joke off, but as the two men brave the chilly autumn night and walk back to Jungkook’s dorm, he can’t help but think of Yoongi’s comment about them mating. Predators and prey are barely friends; they certainly can’t be mates.

Despite the discouragement that seems to haunt Jungkook around every corner, he holds this naive, childlike hope in his heart that Taehyung won’t hurt him. Speaking as a predator, Taehyung has already promised Jungkook he won’t. Jungkook just hopes that Taehyung will keep Jungkook’s heart as safe as his body.

Once they reach the front door of the prey dormitory, Taehyung asks, “Did you enjoy our PG date?”

He looks so classically like a bad boy in a leather jacket with one hand pressed to the building’s brick exterior just above Jungkook’s head, molars chewing the inside of his cheek, and a lazy way to how he speaks that tells everyone he isn’t in a rush to get out of a part of campus he isn’t allowed to be in. Whereas Jungkook is nervous every time the front door opens and startled prey hybrids cross the threshold, whispering about the predator with a prey pressed against the wall, Taehyung doesn’t pay attention to anyone but Jungkook.

Yoongi said Taehyung would cause Jungkook trouble. When Jungkook stares into Taehyung’s dark eyes and struggles to breathe, he knows Yoongi is right.

“I did,” Jungkook whispers through an exhale. He licks his lips before he speaks again and shivers when Taehyung’s quick eyes track the movement. “Blood on a date isn’t ideal.”

“Not usually.” Taehyung smirks and the curl of his top lip exposes a sharp canine.

Jungkook tries to think about something other than when it would be appropriate for blood to be involved in a date.

He thinks about how perfect their date has been and how he doesn’t want it to end even though they’ve spent the past twenty-four hours together.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

For a moment, the only sound that passes between them is their breathing as it harmonizes. They don’t smell like each other, only like ceramic dust and the cocoa butter lotion they moisturized their hands with. Jungkook wants to get on his tiptoes and nuzzle the crook of Taehyung’s neck, but he keeps his feet rooted to the ground and his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.

“Yeah,” Taehyung’s reply is just as soft as Jungkook’s question. It mixes with the wind that ruffles Jungkook’s bangs, dancing along his forehead like the tickle of a kiss.

Taehyung intertwines their fingers when Jungkook leads them through the dormitory’s front door. Jungkook doesn’t know why he’s so nervous as he brings Taehyung upstairs, his heart in his throat and his palm sweaty against Taehyung’s. Usually giddy with the prospect of spending more time with his crush, Jungkook struggles to even input the code to his apartment without trembling fingers. He hopes Taehyung doesn’t notice, though he doubts it’s possible for him not to.

“Yoongi hyung is home,” Jungkook mentions quietly.

Taehyung isn’t perturbed. He removes his shoes and hangs his jacket on the hooks at the door like he belongs there despite being too tall, too broad. His tail playfully swats Jungkook’s calf as he walks past him down the hall toward the living room, where Yoongi is curled up on the couch, unsurprisingly.

Looking up, Yoongi eyes Taehyung suspiciously as he sets his laptop on the coffee table and takes off his headphones.

“Hey Yoongi,” Taehyung greets with a dazzling smile that even makes Yoongi’s cheeks grow pink and his ears flatten in what others might think is annoyance, but what Jungkook knows is embarrassment.

“Hello Taehyung… Jungkook.” Yoongi narrows his eyes at Jungkook when he creeps around the corner to peer around Taehyung’s body.

“Hi,” Jungkook’s voice wobbles, and Yoongi’s eyes narrow even more. “Taehyung and I are going to be in our room, but, um, just let me know if you need anything, hyung.”

With a tug on Taehyung’s wrist, Jungkook leads him out of the living room and pushes him toward the bedroom. Being introverts, Yoongi and Jungkook rarely have friends over, and when they do, they always hang out in the kitchen or living room. Belatedly, Jungkook realizes he’s never had anyone other than Yoongi and Suyun in their bedroom.

“I forgot you guys share a room,” Taehyung admits once Jungkook closes the door behind them.

“You don’t have to stay here,” Jungkook rushes to start apologizing, his nerves skyrocketing now that Taehyung might not even want to hang out with him.

“You’re such a skittish bunny today.”

Exploring the small but lively bedroom, Taehyung is immediately drawn to Jungkook’s desk. It’s solid and made of wood, with a few drawers where Jungkook stores school supplies and various tech equipment. The desk’s surface is a bit crammed, barely fitting Jungkook’s desktop monitor and laptop, with his drawing tablet sitting dangerously on the edge. The adjacent wall is decorated with polaroids because Jungkook is sentimental and cliche. Most feature Yoongi and Suyun, with high school friends thrown into the mix. There are a few prints taped to the wall, primarily of digital art Jungkook has drawn, but also some he has bought online by small artists. The art ranges from BL fanart to abstract designs; whatever little pieces made Jungkook’s heart happy when he saw them.

It shouldn’t surprise Jungkook that Taehyung picks up his tablet when he admires Jungkook’s extensive gaming setup. Video games aren’t a language Taehyung can use to communicate with Jungkook, but art is.

“When will you show me my portrait?” Taehyung muses, his usually sharp eyes rounding out as he juts out his bottom lip. Feigned innocence from a predator is dangerous. “I’ve waited so long.”

Maybe this is what has turned Jungkook into a nervous mess. For weeks, he has been thinking about a gift for Taehyung, especially ever since Suyun pointed out that Taehyung is courting Jungkook—allegedly. Courting is a way to express the intent to mate with someone, or at least the possibility of wanting to in the future, something that only happens within prey and predator groups, not between them.

Yet Jungkook wants to give Taehyung something in return. Maybe it’s because Jungkook is naive for having hope that there could be something more between them. Maybe it’s because Taehyung makes his heart flutter and his stomach flip, and Jungkook feels sick thinking about anyone else’s scent mixing with Taehyung’s and anyone else getting to kiss him.

“Do you want to see it now?” Jungkook asks quietly as he takes his tablet from Taehyung.

He knows Taehyung will want to. He’s already opening the file on his tablet when Taehyung murmurs, “Yes, please.”

Sitting on his bed, Jungkook pats the space next to him so Taehyung can sit down, too. They seemed silly, standing in the middle of Jungkook’s room.

“I’m not done with it yet, so there are still a lot of little things I need to edit, but…” Jungkook trails off, his face hot and his stomach in knots, as Taehyung takes the tablet again.

With a deep breath, Jungkook pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around his bent knees while he waits for Taehyung to finish inspecting the portrait. The simple design highlights the little details of Taehyung’s face. The focal point is the bright amber hue of his eyes, followed by the constellation of beauty marks that freckle his face.

It means something to immortalize someone in art. Taehyung will forever be part of Jungkook’s portfolio, frozen in time with copper curls and a cupid’s bow that Jungkook spent hours shading the perfect pink.

“Bun…”

When Taehyung looks up, his expression is unreadable, nearly blank. It makes Jungkook nervous. This reaction wasn’t what he’d expected, nowhere near the excitement he thought Taehyung would have. Taehyung’s tail doesn’t even flick; it rests lifelessly on Jungkook’s bed.

“Um,” Jungkook picks at the drawstrings of his pants to stop his hands from shaking, “Like I said, it’s not done yet. I need to add more details and some shading; it still looks a little flat. And I haven’t decided on the background yet, but I have some ideas that I—”

Taehyung’s lips steal the rest of Jungkook’s thought, but he would have freely given it up if he’d known a kiss was the unnecessary but welcomed payment he’d receive for pouring his love for Taehyung into his art. The kiss is more than welcomed; Jungkook is comforted, and his confidence is fueled by it.

Taehyung cradles the back of Jungkook’s head with his free hand as he kisses him, keeping him stable so their lips can glide together. It’s different this time, the way Taehyung kisses him. It’s more ardent, even a bit forceful, though Jungkook willingly follows his lead, even if he fumbles a few times because of his desire to keep up. It’s hot and wet, Taehyung slipping his tongue into Jungkook’s mouth to swirl it around Jungkook’s tongue.

No one has ever kissed Jungkook with tongue. The sensation makes his cheeks flush, and his hands tremble when they search for something to hold onto, eventually grabbing fistfuls of the front of Taehyung’s t-shirt. He’s embarrassed by his body’s natural reaction as his tongue pushes back against Taehyung’s in a slippery dance.

“Tae…” Jungkook moans, breathy and desperate, when Taehyung finally pulls away to give them a chance to breathe.

“You’re so talented,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s lips, his sharp nose bumping against the rounded tip of Jungkook’s. “God, you’re amazing, bun.”

The praise strokes the fire rumbling in the pit of Jungkook’s stomach, drawing from somewhere in his core and igniting every vein it crosses until he feels like he’s burning from the inside out. It makes him scrunch his nose in a bunny smile, his brain loopy and floaty like it had been after he left Taehyung’s apartment.

“It’s good because you’re pretty, Tae.”

It’s true, even if Taehyung rolls his eyes to push the compliment into the back of his head. Taehyung is pretty.

“It’s good because you drew it.”

Both statements can be true; Jungkook is too distracted to make sense. Taehyung’s tan cheeks are a dusty pink from them sharing body heat. The outside of their legs press together from how they sit, and their torsos twist so they can face each other. One of Taehyung’s hands still holds the back of Jungkook’s head. The other sets the tablet to the side and lightly squeezes Jungkook’s thigh just above his knee.

Taehyung’s eyes are lidded and heavy, but Jungkook sits close enough to tell he’s got that wild look in them again, pupils dilated and irises darkened. It’s a carnivorous look, hungry and greedy. For a split second, fear grips Jungkook’s ribs like a caged animal, shooting something icy and piercing into the center of his heart.

Run.

His body screams at him to obey his instincts. The warning is so thunderous inside him that his breathing turns ragged, made worse by Taehyung leaning in as he slides his hand further up Jungkook’s thigh.

“You’re scared of me,” Taehyung’s voice is silvery and hypnotic. The beguiling tone beckons Jungkook, made more tempting when Taehyung’s tail curls around the back of Jungkook’s knee.

Jungkook shakes his head, but he can’t hide how rapidly his heart beats when Taehyung presses his lips over the pulse in his neck, nor can he hide the smell of his arousal permeating the room, especially to a predator with more enhanced senses than he has. He reaches for Taehyung’s soft curls to gently tug on them when Taehyung’s tongue licks broad strokes over the scent gland at the crook of his neck. Willingly, he tilts his head to give Taehyung better access to his throat and lets out a shuddery exhale when Taehyung licking and sucking his neck sends a tingling feeling all the way to his toes. On his next inhale, Jungkook feels his arousal build, making him wet as he breathes in the sweet summer thunderstorm their mingled scents create.

“Ahh, Taehyung...”

“Hmm?”

“I…” Jungkook’s voice cracks when Taehyung pushes the hem of his hoodie to run his hand up his bare chest. His pinky brushes one of Jungkook’s nipples as his palm slides upward, making Jungkook whine.

“You what?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Saying the words out loud is too difficult; Jungkook can’t bring himself to be direct, even with Taehyung’s mouth marking up his body and slick making him uncomfortably wet. He hopes Taehyung catches on and thinks he does when he pulls back far enough to look Jungkook in the eyes.

The bedroom lights are still on, making Jungkook feel exposed. Taehyung can see him. He can see Jungkook’s flushed face, heaving chest, and glazed-over eyes. He can see Jungkook’s body tremble with a mountain of insecurities he didn’t know he had until now.

“What have you done?” Taehyung’s voice rumbles so deeply that it sounds like a growl.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Chewing his bottom lip, Jungkook nods slowly.

“It’s okay, bun,” Taehyung whispers as he leans in again, pressing kisses against the sensitive skin he’d sucked bruises on the night before, “I can be gentle.”

The soft promise makes Jungkook tremble and slick even more.

Taehyung drags his palm down Jungkook’s bare chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Eventually, he curls his fingers around the slim curve of Jungkook’s waist. Jungkook is naturally petite as a prey hybrid, but Taehyung’s large hand makes him feel even smaller.

Closing his eyes, Jungkook lets Taehyung guide him onto his back with his mouth capturing Jungkook’s and his palm pressed against the inside of Jungkook’s thigh to spread his legs apart for Taehyung to fit between them. Despite the icy fear that has melted into lukewarm nervousness about having a predator caging him in against his mattress, Taehyung’s closeness feels good. He’s warm and solid, a comfortable weight that presses down on Jungkook’s hips. It should be scary, and maybe it still is a little bit, but Jungkook mostly feels restless anticipation that eats away at his nervous system.

With his forearms resting above Jungkook’s shoulders, Taehyung brings himself down to kiss him as he rolls his hips into Jungkook’s spread legs, grinding their cocks together hard enough for Jungkook to gasp against Taehyung’s mouth.

“Mmmm,” Taehyung hums as he takes advantage of Jungkook’s parted lips to bite his bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth to suck it.

Jungkook curls his arms around Taehyung’s neck, tugging him down until their chests touch. He can feel their stomachs flutter, each breathing too hard to move in harmony, especially when Jungkook tries to meet Taehyung’s hips with each roll. Bucking up, he throws off Taehyung’s rhythm, making Taehyung release his lip with a turn of his head to chuckle against the vulnerable skin of Jungkook’s throat.

“You’re so hot,” Taehyung purrs.

“Am I?” It’s a genuine question, not Jungkook fishing for compliments, though the feeling Taehyung’s praise gives him is indescribable.

“Don’t believe me?”

The look Taehyung gives Jungkook is wicked, nothing like the teasing, boyish charm he usually smothers Jungkook with when they’re flirting under the guise of bantering. This look makes Jungkook’s stomach swoop and dip dangerously low.

“I… I don’t know,” Jungkook whispers, on the verge of cardiac arrest as Taehyung slowly lowers himself down Jungkook’s body.

“Oh bun,” Taehyung sighs like he’s disappointed in Jungkook’s answer. It makes Jungkook’s cheeks burn. “Do I need to show you just how hot I think you are?”

Taehyung’s wild eyes stare into Jungkook’s as he props himself up on his forearms to better see where Taehyung is now: on his stomach between his legs. He can’t speak and doesn’t even bother trying to when Taehyung curls his fingers around the elastic waistband of Jungkook’s sweatpants and slowly pulls them down, simultaneously unraveling Jungkook’s sanity.

“Lift your hips for me, bun.”

The whimper that slips from Jungkook’s lips is pathetic, breathy, and weak. He does as he’s told and gives up trying to be quiet as he hiccups through shallow breaths when Taehyung tugs his pants all the way down, taking his underwear with them to leave Jungkook fully exposed.

“Such a cute little cock,” Taehyung purrs, dark eyes shooting up to watch Jungkook’s face light up bright red.

Taehyung may have promised to be gentle, but he doesn’t hesitate. His hand wraps around Jungkook’s cock with confidence, his thumb immediately swiping over the precum that has already wet the tip.

“Oh my god,” Jungkook whines through his teeth in a poor attempt to keep quiet.

Yoongi’s presence right across the hall looms over Jungkook’s head as Taehyung begins pumping his cock, spreading the slippery precum in circles around the head with his thumb before spreading it further down to aid in the drag of his palm along the shaft.

Jungkook can’t stop squirming, even when Taehyung hooks one of his arms around his thigh to keep him still. All Taehyung is doing is jerking him off languidly and with a loose grip. Still, Jungkook already feels the overwhelming pressure of his orgasm building and pulsing every time Taehyung’s big hands engulf his cock.

“Fuck, you’re so sensitive. You’re soaking the bed,” Taehyung groans as he uses his grip on Jungkook’s thigh to spread him open further.

Jungkook chokes on his next inhale when Taehyung ducks his head to lick a fat stripe up Jungkook’s inner thigh, quietly moaning when he tastes Jungkook’s slippery slick. The visual of Taehyung’s wet, shiny lips and the sound of his low moan are enough to send Jungkook over the edge. He cums with a wail his neighbors and Yoongi are sure to hear, his eyes squeezed shut and his head thrown so far back that he can barely hold himself up on his forearms.

He only gets a few seconds to catch his breath before Taehyung starts pumping his cock again, the slide this time much smoother and more sensual since he uses Jungkook’s cum like lube.

“Tae-Taehyung, wait,” Jungkook gasps as he tries to sit up. He doesn’t get far. Taehyung’s clean palm presses against his lower abdomen, pushing him backward to rest on his forearms again despite the tremble ripples through his legs.

“Relax, bun, sit back and trust me.”

Jungkook doesn’t understand until Taehyung squeezes the base of his cock, holding it in place so he can keep it steady when he flicks his tongue against the wet tip, tasting him again.

“Tae —”

“You’re still hard,” Taehyung smirks as he tilts his head so he can press an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Jungkook’s cock and licks away the cum left behind on his lips. “And I heard bunnies can cum more than once. Is that true?”

It is, but Jungkook doesn’t know that as a fact. No one has ever gotten him off before, and the times he’s gotten off alone, he doesn’t think he was ever aroused enough to still be hard after. It has to be Taehyung doing this to him, but Jungkook can’t verbalize any of this. Every time he opens his mouth, a high-pitched moan comes out instead of actual words.

Not waiting for an answer to his question, Taehyung locks eyes with Jungkook as he closes his lips around the head of his cock. He suckles the head hard as he massages the underside with his tongue.

“Oh, my g-god, T-Tae,” Jungkook sobs, all his concerns about being too loud leaving his mind.

Everything leaves his mind. His brain completely blanks when Taehyung sucks more of his cock into his mouth with a low hum. He easily takes the whole thing until his nose is pressed against Jungkook’s lower abdomen, swallowing consecutively, each time harder than the last.

Jungkook can’t breathe. He digs his fingers into his blankets and squeezes them so tightly that he draws his entire body taunt. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even blink, just watches Taehyung bob his head to a rhythm just slow enough to keep Jungkook’s second orgasm at bay.

That is until Taehyung squeezes one of Jungkook’s thighs and presses it up so his bent leg drapes over Taehyung’s shoulder. Hot tears slip down Jungkook’s cheeks when Taehyung reaches between Jungkook’s legs to ease a long finger past his rim, the slick taking away any resistance. Swallowing at the same time he presses against Jungkook’s walls with his finger, Taehyung coaxes a second orgasm out of Jungkook as if he played him like an instrument.

Jungkook thinks he blacks out. Something skips in his brain, some kind of blip, like a scratched record or a flicker of the lights during a thunderstorm. His throat and chest burn, and his head throbs with the onset of a migraine.

Collapsing onto his back, Jungkook pants heavily. His arms and legs give out, flopping lifelessly at his sides. He thinks he hears Taehyung speak, but the ringing in his ears drowns out everything. It’s almost as disorienting as the black spots speckling his vision. The spots swim to new positions in his eyes every time he blinks, some tiny pinpricks while others are splotches large enough to block out whole items in his vision.

“Bun,” Taehyung calls out to him.

When Jungkook blinks, most of the black spots are gone, and he can see Taehyung’s pretty eyes staring into his soul. They’re bright, a soft amber, and his pupils are back to normal. Rather than lust twisting his expression, concern wrinkles his forehead.

“Hi,” Jungkook winces when his voice comes out hoarse.

“Fuck, you freaked me out,” Taehyung admits weakly. He brushes Jungkook’s sweaty bangs away from his face to kiss his forehead. “You, like, passed out while still being conscious.”

Jungkook scrunches his nose. “I don’t think that’s a thing, Tae.”

“Well, it just happened, and it freaked me the fuck out.”

Taehyung continues caressing Jungkook’s head, running his now clean fingers through Jungkook’s hair. It’s relaxing and contributes to the warm, sleepy feeling seeping into Jungkook’s body. Taehyung just got him off. His pretty, sweet, talented, funny, hot, precious tiger gave Jungkook two mind-blowing orgasms. Jungkook might consciously pass out again.

“Sorry for freaking you out,” Jungkook apologizes with a sweet smile that Taehyung can’t resist. He ducks his head down to kiss Jungkook, though this kiss is gentle and innocent — aside from the fact that Jungkook can taste himself on Taehyung. That in itself makes Jungkook’s stomach stir.

“I’m never giving you head ever again.”

Scrunching his eyebrows, Jungkook pouts as Taehyung helps him sit up and put his pants on. He cringes when he notices how wet the bed is; Taehyung hadn’t just said that to be sexy.

“No, it was nice. I liked it.”

“Of course you did,” Taehyung’s snort ends in a cocky smirk, “I’m great at it. But, also, everyone likes getting head.”

Emboldened by his sexual awakening — or perhaps lacking inhibitions from having a blank, loopy, fucked out brain — Jungkook eyes Taehyung’s crotch.

“Does that mean you like it?”

“Jungkook.” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s chin and forces him to look at him. “I think your brain hasn’t gotten enough oxygen.”

“Taehyung,” Jungkook whines, beating his fist softly against the bed. “I want to make you feel good, too. Let me try.”

Taehyung doesn’t let go of Jungkook’s face, but his hold slackens as he closes his eyes. He takes a deep, intentional breath that’s shaky when exhaled, despite how seemingly unaffected he is otherwise. Jungkook may not have the predatory urge to devour like Taehyung does, but he likes the idea of pleasuring Taehyung, knowing that he could give back what Taehyung has given to him.

“Please,” Jungkook whispers, and Taehyung can’t possibly say no.

“Hands only.” Taehyung gives Jungkook a pointed look as he settles at the head of the bed with his back against the wall and a pillow behind him to keep his tail comfortable.

Jungkook is riding an adrenaline-fueled, orgasmic high when he grabs Taehyung’s shoulders to steady himself as he swings a shaky leg over to straddle his thighs.

“I want to be able to kiss you easier,” Taehyung admits when he explains why he prefers that Jungkook straddle him rather than kneel beside him. It feels like a perfect position for Jungkook, who would spend the rest of his life staring into Taehyung’s eyes if he could.

Taehyung smacks Jungkook’s ass playfully to get him to lift up briefly so Taehyung can shimmy his jeans down until he can pull his cock out. Jungkook keeps his hands on Taehyung’s broad shoulders while Taehyung adjusts himself. It’s nerve-wracking, even though Jungkook insisted that this happen. Sweet, considerate Taehyung was willing to ignore his own arousal; Jungkook wouldn’t let it go.

So why is he so nervous now?

“It isn’t prickly,” Taehyung whispers with mischief sparkling in his eyes, likely noticing Jungkook’s sudden anxiety.

Jungkook smiles shyly when he asks, “No cheese grater?”

“No cheese grater.”

Taehyung’s hand is warm against Jungkook’s when he takes his hand from his shoulder and slowly brings it down to wrap it around his cock. They both sigh at the touch, the back of Taehyung’s head hitting the wall with a quiet thud.

Looking between them, Jungkook confirms Taehyung’s joke: no prickly dick. It looks just like Jungkook would expect, the same general look as his own, though much bigger — not that Jungkook ever fantasized about Taehyung’s dick. He most certainly did not!

“Spit first,” Taehyung instructs and hums in satisfaction when Jungkook spits in his hand before he drags his fist over his cock.

Once Jungkook has picked up a smooth rhythm, Taehyung squeezes the nape of his neck to pull him forward in a rough kiss. Jungkook’s head spins as Taehyung growls into the kiss, his teeth scraping and biting Jungkook’s lips, and his tongue laving over them like a soothing apology. Taehyung doesn’t whimper or whine like Jungkook had; instead, he growls and moans with a low purr that Jungkook feels rumble in his own chest.

“Go faster,” Taehyung purrs against Jungkook’s swollen lips as he bucks upward with a squeeze of Jungkook’s hips to keep him from toppling over.

Eager to please, Jungkook increases his movements, adding his other hand to roll over the wet tip of Taehyung’s cock. It’s a move that Jungkook enjoys on himself sometimes, so he’s pleased when Taehyung groans and tilts his head back. Jungkook leans forward to scatter kisses along Taehyung’s neck, too afraid to suck deep bruises there but enjoying the feel of the smooth skin beneath his lips.

“Does it feel good?” Jungkook asks shyly, his breath catching in his throat when Taehyung’s dark gaze falls on him again.

“Mm, yeah, you’re doing a good job, bun,” Taehyung caresses the side of Jungkook’s face, holding his cheek in a gesture too soft for what they’re doing. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen and he almost stops moving.

“Oh! What do I do?”

Taehyung quickly grabs Jungkook’s hand and continues jerking himself off using Jungkook's hand until he’s confident Jungkook won’t stop.

“Cover it.”

Jungkook watches for a sign and thinks he finds one when Taehyung squirms briefly before his body locks up with a low moan that he releases as he leans forward to nuzzle the crook of Jungkook’s neck. Maybe it’s cliche, but Jungkook thinks Taehyung is beautiful like this, swept up in raw pleasure.

Then again, Jungkook thinks Taehyung is always beautiful.

It’s a messy affair, but Jungkook knew it would be, so he has a small towel on hand. He stays still until Taehyung calms down, only cleaning him up once Taehyung is no longer too sensitive. They’re both loopy and exhausted from their orgasms but also from the unique energy it takes to experience intimacy with someone new for the first time — especially for Jungkook.

“So much for a PG date,” Taehyung grins while he wiggles into the biggest sweatpants Jungkook could find in his closet. They’re still too tight on Taehyung and end right at his ankles, but they’re more comfortable than jeans.

“Our date was technically over, so I don’t think this counts.”

Jungkook yawns and pats the bed for Taehyung to climb under the blankets. The bed isn’t big enough for both of them to lie side by side, so Jungkook lies on Taehyung’s chest. It’s more comfortable than a mattress, if Jungkook wants to be corny.

“I can ask hyung if you can sleep over,” Jungkook offers quietly.

“I’m pretty sure he’ll never want me back in your dorm ever again,” Taehyung says in a grave tone, and Jungkook can tell he’s serious. “I’m actually afraid to leave this room right now.”

“Oh my gosh, Tae.”

“Bun… you are loud. You are so loud.”

With a whine, Jungkook tucks his face against Taehyung’s chest to hide his embarrassment. It doesn’t matter; they turned the lights off, so the room is too dark to notice Jungkook’s pink cheeks. Even then, Taehyung doesn’t need to see Jungkook’s face to know he’s being shy.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fucking hot.”

Taehyung gently scratches the dark fur of Jungkook’s ears, and Jungkook can hear the smile in his voice. Too tired to scold Taehyung for causing him even more embarrassment, Jungkook closes his eyes and focuses on the steady beat of Taehyung’s heart and basks in the warmth that comes with falling asleep in Taehyung’s arms for the second night in a row.

Even if Yoongi will be pissed when he realizes Taehyung never left.

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Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd &daddytaehyungie).

#taehyung x jungkook #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #venor #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #taekook fanfic

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