Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, elbows digging into his thighs. The box in his hands felt heavier than it should’ve been for something supposedly made of “ultralight silicone and smart components.” He hadn’t opened it yet, more like just stared at it for… god, twenty minutes? Probably longer. He turned it over slowly in his palms, watching the matte black surface catch the warm lamplight, like it might suddenly explain itself if he stared hard enough. It wouldn’t…obviously. It didn’t even have a mouth. 

The logo was small, sleek, futuristic, and read EroSync—which was somehow worse than if it had said nothing at all. It was the kind of branding that practically whispered this is going to change your life in a very market-researched way. Jungkook sighed through his nose, shifted on the mattress, and tried not to notice the way his dick was pressing awkwardly against the waistband of his sweats. Again. It wasn’t even the good kind of hard—more like an anticipatory, confused, ‘is-this-happening?’  kind of half-chub that made him feel like a teenager discovering friction for the first time.

The worst part was that this was all his roommate’s fault.

Park Jimin, whose job title Jungkook could never quite remember—something about ‘user experience design’ and ‘neural interface integration’—whatever the hell that meant. The older man worked for one of those buzzy tech start-ups in Seoul with a privacy policy longer than the fucking Bible and a whole floor dedicated to sexual wellness research and development. Jimin had once offhandedly mentioned that their team was working on “next-gen AI-driven pleasure tech,” and Jungkook had laughed it off, assuming he was joking. But then Christmas came, and this…thing ended up in his stocking, all wrapped up like it was an average stocking stuffer.

Who the hell gives someone a prototype neural-synced smart masturbator as a gag gift?

Gag gifts were supposed to be stupid and cheap, right? Something you laugh at once and then toss in a drawer and never speak of again. Not some high-end, pre-launch sex tech that looked like it came straight out of Ex Machina. And they certainly were not supposed to come with product manuals and lithium battery warnings and MFDS certification stamps.

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and tries to understand just exactly how he ended up in this situation. He even lets the ridiculous little record scratch play in his head.

It had started—stupidly, obviously—with the stocking stuffers, just like it did every year. Two dumbasses, one tacky fireplace, and a war of escalation disguised as holiday cheer. Jungkook had thought he won last year with the corn dildo. It’d been a certified gag-gift masterpiece, honestly. It was equal parts disturbing and hilarious and he’d caught Jimin full-on wheezing when he pulled it out.

A corn-shaped dildo with “COUNTRY GIRLS MAKE DO” engraved on the side. According to their other friends—who he Facetimed to show as Jimin dumped his stocking—the gift was ridiculous—iconic even, and perfectly acceptable between two bros pulling pranks on one another. He’s pretty sure it’s still sitting on Jimin’s bookshelf next to his extensive textbook collection, because he refused to be bullied by it.

But this year? This year, Jimin didn’t just retaliate—he practically did the equivalent of some teenage punk giving a big ‘fuck you’ to his neighbors by turning his speaker volume up by 200. In other words, he’d escalated this whole prank war by a huge margin. And he did it like it was no big deal.

Jungkook hadn’t even known what it was at first—just felt the weight of it in the box and pulled off the lid expecting something ridiculous. Maybe a fuzzy cock ring, or some kind of custom-printed t-shirt that said “I love feet.” Something cursed or funny, but not whatever the hell this was.

Not a soft black case containing a slick, ergonomic device that looked disturbingly medical, along with a folded-up instruction manual and a slim neural headband labeled “For Optimal Fantasy Response.” And definitely not Jimin standing at the edge of the kitchen, watching him open it and sipping from a wine glass with that smug little ‘I win’ grin tugging at his mouth.

“You’re kidding,” Jungkook had choked out, holding the toy up like it was radioactive.

“Why would I kid about that?” Jimin replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s cutting-edge tech. I figured you’d appreciate the software side. You know, from one nerd to another.”

“The thing connects to your brainwaves?”

“You said you wanted to try more immersive devices, didn’t you?”

“I meant VR goggles, hyung!”

“Whatever, same vibe—pun intended.” 

Jungkook had just stood there for a second, floundering, flushing in real time like his internal temperature had spiked twenty degrees. Jimin didn’t even blink. He just took another sip of wine and wandered back toward the couch as if it was nothing, and he hadn’t just handed his roommate a dick-milking robot and walked off like he was gifting him a new rice cooker.

“That’s one of the pre-launch prototypes. Be gentle with it. You break it, and you’ll owe the company five grand.” Jimin had added so casually as he flipped through tv channels.

Jungkook laughed then. Tried to shrug it off like it was just another one of their traditions spiraling out of control. But now, alone in his room with the box still untouched in his lap, he wasn’t laughing. He was half-hard and anxious and weirdly guilty, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. Just… thought about it. A lot. Too much.

But yeah. Sure, this was all normal, and he should just test it out—maybe give Jimin his UX notes and fill out a little survey afterward with helpful comments like, “Suction a little too good when letting this machine ride me into the couch cushions.”

Jesus Christ.

He looked down at the label again, the tagline embossed beneath the logo in small silver font.

“AI-responsive stimulation. Fantasy-adaptive. Hands-free. Mind-blown.”

That last one made him wince—then again, marketing copy always did. But the rest of it—the “fantasy-adaptive” part especially—was the phrase that kept looping through his brain like a song lyric he couldn’t shake. What did that even mean? What counted as a fantasy? How was it supposed to know?

He’d read the specs online, because of course he had. He was an engineer, not a caveman. There was a neural band that came with the device—a thin, flexible strip that sat over the temples and fed low-frequency brain activity into the AI’s processor. The toy itself would sync with the user’s arousal cues, adjusting pressure, rhythm, even heat, all based on the vividness of their thoughts. No messy array of buttons, and no corny porn scripts to follow. Just… you and your imagination.

And that was the part messing him up.

Because it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It wasn’t like Jungkook was some kind of prude. He has used toys before, and even had one of those sad little fleshlights he’d purchased with the few won he managed to scrounge together in college. He kept it hidden in a drawer and certainly gave it a run for its money, before eventually throwing it away when it got too annoying to clean. But this? This wasn’t just some rubber sleeve and a vague vibration setting. This thing knew you. It read you, and it responded.

He couldn’t decide if that was terrifying or hot. Maybe both.

This is not a big deal, Jungkook. You are a grown-ass man. You have a degree, and you build machine learning models for a living. You once coded a bot that could play Flappy Bird using nothing but facial expressions. You can totally figure out how to jerk off with a smart tube.

Jungkook exhaled hard and dropped his forehead into his hand, palm dragging across his face as if that might clear the fog from his brain. His room felt too warm, and his shirt clung a little too much to the back of his neck. God, this was so fucking dumb.

It’s not like there’s an audience watching him or anything—so why was he still sitting there like an idiot trying to psych himself up? Jimin wasn’t going to barge in and laugh at him either. They weren’t teenagers. They lived together, they were adults, and they had boundaries. Probably.

And this was just curiosity. Just…testing. Seeing how it worked.

For science or software analysis or whatever. Not because he’d been walking around with a semi since he read the user manual. Right.

He stared at the box one more time. Then, slowly, he set it down beside him on the bed and reached for the lid. Okay, he wasn’t going to like, genuinely use it, not really. He was just going to skim the quick-start guide. Probably charge it. And maybe, if he felt like it, just test how the band fit. Not because he wanted to. Just… because it was a gift. Totally normal roommate stuff.

The inside of the box looked suspiciously elegant. There was a quick-start guide folded in minimalist trifold cardstock, nestled next to the toy itself—a soft black device with a discreet opening and gently curved shape, like some kind of luxury thermos with a superiority complex. Underneath it sat the neural band. Thin, flexible, and somehow intimidating in its simplicity.

He swallowed, then reached for it like it might bite.

No less than ten minutes later—because apparently it already was precharged—he was sitting in bed wearing the band across his temples, the toy propped on a small towel between his legs, and his laptop open beside him—just in case.

Not that he needed it. He wasn’t here for porn, he was here to test a product. Again… it’s just a gift…from a friend. And if his dick happened to be out, well—so be it.

“Okay,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Power on. Sync band. Engage arousal protocol.”

“…Jesus, I sound like a fucking video game boss.”

He clicked the button.The toy lit up with a soft hum, a cool blue glow pulsing faintly at the base.

[ Welcome ] a robotic female voice purred through the app. 

[ Please begin focusing on your preferred fantasy. ]

He blinked and stared at the screen, then stared at the toy.

“Focus,” he echoed flatly. “Right.”

The first thing that popped into his head was the words “preferred fantasy.” Which, ironically, made it impossible to think of an actual one. His brain sputtered, like trying to cold-start a car in the dead of winter. He closed his eyes and tried to picture something—someone—anything.

Boobs, soft hands, maybe someone straddling him. Yeah, okay, that was fine. That was safe. Someone hot—anyone. Jihyo from Twice? Her tits were nice. IU? Her lips were cute and pink. That girl from the sandwich shop who always gave him extra pickles? His dick twitched once. The toy gave a weak pulse in response, then fell quiet again.

What the fuck?

Jungkook frowned and adjusted the band, pressing it more snugly against his temples.

“Focus,” he muttered again, like a man begging his dick to cooperate.

He tried harder. Visualized a warm mouth, a pair of squeezing thighs, and a hand tugging at his hair. He imagined breathy moans, soft skin, a voice in his ear—

The toy buzzed again, slower this time, and kind of lazy. Then it stalled. The glow dimmed, and Jungkook looked down at it like it had practically insulted him.

“You’re giving up? I’m trying here!”

The app chimed.

[ Neural activity inconsistent. Please refocus or recalibrate. ]

“I am focused! I’m trying to get railed by a sex thermos, what more do you want from me?!”

He slapped a hand over his mouth after the outburst and looked at the door like someone might’ve heard. The apartment was quiet. Still mortifying. He sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. Okay, this really was so fucking dumb.

The machine wasn’t broken—it was him. He couldn’t stop overthinking. The moment he started imagining anything remotely sexy, his brain would short-circuit and start going.

Jimin gave me this. Jimin said I owe five grand if I break it. Jimin called it cutting-edge tech and then went back to watching The Holiday like he didn’t just ruin my life.

It was impossible to focus when his thoughts kept looping like that. Not that he was thinking about Jimin. That would be weird. They were just good friends. Good roommates. Totally normal, totally platonic bros. He looked back down at the toy, still weakly glowing like it was bored of him.

“Cool,” he muttered. “So the machine thinks I’m unfuckable.”

He didn’t hear the door at first.

Which was weird, because usually he could hear Jimin’s footsteps from the hallway—the soft slap of socks on hardwood, the telltale creak of the doorframe when he leaned in like he owned the place. But this time, maybe the shame had dulled his hearing. Maybe God had simply decided to abandon him. Either way, the door cracked open without warning, and Jimin’s voice followed a second later, bright and unassuming.

“By the way, you’re cooking tomorrow. I’m not letting myself burn the rice again in a pot just because you refuse to get us a new ricecooker—”

He stopped. Jungkook froze, and his world basically exploded into a million pieces.

There was a long, horrible beat of silence. Jimin stood in the doorway, mid-stride, holding a water bottle in one hand and blinking like he’d just walked in on a crime scene. And honestly? He had.

Jungkook was still sitting on the bed, neural band on his temples, dick out (not fully hard, worse), and the sleek, futuristic masturbator cradled in his hands like a very expensive, very disinterested pet.

Their eyes met.

Then Jimin’s gaze slowly tracked down. Then back up. Then down again, before he laughed.

“Dude.”

Jungkook wanted to die.

Dude,” Jimin said again, choked through a half-snort, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Jungkook scrambled like he’d just been caught looking at hentai in a library. Which, honestly, might’ve been less embarrassing.

“It’s not—!” He grabbed the towel, yanked it over his lap, flailed toward the nightstand like maybe if he touched enough random objects the shame would go away. “I wasn’t— I mean I was, but it’s not—Jesus fucking Christ.”

Jimin stepped further into the room, already grinning. “You look like you just got caught jacking off with an alien.”

“I wasn’t even— It’s not working!” Jungkook snapped, gesturing at the toy like it had betrayed him. “The dumb thing’s broken. Or defective. Or it hates me. I don’t know!”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Really? My precious five-thousand-dollar prototype is broken?”

Jungkook groaned and covered his face with both hands. “Please shut up.”

“No, no,” Jimin said, still laughing. “This is incredible. You look like a kid who got caught stealing snacks before dinner.”

“You didn’t knock!”

“I live here!”

“You made me do this!”

“Ohhh, I made you jerk off with the neural cock tube? That’s rich.”

“I didn’t even jerk off! I tried, but it didn’t work! A-and I was just—testing it out, okay? I didn’t want to break it. I didn’t want to owe you five grand!”

That shut Jimin up for a second. Jungkook then  peeked between his fingers, ears burning. Jimin stared at him, then blinked and shrugged.

“…Okay, fair. That’s responsible of you.”

Another silence passed, but less soul-crushing this time. Just awkward. Jimin stepped closer and peered at the toy. 

“Did you sync the band first?” he asked, suddenly all business. “It won’t engage the stroking mechanism unless it gets at least baseline arousal feedback through the band.”

“I read the guide,” Jungkook muttered, insulted. “I even tried thinking about boobs and thighs and like, whatever. It just buzzed a little and then gave up.”

“Damn,” Jimin said, biting back another smile. “You couldn’t even get the AI hard.”

“Do you want me to die?”

Jimin tilted his head. “Nah. This is more fun.”

Jungkook dropped his head back against the wall and groaned, voice muffled by the towel still awkwardly draped across his lap. His dick had mostly deflated by now, thank god, but the residual heat of mortification was still clinging to every inch of skin.

“Look,” he muttered, trying not to sound like a child, “it’s clearly defective or something. I’ll put it away. I won’t touch it again. Just please don’t make fun of me forever.”

Jimin hummed.

“Or… I could help.”

The words echoed, slow and ridiculous, like they’d been processed through reverb and bad decision-making. Jungkook blinked at him, then stared like he wasn’t sure what dimension he was in anymore.

“Help,” he repeated, cautiously.

Jimin didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, like coaching. You clearly can’t get into the right headspace on your own.”

“I can,” Jungkook muttered, a little too fast, a little too defensive.

Jimin gave him a once-over, gaze flicking pointedly to the limp, twitchy failure of a toy in his lap. “Mhm. And that’s why you’re red in the face and getting ghosted by a fuckbot.”

“I was focused!”

“On what, Quantum theory?”

Jungkook made a noise in the back of his throat—something halfway between a groan and a strangled protest. “I just—shut up, okay? I wasn’t gonna do the full thing. Like I said already, I was just testing it. And I wasn’t trying to be serious about it either, because you said I’d owe you five grand if I broke it.”

“And you’re worried it’s defective?” Jimin asked, lips twitching with suppressed amusement.

“Yes! Obviously! It’s not responding to anything.”

Jimin’s expression softened just a bit. “You think I’d give you a broken one?”

“I don’t know, hyung,” Jungkook huffed, slouching deeper into the pillows. “Figured you really were out to get me since I bought you a vibrating corn dildo and said it came from a farmer’s market.”

“That was an insane gift and you know it.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t count as grounds to judge me while I fail to jerk off.”

Jimin snorted, then stood up. “Alright, fine. Let me help. As a bro. Purely academic.”

There was a long beat. Jungkook squinted at him, deeply skeptical.

“This is just bro behavior,” he said, more to himself than anything.

Jimin just smiled. “Totally.”

He sat beside Jungkook like this was a normal conversation and not a full-blown crisis. He was close enough that he could even feel the warmth of his thigh through his sweatpants, the faint scent of his body wash clinging to his hoodie—something clean and citrusy and mildly evil. Jungkook tried not to react, tried not to sweat, and tried not to look like he was about to be emotionally waterboarded by his own dick.

“Okay,” Jimin said calmly. “Walk me through what you tried to do before.”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook muttered, staring at the toy like it might burst into flames. “I just… put the band on, focused, and tried to think about, you know, boobs. But the thing barely buzzed and then quit.”

“Boobs,” Jimin echoed flatly.

“Not just boobs,” Jungkook hissed. “Thighs too.”

“Wow. Truly revolutionary fantasy work.”

“I didn’t know I needed to write a screenplay!”

Jimin huffed a short laugh, then reached over and adjusted the band on Jungkook’s temples. His fingers were gentle, warm, and annoyingly steady.

“Close your eyes,” he said softly.

Jungkook hesitated.

“Seriously, just breathe. Trust me.”

That made something weird roll through his chest, but he obeyed. He let his lashes flutter shut as his hands came to rest awkwardly on his thighs. He could still feel the device cradled between his legs, waiting. Cool silicone against the heat of his skin. No movement, no pressure, just the eerie sense of being watched by tech and best friend both.

“Alright,” Jimin murmured, voice lower now. “You’re in your room. The lights are off, and it’s warm. There’s someone in your lap.”

Jungkook’s pulse jumped, barely registering the quiet hum from the toy’s base as the sync started to engage.

“They’re straddling you. Not rushing—just moving slowly. You can feel the drag of their hips. Their breath on your neck.”

The toy gave a cautious twitch as his dick began jerking to life. Jungkook swallowed hard.

“Their hands are on your shoulders. Their mouth is right by your ear. You like being teased, don’t you?”

Jungkook opened his mouth to answer—something, anything—but no words came out. Because the pressure in his gut had just tightened. His cock had twitched.

His dick was fully hard, and it wasn’t the machine or him doing it, for that matter. To be honest, it hadn’t even really started moving yet. It was Jimin’s voice, the way he said the words. Slow, almost clinical, but somehow still intimate. Intentional, and laced with something unnamable that Jungkook didn’t have the brain cells to unpack. His eyes stayed shut, but he could feel it happening, could feel the heat crawling up his chest. The coil of arousal winding low in his belly, sharper now, less confused.

The toy gave another hum—smooth, strong, almost gentle—and Jungkook shivered at the sudden pressure. The sleeve adjusted around him in a slow, slick pulse, just tight enough to make him squirm. It wasn’t mechanical the way he expected. There was nothing jerky or artificial about it. The movement was fluid, perfectly calibrated, warm in a way that made his toes curl.

And it was working.

Jimin’s voice stayed steady and low, lips close to Jungkook’s ear, syllables soft and warm like he was whispering a secret instead of guiding him toward total collapse.

“There’s someone in your lap,” he repeated, calm as ever. “You can feel the weight of them. The way they move—slow, teasing, like they know how desperate you are.”

The sleeve stroked again, firmer this time. A little more suction. Heat blooming where it gripped him tight. Jungkook’s hands curled into the sheets.

“They’re grinding on you now,” Jimin said, soft but unrelenting. “Skin to skin. Their thighs squeezing yours. Can you feel that?”

He nodded instinctively, but Jimin didn’t let him off the hook.

“Say it.”

Jungkook’s breath caught. “Y-Yeah. I can feel it.”

“What do they feel like?”

His pulse throbbed. The toy twisted slightly with the next stroke—less like a toy now, more like a slick, tight mouth dragging down the length of his cock with practiced ease.

“Warm,” Jungkook said hoarsely. “Soft. They’re… close. Grinding down on me hard.”

“Are they saying anything?”

Jungkook’s throat was dry. His voice cracked when he answered. “Yeah. They’re teasing. Saying they want me.”

“You like that?”

He nodded again. “Yeah.”

“Tell me what they want.”

Jungkook’s back arched slightly as the sleeve pulled tighter, every stroke a perfect pressure glide. His breath was starting to catch. His thighs were flexing. Every nerve in his body was winding tighter.

“They want me to fuck them,” he gasped. “They’re begging for it.”

The toy rewarded him instantly. The sleeve sucked down in a slow, slick pull, hugging every inch of him while stroking back up with obscene precision. His hips lifted instinctively into it, a broken gasp slipping out as the band buzzed faintly with the surge of neural feedback.

“Good boy,” Jimin said beside him, voice a little softer now. “Just like that.”

Jungkook shuddered.

“You’re so hard,” Jimin murmured. “So worked up from your own imagination. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook panted, eyes shut tight. “Yeah, f-fuck—feels so good.”

The toy didn’t stop. It knew now, because it had his rhythm, his breath, and his fantasy.

“They’re close too,” Jimin said. “You can feel them getting desperate and wanting to come with you. Clenching around you. You want that?”

Jungkook groaned, body tensing like a live wire.

“Y-Yeah—fuck, I want—”

“Want to come inside?” Jimin whispered, voice like velvet laced with poison. “Fill them up? Watch them take all of it?”

The toy stroked again—slower this time, but tighter, deeper, pulling him right to the edge and keeping him there. It was too much, and not enough—the same feeling he got when fucking into the pretty women he’d bring home from the club. Perfect.

“You’re gonna come so hard,” Jimin said. “Go ahead. Let go.”

Jungkook choked on a breath. His hips bucked up once—twice—and then he snapped. The orgasm hit like a sucker punch, white-hot and all-consuming. His whole body convulsed as the toy stroked him through it, silky pressure milking every pulse from his cock while he spilled into it with a full-body gasp.

His mouth dropped open as his eyes rolled back. He made a sound—a wrecked, broken groan that didn’t even sound like him. Hips twitching, legs shaking, thighs clenching hard as the machine kept stroking him in smooth, perfect pulses.

“Good,” Jimin said quietly from beside him.

It took longer than it should have for the toy to stop. When it did, the sleeve loosened, the suction faded, and the soft whir of the internal motor dimmed down to nothing. The band beeped twice—polite, professional, like it hadn’t just ruined him.

Jungkook collapsed back into the pillows, chest heaving, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He was dizzy. Light-headed. Floating. He felt like he’d been wrung out and then tossed into space.

Jimin stood up.

“Cool,” he said, clapping once. “Let me show you how to clean it.”

Jungkook cracked one eye open. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope!” Jimin chirped, suddenly all business again. “This part’s important—if you don’t dismantle it properly, it won’t dry all the way and mold starts to form inside the canal. Learned that the hard way during R&D.”

Jungkook was still slumped against the pillows, limp in every limb, his brain slowly leaking out his ears, while Jimin plopped down cross-legged at the foot of the bed and flipped the device over like he was showing off a model kit.

“See? The chamber detaches here, and then you pull the liner out—careful, it’s gonna be full of your—yep, there it is. Damn, you really filled it, dude. Kinda proud of you.”

Jungkook buried his face in his hands.

“I hate you,” he muttered.

“No you don’t,” Jimin said cheerfully, rinsing the sleeve in the little cleaning bucket he’d brought in like he’d planned this. “You love me, and you love my tech.”

He winked.

“But mostly? You just got milked by a machine and I walked you through it. So if you need some time to recover emotionally, I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t forget to re-lube the chamber before next time.”

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The worst part was that Jungkook had been excited.

Genuinely excited, in the way you get when you think you’ve finally found a solution to a problem you didn’t realize had been grinding you down for months. He’d been in a dry spell before Christmas—too busy, too tired, too deep in work to bother with dating apps that felt more exhausting than helpful. He hadn’t even been that mad about it. Just vaguely aware of the absence, like background noise you only notice once it stops.

So when Jimin gave him the toy—ridiculous circumstances aside—there had been a real flicker of anticipation under the embarrassment. A hands-free, fantasy-adaptive device that could basically do the work for him? In theory, it was perfect. Efficient. Elegant. Exactly the kind of thing that should’ve slotted neatly into his life and quietly solved the problem.

Except it didn’t.

Six days later, post-brogasm session, Jungkook was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and the thing was still sitting in his nightstand like a very expensive paperweight.

He’d tried again. More than once. Carefully, methodically, the way he approached everything else in his life. He charged it fully, recalibrated the band, and read the manual again, slower this time. Jungkook even followed the troubleshooting section like a good little engineer.

Nothing.

The device would respond just enough to get his hopes up—a faint hum, a bit of tentative tightening—before stalling out entirely, like it was waiting for something he couldn’t give it on his own. His body would start to warm, interest sparking low in his gut, and then his thoughts would drift, and the feedback would drop, and the whole thing would quietly disengage.

It wasn’t frustrating in a normal way. It wasn’t even about the orgasm. It was the implication.

Because the only time it had worked—really worked—was with Jimin sitting right there, calm and unhurried, talking him through it like it was second nature. The realization had been creeping up on him all week, unwelcome and impossible to shake. The toy hadn’t been responding to his fantasy so much as it had been responding to the way Jimin guided it.

The tone of his voice. The pacing. The ease with which he’d pulled the words out of Jungkook’s mouth and then rewarded him for saying them. Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face.

Fuck.

He’d tried to tell himself it was just novelty, just embarrassment magnifying the memory, but that excuse got thinner every time he failed to get the thing to sync again. If the toy was supposed to adapt to imagination, then why was his imagination suddenly so useless without Jimin’s voice anchoring it? And why—why—had Jimin been so effortlessly neutral about it?

That part gnawed at him the most. The way Jimin hadn’t specified anything, hadn’t steered the fantasy in any obvious direction, had simply kept his voice smooth and open-ended, letting Jungkook fill in the blanks himself. It was professional, sure. Sensible, even. But it also meant Jungkook couldn’t stop wondering whether that neutrality was habit or intention.

Was that just how Jimin talked to everyone?

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

Because if Jimin was straight—really, unquestionably straight—then what had that moment been? Just a technician doing his job a little too well? A friend helping another friend out of an awkward situation, completely unaware of how deeply it had landed?

And if he wasn’t…

Jungkook groaned softly and rolled onto his side, shoving his face into the couch cushion.

Down the hall, Jimin was humming to himself in the kitchen, perfectly at ease, the sound of chopping and sizzling drifting through the apartment like any other night. There was no tension in his movements, no hesitation in the way he spoke when he called out a moment later, voice light and normal as ever.

“Hey, I’m making stir-fry. You want rice or noodles?”

Jungkook stared at the wall. How was he supposed to answer that? How was he supposed to act like his roommate hadn’t calmly dismantled him with a combination of voice modulation and applied neuroscience, then gone right back to discussing cookware and grocery lists?

“Rice,” he said eventually, because he was a coward.

“Cool, we have plenty of it leftover anyway” Jimin replied, entirely unbothered.

That was the problem. Jimin didn’t know.

He didn’t see the way Jungkook’s excitement had curdled into something restless and sharp, something he couldn’t file away as just a failed gadget or a bad week. He didn’t notice the way Jungkook flinched every time he remembered how easy it had been for Jimin to take control, or how impossible it now felt to replicate that ease alone.

────୨ৎ────

He even tried to take care of it by hand.

Late one night, after another failed attempt with the device, Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed and stared down at himself like his dick had personally offended him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get hard—he could. Sort of. But it felt mechanical and almost disconnected.

He lubed up. Focused. Tried to shut his brain off. For a few minutes, it almost worked. He pictured someone riding him, skin pressed to his, mouth on his neck. That used to be enough. A warm fantasy, a little friction, and boom—problem solved. But halfway through, his rhythm faltered. He blinked, and suddenly all he could hear was the echo of Jimin’s voice again—low and close and deliberate.

“Tell me what they feel like.”

“You’re doing so well.”

“Good boy.”

His fist slowed. The image in his mind dissolved.

All he could think about was that night—how easy it had been. How instinctive it felt when Jimin spoke. Like his body had just listened. Obeyed. He let out a frustrated breath and flopped onto his back, arm flung over his face. His dick was still in his hand, going soft.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered.

He didn’t even want to come anymore. Not like this, and not without…help. That was the part that pissed him off the most. Not the dry spell. Not even the wretched toy. It was the fact that his body had learned something. It had adjusted. His body  wanted the voice, the pacing, the instruction. It wanted Jimin.

He tried to forget about it over dinner.

Jimin had cooked again—spicy pork, perfectly balanced seasoning, a little too much green onion, the way he liked it. Jungkook sat across from him at their tiny kitchen table, the one they’d picked up from a secondhand shop three years ago, the one with the uneven leg that wobbled when Jimin leaned too far on it. Normally, dinners were easy. Laughter, teasing, half-watched dramas playing in the background. Tonight, Jungkook barely spoke.

He was starving for something, and it wasn’t food.

Jimin didn’t seem to notice the shift at first. He was talking about work again—something about new firmware updates for the final product, how they’d found a bug in the thermal regulation subroutine, how the new lube capsules were going to be scented.

“Vanilla’s apparently a big hit with beta testers,” he said, spearing a piece of pork with his chopsticks. “But the dev team’s pushing for lavender. Says it’s more ‘soothing.’”

Jungkook made a noncommittal sound.

Jimin glanced at him. “You okay?”

He nodded, took a bite of rice he didn’t taste.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

Jungkook opened his mouth. The words were right there.

Can you help me again? I can’t get it to work without you. Your voice makes me come.

But instead, what came out was,

“I think the suction’s too sensitive.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“The toy,” Jungkook said quickly, heart pounding. “Like, the internal pressure response. It seems like it stalls out too early. Might be a calibration thing.”

Jimin nodded, thoughtful. “Hmm. Yeah, could be. Especially if your brainwave peaks aren’t sustained.”

Jungkook took a big sip of water so he wouldn’t scream. Jimin talked for another ten minutes, and Jungkook nodded along. His jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. Every brush of Jimin’s voice lit up something under his skin, something raw and oversensitive. He tried not to think about what it would feel like to ask.

To let Jimin take over again.

To hear him say “good boy” one more time, just as calm, just as patient, while his whole body fell apart again.

By the end of the meal, he could barely look up.

Jimin stood, collecting plates. “Wanna do dishes or clean the stove?”

“Dishes,” Jungkook said, too fast.

He needed to run water over his hands. He needed to breathe. He needed to jerk off, and he couldn’t.

────୨ৎ────

It was nearly one in the morning.

The hallway was quiet, the kind of still that only settled over the apartment when both of them were home and the city outside had finally quieted down. A faint strip of light glowed beneath Jimin’s door—soft and warm, like he’d left his bedside lamp on, probably reading or playing some puzzle game in bed. Jungkook stood just outside it, hoodie sleeves tugged over his fists, bare feet cold against the floor. He looked like he was about to confess to a crime.

Which, honestly, it kind of felt like it.

He’d tried, again, for the third night in a row since the week-long struggle he’d already endured. He dragged out the EroSync, put the band on, set the mood, even pulled up an old favorite video for backup—but still nothing. No spark, no rhythm. Just him lying there with lube on his stomach and the humiliating realization that he might actually be hopelessly addicted to his roommate’s voice. Which didn’t make any sense—he was straight.

He took a breath, then knocked—quietly, twice, like if he made it sound casual enough, it would be casual. A few seconds later, the door opened.

Jimin stood there, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep, wearing a t-shirt and soft pajama pants that hung low on his hips. His glasses were askew. He looked so normal—so unbothered—and so…pretty? Fuck, could Jungkook say that? Why was he thinking about his friend like this? Why was his roommate suddenly the prettiest man he’d ever seen? Well, now that he was thinking about it, Jimin was pretty enough to pass as a woman—

 “Jungkook?” he mumbled, rubbing one eye. “You good?”

The interruption of his totally-not-gay thoughts almost made Jungkook retreat on instinct. But Jungkook has more balls than that. He thinks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just—uh. Real quick. I need a favor.”

Jimin blinked, visibly trying to compute that sentence at this hour. “Now?”

Jungkook nodded too fast. “I mean—it’ll only take, like, a few minutes. You don’t even have to do much. I just…I think the toy’s still not working right, and I figured, like, you helped before and it worked fine then, so maybe it’s just something with the way I’m syncing, or whatever. I don’t know. But I was thinking maybe you could…talk me through it again.”

The silence that followed was so loud.

Jimin stared at him, one eyebrow slowly climbing.

“You woke me up,” he said, voice flat, “to ask if I could dirty talk you into using a smart fleshlight again.”

Jungkook immediately backtracked. “No, not dirty talk. Just like…helpful commentary. Technical support, but with voice prompts.”

Jimin just looked at him.

“I’m testing it for you, remember,” Jungkook added, trying to sound logical. “Like QA stuff. Purely functional. You know, bro shit.”

Jimin blinked once. “Bro shit.”

“Exactly.”

Another pause.

Jimin exhaled through his nose. “Let me get this straight. You’re standing here at one in the morning asking me—your friend, your roommate, someone who shares a lease with you—if I can sit next to you and whisper fantasy prompts into your ear while a machine jerks you off. Again.”

“Yes,” Jungkook said, somehow both sheepish and hopeful.

Jimin pressed a hand over his face. “I’m gonna regret this.”

“Probably.”

He let his hand fall and gave Jungkook a slow, tired once-over. “And you’re calling this straight behavior?”

Jungkook shrugged. “It’s just, like… you were really good at it.”

Jimin stared, then sighed.

“Get in here before I change my mind.”

The moment Jungkook stepped into Jimin’s room, he regretted everything. He couldn’t even look at him right away.

Instead, he sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, one palm braced beside him, the other resting way too awkwardly over the top of the sleek black case like he was guarding it. Like if he didn’t hold it, it might float off and humiliate him all on its own. Which was dumb, because nothing could humiliate him worse than what he was about to do voluntarily.

Jimin shut the door behind him and crossed the room. “So,” he said, stopping in front of him, “ready to give it another try?”

That shouldn’t have made Jungkook’s ears go warm. It was just troubleshooting—just one tech-savvy bro helping another. Except when Jimin sat down, the mattress dipped a little under their combined weight, and his knee bumped Jimin’s. And suddenly he was very aware that he was still holding a dick-sucking robot in his hands like it was some cursed offering.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, giving a soft, helpless laugh. “Define ready.”

“…Not ready?”

“I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Technically.”

“I brought the damn thing.”

“You also look like you’d rather be hit by a bus.”

Jungkook threw his head back and groaned. “Don’t make it worse.”

“I’m not, I’m just helping with my words.” Jimin tapped the side of his temple, deadpan. “My beautiful, helpful brain.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself, trying to shake off the tension gripping his spine like a vice. “Okay, well—just remember I asked for tech support, not—whatever last time was.”

“You were literally looked like you wanted me to keep going by the end of ‘whatever last time was.’”

“That’s slander.”

“That’s just my memory.”

Jungkook’s face burned. He rubbed his palm down his thigh and cleared his throat. “Anyway, it’s not like I came in here with my dick already out this time.”

Jimin gave a single, amused blink. “Should you?”

Jungkook blinked back. “…Should I?”

“Well,” Jimin said, hands on his hips now, “you said it wasn’t syncing last time. And from what I recall, it doesn’t exactly kick in until it registers some activity.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Activity.”

“Stimulation.”

“Oh my god.”

“Boner.”

“I get it.”

Jimin just smiled. Like a cat who’d seen the mouse flinch. And Jungkook—annoyingly, predictably—found himself chuckling under his breath as he reached for the waistband of his sweats, muttering, “You’re really enjoying this.”

“Not as much as you’re about to.”

“Wow.”

But the hilarity of the situation faded quickly as his hand slid lower, thumbs hooking under the band of his briefs as he began to shuffle them and his sweats lower. His fingers grazed his cock—soft, warm, twitching faintly at the anticipation, but not enough. Not yet.

Jimin leaned over to grab the toy, eyes scanning the casing and controls with the precision of someone who actually knew what they were doing. “Well, good news for your dick. I think the firmware’s still in demo mode. It has to be set to reactive sync to pick up fantasy patterns.”

Jungkook blinked. “And that means what.”

“It means,” Jimin said slowly, “you probably powered it on without a proper fantasy sequence. You need to be aroused enough to generate consistent brainwave data. Otherwise it just waits.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So…I wasn’t joking earlier,” Jimin looked at him, like it was obvious. “You actually need to get hard first.”

Jungkook’s soul left his body.

He stared at Jimin for three full seconds, then laughed weakly. “Cool. So I’ll just, uh—pop a boner real quick while you sit here watching. Nothing weird about that.”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Do you want me to leave the room?”

“No!” Jungkook said, far too quickly. “I mean—I’m already here. Might as well. Just—turn around or something.”

Jimin didn’t turn around.

Instead, he reached over and plucked the neural band from the box, motioning for Jungkook to tilt his head. “This’ll help. Think of something that does it for you. Doesn’t have to be visual, just whatever works.”

Jungkook swallowed. His hands were clammy, heart thudding far too loud in his ears. Jimin slipped the band over his head with surprising care, adjusting the fit so the contact pads sat snug along his temples.

Then he sat back, waiting. No pressure or judgment. Just quiet expectation.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

Jungkook’s dick was still soft—comfortably so, curled against his thigh in the stupidest, shyest way imaginable. Which, objectively, shouldn’t have surprised him. He was sitting on Jimin’s bed with a whole sex machine in his lap and his best friend watching him like this was some live troubleshooting session for a printer. Except the printer was his dick, and the manual was Jimin’s mouth. And now he had to convince it to perk up under the dim glow of Jimin’s reading lamp while sitting four inches from the man himself.

This is fine, he thought. Totally normal bro behavior. Just like…a casual Tuesday. Some guys play FIFA. Some guys get walk-throughs for jerk-off tech. Same energy.

He groaned and threw his head back. “This is so fucking embarrassing, I swear.”

Jimin, as always, was annoyingly calm. “It’s not a performance, Jungkook.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Dude, you asked for help.”

“Not this much help,” he muttered. “Just the tech part. The wiring and Bluetooth stuff. Not the—god—startup sequence.”

Jimin tilted his head, clearly trying not to laugh. “You said it wasn’t syncing properly.”

“I didn’t realize the issue was me.”

“Well,” Jimin said, clapping his hands together once, “let’s fix that.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say it like you’re booting up a server.”

But Jimin was already settling into that unnervingly steady tone, the one he’d used the first time—except this time, there was no dick already hard, no fantasy already on loop. Just anticipation. Tension. A faint buzzing in Jungkook’s head that wouldn’t shut up.

Jimin noticed his hesitation, and his voice softened. “Hey. No pressure.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. “I’m fine.”

“Want me to help?”

“I’m not gonna ask you to—”

“Just my voice.”

Jungkook hesitated.

Then gave a single, tense nod.

Jimin stepped closer, enough to loom. “Try touching yourself. No rush. I’ll start slow.”

Jungkook wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking experimentally—still too soft. It felt weird, being watched like this. It felt weird not being able to hide.

“You’re lying on a couch,” Jimin said quietly. “Someone’s between your legs, just looking at you.”

Jungkook scoffed. “That’s not hot.”

Jimin tilted his head. “You’re completely bare, but they’re clothed. You’ve got your legs spread, and they’re sitting there like they have all the time in the world.”

Jungkook sucked in a breath. His cock twitched in his hand.

“They’re not touching you yet,” Jimin continued, like he hadn’t noticed. “Just watching like they like seeing you like this—slow, a little shy. Already starting to drip, and they haven’t even said anything yet.”

Jungkook’s hand moved again, slower. A soft stroke this time.

Jimin didn’t move. “They reach down and tug your knees open a little wider, and you let them. They drag one finger up the inside of your thigh. Not fast, just teasing.”

The strokes became steadier. Jungkook closed his eyes.

“They lean in close and say,” Jimin lowered his voice “‘Don’t come until I say so.’”

“Fuck,” Jungkook whispered. He was getting hard. He was getting really hard—the kind of hard that made his knees tremble and his face go hot.

“Good,” Jimin murmured. “Don’t stop. Keep stroking. That’s it, just like that.”

Jungkook groaned low, tipping his head forward, wrist working with tight, practiced pulls. His abs were flexing now, and his thighs were tense. The fantasy had blurred—he couldn’t picture a face anymore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Ready to put it on?” Jimin asked.

Jungkook looked up at him, panting lightly. His fist was slick with precome already, cock flushed deep and throbbing in his hand. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Please.”

But Jimin didn’t move right away.

Instead, he glanced down—eyes catching on the thick head of Jungkook’s cock, flushed and leaking steadily onto his knuckles. Jungkook watched him looking. Watched the way Jimin’s gaze lingered just a beat too long, unreadable.

And for some reason? He didn’t stop him. He didn’t cover himself or shift away.

It should have been weird—hell, it was weird. Jimin was his roommate. His best friend. His very male, very not-interested-in-dicks friend (he thinks?). Who was also currently staring at his cock like it was a problem he wanted to solve.

But Jungkook didn’t flinch.

“Damn,” Jimin murmured, lips quirking at one corner. “You’re already leaking like crazy.”

Jungkook’s ears burned. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

“Still.” He huffed, looking down at himself. He couldn’t help it, which was bad—dangerous, even. He was so worked up already, and Jimin hadn’t even touched him.

“Want me to do it?” Jimin asked, lifting the sleek, open cylinder of the masturbator in one hand. “Slide it on for you?”

Jungkook swallowed, cock twitching again at the idea. At the casual confidence in Jimin’s voice, like this wasn’t the most unhinged thing they’d ever done together. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Jimin crouched, knees popping as he came to eye-level. Oh god. Jimin was right there—his face merely inches away from Jungkook’s cock, and he could swear for just a fleeting moment, he could feel Jimin’s breath fan ever so lightly against his tip. His fingers brushed Jungkook’s, steady and careful, prying his hand away just enough to guide the toy into place. Jungkook sucked in a breath as the opening made contact—cool silicone molded to human heat, pliable and snug, clinging like it already knew what he wanted.

It wasn’t even turned on yet, but it felt insanely good.

“Still need to make sure the headset is completely synced,” Jimin said, voice smooth and clinical. “Unless you just wanna go manual.”

“Nah, I wanna try it right.”

“Okay.” Jimin sat beside him again and leaned closer, one hand still bracing the toy against him, the other reaching up to adjust the slim band against Jungkook’s temples. “You’re synced, by the looks of it. It should read your signals as soon as you start getting into it.”

Jungkook nodded, but his brain was already soup, because Jimin’s voice was right there, and his hand was basically on his cock, and the toy was snug around the tip, already catching another drip of precome that slid down the silicone sleeve. He didn’t know what he wanted more—to get off or to crawl into a hole and die. But either way, his thighs stayed open.

He let Jimin fiddle with the headset around a little more, let him pull the toy down another inch with slow, careful pressure. It made a quiet suction sound—barely audible—but it hit Jungkook like a shockwave.

He grunted. “Shit.”

“Too much?”

“No—just. Just keep going.”

“Look at you,” Jimin murmured, a little breathless himself now. “You’re twitching already.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

And Jungkook—unbelievably, uncontrollably—laughed again. Because he didn’t. He really, really didn’t. 

The toy clicked on with a gentle hum, so subtle Jungkook wasn’t even sure it had started until the inner walls fluttered—tight, warm, coaxing him deeper with a rhythmic pull. His lips parted in surprise. Holy shit. Why did it feel even better than he remembered?

It was like being sucked off in slow motion. Like his body was being read in real-time—tension, pulse, even the flickers of thought he hadn’t meant to focus on. The sleeve stroked him in long, patient pulses, hugging tight at the base and teasing the tip on every pass, just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy. And for a few seconds, that was fine. Jungkook shifted to lay back against the pillows, one arm over his eyes, letting the fantasy start to take shape again in the dark behind his lids. Not anyone in particular—just fragments. Warm lips and a  slick mouth. A soft voice murmuring praise. No gender, no face, just sensation.

But it was too quiet.

Jimin hadn’t said a word since syncing the device. He was still sitting there, one hand lazily braced on Jungkook’s thigh, but his mouth was shut—no instructions, no teasing commentary, no anything. And weirdly, it was making it harder to focus.

Jungkook huffed, adjusting slightly against the headboard. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

Jimin glanced up at him. “Didn’t think you needed it anymore.”

“I—” Jungkook paused, then licked his lips. “It’s just—last time, you kind of… walked me through it.”

“And you want me to do that again?” He sounded amused. Maybe even a little smug.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. The toy pulsed again, milking the head of his cock with a slick, patient roll. His toes curled, but it wasn’t enough. Not like before.

He shifted, tense. “Yeah. I mean. If you don’t mind.”

Jimin cocked a brow. “You asking me to do some more dirty talking?”

Jungkook’s ears flamed.

“No. I mean. Just—say whatever you said last time.”

“What, the generic fantasy stuff?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said quickly. “That.”

Jimin didn’t move. Jungkook’s hand fluttered, helpless, next to the band of the headset. He was breathing a little harder now, cock twitching faintly inside the sleeve—but it still wasn’t quite enough. He needed more. He wanted more.

“Please?” he asked. Then lower, “Hyung.”

That made Jimin blink and pause for a moment. Something shifted in the room. The air tightened, sharp with static. Jungkook hadn’t even meant to say it like that—not with that edge of heat or hesitation—but the word had slipped out, a little whiny and unsure, like it had crawled straight from his gut to his throat without permission.

And Jimin heard it. He leaned forward a little, head tilting, eyes darker than before. “You really need me to help you come, huh?”

Jungkook looked away. His face was burning, but he didn’t take it back. Didn’t say no. Didn’t say stop.

“I was just thinking…” Jungkook cleared his throat, pretending to fiddle with the headband sensor like it needed adjusting. “Not that it matters, but like… if the voice is part of what sells the fantasy, maybe it’d be less weird if you, uh. Did a woman’s voice.”

Jimin blanched. “A woman’s voice.”

“Yeah. Just like—pretend, you know?” Jungkook winced as soon as the words left his mouth, heat crawling up his neck. “Like you’re some woman  who’s into me or whatever. It might help, like, mentally—I don’t know. Your voice is soft anyway, so…”

Jimin stared at him for a beat too long. Jungkook was already regretting everything, about to walk it all back, when Jimin suddenly tilted his head again  and said—far too calmly, “So, just to double check—you want me to pretend I’m a woman getting off to you?”

“…As a joke,” Jungkook added quickly. “Just as a bit. For the toy to work.”

Jimin snorted. “Right. For science.”

Then—without fanfare, without warning—his tone rises an octave, smoothing out like melted honey.

“Mmm… baby…”

Jungkook’s heart stopped.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Jimin murmured sweetly, voice feather-light but low enough to make Jungkook’s cock twitch. “Thinking about how good you’d feel inside me… how big you are… fuck, it’s so big, baby, it barely fits…”

Jungkook made a strangled noise.

He knew it was Jimin. Knew it wasn’t a woman, not even close—but god, his voice, the way it wrapped around the fantasy like silk—his brain could barely keep up. It wasn’t even the toy yet—it was Jimin—his mouth, his words.

“Shit—okay—” Jungkook breathed, hand clenching the sheets. “Okay, that’s… that’s actually…”

Jimin smiled lazily, all confidence now, and leaned in closer.

“You’re really leaking already, huh?” His tone stayed in that soft, teasing register. “Barely even started, and you’re dripping for me… such a mess…”

Jungkook couldn’t think. He could barely breathe.

One second, he was making some dumb joke to cover up how wildly awkward this was—and the next, the AI band was lighting up green with a soft chime, like it had finally locked on. The toy jolted to life like it had been waiting, like the soft strokes were child’s play, and now it was time to go full gear. A gasp punched out of Jungkook before he could stop it, spine twitching as the soft inner sleeve pulsed around the head of his cock—wet, tight, moving. Holy shit.

“Oh, f-fuck,” he choked out, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as the toy gave another pull—tighter this time, the sensation slick and warm and impossibly real. “It’s—oh my God—it’s actually working—”

His hips jerked upward on instinct, chasing the sensation, and it only egged the thing on—stroking slow and rhythmic, tightening every few seconds like it knew exactly where to squeeze. His thighs trembled. 

“Mm, yeah? That feels good, baby?”

Jimin’s voice again, even softer this time. He was leaning in close now, lips brushing the shell of Jungkook’s ear, and oh, that voice. Jungkook’s brain short-circuited all over again. The strokes deepened, rhythmic now, perfectly timed with Jimin’s breathy encouragement. And it was good—too good. So good that Jungkook’s eyes fluttered shut again without meaning to, jaw falling slack. It was like everything synced at once—Jimin’s voice, the fantasy, the way the toy adjusted pressure with every little flicker of arousal in his brain. He was being read and touched in all the ways he didn’t even know he liked. Jungkook’s hips twitch when Jimin hums again, low and warm, like he’s enjoying this as much as Jungkook is.

“You’re so hard Jungkookie,” Jimin murmurs, voice soft and teasing but with that same dreamy cadence, playing the part perfectly. “Been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?”

Jungkook bites his lip, jerking once against the slick warmth of the sleeve, and groans. “Y-yes,” he mutters, but it’s weak and breathless. He’s flushed to the ears and completely failing to play it cool.

“Mmh,” Jimin coos, soft and syrupy now. “I’d get on my knees for you, baby. Wrap my lips around you so slow… just to feel how heavy you’d be on my tongue. I bet you’d taste so good—bet you’d moan like that, too, yeah? Just like that.”

Jungkook groans and bucks up again. His hand shoots out to grip Jimin’s thigh—he’s not even aware he does it at first, just grounding himself, like if he doesn’t hold onto something, he’ll unravel.

“F–fuck, that’s…” He sucks in a breath, gasping when the toy strokes up tighter, as if it heard him. “That’s really working, keep going.”

“Good,” Jimin says, still low and in character. “I’d let you fuck my throat if you wanted. Let you use my mouth until your legs shake.”

Jungkook’s mouth drops open. He makes a strangled sound in response—one that absolutely didn’t come from a straight man, if he’s being honest—but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Jimin’s voice sounds like that, and the toy’s tightening with every new moan he makes, the sleeve fluttering with vibrations that make his thighs jerk. He’s trying—genuinely trying—to keep the fantasy intact, to imagine some faceless woman kneeling for him, batting her lashes and taking him deep. But the image is so hazy. Every time he tries to picture it, his brain just gives him Jimin. Jimin’s lips, plush and pink. Jimin’s mouth, talking him through this. Jimin’s legs, stretched out on either side of his hips. Jimin’s body heat, warming his lap.

And worst of all—Jimin’s voice. Because even though he’s playing a woman, even though he’s pretending—it’s still him. It’s Jimin whispering filthy things into his ear, and Jungkook’s body clearly doesn’t care about the technicality. His cock pulses. He bucks again.

“Say something else,” he rasps, jaw clenched. “Fuck. Please don’t s-stop.”

Jimin chuckles—and then doubles down.

“Come on, baby,” he breathes, voice syrupy sweet. “Put your hand in my hair. Show me how you like it. I can take it—want you to fuck my mouth until I’m crying.”

“Oh my god,” Jungkook gasps, tipping his head back. His hips start grinding helplessly up into the toy, chasing the pressure, lost in the rhythm.

Jungkook barely noticed when Jimin shifted behind him. His whole body was already flooded with sensation—sticky heat wrapping around his cock, pleasure dragging up his spine in thick, pulsing waves. He didn’t think anything could’ve made it worse—better—whatever the fuck it was. But then he felt it. Jimin pressing up behind him, sliding in close like he belonged there, like Jungkook had just left that space open and waiting. And fuck—he was hard too.

Jungkook’s breath stuttered. He nearly jolted forward, but the pressure of Jimin’s chest against his back anchored him. Solid, intentional, and a quiet, possessive weight. Jimin didn’t say anything at first, just breathed slow and steady by Jungkook’s ear, one arm draped around his waist like it was the most normal thing in the world to be jerking off into a high-tech AI sleeve while your best friend spooned you and had a boner about it.

“Keep going, baby,” Jimin murmured eventually, voice so smooth it could’ve been silk. “You sound so good like this.”

The words slid straight down Jungkook’s spine, pooling low in his gut. His hips rocked forward again, chasing the sleeve’s rhythm. He could feel Jimin’s breath ghost over the curve of his ear, warm and dangerous, and he still didn’t move away. Didn’t even try to pretend this wasn’t happening. Instead, he leaned back just a little more, just enough to feel the shape of Jimin’s cock right up against him, stiff beneath thin pajama pants. Just enough to admit to himself that maybe—maybe—he wanted to feel it.

Jimin’s hand stayed light on his stomach. Not touching anywhere else. Not pushing or grabbing or stroking—just holding.

“Yeah?” Jimin breathed into his ear, soft like silk. “You like it when I suck your cock like that, baby?”

Jungkook’s answer was a quiet moan, head tipping back further against Jimin’s shoulder. The sleeve tightened again, and he hissed. His fingers flexed against the bedsheets, already damp with sweat.

“Feels… so good,” he murmured, lips parting around the words. “You sound so—fuck, your voice…”

Jimin chuckled, all heat and promise. “Do I sound like the kind of girl you’d fuck raw, hm? The kind who’d take every inch and cry for more?”

A whimper choked out of Jungkook’s throat, completely involuntary.

Jimin grinned, lips ghosting over his ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I—” Jungkook’s voice cracked. He swallowed, licking his lips. “I want you to keep talking.”

“About what?” Jimin whispered, nosing against his hair. “Tell me.”

“I… I wanna hear more. Like, what you’d do if I came in your mouth.”

“Oh,” Jimin purred, “I’d swallow it all. Wouldn’t waste a single drop, baby.”

Jungkook groaned, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then I’d ride you nice and slow,” Jimin kept going, voice still in that sultry, definitely-not-masquerading-as-a-woman-anymore tone. “Sit on your cock and grind on it until you’re crying.”

Jungkook let out a helpless whine.

“I’d take it so deep, Jungkookie,” Jimin said sweetly. “Make you beg for it. Would you beg for me?”

Jungkook clenched his fists in the sheets.

“…Would you?” Jimin prompted again, voice low and coaxing. “Would you beg to feel my pussy, baby?”

And that was it. That was the moment. Jungkook’s mouth dropped open, body trembling, and the words tumbled out like a prayer he’d been choking on for days.

“…Please, hyung.”

His voice cracked. His hips bucked forward. “Please—need more, I—fuck—Jimin-hyung—please.”

The name came out like a moan, wrecked and soaked in heat. There was a beat of silence after it slipped out—please, hyung—so quiet that Jungkook almost thought he’d imagined saying it. His heart thundered in his chest, his whole body flushed and trembling. His thighs were tight with tension, hips locked forward, the toy still slowly working him as if mocking how desperately still he sat.

Jimin didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t tease or even laugh.

He just exhaled, deep and shaky, and pressed his mouth to Jungkook’s neck. “Fuck, baby,” he whispered, voice suddenly rawer. “You’re really letting go for me, huh?”

Jungkook didn’t trust himself to speak. Not when his cock was twitching like crazy inside the toy, already slick with precome, and his head was spinning with the sound of that voice. Not the pretend one—the soft, girlish coo—but Jimin’s. Smooth and low and trembling like he wasn’t as unaffected as he looked. And then, gently, Jimin slid his hand over Jungkook’s abs and down to the toy, fingers brushing just beside it.

“You’re getting so needy,” he murmured. “All that from me just talking? That’s so fucking cute.”

Jungkook whimpered, almost embarrassed, but Jimin shushed him softly.

“Don’t hide from me now,” he said, licking just behind his ear. “You begged so sweetly. Thought you were straight, baby?”

Jungkook groaned, eyes squeezing shut.

“You don’t even know what you want anymore, do you?” Jimin kept going, slow and relentless. “You just want to feel good. You want me to make you feel good.”

His hand ghosted higher again, palm resting over Jungkook’s racing heart. “Let me take care of you.”

And Jungkook nodded. He fucking nodded, because what else could he do? His whole body felt hot and heavy, every nerve tuned to Jimin’s voice, his breath, the way he hadn’t moved away once.

“That’s my good boy,” Jimin whispered, grinning as he leaned in closer behind him. “You want more? Say it again.”

Jungkook could barely think. The words were thick in his throat, desperate and dizzying.

“…Please, hyung,” he moaned again, softer this time. “Please—want more.”

“Yeah?” Jimin nuzzled into his cheek now, the pressure of his cock unmistakable against Jungkook’s back. “Then let me give it to you.”

He reached for the toy with one hand, adjusting the rhythm, increasing the suction. The sleeve tightened deliciously around Jungkook’s cock, wet sounds growing louder, more obscene. Jungkook gasped, hips twitching.

“That’s it,” Jimin coaxed. “Let go. Just feel.”

His other hand stroked along Jungkook’s chest, nails grazing over his nipples as he mouthed at his throat. “You want me to ride you, don’t you? Want me to sit down on your cock, fuck you slow—until you’re begging to come inside me.”

Jungkook let out a ragged, broken moan. “Fuck—fuck, hyung—please—”

“You’d fill me up so good,” Jimin whispered, “make me all warm inside.”

Jungkook’s eyes rolled back.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” Jimin asked sweetly, nipping at his jaw. “Wanna come while I’m pretending to ride you? Or should I keep going until you’re crying for the real thing?”

Jungkook thought he was going to come. The feeling hit him all at once—hot and electrifying, the kind that curled his toes and punched the air from his lungs. His hips jerked forward, chasing the sleeve as it tightened and twisted just right, suction sealing around the head of his cock like it knew exactly how close he was.

“Hyu—fuck—hyung—”

And then it stopped, but not completely. The toy eased off just enough to pull him back from the edge, strokes slowing, pressure loosening in a way that made the ache worse. Cruel. Precise. Intentional.

Jungkook cried out, sharp and broken, hands clawing at the sheets. “No—no, please—”

Jimin clicked his tongue softly behind him, still holding him close, still hard and pressed against his back. “Easy,” he murmured, voice maddeningly calm. “You weren’t told you could come yet.”

Jungkook’s whole body shuddered.

“Hyung,” he whined, the sound thin and wrecked. He hated how needy it sounded. Hated how much he liked it. “I was—fuck, I was so close—”

“I know.” Jimin kissed the side of his neck, slow and deliberate. “I felt it. You were thrusting up into it like you were gonna lose your mind.”

Jungkook sobbed softly—like actually sobbed. His cock twitched uselessly inside the sleeve, leaking steadily, the sensation hovering just shy of release and making his vision blur.

“Please,” he begged, over and over. “Please, I’ll—fuck—I’ll be good, I swear—”

Jimin hummed, pleased. “You already are.”

His hand slid back over Jungkook’s stomach, fingers splaying possessively as he leaned in close, lips brushing Jungkook’s ear.

“You want to come so bad,” he whispered. “Been holding it in all week, haven’t you? All wound up and desperate. And now you’re right here, letting me decide when you get to fall apart.”

Jungkook nodded frantically, even though Jimin couldn’t see it. “Yes—yes, hyung—need it—need you—”

Jimin paused.

“…Need me?” he repeated softly.

The words hit Jungkook like a shock. His breath hitched, but he didn’t take it back. Couldn’t.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Need you. Please.”

Jimin exhaled slowly, breath warm against Jungkook’s skin. Then, cruelly gentle, he let the toy start again.

Slow.

So slow it was almost unbearable.

The sleeve stroked him in long, lazy pulls, pressure light but maddening, never quite touching the place that would push him over the edge. Jungkook moaned helplessly, hips twitching uselessly as he tried to chase more.

“Ah—hyung—too slow—”

“Shh.” Jimin nipped at his ear. “You don’t rush something this good.”

Jungkook’s thoughts were gone now. Reduced to sensation and need. The fantasy had completely dissolved—there was no pretending anymore. No girl. No excuse. Just Jimin’s voice, Jimin’s body, Jimin’s control.

“You’re dripping all over it,” Jimin murmured. “Such a mess for me. I could keep you like this all night if I wanted.”

The idea made Jungkook whimper.

“You really want me to let you come?” Jimin asked softly.

“Yes—fuck—yes, please—”

“Then beg one more time for me, and I'll consider it.”

Jungkook’s chest heaved. His voice came out broken and shaking.

“Please, hyung,” he sobbed. “Please let me come. I need it so bad. Your voice is too much, I can't hold it—just please—”

Jimin smiled against his neck.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

And the toy slowed again.

His thighs quivered with effort, whole body twitching from the overstimulation, the denial, the heat of Jimin’s mouth wet on his neck. He could barely stay upright—collapsed half into Jimin’s chest, held together only by the ironclad grip around his middle and the cursed rhythm of the toy milking him with agonizing slowness.

“You’re doing so good,” Jimin murmured, lips brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “So well-behaved for me.”

Jungkook whined—a sound so wrecked it didn’t sound human. His hands scrabbled at the sheets, head tipping all the way back in desperation, eyes shut so tight he saw stars. Jimin’s mouth curved into a smirk against his skin. Then he bit. Hard.

Jungkook choked on a sob.

“Fuck—fuck, Jimin—”

The toy kept pulsing, warm suction drawing him right up against the brink—but never over. He could feel himself leaking endlessly, slick and twitching and raw. It wasn’t fair. He was so close, so close, and Jimin knew it.

“You like that?” Jimin teased, tongue smoothing over the bite. “Being held like this? Owned like this?”

Jungkook whimpered, shook his head, then nodded. He didn’t know.

“Yes—no—fuck—I don’t know, just—please—”

“Please what, baby?”

Another nip. Another filthy grind of Jimin’s cock behind him, thick and hard and there, and the helpless moan that spilled from Jungkook’s lips was more pornographic than anything he’d ever made in his life.

“Let me come,” he begged, voice high and keening. “Please, I’ll do anything, I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it anymore—”

“Yeah?” Jimin hummed against his throat, nosing along the wet patch he’d made there. “You need it that bad?”

“Yes, hyung—please—I’m gonna go crazy—”

“You already sound crazy,” Jimin laughed softly. “You’re practically crying.”

“I am—fuck, hyung, I am—you’re—” Jungkook hiccupped on a breath, “you’re sucking on my neck and I’m fucking dripping—”

“Mhm.” Jimin ran his tongue up his neck, slow and possessive. “You’re such a mess. Just from my voice, my hands, and this pretty little toy.”

Another pulse from the sleeve. Another edge.

Jungkook screamed, body shaking so hard he could barely speak. His cock throbbed like it was about to burst, the base soaked and twitching in its cage of heat and suction, the head swollen and glistening.

“Hyung,” he sobbed. “Hyung, please—I can’t—please, please, just let me—”

And this time, there was no hesitation.

Jimin gripped his chin, turned his face, and kissed him hard. Jungkook barely had time to register the kiss before he was coming. It tore out of him like something possessed—violent, full-bodied, animal. One second he was choking on the heat of Jimin’s mouth, and the next, his whole body seized like it had hit an electric current.

A sob tore free from his chest. He came hard, twitching in the cradle of Jimin’s thighs, cock jerking deep inside the toy’s tight sleeve. Ropes of come spilled out instantly—so much it dripped and bubbled around the silicone seal, wet sounds obscene as the toy kept milking him through it, mercilessly.

Jimin didn’t stop kissing him.

Didn’t let up, even as Jungkook writhed, as he gasped against Jimin’s lips, as his hips convulsed from the intensity of it. He just held him tighter, one arm locked around his waist, the other stroking his chest with slow, grounding pressure, mouth warm and perfect against his.

“That’s it, baby,” Jimin whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak against his jaw. “Come for me.”

Jungkook whimpered through his teeth, still trembling. The aftershocks came in waves—his cock spurting one last time, his body unable to stop. It was too much. It was heaven. It was—

“Yes—oh, yes, hyung—”

He collapsed, completely boneless and his mind scrambled. His face went slack with dazed pleasure as the toy finally powered down with a soft click, leaving behind nothing but squelch and dripping warmth and the soft, steady sound of Jimin’s breathing behind him.

Everything buzzed. Everything throbbed.

And Jimin was still holding him. Still warm and solid and impossibly real beneath him. His chest heaved, sticky sweat cooling across flushed skin, thighs trembling where they lay tangled over Jimin’s. The climax had hit him hard—white-hot and blinding—but now it was gone, leaving behind a feverish ache that hadn’t eased. If anything… it had sharpened. He was still hard. His cock twitched where it lay against his stomach, red and leaking again already, like his body hadn’t gotten the message. Like it was greedy for more.

Jungkook let out a strangled whimper before he could catch it, hips twitching forward, rutting mindlessly at the air.

“Still worked up?” Jimin’s voice was low behind him, smug and lilting, like he already knew the answer. He shifted, letting one hand trace over Jungkook’s belly, the lightest tease of slick fingertips brushing the skin still hidden under his hoodie. His other arm still curled beneath Jungkook’s ribs, holding him against his chest. “That toy did a number on you, huh?”

Jungkook groaned, tucking his face into Jimin's neck as shame and arousal came crashing together behind his eyes. “Hyung…”

“I really can't believe you’re still hard,” Jimin said, breath puffing against his temple, too amused, too composed. “Even after all that?”

Jungkook nodded helplessly. His cock throbbed again in response, leaking more onto his abs.

Jimin laughed softly, tilting his head down until his mouth grazed Jungkook’s cheek. “God, you’re a mess. Look at you still twitching.”

“C-come on, Jimin-ah,” Jungkook pants, voice shaking as he turns around and leans over Jimin, body flushed and needy. “I want more. I want you to feel good too.”

Jimin’s hair is mussed, and he’s flushed pink all over, but his lips curl, teasing like always. “Me?” he echoes. “You want me?”

Jungkook just nods, too strung out to joke, too desperate to pretend. “Yeah. I—shit, I need it. Please.”

He kisses Jimin before he can say anything else—less a question and more a declaration. Their mouths crash together, sloppy and hot, before breaking apart for a breath. Jimin gazes up at him, eyes wide and searching. Jungkook just kisses him again before shifting back onto his heels, coaxing Jimin gently onto his back.

“You sure?” Jimin says once he’s on his back, thighs already falling open like second nature. “It’s different, you know—being with a guy.”

Jungkook looks down at him, pupils blown. He should probably stop—take at least one moment to really think this through. He could still somehow brush this whole situation off and go one with his life, believing whole-heartedly that he was straight. That the kiss they shared was just a product of the heat of the moment. But deep down, Jungkook knew this wouldn't go away. He knew these feelings, as daunting as they were, would linger relentlessly in the back of his mind, haunting him any time he saw Jimin's face. His smile. His pretty eyes, and the way they were gazing up at him now, almost like he too, was scared of Jungkook's answer. Oh, fuck it.

“I don’t care.” He says decidedly. 

Jimin holds his gaze for a long beat—then reaches toward the nightstand and grabs the bottle of lube, tossing it down between them.

"Just go slow," Jimin murmurs, voice low and warm. “Two fingers first. Curve them just a little.”

Then Jimin shifts, unhurried, lifting his hips just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama bottoms. He drags them down in one smooth motion, kicking them off the bed without ceremony. There’s nothing underneath. Jungkook’s breath leaves him in a quiet, wrecked sound he doesn’t even try to hide.

Jimin is bare and beautiful in a way that feels unfair—long legs stretched out against the sheets, thighs soft but toned, skin flushed warm pink where Jungkook’s hands and mouth ache to be. His cock lies heavy against his stomach, hard and leaking, framed by the smooth, vulnerable line of his hips. And his ass—fuck—rounded and perfect, plush in a way that makes Jungkook’s fingers itch with the need to touch.

Jungkook just stares.

He’s seen Jimin shirtless a hundred times before—after showers, changing clothes, sprawled on the couch—but this is different. This is Jimin laid open for him, legs parted slightly, body relaxed and receptive and so fucking pretty it makes something ache deep behind Jungkook’s ribs.

Jimin catches him looking and smirks faintly, eyes dark and knowing. “You gonna keep staring,” he asks softly, “or are you gonna touch me?”

That snaps Jungkook back into himself—but barely. His throat bobs. He’s still shaking slightly as he uncaps the lube, slicking his fingers while staring down at Jimin like he’s trying to burn the image into his brain. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, this will disappear. He needs to remember every line, every curve, every freckle and shadow.

“You’re…” Jungkook starts, then stops, breath hitching.

Jimin’s expression softens just a fraction. “Yeah?”

“You’re really beautiful,” Jungkook admits quietly.

Jimin’s lips part just a little, seemingly taken off-guard.

“Oh, so you really are just going to stare—” He starts, but chokes on a gasp when Jungkook leans in and kisses the inside of his thigh, reverent.

“Shut up,” Jungkook mutters, lips brushing his skin. “I want to remember this.”

Jungkook’s fingers hover at first—trembling just above Jimin’s inner thigh, like he’s scared he’ll do something wrong, or maybe something too right. He blinks down at where Jimin’s legs are spread open for him, all flushed skin and slick, waiting heat, and swears under his breath. It shouldn't be too different from fingering a woman, right? He really doesn't want to hurt him.

“Don’t be shy now,” Jimin says, voice low and lilting. “You said you wanted more.”

Jungkook lets out a tiny, helpless sound. His hand finally moves, brushing over the swell of Jimin’s ass before dragging his fingers slowly toward his hole. Jungkook’s stomach flips. His hands tremble slightly as he presses the pads gently to Jimin’s entrance, marveling at how relaxed and soft he feels. He’s never done this before—not to anyone—and the fact that it’s Jimin, his hyung, laid out like this under him, trusting him with something so vulnerable, makes his chest ache.

He eases in, watching every flicker of expression across Jimin’s face. Jimin bites his lip and lets out a quiet gasp when Jungkook curls just right.

“There? Is that okay?”

“Yeah, right there,” Jimin breathes. “Keep going.”

Jungkook eases his fingers deeper, the heat of Jimin’s body pulling him in like gravity. He moans—like, actually moans—and immediately flushes again in embarrassment, eyes flicking up to check Jimin’s reaction. But Jimin just hums in approval, the sound warm and sweet in contrast to the filth slipping out of his mouth.

He can’t even pretend anymore. He’s shaking, leaking, throat dry, pupils blown wide as he stares between Jimin’s legs like he’s found god there. His fingers move faster, more confidently now, curling and twisting until Jimin gasps and grips the sheets. And then it hits him—how easily Jimin knows what to ask for, how practiced he is.

“You’ve done this before,” Jungkook blurts before he can stop himself.

Jimin’s eyes flutter open, and he lifts an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t be guiding you if I hadn’t.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. His fingers pause as something sharp twists in his gut. He doesn’t want to think about anyone else touching Jimin like this. Not now, not ever.

“With who?” he asks anyway. What better time to act jealous than when you’re two fingers deep in your roommate, right?

“Does it matter?” Jimin challenges, breathless but still cocky.

“Yes,” Jungkook snaps, voice too raw, too real. “It does.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds his gaze. Then—

“Then do it better.”

Something inside Jungkook snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He scissored Jimin’s hole more firmly, rubbing slow and deliberate against that spot that makes Jimin’s back arch.

“Right there,” Jimin pants, lashes fluttering. “Right th—oh m-my god—”

Jungkook watches like he’s in a trance. He watches Jimin’s thighs twitch, his pretty little toes curl, his cock leak just from being fingered. This is a sight that's far too pretty. Prettier than any woman Jungkook has pleasured—hell, prettier than anything Jungkook has ever seen.

“I wanna be the only one,” he blurts, voice rough and low. “Let me be the only one from now on.”

Jimin’s gaze softens. He pulls Jungkook down by the back of the neck and kisses him—deep and full of promise.

“You are now,” Jimin breathes.

That’s it. That’s all it takes. Jungkook slides his fingers out with a shaky breath, mesmerized by the way Jimin’s hole flutters, still slick and stretched. It’s obscene and perfect. With no time to spare, he drags his lubed-up fingers down to his own cock, slicking it quick and messy. It’s not skilled—his hands are still trembling, too clumsy with how badly he wants it—but it’s enough. He hisses through his teeth as his palm wraps around the flushed head and strokes down once, twice.

“Shit—hyung, I…” He cuts off with a groan, guiding himself down between Jimin’s legs, the tip nudging against slick heat.

“Ready?” he asks, voice strained.

Jimin nods. “Come on.”

But then Jungkook glances sideways—eyes catching on the AI masturbator still laying on the bed, lube-glossed and still smeared with his own come from earlier. A wild idea hits. 

He grabs it with one hand, flips it on to manual mode, and positions it right over Jimin’s cock as he lines himself up.

“What—” Jimin starts, but then the suction clicks in and he gasps, hips jerking.

“I want you to feel everything,” Jungkook lets out a broken moan as he presses in deep and slow, all at once—bottoming out as the toy clamps down on Jimin’s cock with obscene wet squelches.

Jimin cries out, overwhelmed.

“J-Jungkook—!”

Jungkook hisses through his teeth, rocking his hips, holding onto Jimin’s thighs as he watches both their cocks disappear into pleasure. He’d never done this before—never touched another man like this, never wanted to. But now, inside Jimin, buried so deep he could feel his pulse around him—it was all he ever wanted. All he ever would want.

“Let me ruin you, hyung,” he groans. “Let me be the only one who gets to see you like this.”

He couldn’t believe how filthy this was. Couldn’t believe Jimin let him do this. Couldn’t believe how much he loved it—how right it felt, how badly he never wanted to stop.

Jungkook pulls out just enough to watch his cock glisten in the low light, slicked with lube and his own precome—and then shoves back in, slow but deep, burying himself to the hilt. The sound it makes is obscene. Sticky, wet, and so much tighter than anything he’s ever had. And warm—so fucking warm.

Jungkook whines low in his throat. He’s fucked plenty of women—sleek legs wrapped around his waist, soft gasps, the comforting glide of wet heat—but this? This is something else. Jimin’s body grips him, clings to him, like it was made to wring him dry. It’s snug and hot and perfect, like every thrust carves a new place for Jungkook to fit. The friction is intoxicating, the kind that chokes the air out of his lungs and floods his bloodstream with pleasure so potent it burns. He presses his face into Jimin’s shoulder blade, moaning out another curse.

“Oh my god—hyung, your ass—fuck—it feels better than anything. Better than any pussy I’ve ever—”

He pounds in harder at that, hips slapping, overwhelmed and chasing. “It’s so tight—shit, I can’t—this is insane—”

Jimin groans under him, nails digging into the sheets, back arching to meet him. Jungkook’s thrusts turn erratic, hips slamming into Jimin’s ass with an intensity that borders on frantic. The toy between them makes obscene, wet sounds with every bounce, suction squelching around Jimin’s cock like it’s trying to milk him in sync with every deep grind of Jungkook’s own thrusts.

“F-fuck, hyung—” Jungkook gasps, voice breaking. “You’re so—so good, I c-can’t—can’t believe this is real.”

Jimin is wrecked beneath him, head tossed back, mouth open, sweat slicking his skin. The toy’s working him mercilessly, and Jungkook can see it—Jimin’s cock twitching, his abs flexing, the muscles in his legs trembling. But he doesn’t tell him to stop. If anything, he bucks into it. And that just sends Jungkook spiraling.

“God, you’re so filthy,” he whispers, like he can’t believe the words are coming out of his mouth—but he can’t stop.

“Letting me—letting me fuck you while your cock’s buried in my come. S-still dripping with it.”

Jimin cries out, eyes squeezing shut, and Jungkook whines—like it hurts how good Jimin feels around him. How perfect this is. How ruined he is now that he’s had this.

“Gonna make you feel what I felt,” Jungkook pants, his hands braced on Jimin’s thighs as he fucks into him, the slap of skin-on-skin only getting louder. “Still got my mess in it, and you’re gonna come in it too. So fucking dirty—can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

Jimin jerks and moans as his eyes roll back, the flush on his chest deepening.

“You like that, hyung?” Jungkook continues to babble.

"J-jungkookie—"

“Like being all messy like this, hyung? God, you’re so perfect, I can’t—fuck, I wanna come again already.”

He’s panting like crazy against Jimin’s neck now, forehead pressed to his shoulder, body shaking as he pounds into him with everything he has. The way Jimin keeps clenching around him, the high and breathy moans the older keeps choking out, the slick slide of their bodies—it’s too much. Everything’s too much.

“I’m never gonna be normal again,” Jungkook whines, biting at Jimin’s throat, desperate. “I’m gonna be thinking about this every time I touch myself—gonna be begging you always, all the time.”

And then he groans again, quieter, breath hitching as his rhythm falters.

“Hyung… can I come inside? Please—please, I wanna fill you up, wanna make it messy—want you dripping, just like the toy…”

He’s still fucking him, still thrusting helplessly, but his voice is breaking now—high and ruined, trembling with need.

“Please say yes—say I can. I’ll be good, I swear—just wanna make you feel good too.”

Jimin’s hips twitch again at that last plea—his lashes fluttering, mouth slick and parted like he’s on the edge of heaven and hell both. And then, voice low and thready, he croaks out, “Do it.”

Jungkook chokes on a gasp.

“Come in me, baby,” Jimin barely gets out, and fuck—Jungkook doesn’t know if Jimin’s saying it because he wants it, or because he knows what it’ll do to him—but either way, it detonates something in his chest.

Jungkook slams into him like a man possessed. No rhythm, just pure desire. The mattress thuds beneath them with every thrust, the slurping suction of the toy growing louder as Jimin’s cock kicks against it, still soaking in Jungkook’s first orgasm, still swallowing up every drop of slick and come and everything they’ve both given it.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re gonna make me—” Jungkook chokes out, eyes wide, mouth open, sweat pouring down his temples as he drives in one last time and stays.

His body locks, balls drawn tight, and toes curled as he finally breaks.

He comes hard—harder than he ever has in his entire life—body buckling forward as he presses their chests together, grinding his cock deep inside Jimin and moaning like he’s been cracked open.

“Hyung—fuck—hyung—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s wrecked and raw and way too much, as Jungkook jerks through the aftershocks, buried so deep inside Jimin he doesn’t know where he ends and where the other begins. His hips stutter, cock twitching wildly, and then he’s coming again—a white-hot rush that leaves him gasping, vision blurred.

Jimin’s next.

The pressure, the overstimulation, the way Jungkook just keeps spilling into him—it unravels him completely. He makes a guttural sound, back arching as the toy clenches down and sucks him through another release, his body convulsing under the weight of it.

Jungkook can barely breathe. He stays locked in place, every muscle trembling, his chest glued to Jimin’s with sweat. Their breathing fills the room—shaky, shallow, desperate. Then Jungkook slumps forward with a groan, forehead dropping to Jimin’s collarbone. His lashes flutter. His brain has clearly left the chat. The toy lets out one last indecent squelch between them.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook finally mutters, dazed. “I’m gonna black out.”

Jimin just hums, voice rough and wrecked. “You better not. We still have to clean that thing.”

That’s when Jungkook fully short-circuits. Because what the hell? He just filled Jimin with come, used a toy on him that still had his come inside it, and Jimin’s still worried about sanitation like this was a group project.

His brain reboots and his mouth falls agape.

“Are you—are you seriously thinking about—cleaning—right now?”

Jimin grins, lazy and flushed, dragging a hand down Jungkook’s back. “Well yeah. You know how much that thing costs.”

Jungkook groans into his chest.

“I hate you.”

“For the millionth time, no you don’t.”

“Okay. I don’t.”

They both stay still for a second longer—then Jungkook starts to slowly pull out, only to pause when Jimin clenches down around him with a smug noise. He full-body shudders, and decides, 'maybe not yet'.

“…Hyung.” 

Jungkook’s cock was still buried deep, twitching with aftershocks when he flops sideways, half on top of Jimin, half on the bed, breath catching on a wrecked laugh. The toy wheezes a final pitiful noise between them—still hanging off Jimin’s cock, spent and glistening and somehow offensively loud now that the room’s gone quiet. They lie there, tangled and sweaty, Jungkook blinking at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. Jimin drags a hand through his own hair, dazed and definitely not ready to move. His thighs twitch when Jungkook shifts, and he lets out a little huff of air.

“You’re still inside me,” Jimin says casually, voice raspy but bright. “Just so you know.”

Jungkook grunts. “It’s warm.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You clenched when I tried to pull out thirty seconds ago—this is your doing.”

Jimin gives a thoughtful hum, then adjusts slightly so their legs tangle and Jungkook’s head ends up on his chest.

“So,” Jimin says slowly, “just to confirm—you knew how to work the manual function on me.”

Jungkook stills. 

Jimin glances down, raising a smug brow. “Right? That little switch on the base? The one that clearly says Manual Mode?”

“…Maybe.”

“And you used it on me.”

“…Possibly.”

“Yet, when you first asked for help, it was because you couldn’t figure out how to work the AI version.” Jimin’s voice is light, teasing. “You said—and I quote—‘This thing is broken, please save me from myself. Hyung, I can’t come.’”

Jungkook groans and presses his face deeper into Jimin’s chest. “I blacked out. I don’t remember saying that.”

“You definitely said it.”

“I was vulnerable.”

“You were pathetic.”

Jungkook groans again.

Jimin snorts. “So was this all just an elaborate plot to get me to jerk you off?”

“No!” Jungkook shoots upright, face bright red and horrified. “No—okay, maybe! But not like that! I didn’t—fuck, I wasn’t trying to trick you, I just—god, I didn’t think you’d actually do it again!”

Jimin is howling now, head thrown back as he laughs.

Jungkook flails. “Don’t laugh at me! I was desperate, okay?! I was going insane! That thing didn’t work, and then you just waltzed in and started saying shit and—and using your voice like a sexy demon—what the fuck was I supposed to do?!”

Jimin wipes a tear. “Honestly, I’m impressed you lasted as long as you did.”

Jungkook groans again and lets himself collapse back onto Jimin with a thud, full deadweight.

“Hyung.”

“Yeah?”

“I came in you while your dick was in a toy filled with my come.”

“…Yeah.”

“And you liked it.”

“Sure did.”

“I need to delete myself from existence.”

Jimin hums and strokes his back. “Can’t. You’re still plugged in.”

“Don’t say that—”

Jimin laughs again, but it softens as he shifts beside him, letting Jungkook cuddle closer. They lie there for a beat, breathing in sync. Jimin scratches lightly at Jungkook’s scalp.

After a long pause, Jungkook mutters, “So are we gonna talk about…what this means? Or are we pretending this was, like…some spiritual brobonding ritual?”

Jimin tilts his head lazily. “Do you want it to be just a bro thing?”

Jungkook’s breath stutters. “No.”

“Good. Then we’ll talk after a shower.” He reaches over, finally flipping the toy off with a soggy click. “And after I disinfect this freaky come-sleeve you’re so attached to.”

“It’s sentimental now.”

“You’re mentally ill.”

Jungkook pauses, peeks up. “...We’re not giving it back, right?”

“Hell no,” Jimin grins. “That’s a household item now.”