Archive of Our Own ^beta

Taeyong feels the warmth of another body pressed behind him, stealing all of his patience and attention that is meant to be on the project laid out in front of them. Nearly four hours have passed since Jaemin Na stepped foot into his home, not an uncommon occurrence, but Taeyong is struggling to deal with the touching and the whispering when they’re left alone like this.

A year since they met. Six months since they started sleeping together. Three since they became just a little bit more. Taeyong still doesn’t know what they are, but he knows that Jaemin’s teasing hand traveling beneath his untucked work shirt is not doing him any favors. The dean of students gave them a deadline for an Inclusion Day portfolio and that day is rapidly approaching, but Jaemin swears his work is done; all appropriate people called and vendors scheduled and budget laid out. 

It’s Taeyong who can’t seem to get a grip, and the warm brush of lips against his ear is the villain separating him from success. For being the only one on the entire campus with a doctorate in behavioral psychology, Jaemin is somehow able to outsmart Taeyong at every turn, and it makes his toes curl into the hardwood. 

“You’re going to get me fired.”

“You’re tenured,” Jaemin deadpans, unamused. “Besides, you never bothered to ask me if I had already done your part.”

A lethal silence follows Jaemin’s words, procuring an unsettling feeling from deep in Taeyong’s belly.

“Maybe if you paid a little more attention to our portfolio rather than your dick, you’d see that you just wasted two hours staring at nothing, baby.”

As if freed from some hypnotic spell, Taeyong’s eyes focus on the papers scattered before him, examining every crossed T and dotted I that mocks him with new fervor. Taeyong has been trying (and evidently failing) to gather his wits long enough to sort through what was already completed, ignoring Jaemin’s wandering hands and every single word on every single page in the process. The dean of students had tasked Taeyong with the hopes that he would be able to lead Jaemin along, because Jaemin wants a tenured position one day and is meant to be proving himself first. 

But Jaemin has nothing he needs to prove, and the delicate press of lips against the soft spot just below Taeyong’s ear, where blood pools the warmest, tells him that he is in the most capable of hands. 

“File my hard work, and maybe I’ll make this go away,” Jaemin murmurs with a flash of teeth into overheated skin, his curious fingers grazing over the obvious bulge in Taeyong’s slacks. “But you have to focus. For once.”

Focus. Yes. Taeyong can do that. It has been a lifetime of forcing himself to pay attention and try so hard that it nearly kills him. Making such a pretty man happy could be the easiest of his troubles.

Perhaps that has always been his draw to Jaemin, even when it felt strange to want somebody who, when stared at through a pair of rose colored glasses, exists in a realm far different from his own. Jaemin is still enriched with life and hope for the future, exuding it in his eyes that sparkle like polished stone and arms imbued with strength from gods. Taeyong had no choice but to fall for him amongst chance meetings in the same coffee line and run ins in the only staff bathroom in the entire Psych building. 

Taeyong levels his eyes and steadies his breath so as to not disappoint the angel at his back, feeding off of his lively energy to replace stress with excitement. Jaemin has done this to be kind, but also because he wishes to have fun, and that selfishness can be so rewarding. Taeyong wants to work hard for him too. 

“Do you want me to leave it out so we can look over it later?” Taeyong asks while meticulously sorting each document into its respective folder, noticing that Jaemin has committed to his original color coding. 

“No need,” Jaemin mutters with the smallest whisper of a kiss against Taeyong’s ear, sending shivers all the way down his starch-pressed spine. “It’s ready to submit. Unless you don’t trust my work.”

A challenge is handed to Taeyong like the offering of a lamb to slaughter. One wrong word and Jaemin will retreat, dooming Taeyong to a long night of silent mind games that will inevitably end with him getting fucked anyway. Taeyong is only five years older than Jaemin, but sometimes those roles feel wide and impossible and in the entirely opposite direction. Years of trying to be the best and prove himself above all has done nothing but stunt Taeyong’s growth, leaving him flailing and helpless under the soft leadership of a man who could be tyrannical should he wish. 

Jaemin is delicate and calculating because he has the raw strength to do so, and Taeyong crumbles beneath him, knees trembling and body folding forward with his elbows barely missing the neatly stacked documents. 

“Of course I trust you,” Taeyong forces out between controlled breaths, his heart skipping beats in a marathon against itself when Jaemin’s hands find his hips. “Whatever you think is best.”

Taeyong feels rather than sees the smile pressed against the back of his neck, slippery satisfaction making everything around him begin to melt. It shouldn’t be that easy. And yet, it is. 

“That's what I like to hear,” Jaemin mutters in that saccharine voice of his, his warmth retreating with a shock to his system. “Up. You’re going to ruin our hard work.”

The deliberate use of our and not my does not go over Taeyong’s head, but rather slithers down his throat from his ears as Jaemin’s hands lift him from the table. He is trying to establish and maintain control, though there is never any fight for it in the first place. Jaemin wants, so Taeyong relents, and it has always been enough for them. 

While making their way out of the office, Taeyong knows that Jaemin is just tall enough to easily see over his shoulder, his breath warm where it fans against Taeyong’s cheek. Jaemin leads the way, wherever they’re going, bodies glued together and Taeyong’s hands useless at his sides. He tries to reach back for Jaemin, to steady himself and right some of his loosening sanity to no avail. It has been a long day of wasting time, and from Jaemin’s perspective? Taeyong has been fumbling around like a fool when they could have been doing this much, much sooner. 

“But what should I do with you, hm?” Jaemin asks as if he’ll get a real answer, probably well aware that Taeyong is past the point of playing along and has gone straight to brainless. “You’ve been trying so hard, even if you couldn’t quite get it right.”

Unlike how Jaemin can be with others, he is never cruel to Taeyong. The small jabs at his pride always end in a reward of the sweetest kind. Jaemin is careful with Taeyong, treating him as if he’s precious, as if knowing that Taeyong has never been treated that way before. Dedicating himself to his academics has doomed him to a solitary and selfish life—but Jaemin has changed all of that without any resistance.

Jaemin moves Taeyong like a current through water, wholly part of him from the moment they step through Taeyong’s bedroom door to the very last shred of his patience that falls away when Jaemin pushes him down to the bed, face first. Taeyong’s feet steady himself on the ground, but his forearms are pressed into the mattress, nose half-buried in the sheets. 

“Look at you,” Jaemin nearly whispers, his voice so deep that it gets lost in its own roughness. “You’re so pretty like this, baby.”

Like this, Taeyong cannot see Jaemin as much as he would like to, which must be the subtle form of punishment that Jaemin has decided to bestow upon him. His hands are warm where they’re pushing up Taeyong’s dress shirt, palms splayed with burning intensity all the way up to his shoulder blades. 

Taeyong shivers with it, that warmth spreading to his insides and clenching his already tired muscles. Jaemin has a way of keeping Taeyong on edge without him noticing, always leaving flirting touches and fleeting glances that end with Taeyong confused and tipsy. It’s such a sweet sensation that Taeyong can’t be upset with how disorienting it can be, not even when Jaemin’s touch is far too slow to make anything better. 

“I think you’ll be prettier without these.”

Taeyong chokes down a yelp with a sudden, sharp tug at his belt, the leather strap easily falling open with the expertise only Jaemin has ever possessed. Jaemin’s lips brush Taeyong’s exposed lower back as he drags his slacks down, taking his briefs with them to expose his ass to the air. It’s a strange moment, leaving Taeyong feeling vulnerable when Jaemin’s lips do not stop their curious pattern, the slightly sticky sensation of spit only adding to how painfully delicate it all is.

Such a whirlwind from how their time together was going only minutes ago, but Taeyong supposes that isn’t true either, because he is hyper aware of just how hard Jaemin has been working to disorient him since the moment Taeyong opened the front door. Jaemin is calculating with his every move, fingertips fanning across his cheeks, kisses bordering a little too close without any warning. Taeyong feels his brain struggling to follow just where Jaemin is going, his elbows going numb from holding his body up against the slippery sheets. 

“You’re always burning yourself out, baby,” Jaemin mutters with a scrape of his teeth against the plush of Taeyong’s ass, causing a shiver of anticipation to tremble through his legs. “Let me take care of you. I think you deserve it, no?”

No.

It’s what Taeyong wants to say. He feels old most days, already worn out despite having barely gotten started in life. He is not worthy or even worth being treated with kindness. Most nights, Taeyong lays his head on the pillow and tries everything in his power to ignore all of the things he must do the next day, and the next, and the next. 

With Jaemin, that all goes away, and Taeyong becomes a whiny, needy mess amongst all of his insecurities. With Jaemin, Taeyong wants things he’s never wanted before. Shame melts away like candy left under a hot sun, and Jaemin is still willing to lap up its sweetness. 

“Yes, please,” Taeyong relents with an exhale that feels like a fluttering of wings, all of his stress going with it. 

“That’s a good boy,” Jaemin taunts, though his tone is sickly sweet to hide the air of mocking. 

Taeyong moans with it, Jaemin’s voice just as torturous as his touch. The sheets are getting warm with his own body heat, Taeyong’s nose pressing into the mattress until he can hardly breathe when Jaemin’s tongue traces the same line that his lips had gone. But Jaemin doesn’t stop at the end of his tailbone, his tongue tracing lower and deeper until Taeyong is choking on a yelp with the slick warmth of Jaemin’s tongue right against his entrance. 

No warning is typically how Taeyong likes it, the shock to his system doing wonders for the hours of overthinking he’s typically subject to. Jaemin knows his body, strong grip at Taeyong’s waist holding him up as he continues to lap at his clenching hole, the lewd sounds of spit  going straight to Taeyong’s cock. He hasn’t even noticed how hard he’s become amongst all the waiting, but Taeyong is all too aware of it now, all of his blood rushing away from his brain and directly south. 

Jaemin is not full of the kind of shame that inhabits lesser men, his deep groans buzzing against Taeyong’s body and hiding nothing of his satisfaction. It’s a compliment in itself, because Jaemin eats him out as if he’s starving and only Taeyong can fix it, the tight feeling of Jaemin’s tongue stretching him open as it thrusts in and out of him only adding to the flaming blush high on his cheeks. Taeyong wants to always feel this way, his throat aching from how many sounds he’s muffling into the bedding. 

“God, look at you,” Jaemin all but whispers between kitten licks, probably lapping up his own mess. “But only I get to do that. You’re so beautiful, so pliant…”  

The press of two fingers against Taeyong’s rim sends him reeling, an edged and broken cry echoing out into the room against his will. Taeyong isn’t stretched enough yet, but Jaemin is careful as he forces his way inside, gently curling his fingers and wriggling them just enough to make room. 

“And it’s all for me, Yongie,” Jaemin purrs, velvety and so thick it clogs Taeyong’s throat. “The prettiest, smartest, most amazing man made just for me.” 

A resounding “yes” claws itself free from Taeyong’s chest, the already loosened tie around his neck becoming suffocating as his muscles constrict. This is what he really wants to hear, wants it so badly that he has been driven mad with it. Jaemin pulls his rationality out through his ears, skilled fingers thrusting in and out of him with the squelching sound of spit. It’s not nearly as smooth as it sounds, skin catching and the sting adding to Taeyong’s thrumming pleasure until he wants nothing more than to be fucked absolutely brainless. 

“Please. Please, Jaemin,” Taeyong pleads through his teeth, shuddering each time that Jaemin’s thrusts brush past his prostate to tease him further. “I need you. Please.”

In any other moment of his life, Taeyong is not one to beg. He is a firm believer that things fall where they must, or that he will fight to change them the right way. Never has Taeyong stooped so low as to be the kind of man to fall to his knees with a choked off sob, already so far gone just from a few fingers in his ass. 

Two melts into three, and Jaemin follows Taeyong down to the floor, the plush of his expensive rug serving to save their knees. 

“Of course, baby. Anything for you.”

True to his word, Jaemin only thrusts a few more times—agonizingly slow and painful—with those three fingers. He curls them in just the way Taeyong likes it, muttering words against Taeyong’s spine that he can’t understand over the blood rushing in his ears. It feels like divinity, like magic, coating Taeyong’s skin in sparks until he’s all strung out and begging for it. 

Jaemin isn’t one to take his time once the games have ended, his patience saved solely for when their clothes are on. Taeyong loves this about him. He loves that Jaemin slips his fingers out of him without warning, and that the swift sound of Jaemin’s clothes falling to the floor takes no longer than a few pants of breath. Surely he can’t be entirely naked, but Taeyong hums in satisfaction when warm hips press against his ass, Jaemin’s cock slipping between his spit-slick cheeks. 

A moan escapes past Taeyong’s lips, his body jolting when the head of Jaemin’s cock catches on his stretched rim. This can’t be a comfortable position for either of them; Taeyong’s cock is brushing uncomfortably against the sheets, and his knees are going numb. 

But the shock of cold lube getting poured over his skin takes away some of that discomfort, momentarily blinding Taeyong as he tries to orient himself.  Jaemin won’t be gentle, so Taeyong curls his fingers into the comforter, his sweaty temple pressing into the mattress to allow him to breathe. 

This is familiar. This is… comforting. Taeyong feels himself slipping and he doesn’t want to find his way back. Jaemin is entirely in control, and the first press of his cock against his entrance makes Taeyong moan as if it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, the sound getting lost to the room. 

Jaemin pushes in, inch by inch, his grip solidifying its place on Taeyong’s waist. Jaemin’s hands are so big that his thumbs press against his lower rib cage, loosening muscles that Taeyong has held far too tight. Having sex with Jaemin is never solely about pleasure, even if Taeyong’s body is singing with it, because it is also about coming back to a version of himself that can get so easily lost.

The warm press of Jaemin’s hips against Taeyong’s ass when he bottoms out is like finding Nirvana, a garden of Eden expanding out from Taeyong’s mind with how full he feels. Jaemin’s cock is probably poking out from his stomach, so deeply intertwined that Taeyong feels him each time he takes a breath. Jaemin’s heat blankets him from behind, chest pressed against Taeyong’s sweaty back, and there’s nowhere else he would want to be. 

 “Fuck, you feel so good,” Jaemin mutters against the back of Taeyong’s neck, lips warm where they press lazy kisses to the knobs of his spine. “You’re always so good for me, Yongie.”

Good. Good. Good.

Taeyong is good. Taeyong is good because Jaemin believes he is, and that is the only opinion that has ever mattered to him. No pillar of adulthood has meant anything to Taeyong that has not come directly from Jaemin’s lips, each praise and gentle touch building him up from scratch when things seemed so broken apart. It’s something that nobody gets warned about, how lonely and empty they feel when they finally accomplish everything they’ve ever dreamed of. 

Jaemin is more than a dream, and the steady, deep rhythm of his hips dissolves the remainder of Taeyong’s thoughts into nothingness. His cock is searing hot inside of him, the lube sticky and dripping down the backs of his thighs. Taeyong’s moans match the far from careful thrusts that take him apart, sweat gathering atop his skin to catch the air conditioning. 

Every sense in Taeyong’s body is being used, stars dancing in his vision from how hard his eyes are squeezed shut. Jaemin fucks him like he’s never going to get the chance again, savoring each stroke and sucking Taeyong’s skin between his teeth to leave bruising marks. It’s euphoria in the most divine sense of the word, the sound of skin slapping against skin only adding to each sting of pain. 

Taeyong could die here, knees numb and knocked together, tears wanting to stream down his flushed face. It’s all too hot—the blankets, his clothes still hanging uselessly from his body, the lights on in the room. But Taeyong welcomes it. He welcomes everything. 

“Jaem— Jaemin,” Taeyong whines, shuddering all the way down to his toes when Jaemin’s teeth latch onto the strongest part of his shoulder, the pain sharp and perfectly agonizing. “Oh fuck. Yes. Yes.”

It’s so sudden that it sends a thrill up Taeyong’s spine, electricity pulsing beneath his skin when Jaemin’s teeth sink deeper. It feels as if he’ll come away with a chunk of flesh, but Taeyong whimpers through it, reaching back with one shaking hand to grip into Jaemin’s sweaty hair. He doesn’t want it to stop, not ever, not even when he feels the strange sensation of blood dripping down his back to join his sweat. 

Jaemin broke skin, and he moans sweetly into Taeyong’s ear as if that’s apology enough. Their rhythm doesn’t stop, Taeyong’s cock pressing against the bed frame with enough friction to have him hypersensitive. He needs to come, but Jaemin isn’t far behind, and he won’t leave Taeyong to suffer. 

“Everyone should know how perfect you are,” Jaemin mutters into Taeyong’s hair, as if drunk from the simple act of defiling him. “Everyone should look at you and wish they could have a taste. My beautiful, perfect Taeyong.”

The words land like snow, weightless and relieving, pulling on the tightened coil that burns deep in Taeyong’s belly. There is no way he is going to last much longer, especially not when one of Jaemin’s brutal hands slips around to grip Taeyong’s cock, stroking it in a messy back and forth as his own thrusts become frantic. 

“I want you to come for me, baby. I want you to—to make a mess all over your floor for me to see.”

As he speaks, Jaemin laps at the raw and tender bite mark on Taeyong’s shoulder, like a puppy making an apology. Taeyong cries out from the feeling, throat scratching with the effort to breathe and making him dizzy. That bundle of knots inside of him begins to rip apart, threads exploding, and Taeyong feels it rushing with the force of a natural disaster. 

“Fuck —I’m com—coming,” Taeyong sobs, going limp against the bed as it all crashes down upon him, his skin going tight as he trembles through his orgasm. 

It shivers through him, electric and intense, melting him down to bone. Thick spurts of white dribble between his legs, staining his patterned rug and the bedskirt. Jaemin is saying something in his ear, something hypnotic and saccharine as his thrusts falter. Taeyong doesn’t understand him, but he feels it, the warmth building inside of him to add to his impossible fullness. A part of Taeyong wishes he could always feel this way, so brainless and satiated with no other thoughts but the need to keep Jaemin’s cum inside of him. 

The aftermath is gentle. Jaemin’s hands remain steady despite the obvious effort he has put in, holding Taeyong up and easily maneuvering him onto the bed on barely shaky legs. Taeyong still can’t open his eyes, but his muscles scream in protest as Jaemin stretches his legs out, keeping Taeyong floaty and on his back with thumbs digging into his strained thighs. 

“You made such a pretty mess, Yongie,” Jaemin hums with what sounds like a smile in his voice, the warmth of a kiss against Taeyong’s sternum only serving to lull him further into exhaustion despite his ass feeling sticky and wet. “You can let go now. I’ll take care of you.”

Yes.

Taeyong knows he will, and the throb of pain from his shoulder only reminds him further that Jaemin means everything he says. He’ll need to write the Dean an exemplary email in the morning.