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Golden boy, the tabloids say in bold print, just another war cry citing the temporal pleasures of playing voyeur to pretty faces. Kim Taehyung, golden boy in a year of dreams, playing god down Bigtown and emerging as the industry's dernier cri—

They're laughable, these people with their pedestals and repositories of crowns. That's the danger of playing sweetheart to the media: everybody likes a tragedy, so writing celebrities into saints is an intelligent investment for a foreseeable future of scandals and sins. On paper, Taehyung's still the darling rookie who turned the world's runway upside down. High-profile columnists are still his friends. They haven't dug up the dirt on him yet, the kind that'll sell. The kind that'll destroy him.

So it's alright, playing god. Playing king. It's right after a show and Taehyung's damp to the bones, blinded in a cramped closet with his reputation parked outside the door. He's on his knees, hand stripping his cock hard and fast and tight, and none of what the goddamn media says about him matters when he's laid bare like this.

"Kim Taehyung, golden boy," Jimin scoffs, thumb resting flat on Taehyung's tongue. He stares down at Taehyung, at his hundred-dollar slacks pooled on the floor. Taehyung hollows his cheeks around Jimin's digit and sucks around his silver ring like he's so damn starved. "Sounds like a bullshit headline. You're not so much of a boy anymore, are you? You're a dirty, disillusioned son of a bitch. All of us who grow up and live long enough become one."

Taehyung closes his eyes, palms at his crotch with a muted noise. Jimin plays with his mouth some more until he slaps Taehyung's chin with his cock.

"Open up," Jimin breathes, hand cupping Taehyung's cheek so gently that Taehyung might've mistaken it for sentiment. It's a gamble, giving in to what might lead to more than just an escapade, but Taehyung spreads his lips to accommodate Jimin's cock and files the thought away for later.

Jimin is warm and heavy in his mouth—the right amount of slippery, the best sort of thick. Taehyung smiles up at Jimin when he flicks his tongue into Jimin's slit, dragging up and down and up and tasting bitter and salt and the musk of sex. Taehyung could make it quick, pull Jimin into the vacuum wet and finish him off in a matter of seconds. It'll be easy, since Jimin's never had the most spectacular self-restraint. He fucks when he wants it and fucks the way he means it.

But Taehyung's not pressed for time. He finds that the imagery of getting off like this is compelling, with his throat convulsing around Jimin's cock. Taehyung inhales sharply through his nose and lets his jaw fall slack, lets Jimin card his fingers through his hair and push. 

Jimin pants and thrusts into Taehyung's mouth, small shallow motions that won't end things too early. Taehyung's fingers traipse up his neck to feel the smooth slide of Jimin's cock, the bulge of it, and prod just enough to cut his airway off for a split second. When Taehyung pulls off, he heaves into Jimin's thigh, dizzy and wanting.

"You said, once, that you liked to choke," Jimin remarks, amused. He guides his cock back past Taehyung's lips. "Didn't you?"

The eyes below him flicker. Taehyung hums around Jimin's cock, circling his hand around its base. So maybe he does. Maybe Taehyung likes to be full. Maybe he likes to struggle to breathe until his vision dwindles down to nothing, to little dancing dots behind his eyelids. Maybe he keeps his gaze on Jimin, slivers of light from outside catching on the sweat on his forehead and his chest, firm hands settling on Taehyung's neck.

Maybe Taehyung moans when Jimin strokes the line of Taehyung's throat with his palm, breath hitching when he traces the head of his cock with his fingers. Taehyung blinks furiously, starts fucking into his own fist as Jimin lightly squeezes his hand around Taehyung's neck. He's barely there when his mouth yields further, filthy wide, drool slipping out and down his chin. 

Jimin draws back for a moment, knuckles smearing the spit across Taehyung's skin, and Taehyung violently coughs. His chest burns.

He wants it harder.

"Christ," Jimin grunts, rough as he works Taehyung back onto his cock as much as he can. He feeds into Taehyung slowly, languidly, massaging his neck until Taehyung's eyes roll back in his head. "You look so good like this, Taehyung. Suffocating on my cock and shooting up your load all over the floor, all over your skin. You'll be good for me, yeah? You'll be wet and dirty and you'll be coming for me?"

Taehyung swallows around the blunt tip of Jimin's cock, mind lost in the slick, slapping noises. Jimin drives into him deeper, makes him whimper at the meager air.

Jimin's shirt slithers down his shoulders, sleeves gathering at his elbows. The door to the closet rattles as Jimin shoves forward with a grunt, hips snug against Taehyung's cheeks. Says things like, look at how well you're taking it, golden boy, my good boy—

His thrusts turn sloppy and patter down to sticky grinding. Taehyung knows that soon Jimin'll swell up, spill into his throat. Knows how much he'll like the mess that his own thighs will clamp together as he comes, flesh rippling, sated and fucked out. Jimin will pull him up, tuck him back into his trousers with a chaste kiss on his sullied lips. Later, when they're out of The Garden and over Jimin's sheets, Taehyung will be lying on his chest, pillowcase snared between his teeth.

He'll be more mouthy, then. He'll taunt Jimin, because this is as far as Jimin can win. This is as far as Taehyung can lose. For all the accounts of how often Taehyung gets down on all fours and how hard Jimin fucks him into the mattress that it breaks the headboard, nobody else knows. Nobody else knows that he spends his mornings gasping into Jimin's warm mouth, drenched in Jimin's come. To Jimin, he is vulnerable. To the world, he walks several paces ahead, and not even Jimin can outrun him.

Taehyung's mouth curls in the darkness, roguish. Obscene slurps here and there and Jimin's voice finally breaks on an urgent hiss of Taehyung—

Jimin pulls out in time to come white hot all over Taehyung's face, and Taehyung eventually laps it all up with his tongue. It would've been a terrible waste, otherwise.








Fashion week comes to a close. Five hours before Jimin's flight back to Milan, Taehyung tears Jimin's sweatshirt and jeans down and rides him on the floor of his hotel suite. Strands of hair sweep over Jimin's eyes, stick to his skin, fan out on the carpet like a halo he could only wish to have.

Jimin opens his mouth, liberating a chorus of Ah, ah as Taehyung drops back down on his cock, relentless when he stretches around Jimin's girth. Greedy when he sucks him in and keeps him there for a heartbeat. 

"Come on—"

"Board that plane, Park Jimin," Taehyung grits out, curling over Jimin until his mouth ghosts over the column of Jimin's neck. "Haul your ass back to Milan and fuck anything you come across with a pulse—but you know what, ah, what it's gonna come down to? None of them will feel good and right and you won't ever forget about me."

Jimin arches up with a stutter. Makes up for it afterwards with a carnal, measured roll of his hips that grinds deep and sharp into Taehyung's body. Taehyung lifts himself up, muscles tugging at Jimin's cock, wet and slick and slutty.

In his periphery, Jimin's clothes lie ruined. Taehyung laughs; Balmain had signed Jimin before they did Taehyung, and—petty as it was—damaging their apparel somehow sparked a tremor of delight down Taehyung's spine.

Come sundown Jimin leaves Taehyung with bruises and a bottle of champagne. Taehyung holds the glass to his lips, close but never touching. He's spread out on the couch, naked, dried come flaking on his belly as the high-rises outside of his room light up one by one.

His contact list never does get amended, and it takes exactly seven months before he and Jimin see each other again.








Taehyung counts the days in between with casting calls and champagne bottles and nameless hookers who'll never measure up to Park Jimin.

It works, to some degree. Sometime in saturated July, Taehyung gets booked for a shoot in New York and crash lands into the same hotel he'd stayed at, the one that gave him rug burns when Jimin fucked him for the last time and branded him so deeply that Taehyung could still remember the sound of his breathing.

On the last evening of Taehyung's trip, the mattress fervently creaks and Taehyung brokenly heaves into the palm of his hand. Three fingers aren't enough. He uses up all the lube, thinks of how much more vulgar he could've been if Jimin had him on every surface in the room. Opens his ass up until it's angry red and gaping wet.

Perhaps, if he'd gotten Jimin's number, he'd have sent him an attachment. Taehyung, legs splayed on the bed, cock flaring and twitching against his stomach. It would've made a nice photograph, for old times' sake.

Taehyung crooks his fingers just right and comes with Jimin's name on his lips.

(It doesn't really matter, in the scope of things. Taehyung will ultimately take off in the morning with a suitcase, a plastic smile, and a story where Park Jimin does not exist. )








That, right there, is only one of Kim Taehyung's many lies.

It's a long shot from being the last.