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dark cartography

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dark cartography,

things start with a single knock at the door of yoongi’s hotel room, his fingers firmly holding a handgun behind his back as he opens it. it usually is taehyung’s amused face he finds on the other side of the door, but sometimes it’s something else, and the reason why yoongi is good at what he does is because he’s always expecting something else. a knife to the stomach, a bullet to the chest.

it is taehyung, though, and he’s in and out in a minute, leaving a manila folder at the desk and stealing a single cigarette from yoongi’s pack. “hoseok-hyung says it was really hard to dig those up. i gotta go,” he says, already at the door again, leaving, “—you brief me on this later?”

yoongi dismisses taehyung with a small nod and locks the door behind him, letting himself fall onto a chair as he goes through their next target’s file: two photographs, two pages of incomplete intel, two targets. saying the targets looked young was an understatement, he notices, their military photos not exactly recent but yoongi could tell they weren’t old, either, two kids who’ve barely entered adulthood. he was intrigued.

jeon jungkook, the first file says, 1997, busan. yoongi reads his perfect résumé, prodigy, graduated at 20, track and field star, perfect grades — he scoffs. all that is worth shit if you get shot in the face for nosing into grown men business, he’ll learn. jungkook joined a NIS special program as soon as he graduated and then he disappeared from the earth, and that is what makes yoongi’s brow arch. two years since then, and he completely vanished. his partner too, yoongi notices, park jimin, 1995, busan, the same two years erased from existence. there was no dirt too, nothing that seemed shady apart from the fact that, apparently, they didn’t really exist anymore. usually, if hoseok couldn’t find something, it never happened.

the intel he received earlier from their contractor was worth close to nothing: track down and eliminate jeon jungkook and park jimin, no questions asked. there was no apparent reason described, either, not even the vague shit they usually get like “saw things they shouldn’t” or something that tried to justify their mission, and yoongi would be lying if he said it didn’t leave a strange feeling in his gut.

so he gets up, lights a cigarette, brings one of the photographs to the balcony. small city lights dance beneath him, endless rows of tall buildings and fast cars roaming everywhere and nowhere. yoongi finally takes a drag on his cigarette, long and deep, as he watches the boy’s features flickering to the flame between his fingers.

“jeon jungkook,” he murmurs, tasting the words in his mouth.

 


 

“i don’t like this job, hyung.”

yoongi stares at taehyung across the table. he hasn’t even touched his fries or his burger, which shows how close to a mental breakdown he must be. yoongi sighs, “—you know we’re fucked if we don’t take it, yeah? we refuse to kill them, they find someone who will. someone who’ll also kill us, bonus package.”

“i know,” taehyung mumbles, and he’s almost pouting and that’s seriously the last thing yoongi wanted to deal with right now, “—they just seem like they don’t belong in this mess? i mean, hoseokie-hyung couldn’t find anything on them, isn’t that weird? one of them is even younger than me, what the fuck.”

“you do realize you had killed a bunch of people at the age of twenty already?”

taehyung glares at him.

“yes, old, dirty dudes. filthy politicians and stupid mob assholes,” he points a finger at yoongi the second he opens his mouth to retort, says “— yes, thinking like this helps me sleep at night, but listen, hyung. we don’t just go out there killing people without knowing why. there’s a reason we quit the military, you know.”

he knows.

“thing is,” yoongi starts, massaging his own temple, “—we don’t just refuse jobs. that’s why we get good missions and why we are trustworthy and valuable to them. start making demands and we’re fucked.”

there’s an old radio somewhere in the diner playing a song yoongi hates. taehyung is chewing on his bottom lip nervously, visibly distressed, and he reminds yoongi of a child when he’s like this. makes yoongi think about doing the right thing, which is something he really doesn’t want to do right now, because he’s been in this far too long to know better. start bringing too much of your own consciousness and morality into this line of work and you’ll realize you should probably stop doing it.

(or you’ll realize you just don’t care anymore, which is worse, if you ask yoongi. because he’s not that jaded yet, he’s not indifferent to the fact that he’s killing people, right? it just gets easier, not better. right?)

“fuck,” yoongi finds himself saying, one hand running idly through his own hair, “okay, okay. i don’t like any of this either. it’s fucking shady. we’ve still got time, we can investigate more and then decide what we should do, yeah?”

taehyung looks at him wide-eyed and confused, like he never believed yoongi could agree with him on that, and it makes yoongi think more than he’d like to admit. he’s really been close to not caring anymore, hasn’t he?

“really?”

“yeah, really,” yoongi says, voice softer, and he pushes taehyung’s fries towards him, “—eat your fucking food.”

 


 

yoongi still has one last piece of intel to retrieve before they can finish the job they were executing before the eliminate the busan boys request came in. the hard part of the mission was all done and nothing much could go wrong for them, so yoongi isn’t really worried. his mission today is fairly easy — five minutes, in and out, clean and simple.

the five stars luxury hotel he’s been staying at was strategic to their plan — lots of important, dangerous guests and exuberant parties happening all the time. yoongi was sitting at the bar with a glass of whisky in his hand when his go signal came in the form of kim seokjin — a small, knowing smile playing in his plump lips, skin glowing immaculately under the light of the expensive crystal candelabrum hanging from the ceiling.

he makes himself comfortable in the seat beside yoongi.

“enjoying yourself, yoongi?”

“hardly,” yoongi mutters, downing the rest of his whisky before settling the glass in the counter softly, carefully. his voice is barely a whisper when he asks, “—is it time?”

“you’re no fun,” seokjin says, scoffing, but he gets closer to yoongi so he can whisper against his ear, fingers finding purchase around one of his wrists in a light, gentle touch. his movements are precise and imperceptible as he passes yoongi an access card, “—he just left the suite. there’s no one else staying in his floor, but you’ll find a guard at his door, alone. shouldn’t be a problem.”

kim seokjin was a man of many connections. no one really knew how, but he had a way of getting important, expensive information no one else managed to get with ease. i know lots of people and lots of things, he’ll say if you ask, and, as i'm sure you know, i can be very charming.

yoongi does know.

 


 

unlike what seokjin told him, yoongi finds the floor completely empty — no sign of the guard and no blind spots to search. he looks around him searching for something he could have missed anyway. it’s odd; being precise with the details and not making mistakes is what makes seokjin so good at what he does, so reliable. yoongi draws his pistol as he gets close to their mark’s suite, looks behind him one last time before using the access card to open the door. his eyes meet complete darkness as he slips into the room, closing the door behind him, grip firm around his pistol.

something is off.

he moves slowly, eyes squinting against the sudden darkness of the room. there’s a hint of light in front of him — moonlight, a window somewhere behind a wall, he guesses. yoongi’s chest feels too light, throat dry, adrenaline rushing through his veins giving him a pleasant thrill. he stumbles over a large mass in the floor, a body?, ears picking up the sound of air moving. no, not air, something, someone—

yoongi raises his gun, someone moves fast, he shoots.

he hears a soft grunt, but then there’s a fist connecting to his jaw with a force he didn’t expect and his vision blurs, ear ringing, taste of iron heavy and thick in his tongue. yoongi manages to duck the second punch blindly and drive his own fist against his assailant’s stomach, who throws himself against yoongi and sends them both crashing against the floor. he is bigger, yoongi notices — taller and heavier than himself, and he has the upper hand over yoongi for a while as they struggle against each other.

yoongi lives for this, though — the feel of his bloody knuckles ruining things. he manages to pin the other down, straddling his squirming body firmly as yoongi’s hand closes around his neck, pistol under his chin. they are closer to the window, now, bedroom partially illuminated by moonlight, and yoongi lets out a shuddering breath half laugh escape his lungs.

that’s when yoongi realizes; it’s jeon jungkook’s throat he’s squeezing, prodigy boy jeon jungkook’s body bleeding beneath him. yoongi licks at the blood in his own mouth and smiles. stupid, stupid boy.

“price for your head’s pretty fucking high, jeon jungkook. did you know that,” yoongi says, relishing in the way jungkook’s body stops struggling after hearing his own name. he wasn’t expecting this, “—what the fuck are you doing here?”

he doesn’t reply, just winces as yoongi moves above him. he’s probably hurt, yoongi thinks, maybe a broken rib or a bullet somewhere. yoongi releases the pressure from his hand around jungkook’s neck and watches as he takes in a deep breath and then bites on his lower lip, eyes very dark and furious.

jungkook’s lips curve into a small smile, and then yoongi feels the gentle press of cool metal against his own ribs. fucker. yoongi shivers, hand tightening against jungkook’s throat instinctively, defensively, and the boy’s voice sounds low and dangerous as he dares, “—do it already, then.”

yoongi presses the gun harder on jungkook’s chin, his head rolling back against the floor, slender throat exposed. his skin is pale and soft under yoongi’s fingertips and he’s pretty sure it’ll bruise overnight — dark, twisted cartography against his fair complexion.

“i asked what the fuck you’re doing here, jeon jungkook,” yoongi repeats, enjoying far too much the way his name rolls off his tongue easily, through the blood on his mouth and his gritted teeth, “—you thought you could just get the fucking plans from under my nose, you’re that fucking stupid?”

jungkook looks lost, for a second. his mouth opens and closes and his brow furrows, despite the gun on his chin, despite the tight grip in his throat. that’s not what he wants, yoongi realizes.

“i'm not—” he starts, barely a whisper, and yoongi releases his throat, tries to ignore the way his fingers tingle with the loss, “—i don’t give a shit about your politics and schemes, or you and you people.”

it’s the first time yoongi notices jungkook looks every bit as young as his file said he is, and it hits him hard. yoongi thinks about the target, the suite owner — a party-head who controlled many members of the national assembly, a good amount of judges and had tons of connections to the mob. he obviously had a lot to hide and a very generous amount of people trying to kill him, but yoongi didn’t get it. why the fuck would these boys be involved in shit like—

yoongi realizes he’s fucked when jungkook fucking grabs his pistol wrist and snaps it back, his head hitting yoongi in the nose hard as he forces himself up, away from yoongi. pain flares around his wrist and he’s pretty sure his nose is bleeding as he stumbles on the floor, trying to reach jungkook. he’s gone, though, yoongi hears more than sees him kicking yoongi’s pistol away, under the bed, and stumbling out of the room. yoongi curls around his wrist and laughs, impressed, the door shutting behind him.

what a fucking asshole.

 


 

“well, you look like shit,” hoseok says, brow arched, looking at him for entire two seconds before lowering his eyes back to his laptop screen.

yoongi doesn’t say anything. his sprained wrist is bandaged and hurting like a bitch, and it’s a fucking miracle his nose wasn’t broken, lips swollen, face covered in small, yellowing bruises. he sits in front of hoseok and ignores his offended gasp when yoongi steals his mug of some shit that smells like coffee but tastes like way too much sugar. yoongi makes a face.

“fuck off, i got what we needed,” he looks around the small café out of habit, forever searching for the next thing that will try to kill him. he’s every bit tired as he looks, “—did you get what i asked?”

“you know,” hoseok says, closing his laptop and sighing heavily, “—you never told me why you need it, hyung.”

“i know.”

“taehyungie is really worried,” he rakes a hand through his hair and it’s obvious  taehyung is not the only one who’s worried, “—he feels like you’re leaving us out because it’s worse than it seems.”

yoongi sighs, drinks one more sip of hoseok’s shit coffee to distract himself from the way his lungs are begging for a cigarette, fingers itching. he can feel the weight of hoseok’s eyes on him even without looking.

“it’s not like that,” yoongi mutters, “—you both worry too much. he’s the one who didn’t want to take the job, for fucks sake. i’m just… investigating.”

“i get that, but you’re not being very informative on what you’re finding, you know,” hoseok says, and then sighs, “—you could even be carrying the mission by yourself and we wouldn’t even know.”

“that’s what you’re worried about? jesus, hoseok, i’m not a fucking psycho.”

“i know. but you can be reckless, sometimes. you know that, right, hyung? i’m just saying we can help investigate. besides, if things go wrong, it’s not just your ass on the line, you know? don’t keep us out.”

“i’m not keeping y—”

“okay, what happened to your face, then?” hoseok scoffs, getting his mug back from yoongi’s fingers, “—you really expect us to believe a random security dude messed you up, huh?”

“hoseok, did you fucking get the address or not?”

hoseok studies him for a good while before sighing heavily, shaking his head. he shoves his laptop inside his bag and gets up, pushing a small piece of paper towards yoongi.

“don’t fuck things up.”

 


 

sunset is bleeding into the sky in a thousand shades of red and yellow when yoongi pushes jeon jungkook against the door to his room in the shittiest inn in the city, pistol firmly pressed against his lower back. he doesn’t struggle — just screws his eyes shut and tries to hold in his breath as if he’s been waiting for that, been counting the days before someone finally put a bullet through him.

“hands against the door,” he says, close to his neck, and finds himself pleased as jungkook obeys without fighting. yoongi palms jungkook’s sides with one hand, searching over his hips, between his legs and near his ankles. he finds a handgun and a knife before giving the boy two pats on the shoulder.

“open it,” yoongi demands, pushing the gun against the jungkook’s torso to make his point clear. his hand grips jungkook’s free wrist tightly against his back, just in case he tries something fancy like last time, “—don’t say a word, just get in.”

he doesn’t say anything, but yoongi can feel the boy is furious from the way he breathes, raw anger seeping through every single one of his pores. there’s no clean way out of this and jungkook knows it, is probably clever enough to have thought about a thousand different reasons that could have led them to this situation and all the possible outcomes of this.

(he doesn’t know they are probably all wrong yet.)

yoongi pushes him inside the room as soon as jungkook manages to open the door with one hand, pained grunt escaping his throat as he scrambles to turn around and face yoongi. he raises his chin, staring at yoongi without faltering, fearless.

yoongi lowers the gun.

“just so you know i could have killed you already if i wanted to,” yoongi says, matter-of-factly, “do you have anything to eat here?”

jungkook just stares at yoongi dumbfounded, eyebrows scrunched together in a way that makes yoongi believe for a second he said something even weirder than the shit taehyung says sometimes.

“i—what?”

“food,” yoongi repeats, slowly, like he was talking to a child, “—i’m hungry.”

“no? i don’t— what do you want?”

jungkook is not even trying to conceal his confusion anymore, expression half pained and half exasperated, and yoongi finds it oddly endearing.

“pizza would be good, but i’m up for anything, really,” yoongi says, looking around. there isn’t much to see in the small, cheap hotel room except for a single bag on the floor, next to the bed, “—you’re alone. where’s your partner? jimin?”

“none of your fucking business,” jungkook scoffs, “—cut the crap, what do you want?”

“i want to know what you did. why do they want you dead, why did i found you in the middle of the other job. why did you have to fucking strain my wrist when we were getting along so well.”

“so you’re just curious?” jungkook asks, voice small and tired. yoongi notices he’s given up on trying to understand, really, making his way towards the mini bar and grabbing a bottle of cheap whisky. he pours it into two ridiculous tin mugs and hands one to yoongi, “it’s not poisoned, but it’ll probably kill you all the same. cost me like five dollars or something.”

yoongi smiles, grabbing the mug as jungkook sits by a small coffee table, “is it even legal for you to drink?”

“i’m old enough for you to put a fucking bullet in my stomach but not for me to drink? how does that even makes sense?”

“oh, so you did take that bullet? shit,” yoongi says, takes a sip of his whisky and makes a face, “why were you there? you didn’t even get the fucking intel on the missile plans. you know how much that shit is worth?”

“i told you,” jungkook sighs, “i don’t give a shit about whatever it is you people are after. i’m not in this for money, either. you don’t get it.”

“tell me.”

“why? why are you even here, jesus. doesn’t even make sense.”

“your file popped in my desk,” yoongi says, takes another sip of his cheap whisky, makes another face, “they want you dead, but i think you know that already. i’m good at this, you know? killing people. so fucking tell me why . if i think you’re full of crap i’m just going to shoot you. if you don’t tell me i’m also going to shoot you. if you entertain me i may shoot someone else.”

jungkook looks like he’s about to have a mental breakdown, like he doesn’t get a single word yoongi’s saying, “ why?”

“i don’t know. because i feel like something’s off. because you almost broke both my wrist and my nose and i like you better for it. jungkook, just fucking tell me.”

yoongi watches the boy struggle; he licks his lips and then pours some more whisky for himself, and then takes a couple of deep breaths. he’s probably wondering what is there to lose, looking for the catch, anything that makes sense. yoongi knows because he’s not exactly feeling too different himself.

“order us your pizza, then,” he decides. yoongi smiles.

 


 

they do order pizza and yoongi learns jungkook likes it simple: classic mozzarella with extra olives. he also learns the amount jungkook talks can be proportional to the amount of whisky he downs, which is nearing too much, but yoongi’s pretty sure he’s gonna get punched in the face if he tells him that. so he doesn’t.

jungkook tells him he and jimin were part of a NIS experimental program that was sent in a secret governmental mission that went really badly — nearly whole special ops team getting killed kind of badly — and turns out getting killed in action was supposed to be considered getting lucky. they couldn’t let the story blow up, after all, so they hunted down any survivors; he and jimin were the only ones left now, jungkook believes.

“jimin’s laying low, now,” jungkook explains, staring blankly at the wall. his voice is trembling slightly when he speaks again, “—we thought we were finally okay, you know? that they believed we were fucking dead already and that we could breathe. we were trying to gather evidences to prove what happened, too, you know, because it wasn’t fair. they all died and nobody cared, they didn’t even tell the truth to their mothers, how fucked up is that?”

“—and we really thought we were gonna make it. there was this journalist girl who was really invested in it, the scoop or whatever she called it, had it all sorted out,” jungkook looked at him, then, pain flashing in his bright eyes, words tripping over one another for some reason other than the whisky, “—and they got to her, too, because we were fucking stupid. they couldn’t just kill her, though. they had to teach us a lesson, send a message, you know?”

yoongi’s throat is too dry and tight. yes, he does know, and he wishes jungkook, prodigy, brilliant jungkook, he reminds himself, didn’t. poor kid.

“so yeah. and then they almost killed jimin too, but he’s so fucking tough. and i said he couldn’t fucking die on me, so he didn’t. you should meet him,” he says, brightening up a bit, a small smile curving his lips up, “—if it were him you met that day at the hotel you weren’t going to be here now, i can tell you that.”

yoongi finds himself smiling, too, and he’s not too drunk to realize he’s already too fond of this boy. not too drunk to realize that probably means he’s really fucked.

so he says, “—i don’t doubt it.”

 


 

yoongi has no idea how he ended up sleeping slouched in the same chair he sat talking with jungkook for hours, but he did. it’s probably late when he wakes up to jungkook’s voice cursing somewhere he couldn’t see, bathroom light white and very bright on the other side of the room.

he gets up to find the door open and jungkook making a mess of himself, blood on his hands, on his white shirt, on the white bathroom tiles. yoongi can hear his soft panting, can see on the mirror the way he’s got his lower lip trapped between his teeth so tightly it must be hurting, drunk fingers trying to stitch the bullet injury on his abdomen.

yoongi’s chest tightens, stupid kid, and he gets in, already sobered up as he grabs jungkook’s trembling hands onto his, as he watches jungkook’s startled face like he’s forgotten he wasn’t alone.

“shit,” he says, breathing hard, letting himself be pushed against the wall, head resting on the cool tiles, “—you did this, you fucker.”

“i know,” yoongi agrees, taking jungkook’s shirt off so he could clean him properly, soaking up the blood with a damp towel, “—it was just a bit more than a graze, though, you’re the one who can’t fucking stitch. and why are you trying to stitch yourself now , of all times, i mean, i shot you two days ago.”

“i stitched myself yesterday, i’m not stupid,” jungkook growls, and yoongi raises a brow at him because, really, everything about this says otherwise, “—it’s just, the stitches were bugging me because guess what, i fucking suck at stitching, and i couldn’t sleep so. i decided to redo them.”

yoongi decides not to point everything that made that idea a fucking terrible idea because jungkook didn’t look too good — face tilted at the ceiling like he was trying his best not to cry, face pale, lips raw and bitten. it made yoongi feel responsible, and not because he was the one who shot him, but because he was the one who made jungkook talk about all the things he probably didn’t mean to talk and feel all the things he didn’t want to feel.

he sits on the toilet cover and stitches jungkook up carefully, trying his best not to hurt his bruised skin even more. yoongi’s never been exactly good at stitching either, too impatient for handwork, but getting shot for a living will make you learn a thing or two. and anything is better than the mess jungkook’s been doing on himself, so there’s that.

“is it hurting bad?” yoongi asks, apologetically, and jungkook shakes his head.

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost sleepily, “—it’s just, i can’t do it. i never… jiminie-hyung is the one who’s good with the stitching. i’m just good with the tearing.”

“you’re good with a lot of things,” yoongi sighs, “—i’ve seen your file, remember? golden jeon jungkook.”

jungkook chuckles and yoongi pretends not to notice how his chest feels lighter now, continues working silently, tries not to think much of when one of jungkook’s hands reach yoongi’s face to brush his hair away from his eyes. he stands up when he’s finished, and his fingers caress the reddened skin of jungkook’s waist absentmindedly, assessing his own work. he tells himself he doesn’t understand why he’s feeling proud of the fact that it’s going to scar, his bullet wound on this beautiful boy’s skin.

“you’re done,” yoongi tells him, “—you should take a shower before going back to sleep, you’re all bloody.”

he agrees with a lazy hum and a small smile, fingers already working on unbuttoning his jeans slowly, and yoongi knows he shouldn’t think about why jungkook’s eyes never leave his, or how he’s still biting on his lower lip hard, even though it probably isn’t hurting that bad anymore. yoongi knows he shouldn’t want to know why that feels like an invitation, shouldn’t stay there, under his warm gaze, where he feels raw and vulnerable and exposed, but he does it anyway.

jungkook steps into yoongi’s space and puts a hand on his cheek almost reverently, and it’s close to overwhelming the way he stares at yoongi’s lips as he studies whether or not he should do this. jungkook is so easy to read, yoongi thinks, and he already knows he’s utterly lost as he closes his eyes to welcome jungkook’s mouth on his neck, soft, wet kisses burning against the hollow of his throat.

yoongi reaches for jungkook’s nape and winds his fingers into a fist as he tilts jungkook’s head back so he can look at his eyes — they are very dark and hazy with want, mouth shining in an angry, wet red, and yoongi feels his own chest fill up with something dangerous, darker than desire. he has to take a deep breath to stop himself from drowning.

“i should go,” yoongi says, and it’s true, but his voice sounds lower and hoarser than he expected, not convincing at all, not even if he tried really hard to believe it himself. the beautiful curve of jungkook’s smug grin says he doesn’t buy it either.

“no. why did you help me?” jungkook demands in a low murmur, staring at yoongi completely bare and fearless, and the thing is: yoongi is tired. tired of trying to figure things out, tired of having to do what he’s expected to do, tired of wondering what the fuck is right or wrong.

which is why he pulls jungkook’s head closer to him and kisses him full on the lips, swallowing the delighted moan jungkook fails to hold in as his lips part to meet yoongi’s eagerly, one hand already sneaking under yoongi’s shirt and holding onto his waist, the other pulling him in by his chin.

“because you,” yoongi murmurs against his lips, lets jungkook kiss and nip at his jaw as he works his pants down,  “—you’re still trying to be one of the good guys, you poor thing.”

 


 

(“have you ever considered,” taehyung said softly one day, doing his best not to disturb hoseok’s sleepy frame, “—how things would be if we didn’t do what we do?”

taehyung always does this thing where he asks random philosophical questions out of the blue, but especially when he’s drunk, and yoongi, to be honest, has never been one to pay them much thought. so he says simply, “—no,” because he hadn’t.

thing is yoongi doesn’t even know how to begin thinking about that. what they do is the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing he has confidence in doing — and the fact that it involves a lot of people getting killed used bother him, when he first joined the military, but that was ages ago, and they left that behind, except for the killing people part. yoongi doesn’t know if he is good at compartmentalizing or if he’s just that fucked up of a person, but it’s simple: someone has to do it and he’s fucking good at doing it, and most of the time yoongi has no trouble believing that is good enough.

“we wouldn’t know each other,” taehyung mumbles quietly, taking another sip of his beer.

the only answer yoongi can come up with is: he has no clue.

“i wouldn’t change a thing, you know,” he goes on, caressing hoseok’s hair fondly, “—i can’t fucking stand it anymore, yeah, but if this is the outcome, i’d do it all again.”

“shit, don’t get all emotional on me,” yoongi slurs, resting his head back on the couch and closing his eyes, “—if i knew i’d have to put up with all the shit you put me through i’d choose to be scrubbing bathroom floors until today.”

taehyung flips him a middle finger, giggling, “—asshole.”)

 


 

the city still sleeps around them as jungkook arches helplessly in his hotel bed, small, restrained moans spilling from his throat despite his obvious efforts to keep them in; yoongi finds it endearing, the way jungkook wants it, wants him, but feels like he has to fight it.

(yoongi gets it. he lives for fighting, too)

the delicate skin of jungkook’s inner thigh is marked, entire galaxies of red, purple and blue drawn by yoongi’s lips and fingers — pride burning on his tongue as he laps it against the bruises, searching for another taintless spot suck another mark on. yoongi has a hand working lazily on jungkook’s cock and the other fingering him open, pace slow and steady and obviously not enough for jungkook and the small, desperate whines that escape his lips as he tries to buck his hips against yoongi’s hand and then back on his fingers.

yoongi chuckles darkly against his skin, and he can admit he is enjoying making a mess of this boy way more than he should. he releases his cock and presses a thumb against one of the dark, purple bruises on jungkook’s skin, feeling more than hearing the way jungkook stops breathing, mouth falling open in an obscene moan, pressing his leg back against yoongi’s thumb and clenching impossibly tighter around his fingers.

“what was that?” yoongi croons, pleased, and watches as jungkook throws one of his arms over his eyes with a groan, embarrassed, a pretty shade of blush spreading over his cheeks and nose and collarbones. yoongi’s hand is still fingering him open slowly and he already feels addicted to the way jungkook shivers towards him, so sensitive and vulnerable as he winds his legs to wrap them around yoongi’s torso the moment he pulls his fingers out and pushes himself up and over his body.

yoongi kisses him open-mouthed and demanding in a mess of tangled sheets and limbs, dawn painting the room a warm, vivid yellow. he draws intricate patterns over jungkook’s surprisingly delicate waist, around his bandaged wound, traces jungkook’s jaw and neck with small kisses that leave him weak and trembling under yoongi’s palm. when jungkook opens his eyes, they are very dark and bright and warm, and yoongi raises his fingers to push them into jungkook’s mouth, watching with adoration as he takes them hungrily, sucking and licking and making a mess.

“pretty,” yoongi murmurs as jungkook sighs, “—so pretty for me.”

“i want—” he whines around yoongi’s fingers, tongue chasing them even after yoongi draws his hand back, “—ah, yoongi, shit.”

“what do you want?”

jungkook doesn’t ask for things, yoongi learns, he takes them, so he pulls yoongi towards him to lick into his mouth, kissing him roughly, and then he wraps a hand around yoongi’s cock, guides him between his legs and in, desperate and reckless. yoongi feels his whole body tingling with need as he buries himself deeper inside jungkook, reveling in the way everything suddenly feels too hot and too slow.

the small whimpers and mewls jungkook’s throat let escape as he tries his best to hold back his moans are enough to make yoongi’s head feel too light. he can’t get enough, he needs to feel them — trace each one of them and their texture beneath his fingertips like a well-tuned piano. it’s pure instinct and raw, naked desire that makes yoongi slot a hand around jungkook’s slender neck again, almost exactly like when they met — less anger, now, but the danger is all the same.

there’s a moment of stillness that yoongi isn’t sure is real, jungkook’s eyes wide and his swollen lips half-open, his chest suddenly scrambling for air almost desperately, and then he bites on his lip and closes his eyes, his hand wrapping around yoongi’s wrist lightly, not to stop him, but to keep him there. yoongi feels his ragged breathing, his erratic pulse, blood pumping against his touch, and it’s intoxicating.

yoongi leans down, hand around jungkook’s throat not applying any pressure — just touching, feeling him — and he kisses jungkook silly, swallowing his moans and tasting the same desperation he feels himself in jungkook’s tongue. jungkook smiles when they part, whispers “—you could kill me,” and yoongi knows it’s true.

he feels high and powerful when he says, “—i won’t.”

yoongi can read on jungkook’s eyes he just knows that means much more than it should. he’s not going to kill him now and he’s not going to kill him ever, which yoongi already knew for a couple of hours, yes, but being like this makes everything confusing and overwhelming because yoongi shouldn’t be doing this. everything is wrong and fucking jungkook silly is very far from making things easier, but it doesn’t matter.

not now, when jungkook is panting and moaning beneath him, hips restless as they try to meet yoongi’s every thrust, always so fucking eager, whole body warm and melting around yoongi’s. not now.

“yeah,” jungkook breathes, arching his head back, and it’s all yoongi needs.

yoongi presses his thumb on one side of jungkook’s neck, tentative at first, and then a light pressure; his other fingers press around the column of jungkook’s throat, against the pulse point on the other side, and fuck, yoongi can feel his breathing, can trace the slow vibrations of his moans, his erratic pulse, his adam’s apple moving against the rough skin of his palm. yoongi squeezes his throat and jungkook lets his mouth fall open in a moan as his body clenches around yoongi, hot and tight and so good for him.

it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s—

yoongi isn’t exactly thinking anymore when his hips pick up speed, one of jungkook’s hand slack around yoongi’s wrist, the other clutching the headboard above his head with so much force his arm is trembling. he closes his eyes with a sigh, completely surrendered, and yoongi wants nothing more than see him coming apart because of him.

when yoongi pulls his hand away, jungkook takes a deep breath and opens his eyes slowly — they are very dark, lost and unable to focus, pupils blown out, and his lazy eyelids are struggling to keep themselves open. his hands look desperately for yoongi — his neck, his chest, anything he can reach, and yoongi leans down to kiss him, wet and messy, not even trying to conceal his hunger, unable to stop fucking into him.

“i —hyung, ” jungkook moans, desperate, pulling yoongi towards him, “—please, need to come, please...”

“yeah?” yoongi swoons, hand wrapping around his cock and pumping him; slowly, at first, reveling in the way jungkook nearly sobs and bites on his lower lip until it’s almost white, and suddenly hard and fast, merciless, rhythm desperate like his own thrusts, “—gonna be a good boy and come for me, kook?”

jungkook nods eagerly, “yes,” and then he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, begs, “ yes, pleasepleaseplease.”

“shhh, i got you,” yoongi says as jungkook comes, pleads rolling off his tongue non-stop, whole body shivering and clenching around yoongi, still trying to meet him in his thrusts even though he’s a fucking wreck. it’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen, and yoongi braces himself on the bed to fuck him better, harder, with abandon, until he’s following jungkook into ecstasy inescapably.

 


 

they wanna know if the job is a go, reads taehyung’s message before yoongi allows himself to pass out for a while, his body still tingling.

he thinks about jungkook’s confused look the first time he had pinned him down, back at the mark’s hotel room — lost, probably frightened, but most of all, clean. didn’t know anything about their mess, couldn’t care less. he thinks about the ridiculous achievements in his file, so fucking bright and clever, and the way his voice trembled as he talked about jimin and the journalist girl, about how all he wants is to be fucking allowed to live.

yoongi feels a rush of fear in his veins suddenly, and he scans his mind almost desperately — what if i made a mistake before, what if i killed someone like him, and he knows the obvious answer is yes, you did, but it’s the first time yoongi allows himself to think about that. it’s when he realizes it’s not that he didn’t care, but he knew that, if he stopped himself to think about it, he just wouldn’t do shit.

(he cares, and that wasn’t being weak. he has always cared, of course he did.)

jungkook mumbles something in his sleep that sounds a lot like stay, holds him a bit tighter, buries himself into the crook of yoongi’s neck sleepily, and yoongi’s whole body writhes with want. god, he wants this so bad, because jungkook isn’t just a pretty boy life chose to screw over, but he is yoongi’s way out. he’s the closest to free yoongi has ever been.

fuck the job, yoongi types back, and allows himself to fall asleep.

 


 

yoongi wakes up to a warm kiss on the corner of his mouth, jungkook’s sleepy voice muttering “—i’m hungry,” against his skin. their limbs are still tangled, one of jungkook’s arms wrapped around yoongi’s waist like he’s trying to keep him from going anywhere, and yoongi allows himself to feel all warm inside for a while — too sleepy and content to remind himself they are not people allowed to have this kind of bliss.

“order something,” yoongi rasps, sleepy fingers burying onto jungkook’s messy hair, shivering as a small, pleased moan escapes jungkook’s throat.

“no, i wanna go out,” he pouts, nuzzling yoongi’s neck and jaw, “—take me to eat.”

maybe it’s because yoongi is still half-asleep, but he is having a hard time trying to understand why jungkook thinks that is a good idea. he scoffs, “—and pretend people aren’t being paid to kill you right now?”

“yeah, by the way, hyung,” jungkook starts, raising himself to kiss yoongi full in the mouth — sudden and slow. he hums as he leans back, a smile taking over his lips, and says, “—you’re a shitty worker.”

“oh? you wanna see me become employee of the month real quick?”

jungkook raises up his chin, grins beautifully, and his eyes are aflame when he says, “—you could try,” challenge dripping from his words. and then he giggles, “—i’d like it better if you took me out to eat, though, hyung.”

yoongi understands the underlying meaning of his words, fondness growing in his chest at the thought that jungkook is trusting him in this twisted, weird way, even though he shouldn’t. and jungkook knows he shouldn’t too, which is why he feels the need to remind yoongi that, yeah, he’s trusting him, but he’s ready to be disappointed and put a bullet in yoongi’s head if he needs to, and it makes yoongi even fonder.

“i’m not taking you anywhere, you have a huge fucking target on your back,” yoongi starts and jungkook sighs, sitting up and making a face at his wound, and yoongi runs his fingers lightly against the hickies on his abdomen, satisfied. jungkook blushes.

“no one is going to find us,” he mumbles, insistent and so, so fucking reckless.

yoongi tries to tell himself he has no idea why he is worrying so much about this boy who, apparently, is far too eager to get fucking shot in the face, but now he knows why, and it just contributes to him feeling very stupid.

i found you.”

“yeah, but you’re like, their top dude. expensive,” jungkook says, leaving quick a kiss in the corner of yoongi’s mouth before jumping out of the bed, looking for his clothes, “—they are not gonna pay anyone else unless they realize you’re not gonna do it. or unless you turn up dead.”

jungkook throws yoongi’s clothes at him, smiling happily like he already knows yoongi won’t say no even when it’s obvious he should, and it’s late, but it kinda makes yoongi question what the fuck they are doing.

because yoongi should have left before jungkook woke up, or yesterday, while he was showering, or before that, as soon as he finished stitching jungkook up, or now . because, fine, yoongi knew he wasn’t going to kill jungkook anymore, had come to terms with the fact that some people just didn’t deserve to die and all that, but that didn’t mean he had to stay. nothing was stopping him from saying something along the lines of hey, it’s been good, but i gotta go, you take care.

but all of yoongi’s soft spots are suddenly alive and aching for lost, lonely, broken jungkook. the way jungkook looks at him alone tells yoongi he’s ready for it — just waiting for the moment yoongi will get fed up with all this and just try to carry on with his mission, and shit, all yoongi wants is to make him feel safe, and the realization comes crashing through yoongi’s chest like an overwhelming torrent.

don’t fuck things up, hoseok’s voice echoes in his head.

jungkook is all dressed and smiling shyly at him, “—i know a place. the best lamb skewers, i swear. c’mon…

fuck,” yoongi says, standing, getting into his clothes, trying not to smile too,  “—this is a stupid idea.”

 


 

they go out to jungkook’s lamb skewers place, and no one tries to kill him. yoongi learns jungkook can eat for three people easily because, in his words, i’m only 20 and still growing, god fucking help him. also, he thought about going back to college and studying art after everything was over, but then he lost hope that it would ever be over, and it makes yoongi want to hit something. jungkook misses busan’s sea, has never been to daegu, knows how to draw really well, of course he does , and his full laugh is fucking contagious.

eventually, he asks: “so what did you tell your guys, hyung?”

“my guys?”

“yeah, your partners, whatever you call each other,” jungkook explains, nonchalant, licking his fingers and reaching for more sauce, “—the other dudes who were paid to kill me too.”

yoongi studies him for a few seconds as he chews, and then settles for, “it’s just me.”

“tsk, you think i know nothing about you, min yoongi?” he says in between bites in a funny, formal voice, “—you’ve seen my file, you said so yourself. i know how to do my homework.”

“you think you’re really smart, huh, fishing for information like that.”

“right, right, i’m sorry,” he says, sheepish smile curving his lips. he’s got pretty teeth — all lined up in a boyish, bright smile that, sometimes, almost makes yoongi forget he can be kinda feral, too. pretty teeth, yeah, but very sharp, “—how is V, by the way?”

“who?” yoongi throws back without missing a beat, even though he is impressed and maybe a bit annoyed by the fact he obviously underestimated jungkook again. he watches as jungkook’s smile turns into a smug grin like he’s got everything figured out, is reading yoongi like a fucking children’s book, and yoongi knows he should at the very least be feeling outraged, but he isn’t. he’s fond, and proud, and he knows that it can’t be good.

and then later, when they are going back to jungkook’s shitty pension room, yoongi, in a stupid whim, says, “grab your stuff, i’m taking you somewhere.”

“huh, taking me where?”

“to my place, this bed fucking sucks,” yoongi says, and doesn’t miss the way jungkook blushes, always so, so pretty, “—and to meet my guys, if you’re good.”

jungkook smiles, embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck, “—you don’t have to…”

“it’s fine, let’s go.”

 


 

yoongi calls taehyung and hoseok to have dinner in his flat and by the time he and jungkook get there, they are already waiting for them with chinese takeout in the living room’s table. yoongi’s called hoseok earlier to tell him about all the things that happened and didn’t think it was all too surprising when hoseok said that it made sense, because he was still trying to dig information about jungkook and jimin and he’d found some weird shit that didn’t really connect with anything.

they don’t ask a lot of questions, to which yoongi is grateful, and taehyung and jungkook obviously get along immediately because taehyung is like that. but later, when they are all a bit tipsy and it’s just he and hoseok in the kitchen, taehyung’s loud, excited voice echoing from the living room as he tells jungkook about some weird shit that happened to him in a job once, hoseok asks him:

“hyung, are you sure about this?”

“yeah,” yoongi says, because he is, and it’s the first time in a while things are as simple as that, “—you can check all the shit you need, sure, but i believe him.”

“i already did, he’s clean,” hoseok says in that same tone he uses to tell them i told you so all the time, “—i dug out some shady stuff about his mission too, you know. probably what got his journalist convinced they had those fuckers. could be worth something.”

“maybe,” yoongi agrees quietly, uncertain. he knows how dangerous these people can be, after working for them for so long. the idea of getting hoseok and taehyung into this mess too doesn’t please him in the slightest, “—hoseok-ah, you be careful, yeah? quit with the digging until we decide what we’ll do.”

hoseok scoffs, “seriously? this is the fun part, hyung.”

“you have a weird idea of what fun is, did you know that,” yoongi says, and then there’s something in hoseok’s eyes that make him regret his words immediately.

“right, who should i ask about what’s fun? jungkook?”

yoongi leaves him alone in the kitchen with a muttered fuck off and tells taehyung he should probably take hoseok home already, because it was fucking late and he was drunk past the point where he starts talking out of his ass. hoseok is very offended, obviously, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he doesn’t protest much, just smiles and pulls taehyung up from the couch, saying bye and promising to bring them food tomorrow, because yoongi can’t cook for shit, and then they are gone.

jungkook seems to be pleased with everything, giggling and smiling with his eyes in a way that makes him seem even younger, and yoongi feels the lightest he’s been for a very long time. he’s doing the right thing, even if it means they’ll have to face the consequences tomorrow, even if he’s more terrified than ever because it’s the first time he’s got something real to lose.

he forgets about all that as soon as he has jungkook on his lap, mouthing over his jaw, kissing him silly in a way that feels a lot like thank you, thank you.

 


 

afterwards, when they are spent and showered and on the verge of sleeping in yoongi’s bed, yoongi just can’t shake off the feeling that everything is going to fall apart soon. he’s never been allowed to feel like this, like there was a meaning for all the shit he puts himself through everyday, like there are things that are worth living for, people that are worth living for, and it scares the shit out of him.

“hyung,” jungkook mumbles sleepily, “—hyung. i kinda like you.”

even fucked out, wrecked and half-asleep, jungkook’s slugged mumble hits yoongi like lightning — bright, beautiful and frightening all at once.

yoongi doesn’t sleep at all.

before the dawn, he packs a bag with fake documents, ammunition and a change of clothes, kisses jungkook’s forehead and vanishes.

 


 

to: hope

take jungkook and taehyung to your safe place

today

lay low for a couple of months

dont let jungkook do anything stupid

you guys help him yeah

i’ll let you know when its over

 

from: hope

wtf are you doing hyung

yoongi

fuck