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vietnam, fishing trips, italian opera

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They say strange things come in threes. Neither good or bad, just very anticlimactic.

Coincidentally, it just so happens to be a summer of threes, the time Taehyung and Jimin will remember by cocksure angst, the tragic instances of being niche, and a whole load of sticky mess.

The mess starts with Vanilla Delight and a blowjob.


The fourth night since their ceiling fan has coughed up its last life force rolls in with their twenty eighth waking hour, and Jimin is but a mere reflection of the world’s filthiest gutter.

Cramming through the last days of summer finals is one of the most exhausting things in the world. You have to mute that irritating inner voice that waxes the most unpoetic about being procrastination’s little bitch.

He has to convince both his boiled sleep-deprived brain and limp dick that some of this torture is sure for the greater good. Some of it will lead to greener pastures, the bliss of A’s and wetter nights of generous hookups. With juiced out people who are as braindead as himself.

Cheek pressed to his messy biochem notes, Jimin has been melting on the couch for the most part of the night, incapable of retaining attention for long periods of time. Taehyung attempts to become one with the rug, both seem to be transcending matter and the body of time itself.

The reason of their collective human decay lies in 38 degrees Celsius and a very accidental lack of academic responsibility.

“I feel,” begins Taehyung, alarmingly close to drooling, “I—I feel like dick tastes.”

Struggling to squint one eye open, Jimin tastes the paper of his makeshift pillow, “That’s preferentially ambiguous.”

“Stop saying words,” he whines. “Bad dick. I meant—tastes like bad dick. Stale, spunky. I’m the opposite of hot about this.”

“You put bad dicks in your mouth too often.”

“Those are the things I find hard to explain. ‘Twas a time.”

Jimin can barely make out the phone screen through his blurry vision, “Two thirty four.”

“No, no—I’m sayin’, ‘twas a time! Of stale tastes and many mistakes. When lo-fi dicks were plenty. The average quality as sucky as the inciting incident.”

It might be a good opportunity to lapse into one of their regular sex talks, a truly great form of self-reflection, but Jimin is a beached jellyfish melting under the rays of biochemistry.

He closes his eyes, “So, what’s your catalyst?”

“What, for dick suckage?”

“For the suckage, yes. The good ol’ swallow fest. The classic ball rollin’. The man-juice robbin’. The—”

“I get it,” Taehyung looks like he’s battling a swarm of invisible flies. “The catalyst… Dunno, bro. Nothin’ special in the dick texture. Or the fabric of shame. Or where I am in life at the moment. Philosophically.”

Taehyung’s Phil class notes are laid out in a rather sad halo around his head. It could be weirdly prophetic of something, maybe a religious happening at the exam tomorrow. Like, him promptly dying. Or a spontaneous combustion, an event in which Kim Taehyung is the burning bush and Professor Kang is Moses. Jimin is the flames that aren’t there.

“But it’s gotta be something in the air if you just do the knee drop at the weirdest time,” Jimin continues, not aware of having been biblically cast. “Like, when we went to my folks and you and that hipster weirdo on Songdo beach—”

“Please don’t,” Taehyung doesn’t need this nightmare of a memory. No surfer dude flashbacks.

“I was gone for like five minutes, Tae, I swear.”

“It’s—it wasn’t real. Stop lying to me. Not gonna listen to your lies anymore.”

Jimin obliges and drools at his notes for a while. Unfortunately, the need to avoid studying is stronger than his sense of worth, “But, okay, the catalyst is undefined and there are no clear parameters for your dick thirst. We know that much. What is there, then?”

“Good question, my man. Keep it coming, that’s the real shit. What is there?” He pauses, still thinking about tomorrow’s exam and chewing on the hem of his shirt. “Is there anything? Are we? If linear time doesn’t exist, should our physical form be even considered a real concept? That includes dicks, you know.”

“Sure does. Dicks are very physical.”

“But if the physical form isn’t viable, then maybe all inciting incidents are of the same nature. Any single human deed is instigated by the same occurrence—dick thirst in this particular supposition—hey, you with me?”

“All the way.”

“Good. Yeah, instigated by the same occurrence. Infinitely repeated in time. Which means every single thing we do is caused by the same dick thirsting force. So… essentially, we all are blowin’ flesh flutes as we drift through time to our biological end.”

Jimin hums, enlightened. “What time’s your Phil, again? Nine?”

“Yeah, so you gotta drive me.”

“On a subway train car,” points Jimin, completely unimpressed.

“Yeah, hold my hand and shit,” he wiggles his fingers at that. “But real talk, I dunno, Jiminie, sometimes I just wanna.”

Ah, he’s talking about dicks again.

“It’s like a fishing trip. When you’re no professional and ain’t even that crazy about the fish but sometimes you just wanna. Relax, take a trip or two. Deep sea fishing trips. Like face fuckin’. You know how sometimes your uncle just stops like at a fuckin’ crossing and goes ‘the mackerel must be shit this early in the month.' Bet if he had a boat right there at the street light he’d go as hard as me on the floor. Just killin’ it. Mackerel, dicks, whatever, it’s in the moment, son.”

“Got it,” says Jimin and he has got it.


“Okay,” Taehyung declares from the rug that is practically his family now. “Okay, fuck this. We’re going out.”

As he struggles upright with all his accumulated weed-rug strength, Jimin chews on the yellow post-it note stuck to his nose.

“Out where? Nothing near is open.”

“Laundry’s open.”

It’s that dry cleaning hole, a typical laundry shop that doesn’t fall into the whole foreign laundromat type of noisy deal. For some reason, this one still housed three stray coin-operated washing machines that regulars rarely used. Jimin has yet to see people accustom to the laundromats he knows to otherwise be so commonplace. And so weirdly sexualized.

Jimin sighs, “That’s just Mrs Choi’s job to pretend it’s 24/7, nobody’s even there.”

“My point exactly? But she has like some crazy number of electric fans? At least three. Coffee machine’s there.”

When Jimin is such a slow jellyfish, Taehyung bargains wet.

“C’mon, Jiminie, it’ll be chill. Not to mention we’re in our last clean—sorta—clothes? Pretty sure the pile in the bathroom is getting mouldy. When was the last time you even put on underwear?”

“Like, last Tuesday.”

He’s been showering seven times a day and more during the night and living the commando life.

“Exactly. So we can sort that out. They have decent rates, none of that four-thousand-won-crime against humanity. And imagine the air.”

“It’s literally the worst smog season,” he is determined to fight this, for no reason. Aside from his melting brain.

“The pleasure, the utmost rapture of a fan, Jiminie. At least three of ‘em.”

“Fuck it.”

Well, he went out like a hero. A warrior that is sure to make the people of Korea proud, one day.


Taehyung loves to talk shit which is rarely that big of an issue.

But in the end, it’s Jimin who has to sweat on the shop’s floor over the mildew heaps of their laundry and battle the only working machine left, while Taehyung sorts out things with Mrs Choi at the tiny and very trot-loving convenience store next door.

Shoving the last of their gross items inside the drum and setting the cycle, Jimin looks around the stuffy shop. It’s mostly drowned in darkness, the only source of light comes from a couple of dim halogen lamps fixed near the staff room entrance. It turns everything dark blue, waterlike, and somehow very cozy. Great, he’s thirsty now.

Dry cleaning and fresh orders bagged in plastic litter every surface, folded laundry racks cast weird shadows on the tile, and he sees a rug under the ironing boards and sad potted plants in every corner. Finally finds those promised fans on the floor, not three but two. Clickbait trash that is Kim Taehyung.

Putting the small fan on the supply cupboard he decides that some mild breeze would be enough and sets the old thing on ‘2’. Next to the rattling washing machine, the other two glare at him sadly, so he climbs on top of the middle one to—keep it company or something. He needs to sleep, probably.

He turns his flushed face to the soft blow of air and god is that the very rapture Taehyung has been speaking of.

The smell of bleach and loud headache, what could be better than this.

His meditation is broken by an abrupt thump and a rustle of plastic followed by hearty cursing. He opens his eyes to see Taehyung struggle in the dark, trapped in a bunch of shirts near the counter.

Jimin chuckles at the muffled “you scum sucking fuck” and dangles his legs to try and catch any of those cool floor fan vibes through thin denim. The last pair of pants and it has to be this completely weather-inappropriate denim prison.

“So,” Taehyung finally arrives, dropping his tote bag on one of the counters.

He doesn’t elaborate further. Not until he’s docking right between Jimin’s legs, a typical highly platonic position he tends to practice.

“Ahjumma is super lit today. And I mean gone, thrashed off into space. Blames ‘that GMO skunk’ in her insanju.”

“Didn’t she make it herself?” Jimin feels Taehyung’s hot palm on his thigh.

It’s mindless, Taehyung isn’t thinking, and Jimin always has to also not think too much about it.

“Yeah, but she says the ginger got totally GMO’d. You know I can’t tell her it’s not what she thinks it means, so. We had a nice chat about the economy.”

They’re too close, and it’s hardly practical, but they touch like it’s an all-present unavoidable thing. Wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s neck, Jimin listens and tries not to shiver. Taehyung looks at him, then, and it leaks weird misplaced affection, that quiet sort he falls into at oddest times.

It’s suddenly too much to take in this blue glow and too sharp smell of detergent. Itches at their noses.

“How’s the economy doing, then?” Jimin breathes and wills the shakes away.

Taehyung hums, hand running up Jimin’s thigh, and it all sounds like some fucked up sex talk which makes it even weirder.

“Shitty,” the hand stops. “And the government is a bunch of scabs and kkangpae scum.”

Wow, so sexy.

Jimin scoffs but doesn’t look away from Taehyung’s face, soft and dark in the dim space, finding himself in a very sudden trance. It’s a buzz of sleepless hours and almost clinical relief of this room. The fan ruffles up their hair just enough for Jimin to imagine a roof and overhead planes that descend low and all that downtown summer romance the two of them aren’t about.

It’s close enough, this something, in the dark quality of Taehyung’s eyes and his stillness.

“Anyway,” Taehyung says and breaks away, ruining the mood.

Stalking off to rummage through his tote, ironic print and all, he still rambles away. And Jimin feels cold, which is also highly ironic, considering.

Does it make him a tote, too? He’d be a good tote for Taehyung to carry. Very hip. Just right for the custom shirts and silly culottes.

“Got you this. Catch.”

Jimin barely manages to register the flying can in the daze of it all, but somehow saves it at the price of getting hit in the jaw.

It’s cool. Jo Insung flirts with him from the tin side of Vanilla Delight, looking both appropriately vanilla and creepy, and Jimin would’ve kept zoning out if not for Taehyung’s teasing.

“Didn’t know the dude was your type.”

So Jimin pops it open, ready to gulp the refreshing sugary goodness, but instead gets hit straight in his already itchy nose with the bubbly liquid. It’s not even supposed to do that. It stinks of medicine and soaks through his shirt and pants.

Absolute class, that is.

Well, it’s been an amazing light blue and an honor to wear it but now is the time to bid farewell to his delicate sexy denim.

The tragedy of his mourning is cut short by Taehyung laughing his dumb ass off.

“I don’t have anything to wear, Taehyung,” Jimin is beyond irritated.

“Good thing we’re at, you know, the cleaner’s.”

“And you have the change for another cycle, rich boy, ‘cos I sure don’t!” They only had enough for the colored stuff in the first place.

Still chuckling, Taehyung drifts into his space and reaches for the zipper, “No, listen, just get naked and chill, and I’ll do the wand magic.”

The wand magic. He means bleaching techniques or something. Hopefully.

This better not be one of his fishing trips because Jimin isn’t ready to lose his Taehyung-specific virginity in a stinky dry cleaning plastic dump. If at all, because all these benefits are very good but his sentimental soul craves to be juiced ripe and pretty just as well.

“Alright, I got this, I got this, go touch your own dick.”

“Maybe I will,” Taehyung snorts and stalks off to deal with the ruined clothes.

“Well, don’t keep going on about it.”

He doesn’t, instead getting engrossed in his phone once the fabric reanimation fails, briefly alerting of a very tragic lack of wifi—no shit—and trying to unfuck the data but for some reason there is no connection or hope for it to appear.

Truly a hole laundered in reality.

Jimin takes his own attempts at the jeans but it seems final. He sighs in relief at the soft whiff of air on his damp skin, so content he forgets about the coffee and the jeans but misses the intent gaze following his every move. He feels melted but goes cold as soon as he looks up, catching Taehyung’s eyes on him.

It’s a weird look. And it shouldn’t be weird, because they’ve seen and known each other in every state possible, apart from sexual ventures. But there is softness to them right now, this moment, a different and very new kind of glint to Taehyung, an itch to his skin that makes him pause.

His eyes trace Jimin’s form, every visible part of him that glows in the dull light, and it’s so close to the look of those who draw from life in bright rooms with just as little sleep behind them. And even more coffee.

Taehyung pockets his phone, wiping his sweaty hands. Tilts his head, “Pretty.”

It’s another type of ridiculous, because Jimin is standing in the middle of a laundry shop, in his underwear, sweating under electric fans and losing his shit. He flicks his hair, the way he knows Taehyung doesn’t mind much, maybe even finds alluring.

A small motion to make up their minds. They’re sort of quivering from the exertion of it all, waiting for a decision.

It’s made the moment Taehyung is in his space again, backing him slowly until Jimin hisses at the cool feeling of metal on his overheated skin. The air is calm and Jimin feels steady under Taehyung’s curious gaze, almost drunk, half-lidded.

Jimin has to say something dumb right now. He decides on: “One of your fishing trips?”

“Could be.”

They’re not too hard on fish. Taehyung hums, hands ghosting over Jimin’s naked thighs. Touch so light it echoes heavy in Jimin’s chest.

It takes too long to force his brain into more or less thinking mode to come up with something, another decision, a question, but Taehyung isn’t about dragging shit out or being poetically vague, so he drops to his knees, tugging Jimin’s briefs on the way and gripping at the base of his soft cock.

“Tae, it’s a public fucking place,” Jimin sounds hardly scandalized and makes no move to put a stop to any of this.

“It’s 3AM on a weekday night and nobody even comes here. Chill.”

Yeah, chill, with your dick hanging out at 3AM on a weekday night at Mrs Choi's dry cleaning service and your best friend set to blow you like a champ.

Unsolicited sleep-deprived sexual favors.

Taehyung shakes his head, clicking his tongue, “And there you were always bitching about your inconvenient instant boners. Lies, all lies.”

“Instant, my ass, you know I need foreplay and shit,” Jimin smacks at the back of his head, light but enough to show his shaking nerves. “Have you ever actually listened to my sex drama? Call yourself a friend.”

“The best,” Taehyung murmurs, stroking him into hardness at a too leisured pace, almost purring with his mouth hot on Jimin’s skin.

Guess that’s happening then.

Jimin threads his fingers through Taehyung’s glossy hair, petting gently, maybe too affectionate for the current mood, but his skull feels paper-thin and filled with filth and steamy clouds. He watches long fingers work him up, feels soft breath fanning his thigh and wonders what kind of fishing kinks led to this moment.

What kind of shit solicited a luck of such scale. The universe must’ve been watching his dirty and very sad dreams.

He breathes out a shaky moan when Taehyung takes his first tentative licks, just a taste to figure out the pace, and it’s already too much to deal with. Dipping down, Taehyung licks a thick stripe from the base and up, mouths around Jimin’s length before lapping at the head. Lets out hot puffs of breath, his tongue working in slow circles from the tip and down, swirling around expertly until it digs into the slit, making Jimin hiss.

“Don't overdo it.”

Leaning back for purchase, Jimin tries to relax, to accept his fate or something. Live in the moment, as Hoseok loved to preach. He’s living in the moment, alright.

It’s harder to stay relaxed when Taehyung’s mouth closes around the tip again, his hands flat against Jimin’s thighs for better support. He swallows down diligently, his breath steady and practiced, and Jimin has half a mind to reflect on the obvious skill and his unbelievable luck but comes to a blank just as quick when Taehyung takes him deeper and groans, throat vibrating around the swollen length.

That little shit.

Hand flying up to Taehyung’s nape, Jimin watches him hollow out his cheeks as he makes a glorious slurping show of sucking on the head before dipping down the length to take in as much as possible, nails digging harder in Jimin’s thighs. Taehyung releases with a slick pop and blows on the thin glistening skin before swallowing again but taking all of him too quick. It takes a string of unintelligible praises under Jimin’s uneven breath for Taehyung to adjust to the size, his throat loosening up as he bobs his head up and down Jimin’s cock with a sound so wet and filthy it’s knocking out the last rational bit of thought.

It’s so hot and good, Taehyung’s mouth, so clever, his throat tight around the erection, and Jimin’s hips jerk up and his grip tightens, coaxing a choked up moan. He feels too warm and light headed, a good kind of dizzy, and gasps as he hits the back of Taehyung’s throat, almost gagging him again.

Taehyung finds Jimin’s hand on his nape and pushes slightly, encouraging, until the thought sinks in, and Jimin grips harder to tug him down, cover the entire length and pull back up, feeling the hot drag of tongue on the upstroke.  

It’s a steady rhythm, and then Taehyung is sliding up and down on his own, sucking with a very obscene kind of squelch and moaning low and content at the tug on his scalp. A sound so lovely it makes no sense at all, it makes Jimin’s head spin and drown in a bloodrush and his own sharp breathing.

Taehyung slows down, comes up for air, feeling Jimin’s grip soften until it’s just gentle fingers combing through his tangled strands. Chest heavy, he waits for his lungs to stop burning and then places a soft peck on the slit, effectively making Jimin snort.

Lil’ slit kisses. That’s an okay thing to do, right?

Looking up, eyes glazed and pupils blown, Taehyung opens his mouth and traces the tip with his bottom lip, tasting precum. Jimin can’t look away, transfixed by the movement.

“Wanna fuck my mouth?” Taehyung finally breathes.


“No, like, proper stuff. C’mon,” he’s looking in that way that suggests there’s another telepathic attempt being made.

It’s hard to waddle through the jumbled mush of his mind, and Jimin just stands there like an idiot, breathing hard and willing his brainpower to switch back from his dick. He might also be trying to find the way back to his dignity.

Taehyung rolls his eyes and shifts for better access, flattening his tongue on the head of Jimin’s cock, and yeah, okay, a serious argument. He sucks around the tip for good measure, clearly blackmailing on the spot with mad gobbling skills, but seems to be getting nowhere.

“Ugh,” he says, annoyed. “C’mon, Jiminie, fuck my mouth.”

He taps at Jimin’s thigh, all very casual, and resettles, mouth open and ready to go for the record. Kim Taehyung’s imminent classic.  

Dragging a hand down his red face, Jimin sighs, “Spit or swallow?”

“You tell me, Jiminie, ‘cos I’m not the one whose idea of a birthday gift was a custom ‘bukkake apologist’ shirt.”

“Thought it was pretty clever. Pretty topical at the time. Pretty sweet.”

“You are,” Taehyung blurts and he’s joking but.

It’s a weird rush of affection, he suddenly feels so gentle, soft around the edges, completely unbothered by a very hard leaking cock in his face.

He sighs and nuzzles in Jimin’s palm like a sleeping dog under the sun.

“No dick has ever been documented as being sweet, Tae.”

“Won’t know till we try, so. Come on, give it to me.”

“How are you so tacky, oh my god?” Jimin asks, incredulous, and pushes at Taehyung's bitten lips to make him open wider.

Tacky but so pretty, Jimin thinks, smearing precum over Taehyung’s dark mouth, feeling his breath hitch, before finally pushing in and it’s so warm and near perfect he sighs with the first spike of bliss.

He starts tentative, too careful, first thrusts shallow and his grip loose which gets him another eyeroll, and Taehyung feels the need to wiggle his fingers, motioning for more. He’s got this, his determined face stuffed with dick tries to communicate.

It seems to work because he has to swallow more and too quick, still humming with every jerk of hips.

Picking up the pace Jimin lets out a low groan at the wet tight feeling, nails scraping Taehyung’s scalp before he tightens the grip to angle his hips just right, the harsh pull making Taehyung moan, his lips stretched wide around the length.

It’s so hot in the cramped space, in Taehyung’s mind, like steamy onsen clouds in the cool air. It bubbles up inside his chest as the thump of his heart fills his ears, he’s fluttering and feels like bursting.

A very strange reaction to getting mouth fucked.

Hand flying up to latch on the fist in his hair, Taehyung takes in deeper, his groans guttural around the obscene slide of Jimin’s cock, he moans like it’s heaven, his other hand pressing to his own embarrassingly hard dick to try and get at least some relief. He can’t hold on for long and has to steady himself on the other’s thighs just as Jimin falls into a more frantic rhythm, letting out broken little moans at the feeling of being enveloped so well.

Taehyung wants to hear that he’s doing good, so good, the best, that he feels too perfect to be real, but their minds are just a muddle of lust and pleasure that kill every attempt at thinking.  

Relaxing his throat more, eyes squeezing shut, Taehyung lets his mind float, at the burn in his scalp and behind his watering eyes that prickle with salt, at the fullness of his mouth and the fast pace that leaves him struggling for air, too harsh for him to properly manage his breathing. But he loves it, he’s revelling, he looks almost at peace, at some amazing saliva-rich end of things with a cock roughing up his throat and his chest tight from dirty euphoria.

He signs for Jimin to go faster, just shy of too much, and chokes in the slippery mess of it all, losing any last semblance of control as Jimin starts fucking into him rough and deep, breaking into soft quiet whines. Taehyung is an utter drooling mess, mouth cracked at the corners and throat aching, and it’s so dark behind his eyelids and brighter inside, behind the color rings of his teary vision, but he’s never felt better, in this dull pain and good kind of discomfort while burning, completely untouched.

It’s loud in their heavy breathing and wet around his mouth, saliva dripping down his chin, and the mixed scent of body wash and musky skin is dizzying.

He is bitter on the tongue from Jimin’s cock and sweet inside, feels full like a balloon filled with something light and tender.  

A stark contrast to the stinging squelching reality of his constricting throat and unintelligible praises which he takes with another rough thrust that makes him choke and spill all over. He feels the drool trickle down his chin and under his aching jaw. He feels the speed slackening as Jimin gets close to his release.

It builds up slowly with the spiking heat that spreads through Jimin’s body, in the pit of his stomach and lower, getting unbearable, and he’s too close to keep up with the rhythm or any particular finesse, but Taehyung doesn’t mind. He hardly minds at all with that deep flush to his cheeks and spit dripping, nails digging painfully in his stiff grip on Jimin’s thighs.

“Tae, come on,” Jimin sounds just as fucked as Taehyung looks with knees numb on the hard floor, his pretty lips stretched and eyes glassy.

There’s a faint sound, a hum, and Jimin lets go after another sloppy thrust that has them both groaning, gently pulls Taehyung off and looks. It’s a surreal thing in the dark.

Taehyung feels like melting under the caressing breeze of fanned air that flutters his hair and soothes his tingling skin and glistening numb lips. He looks like a trip. Catching his breath, he leans back, completely fucked up but somehow very sleek, and motions sluggishly at his face.

Closes his eyes and listens to his lungs, to Jimin’s breathy gasps and the slapping sound of hand on spit-slick cock, and waits. The noise that Jimin makes is a wonder of its own for those who deal in the art of it, and Taehyung considers himself a connoisseur of sorts.

He moans at the cum falling in hot thick ropes on his flaming skin, catches what he can, licking around his mouth, at the cracked corners and swollen lips.

He’s so riled up but limp, buzzing low and cozy, his brain in static and insides a gooey mash. Jimin’s fingers are gentle, calming, gathering the cum to slip it in Taehyung’s open mouth. Pulling up his underwear, Jimin feeds him, careful and unhurried. Completely unable to look away at the odd bliss Taehyung seems to be in while sucking on Jimin’s fingers.

Behind the rattle of the washing drum, they hear a distant sound of trot.

“Is that Jang fuckin’ Yoonjeong,” Jimin muses and pulls away.

One night only,” Taehyung nods, remembering the song’s name.

Falling back on his ass, he lets out a full and very content sigh, feeling the same balloon growing inside of him. Ready to just float away, fueled by the disgusting layered cheese he’s feeling right now.

“What?” he croaks out, irritated by Jimin’s sudden laugh.

“Man, you look fucked. Wanna wash some of the spit and the cum off ya?”

He does, actually. Moreover, he’d very much like to get rid of his own annoying boner but something about Jimin’s hands, always so heavy, feels like a sure thing. Throwing him a very displeased look, Taehyung staggers off to the sink, legs almost liquid, and feeling like a wadded coat of his own.

Jimin ends up digging for temporary clothes in the rack of clean orders, convincing himself it’s a necessary act of amorality. Given the fact of his post-orgamic shivers and general jelly-like state of being. He feels all mixed up inside, sploshing like soap and hot water, but his skin is in goose bumps. Like some fucking post-coital ski resort chillout in hot springs.  

Clean and somewhat closer to sobriety, Taehyung drifts back on cotton legs and opens another can of instant coffee. He needs all the sugar he can get.

Jimin looks hungry watching him. In the dark, Taehyung bleeds colors.

“Get your dick out,” Jimin flings like it’s nothing but at this point is it anything? What the fuck is all of this? They’re being plain rude. Mostly to their own truth of each other.

Finishing the drink in a few gulps, too eager to be an adult about any of this, Taehyung does get his dick out.

Because that’s what they’re here for, apparently: change of scenery and moral challenges. Alleviation of self-loathing tendencies through porn with little meaning and plenty of bullshit.

“Well aren’t you a fucking delight,” snorts Taehyung when Jimin sinks to his knees.

And in that moment, a sweet seed of an impeding fuckup is sown.


There’s something about not being rich that makes Mokdong not your style at all. Not Taehyung’s style, for sure.

The first thing Heeyeon says to him is more accusatory than what he is ready to face after a long torturous subway ride to these lands of high-end passions.

“Look at you, you’re, like, glowing. I need glasses,” she tugs on his oversized shirt to pull him down in one of the squeaky armchairs. “I didn’t escape the torture of sunlight for this.”

After taking a long swig of her drink, she levels him with a stare. Sometimes she’s like a mobile X-ray unit, something none of them actually asked for.

“What are you so happy about?”

Jeongguk and Wheein immediately look up from their phones, nerds that they are, to check out Taehyung’s remarkable face for themselves. Their interest doesn’t last for long.

The lobby is otherwise deserted, so Taehyung has to ask, “What are we doing here, again?”

“Waiting for Junghwa and her flat ass. She and Wheein signed up for the fucking Archery club.” In the middle of summer? What the fuck? When? “Like, yesterday. They were kinda trashed, so.”

“Jiminie is good at archery, actually,” he says and shrugs at everyone’s looks on him.

It’s the type of look that lowkey screams ‘did anyone fucking ask’, but for Taehyung any moment in time is a good opportunity to share fun or mildly engaging Park Jimin facts. Regardless of anyone’s interest.

Anyway,” Heeyeon sighs, “Solji refused to take their shit in the morning. Fuckin’ bless her on a normal day. 'Cos you gotta be responsible for your own actions, no excuses, man.”

“And you’re here for?”

“The nanny duty. However, now that you’re here, I can fuck off.”

This, right there, makes little sense, given the fact that both Wheein and Junghwa are two proud kids of the year 1995. “Hey, let’s not make any rash decisions. Just keep chillin’, reflect, drink your—is that Dawn 808? Jesus Christ?”

Heeyeon shrugs, “A good medicine is bitter to the mouth.”

“So,” begins Wheein, “what got you so happy?”

Many things, some fresher than others.

“Oh, well, I gave Jiminie some blowies,” he opts for nonchalant, “Jiminie gave me a hand. It’s cool.”

That seems to do it, because Wheein snorts, reaching to pat a choking Jeongguk on the back. Though she better not touch him if she wants him to survive.

As soon as they calm down, Taehyung has to face the longest staredown he’s ever experienced, never dropping what he assumes to be an amicable and easy smile. He must be failing, probably on the account of having Jimin’s dick occupy most of his mind at the moment, because Jeongguk still doesn’t relax his exasperating maknae butt.

“You’re creeping me out,” he says, butt still very unrelaxed.  

“Yeah, I’m creeping myself out,” Taehyung muses, licking at the inside of his cheek, thinking about that nice pressure Jimin’s cock had on it. “But, Jeonggukkie, it’s just the way his eyes go all sparkly and soft when I eat his cu—” Wheein is close to giving Jeongguk the Heimlich, “and he makes this pretty sound when his di—”

“No more,” Jeongguk wheezes, ignoring Taehyung’s self-satisfied giggling in favor of trying not to combust. Eventually, his fly-ass underwater breathing techniques work. “But, uh, does he—Are you okay and all that?”

“Why? It’s good, I sucked him off, he jacked me off, I fingered him that one time—breathe, Guk—it’s no big deal. All platonic, like.”

“Right,” Wheein drawls, unimpressed. “And he doesn’t know. And you’re okay with that.”

“I’m chill if he’s chill.”

“Well, what did he say?” Heeyeon actually looks curious.

Taehyung hesitates just for a little too long, enough for Jeongguk to catch on, because he is a persistent little bug when he wants to.

And then Jeongguk gasps, very dramatically, “Have you—Have you even talked about this? At all?”


This entire conversation needs to be humorously diverted into something safe and less cock-oriented. As soon as possible.

“Hyung, how is it even remotely adult?”

Heeyeon rinses her mouth with some of that medicinal abomination, “You gotta talk, kid. Both of you always go on about stable households and healthy communication, so what the hell?”

“I’m chill if he’s chill,” he grits through his teeth, tugging on the hole in his shirt.

They don’t need to talk. About love or dishwashing detergents or the dangerous territory of casual blowies.

It’s chill.


The second big installment rolls in just as Taehyung’s vigilance is lulled as well as his stupid expectations for any more best friend action. He thought himself safe but the shit sneaks up, humbler than the dust.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the Post-modern Blowjob Incident and then some gracious fingering that followed their mildly successful exams, a hazy spur of the moment thing in a blissfully cold shower. They hadn’t seen it coming until the very moment Taehyung had Jimin’s cheek pressed to the tiled wall, finding himself knuckle deep up his friend’s sleep-deprived caffeine-happy ass.

All of which felt really exceptional, really. All in the past now. Which is totally cool with him, a very balanced and adaptive creature of many regrets, for whom Park Jimin’s crooning and canoodling, in a romantic sense, means nothing. Nothing at all.

He is over it, has been over it.

But the heat and mediocre academic achievements enrage him. Some light breeze from a floor fan would delight him but it’s a thing that isn’t happening these days, since they still haven’t bothered to quarry for a replacement.

Which is why he is tragically melting into their cheap leather-cloth couch, feeling as washed out as it looks, his naked body feels as threadbare as his patience with this season and himself. His underwear sticks to his skin in a way so gross he can’t help but grimace, suddenly reminded of trash bags that often migrate in the Han river.

The air is humid and slightly dank and there’s no escape in sight. He finds himself thinking back to their time in Geojedo, a sudden trip of fortune that was last October’s gift. Their slow nights and the day’s heat that gathered in the streets around them.

They held hands a lot. Had too much spicy snail and watermelon jelly. A wobbly thing, he feels like that now.

Sulky and dank and jellylike. Soaking in the nighttime hellpit of their dumpster apartment. Jimin is a dead starfish, decaying on the cool linoleum and complaining about the unhelpful drafts from the open balcony.

The stuffy room feels smaller in the flickering light of the TV, it’s brightly buzzing with a vaguely familiar drama of an earlier generation. Something tacky and sexual. Taehyung would say the 80s.  

Jimin’s oversized shirt sticks to his chest and rib cage, his naked thighs almost glow in the winking light. Taehyung wants to lick them.

“Do you,” Taehyung’s first attempt at words, “do you—know?”

“Huh?” Jimin’s eyes are on the screen but he’s not very into it.

“Know what this is?”

Between The Knees. My cousin used to be obsessed with Lee Bohee.”

“The girl?” She’s the lead and apparently a sex symbol of the blooming controversial 80s. “Your cousin’s ancient, this shit is old.”

“This shit is shitty. Abusive as hell. Can you change it?”

Taehyung can’t and instead watches Jimin’s naked ass as he half-crawls to the set and switches it to something less morally questionable that happens to be a romantic drama from the 90s. It’s subbed and Taehyung hears Vietnamese. The movie looks slow and maybe he can pass out from the lazy comfort of it.

He does try but his daze is broken by a very sudden Jimin crawling over him and groaning, right next to his ear. It’s a very bad idea. It’s deadweight and a couple more degrees added to the sauna.

“No, Jiminie, fuck—get off—” Jimin sprawls on top of him, breath hot and limbs like vines. “Can’t you see I’m fucking dying. No. No, this is a super bad idea.”

Nothing. He tries to push and wiggle, only getting a series of cat-like sounds at his vain attempts. Eventually he accepts his timely death by Park Jimin’s overheated body. And strong arms.

And fluffy hair, and chapped lips, and soft dick, very distinguishable, right there on his butt.  

They try paying attention to the movie, just for a while, but reading is becoming impossible in this swamp of rotting hopes and dreams.

The people on the screen are sad, mostly silent, and just as sweaty. Jimin, a looker that he is, squints at the tiny text in the top right corner, “What’s this?”

The Scent of Green Papaya,” Taehyung deciphers and shivers at Jimin’s nose that smudges cold under his ear. “Sounds like a hipster shoegaze band.”

“Synthpop jazz fusion.”

“Right. You need some decoration, though, like. The Scent! Of Green; Papaya.”

A late rerun of independent content is what it seems to be, and Jimin squints. “Are we watching this? It’s kinda too niche.”

Hey, I’m niche.”

At that Jimin snorts, “You’re as niche as, like, Big Bang.”

“I think I’m niche,” Taehyung is offended, actually. He whispers, “I think I’m niche.”

Jimin is giggling, a good healing sound. And Taehyung pauses, briefly enamoured by it and also a very pretty dude on the screen.

“The dude’s pretty,” Taehyung comments, because he likes to point out certain things.

Some other dude is also pretty, very much so, and right there on top of Taehyung in a very uncomfortable but welcome way. Sighing softly and weighing him down.

Weighing him down so hard he feels too old to be a proper living person. Where has his noble blossoming of boyhood gone? To the ballsweat of summer nights when assholes clench and brains go back to simple organisms, that’s where.  

He’d be down for that. No self-awareness, no spiritual dilemmas. A bliss of not braising inside your horny body.

It takes some time to gather strength for anything remotely verbal, “Jiminie, take me to the shower.”

“We literally showered like ten minutes ago. And, okay, gross body wash? Again? Why you gotta pick such sickly sweet scents all the time.”

“Why not, sugar?” he knows why, Jimin likes sour and bittersweet, citrus and lemongrass and some German-sounding nonsense. All very gay.

Joint showers are good on the bills and protected by the no homo rule, despite them actually being two giant non-straights in the gentle flowering of lust-filled youth.

“I still stink of sugar. Probably even taste like sugar.”

“It tells a tale,” Taehyung murmurs and wonders what exactly is he trying to bullshit through here.

Jimin’s dick didn’t taste like sugar at all and never will because dicks tend to not taste good. If he had to pick a spectrum of taste for dicks in general, it probably would be the ‘Not That Great’ to ‘Disgusting Tastebud Nightmare’ on the downward slope of tolerance.

Still, he loved his fishing trips. But with Jimin it was only once and he finds it hard to not literally shove his best friend’s dick down his throat again. That’d be rude, vulgar even. And on such a night. Won’t be tender at all.

“Peel me a hallabong?” he tries again.

“Fuck off.”

But all Jimin’s pretense withers away the moment he scrambles up and leaves to actually do that, soon shuffling back with some wet towels and a plateful of bright carpels.

“Open up,” he says, settling between Taehyung’s legs, his free hand on Taehyung’s sharp knee. He leans in, light fingers skimming down Taehyung’s thigh.

And Taehyung would choke literally, feeling just a faint scrape of nails, but prefers to silently scream and swallow the too sweet and juicy fruit. Ah, greenhouse stuff.

It’s way too sensual, at least it feels like for Taehyung, with the juice spilling from his mouth, the sticky liquid that Jimin gathers with his fingers, sucking on them, eyes dark and unreadable. A new type of torture.

And when Jimin places the plate on the floor and cleans them up, Taehyung thinks he’s safe, finally, but boy is he wrong. Because Jimin’s hand is back on his skin, splays hot on his stomach, and the other traces his thigh, all the way up to the sharp hip, sure fingers slipping into his briefs.

Taehyung takes it all back, he no longer wants to live. Nor die untouched by Park Jimin, he supposes, though it sure feels like he’s expiring as a person. He has to close his eyes, his skin dotting with goosebumps and body shivering, because Jimin’s hands are everywhere but move with little pressure, touch feather-light but the opposite of calming.

It’s delicate on Taehyng’s sides and neck and the skin of his inner thighs, leaves him fuzzy and soft to the bones, riling him up till his knees almost give out. Don’t breathe, he can’t breathe, not when it might end up in something embarrassing. Like a whimper or some gross confession.

He spreads his legs wide, inviting Jimin to move closer, a weight so warm and heavy, and almost topples them over on the hard floor when a hot tongue licks a stripe down his chest. This is some news, alright. Some good licking news. Jimin sucks hard and laps at one of his nipples, hand scraping at his stomach, grazing down to press hard on his dick.

They shouldn’t be doing this, not in the subtropic sauna, but all Taehyung’s self-preservation is cut short by a moan, one of his, a very embarrassing and needy sound.

It’s not smart but he’s drifting too far already, with Jimin’s teeth on his skin and palm digging at his erection, not really enough of a relief at this point. Jimin slips down to blow softly on the dark patches of damp fabric that stretches over his leaking cock. Another embarrassing thing about being so easily hard for Park Jimin. But what’s a guy to do.

The image of Jimin between his legs has Taehyung chewing on the insides of his cheeks and hissing at the sting, because it is a vision, the vision of many tales of old. Old jacking hours. The ancient days of power wank.

Jimin tugs off his briefs and skips all his pleasantries, taking Taehyung in his mouth in one go. And, wow, is it a great mouth, truly the best mouth ever. Soft and hot around his cock, working him up just like Taehyung likes it, because somehow they know each other in bed without ever actually being together in bed. Years of accumulated juicy truths that come with the package.

Good mouth and even better tongue, Taehyung finds out, squirming. He makes a mistake of glancing down just as the head of his cock pushes at the inside of Jimin’s cheek, stretching the skin, and okay, this is the official end of everything, of his resolve and shame, so he gives up, letting out a long needy whine.

He’d love to keep this up, really, would love to fuck into Jimin’s mouth and come down his throat, but there’s something else itching at the back of his head. A suggestion peeking through the lust clouds. It’s truly tragic but he has to make a choice. With a gentle push he urges Jimin off his sad infatuated dick, a reflection of his very soul, and tries to catch his breath.

“This will sound bad,” he begins, tentative.

“Nothing sounds great the way you say it.”

Jimin’s smile is lazy, teasing. The kind that always asks to be wiped off his occasionally smug face. It loses a bit of the usual effect on the account of being right next to Taehyung’s inelegant throbbing dick. Not much gravitas in that.

“Hey, dipshit,” says Taehyung, flustered, covering his eyes, “don’t get shitty.”

He jolts at the teasing lick at his slit and groans, annoyed. “As I was saying, this will sound bad. But. Ugh.”

“C’mon, you’re doing great. Words are not easy, I know. But have faith in yourself. Soon you’ll be able to make proper sentences.”

“I will slap you, asshole, right in your asshole face, with my dick.”

“See! Wasn’t so hard! Unlike some things,” Jimin is having way too much fun with this. Then, he amends, “So what’s up?”

“Fuck me?”

Way to go, Kim Taehyung. Yes, he needs to go right now actually, take a whale ride, look at some fish and other calming shit. He also needs to be less conflicted.

“Why would that sound bad?” Jimin seems to be very chill, though.

“Dunno, ‘cos we’ve never done it? Could mean that it should stay that way? What’s it been, seven years?”

“And four months.”

“Right. So, just. It’s sort of weird, like, why now? Like, we’ve been going strong, right, so what’s—what’s the deal? Now? Doesn’t make sense. No?”


Isn’t it weird?”


Because, Park Jimin. The apple of my fucking eye.

Jimin sighs and actually flicks at Taehyung’s dick like it’s a normal thing to do. He appears to be deep in thought. There are times, one of which is now, when saying the least you can is the best way to go, Taehyung decides.

“You fucked a lot of your friends,” says Jimin, eventually.

“Yeah, but.” They’re not you. “It’s just weird, is all.”


Jimin shrugs and shifts, ready to presumably leave forever, move out and change cities, or countries, start a jazz tap ensemble and never come back.  

Okay, thinks Taehyung. It’s been good seven years and some—right, four months—and Taehyung will probably be fine. Will totally have to burn down all his things in a huge bonfire, though, maybe on the balcony, go full catharsis on this bitch, and then burn the apartment too. Just cleanse it all with flames. But it’s a rental hole, a cheap dump but not his dump, so he will have to lay low.

Some skunk will probably rat him out, though. He’ll be chased by the cops until he gets involved in some hot mess with low-ranking members of Korean organized crime syndicate. It will be lowkey for a while but another kkangpae ex-con on the side will drag him into trafficking. All kinds that are out there. Sure enough, he will get mixed with the Russians, a guaranteed death. He might run but that shit always ends up at the bottom of the river.

He doesn’t like thinking about concrete blocks around his ankles. Or cut fingers. Oh fuck, they will so cut off his fingers. Maybe even his dick. He refuses to think about it. He has to escape the outlaw life, has to save his dick.

“Okay, no, hold your horses,” Taehyung catches Jimin’s wrist even though he hasn’t moved at all.

It’s just this, his vital grip and Jimin’s confusion that stand between the now and him losing his dick to the Russians. Do they even care for male genitalia, though? He’s not aware of their ways, not having seen enough movies that could educate on the subject of the Russian mafia. Just the Yakuza.

“Are we fuckin’ or nah?” Jimin asks and there’s no pressure in it. Just curiosity.  

He nods eagerly, “Yes, totally, yeah. Yep. Get the lube?”

“Why me?”

“Cos… you’re already standing?”


With Jimin on a mission and the movie muffled in the background, still flickering, Taehyung finally can tame his riled mind somewhat. He allows himself a quiet but very excited squeak. Clutching at his hair, he focuses on the breathing.

Come on, in and out, you can do this without blacking out probably. It’s just fucking, Kim Taehyung, don’t be a teenager about it. Romance isn’t real. Sex is superficial. Jiminie is real. His dick might end up being either the best or the worst—or mediocre. Possibly decent.

It’s all chill.

Briefly, a hope blooms somewhere deep within him, a very stupid, childish thing. He is about to go reflecting really hard on this, possibly drowning in the internalized tragedy of his cliché position, but then gets interrupted by a pack of condoms hitting him in the face.

“Good catch,” snorts Jimin, plopping down.

Already very naked, he bounces a little before shuffling between Taehyung’s legs. This is too cute for a prelude.

“Fuck you.”

“Why not, actually? I kinda wanna ride you,” Jimin sounds thoughtful, like he’s actually about to ditch the initial plan in favor of sitting on Taehyung instead.

“Well, tough luck,” Taehyung scoffs and wiggles under him to make a valid point.

It’s a bit annoying to hear another chuckle, but then Jimin dips his head to plant soft kisses on Taehyung’s quivering stomach, nipping lightly at the skin, and then way too low, licking a long stripe up Taehyung’s length, making it very hard to think.

And it’s a little breathtaking, really, to watch Jimin hungrily mouth at his cock and then his inner thighs, breath hot and fingers careful as they trace the expanse of Taehyung’s skin. It’s so weirdly tender, steeping down to the bones, and it’s easy to let this fluttering wave of pleasure take over.

Taehyung closes his eyes and sighs, slowly sinking down to the very bottom, where it’s still sweltering but his insides feel like water, sploshing with every press of fingers, heating up as he feels Jimin spreading him and blowing softly between his cheeks.

Well, they did need a fan.

And honestly, Taehyung is ready to be teased like that forever, he’s bracing for a long night of suffering and even longer wait to be filled and stretched all nicely. He’d keep up with this line of thought if not for a sudden feeling of hot tongue around his rim, and fuck Taehyung wants to hit something, possibly Jimin, right in the face, because next time warn a guy, maybe.

He hisses, it might even be a word, some words, something suspiciously close to “eat ass”, because Jimin does end up just teasing, kissing and licking lightly, not making it easier in the slightest. Tragic, Taehyung thinks of his own molten mind and jolts as the tongue pushes inside of him, slow at first, prodding, then finally sliding deeper.

Taehyung tries to suppress a shudder as Jimin exhales, licking at his walls, and it’s the stuff of his very purple dreams, nasty as hell, disgusting at times, but as hot as the real thing. Jimin works his mouth and tongue with a sound so obscene it sends a new prickling wave through Taehyung’s body, washes over him and spills in quiet whines that turn into moans as Jimin blows on his hole and licks around the rim before pushing back in. He picks up the pace, slick fingers sliding in after his tongue. The stretch has Taehyung shuddering, gasping, hands immediately finding home in Jimin’s hair.

He digs his heel into Jimin’s broad back, feeling the hard muscles shift, digs in harder to pull Jimin closer, encouraging to lick deeper. It’s getting ridiculous how hard he is, how pliant he feels. He chokes on his spit, pulling at the strands, because Jimin is doing something horrible and wonderful and it’s too much, too wet, near suffocating.

The heat is building up, coils tight in the pit of his stomach, and he’s so worked up, too sensitive in this air, in his skin, from Jimin’s hot mouth and nimble fingers, but he refuses to touch himself. Like a true champ, clearly not averse to self-inflicted denial. He’d go at it for much longer, but Jimin is being so loud and intent, tongue fucking him diligently, thick fingers pressing on his walls, working him open. He feels melted and tender, flooded by overstimulation, feels this urgent need to be stretched by Jimin’s cock.

He has to pull Jimin’s mouth off him to catch some break but can hardly manage it with the fingers scissoring him slowly, at a near lazy pace. Looking down is a mistake because Jimin is watching him, eyes dark and searching but with a new kind of glint to them. His lips are plump and tinged red.  

“That’s some tongue, bro,” is what Taehyung’s brain decides to be an appropriate response for the moment.

“I get that a lot.”

And Taehyung knows that and some more. But all his goldmine of explicit Park Jimin knowledge has been purely theoretical up until now. And maybe for a reason, because going dry for seven years (and four months) is a thing that belongs in modern myths. Shouldn’t be possible when you’re growing up together and pulling each other through it, when you share spaces and shitty ideas for minds like bubbles, share most of it and yet not all.

There is a reason, Taehyung thinks and concentrates, not letting it kill his boner. He doesn’t have time to indulge in this repressed angst but, he realizes, he doesn’t have to. What’s another type of closeness to them, really. So what if it’s been dry. Nothing will go to shit.

Nothing will go to shit.

He tries to relax, taking in the careful prodding of Jimin’s fingers, they fill him good but it’s not enough.

“Another,” he breathes and squirms, trying to adjust to the burn that follows.

Jimin’s mouth goes slack at the look on Taehyung’s face, he’s four fingers deep and starts thrusting harder, pushes where Taehyung is most sensitive and moans low at the sight. A little broken, a little on edge, but he’s not in a rush, too thorough in Taehyung’s opinion, but it’s right and so fucking loving, almost unacceptable.

In a fuzzy mess of Taehyung’s brain surfaces a thought, it’s a memory of that blurry and euphoric shower celebration. The memory of his own fingers and how it felt to press Jimin against the cool wall and work him open. He felt so tight around Taehyung’s fingers and moaned so pretty and a little desperate. Just like Taehyung is now, probably. But it’d been a haze of sleep deprivation and Hoseok’s recreational post-exam kush, and they sort of passed out on the floor afterwards, cum-free and anal-happy. ‘Love your hands, man,’ he remembers Jimin slurring as they were drifting off to sleep.

“Okay, c’mon,” Taehyung says now, kind of close to dying, and groans at the stinging drag of Jimin’s fingers inside of him. “Jiminie, you gotta use your dick, my man.”

It’s sweet, Jimin’s smile, soft in the flickers of early morning static, and then downright sugary when he’s rolling on the condom, but maybe it’s just Taehyung’s whipped ass.

“Wouldn’t wanna just go straight in balls deep,” Jimin points absently, the way he tends to comment on little worldly things. All his peptide microarrays and enzyme profiling and shit. Or, like, the weather.

And should it be any other night, Taehyung would keep up with the push and pull, always in their flow, would sustain their brand of bickering that comes with little purpose.

But today has been so odd, completely bare, just like his shivering liquid body and weirder feelings he refuses to let bleed through.

He laughs, a little breathless. Pats at his flushed cheeks. Wraps his legs around Jimin’s waist to pull him in and sighs, a bit strained, when the tip presses at his entrance. It burns, when Jimin pushes in all the way, the feeling is good but sharp, and he lets Jimin’s hands smooth out the strain in his soft sides and stomach, lets himself pretend it helps his softer heart. It’s so whole right now.

Okay, gross.

When Jimin bottoms out, he begins to rock into him slowly, shallow at first and mindful, letting him adjust to the size and the burning stretch. His eyes never leave Taehyung’s face and the look is so tender it seems out of place, like there’s a shitty joke waiting to happen.

Hands rubbing up and down Taehyung’s trembling thighs, he pulls out to push back in harder, putting more force with every thrust until he’s fucking into him steady and sure, movements fluid and sharp enough to leave Taehyung swallowing his own whimpers and clutching on Jimin’s shoulders in a death grip.

Soon the force is enough to send Taehyung all the way up the couch with a squeak and a loud slap against his ass. He hiccups and feels like splitting and burning, like a hot stream of colors. His palms trace Jimin’s back, over straining muscles and sweat-slick skin. Craving more contact, he presses close, so close, until their bodies are flush against each other, and grabs onto Jimin as he loses it to the rhythm.

Pulling out slowly, Jimin thrusts back in with a hard snap, it sends a pang of dull pain through Taehyung’s body, a deep ache followed by a quick apology and soft touch of lips on neck. Taehyung tells him it’s okay, because he’s okay, never felt better and needs more of it, so much more. He cries out at the teeth on his shoulder and the blunt pain that soon fades under the gentle touch and hushed words.

“Okay,” Taehyung can’t breathe, “harder.”

“You sure?”

He’s sure, even more sure as he feels Jimin pull out to add more lube until it’s just way too wet.

So wet but hot, it feels like dust around them. Jimin slides back in, lets them adjust, and his body glistens in green and blue lights, skin almost glowing. He shifts closer, bending Taehyung’s legs at the knee and almost folding him in half, to go deeper, the jerk of his hips turning rough, and the ache Taehyung feels spreading is so good, mixing with the subsiding burn and growing pleasure that boils hot and seethes up to his throat. The grip is too strong for him to arch into the touch, to lean into it properly, and he moans at the tongue licking up the column of his neck. He gives up on trying to meet the thrusts, instead burying his fingers in Jimin’s damp hair.

It’s long and soft to the touch, a little curly.

“Too long,” he breathes and it’s so ambiguous he actually snorts.

Jimin sucks a bruise under his jaw before looking up, eyes unfocused, “Huh?”

“Your hair,” Taehyung moans on a particularly deep stroke, “‘s gettin’ too long.”

“Tough life.”

But Jimin is smiling, so flushed and pretty, soft brown curls falling into his eyes, and melts into Taehyung, hips snapping hard but he himself is putty in the other’s hands. All that gentle attention to his hair and the need to plant a small kiss on Taehyung’s palm makes Jimin lose his rhythm.  

“Love it,” Taehyung tugs a little, guiding Jimin back to his neck, hungry for the feeling of that mouth again.

There are teeth this time, it adds to the ache in his back and quivering legs, the best kind that leaves traces for the morning, soft bruises to keep for days. Could be annoying with many hookups in the long run but he’d keep Jimin’s forever. He’d keep Jimin forever.

With no cheesy bullshit to distract him, Jimin falls back into a rough but steady rhythm, strokes long and deep, filling him just perfect, a word Taehyung has got to stop using before it can get to Jimin’s head. But the feeling is so good and very, very wet, it strains Taehyung’s throat, keeps all his whimpers inside, almost making his chest hurt under pressure.

Jimin guides his legs down carefully, locking them around his waist again, one hand tracing all the way to Taehyung’s flushed cock, gripping firmly to keep up with the roll of their hips. Taehyung sighs at the numbing strain in his legs, the pull in places he never knew could ache.

Once they slowly start to lose it, falling into something more frantic, Jimin ramming hard into him, Taehyung feels the pleasure build up deep inside, bordering on uncomfortable from all that hot pent up pressure. He hears a sound, it’s his own weak voice, broken moans spilling out and clogging his ears. It chokes him up and blurs bright circles behind his eyelids, he can’t catch his breath, can’t keep up with own sensations, it’s overwhelming and he’s slipping down, no longer able to take the sleek press of their bodies.

And if he’s honest with his nasty self, it’s such a delight to be fucked into the couch and feel the skin of his back painfully rub against the fake leather with every ruthless snap of hips. It’s the best kind of burn. So close and hot, almost suffocating. It’s spiraling into something too hectic and quick to hold for long, the rough push of Jimin’s hips is too loud, drowning out their voices, a mix of wrecked sounds and harsh breaths.

It shoots up in a rush to the head and all the way down. Jimin’s buried deep inside of him, moving in all the right ways, and Taehyung is bucking up, fucking into Jimin’s fist until he feels like falling, until the pleasure is racking through him, spilling over. He’s coming all over his stomach, panting, his insides and head in a buzz. Feels Jimin’s mouth on his skin, licking at his chest sloppily, lapping at the cum and sucking like it’s the next best thing. Jimin moans then, his plush lips painted white and glossy with spit, moans at the way Taehyung clenches around his cock.

“Wait—wait,” Taehyung reaches out weakly, tries to get a hold on his arms, “pull out, pull out—pull out.”

He lets out a weak whine at the still hard length sliding out of him and reaches to roll off the condom, tossing it somewhere in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Gross,” Jimin frowns and moans when shaky fingers circle around his cock.

The sounds he makes as Taehyung jerks him off are mellow, that rough chest-deep quality that ends with the softest sighs, and it’s the desperate edge to it that gets to Taehyung’s head.

It doesn’t take long for Jimin to come undone, his hair a tangled mess and deep flush painting his face and all the way down to his chest. He hisses through his teeth and gasps as Taehyung’s rough hands rock him through it. Everything is soaked in sweat, and Taehyung feels tired, completely fucking drained. His skin tingles and his chest is full.

The worst and prettiest way to deal with the heat.

The reality of the summer swamp finally catches up to them, crawling up their overheated bodies and stuffing their lungs. Taehyung puts on a completely unnecessary show of playing with the hot pools on his chest and stomach, sucking on his sticky fingers, tongue twirling to catch the rest of Jimin’s cum.

“Well shit,” Taehyung groans, tasting their release, “your stroke is no joke.”

“Shut up,” Jimin’s laugh is fond and a little shy. Makes no sense. “Well, you feel really great.” He looks down at their linked pinkies and adds, “Yeah, you’re really great.”

He gets up to get fresh towels and bottled water. What they need, though, is a drink. Or two.

The cool cloth on his sweaty skin is probably the best thing Taehyung’s experienced in the history of his fucked out mind. He’s drowsy from the heat and Jimin’s hands. They won’t talk about this, probably. In fact, Jimin isn’t talking at all.

Which leaves Taehyung hanging, a little too high, and he has to say something.

Which happens to be: “Wheein told me that if you eat five bananas in a row and then go for a jog you will die.”

“Wanna try tomorrow?”

“Chase you to the station.”

They laugh and pretend not to notice it coming out weak and a little strained. It won’t hurt too much, Taehyung knows it won’t, he’s got plenty to worry about anyway, like his aching butt or shitty classes or the idea of walking.

Jimin flicks him with a towel then, “Are you upset I said you aren’t niche?”


“So,” Hyejin fills her bowl with large chunks of beef and sits down, “what’s the happenstance?”

“Dunno the happenstance,” Jimin shrugs, feeling laundered in more ways than one.

They’re in a rather sketchy all-you-can eat place in Hapjeong, but Jimin chooses to wait for Yongsun to finally show up.

“Heeyeon mentioned you were ‘spiritually not en rapport with own ass’ today and I can say that I agree a lot. Spill.”

She is determined to gulp down the entire dinner before he has a chance to even settle on his choices.

“So, Tae sucked me off? Once.” She motions for him to continue. “And I legit still can feel his fingers in my ass, no joke. That game is no joke.”

“Tight,” she chews on a particularly juicy chunk. “Anything else?”

“Uh, we fucked. Once. But that’s, like, nothing. Surface discharge.”

“Discharge away, if you know what I mean.” Well, it’s hard not to. “But that look on your face ain’t nothing. You don’t just go from zero to eight hundred after, like, five—”


“—years and all that health you’ve got going in your unconscious coupling.”

What a way with words. Ahn Hyejin is truly and madly fabulous.

“Wrestle some metaphysics,” she says. “Think about why should it be worthy of panic. ‘Cos nothing changes, you know, not when your shit’s been built on more than butt slapping.”

“But what if—how did you and Wheein start dating?”

“We’re just together. Same as you.”

“No, but how did it shift?”

“Jeju field trip. Greenhouse work. She fingered me in the bushes,” Hyejin deadpans and snorts at Jimin’s shocked expression. “What do you think? Don’t remember, it just did. Like, we had everything solid and special going on for us, why not take it to that side too? It’s just some nice fucking. No shitty brain chemistry is going to mess us up, brother.”

She raises a good point, really, of which Jimin has been aware all along, but he needs this right now. Needs Hyejin’s words.

“That fake romance is for bland fiction, you know?” And, luckily, she’s delivering. “Dead before it even starts. Don’t paint something chemical into something it will never be. Like, all that noise is easy. Easy come, easy go.”

She takes a sip of her cheap beer, “So, to answer your question, we didn’t ‘shift’, we just, like, checked another box, you know. A super hot one. Boy, I swear. That tongue is magic, does insane stuff to my c—”

“I get it,” he gets it, okay.

“Look at you, all squirming at the clitoris.

Beer bottle still in hand, Hyejin seems to be considering something really hard, taking in his weathered down vibe.

“Anyway, what I’m getting at, do you believe that some basic dick touching can ruin a life-long partnership built on things that are actually important?”

He scoffs but can’t will himself to look up.

“Course you don’t. It’s just moral cowardice speaking.”

He’s about to point out how moral cowardice has been synonymous with his name lately, when Yongsun finally drifts in, parasol in hand and smile just as open. She folds the inconvenient thing and slides next to Hyejin.

“What’s up, kitty cats?”

“Jiminie here has a dilemma.”

“Exciting!” Yongsun opens her mouth to accept a piece of beef and onion from a very impatient Hyejin. “What about?”

“He wants to fuck his best friend a lot. But get this! He loves him. Imagine that. Fucking insane, am I right?”

Yongsun gasps, horrified, “Shit, wow. What a heavy hitter.”

“The heaviest.”

“Alright, okay, I get it, please stop,” he groans, embarrassed, but still smiles at their good-natured teasing.

With all the flaming shame this talk has given him, it actually kicks him out of a very stupid mindspace.

“Just tell him, Jimin,” Hyejin sighs, finally ready to offer serious advice. “Tell him, kiss him, eat him out, whatever you think will solidify your groundbreaking point.”

Well, serious enough.

Yongsun hums around her chopsticks, nodding eagerly, “Like, on a roof. At night. With some corny acoustic guitar in the background. That’d be so lame and perfect for you two.”

“Like hell,” he says and that’s the end of it.


It doesn’t happen on a roof but their balcony seems just as bad. There’s no guitar but a lot of suburban noise and sunset-colored horizon.  

Taehyung is psyched about the dyeing and giving Jimin’s miserable faded mop a ‘fresh and funky new feeling,' a vibe so powerful it will shatter millions, he’s sure.

The makeover torture takes three hours and twenty three minutes in total.

One for the bleaching during which Jimin manages to harness the power of silence and survive the flaming burn of his too sensitive scalp; two for the coloring with some mild weed breaks in between the dyeing and drying; twenty three minutes for imitating, very closely, the trailers for every indie romantic comedy that’s been made. Usually set in a city that allows power naps as a form of flirting.

The first question comes during the last coloring, on the balcony floor and with Junsu, their tragic potted palm tree, brooding in the corner. The color prediction is rather vague. Peach and daisy. Auburn and kush. It’s hard to care.

They feel at ease with just a slight theme of wistful nonsense between the lines. Something that smells like fulfillment and being a spineless little asshole.

“You seem broody,” Taehyung passes the pipe and chokes out a cough. This strain is mild but he doesn’t need anything strong to help his nerves or inspire creativity.

“Junsu is broody. I don’t do this shit.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I just make sure to take time to reflect on the exact ways in which people have wronged me.”

Jimin’s shy of coming full circle in their subtle relationship crisis, but he dares a glance. It’s probably all cautious and full of love or some shit.

“Who wronged you, then?”

Nobody but his own fine ass. Waltzed in with his feelings and nerves, dick hanging out and everything, all because of an idea.

Maybe he lacks confidence in own judgement but never in Taehyung.

“Nobody. It’s more of an idea.”

“An idea wronged you? Nice,” Taehyung is slightly confused because they are venturing onto  some serious turf, he isn’t sure of what kind, but any turf-venturing is anxiety-prone by default. “Smart. What’s the idea?”

“Of artificial romance and cocksure masculinity.”

“Fuckin’ A,” nods Taehyung. “I agree.”

Solemnly, he extends a finger to gently poke Jimin on the nose.

“Boop,” he says. And then, more serious, “Are you in love, then?”

“Sorta,” he pats at the shower cap covering his soon to be peach/daisy/auburn kush hair. “It’s more than that.”

There’s nothing missing for them, between them, but it feels like there’s a gap. Not a defect but a yearning, this odd need to come full circle, to close the link. He’s worried he might spill it all out.

He’s worried about everything now, feeling his hands start to shake. He needs words and closure.

“You used to cry a lot,” says Taehyung suddenly. “The first week, I spent ripping my ass off to make you pay attention to me. Good kid that you were, sure you did. Sort of, all polite and shit. Came over to mine but I knew you didn’t want to. Cos you’d learned not to give your trust that easily. Learned the bad way.”

Jimin isn’t sure where this is going because it smells like a small disaster. Taehyung carries on, picking at his nails.

“And we took that picture, with the cake? You looked really dumb. My favorite picture, actually. Dunno why I wanted you to care for me so much, like, immediately. Can’t explain it, it’s like these old dudes pretending to know how dark matter works? Space and time and all that shit.”

Taehyung sighs, a bit sad, “But I got so lucky, really, really lucky. Shit, the day you called first, I almost punched myself I was so pumped. But you—what a dick—just asked me what shit’s best to wear to the beach and ‘still look suicidal.' Not cargo pants, never fucking cargo, Jiminie.” He hesitates again. “Your first dickhead had a hardon for them, though. Hated him. Wanted to cut his balls off.”

“If only you were a real violence junkie, would’ve had yourself a nice collection of balls by now.”

Taehyung laughs and lets them simmer in silence for a moment.

“But you did use to cry a lot. About everything, dickheads included. But never as much after Dawon’s wedding. And wow, you legit went all out on your lachrymal glands. Fuckin’ you and Hobi both. Sobbed like two sappy assholes, so gone you even refused to lip sync Jang Yoonjeong, and I practiced for that, you know.” Practiced for two nights and the entire drive to the restaurant. “But you cried all night, back at home. Never told me why.”

“I was happy. More than a little bitter,” Jimin makes a displeased face at the memory. It wasn’t a pretty feeling. “Had to think a lot, ‘cos there were a lot of dumb things in my head.”

Head in the clouds and a lot of stupid dreams that turned out to be the stuff of pipes.

“Scared the shit out of me, Jiminie. And the morning after? ‘Sometimes, there’s more to life than just living, Taetae.' Like, no shit? What the hell was that?”

Jimin is about to gallop further to his inevitable confession but a shrill sound cuts him off. Time to wash off the dye and embrace the new Park Jimin.


The result is rather overwhelming. Not necessarily a disaster, the color is even and smooth, but so candy bright, not a peach but atomic tangerine. It glistens in the sun better than anything Taehyung has ever seen glistening, it makes his vision fuzzy with affection. He wants to eat Jimin up. Wants to keep it forever, he loves him so.

“I didn’t realize you were shitty at so many things,” sighs Jimin, again, leaning on the railing.

Their balcony overlooks the station and the web of flyovers, an ant-hill of a neighborhood. He squints at the distant haze of orange dust, as rusty as his hair.

“Well, I think it’s dope,” says Taehyung and can’t help but reach out and touch. “Juicy like 1996.”

“What do you remember about that, you were, like, two.”

“I remember the juice. Which was my point. If you’d listened.”

Jimin can’t concentrate. How can he concentrate when his soul juice is being sweated out like it’s a chill thing to do. Taehyung’s hands are rough but fingers always delicate, could be an artist’s hands that quell the fears and lull to sleep but never do anything unsavoury. Fingering doesn’t count.

Threading his fingers deep, Taehyung sighs, sees Jimin close his eyes. Stroking his hair so gently it soon becomes unbearable.

“Something on your mind?” Taehyung attempts casual but falls more into shaky.

“Doubts assault me,” declares Jimin and leans into the touch. “I’m, like, melting.”

And then, when every organ he possesses is already trembling from the sheer effort to contain his unchill soul juice, Taehyung shifts and puts him in one of those special and very safe locks. A backhug of highest quality with hot puffs of breath on the neck and hard palms on the quivering stomach.

Just when Jimin manages to put his jitters to a slow simmer, Taehyung speaks. It’s the second question. The little verbal asshole that scratches at their very zest.

“You’re mine, right?”

Jimin snorts, “Sure. Can’t live without you.”

“I mean,” Taehyung licks his lips. “Do you love me like I love you?”

And there it comes. The moment of truth that Jimin fears could end up being very distilled lest he steel his balls. He should sweat it out, this precious vivid feeling for Taehyung’s used up puns and prolonged sulks, his sparkling eyes and the soul of warmest color. He should be as tacky and lame and just sweat it the fuck out and become worthy of urban legends.

So sweat he does.

“Pretty sure I’m in love with you,” he says.

“Like, as friends?”

“No, like ‘whoa.’”


It’s quiet after that, in the orange sunset and the ammoniac tang of his atomic tangerine. He feels bottom-heavy, like a humming-top.

“Do you remember our first birthday?” Taehyung means the New Year they turned seventeen. “Remember what I said?”

Sure Jimin remembers, a very drunk and overly poetic Taehyung at the ripe age of sentimentally charged seventeen is hard to forget. They were cheesy, embarrassing. Near the bright vending machine boxes, close enough to gape at the burst of fireworks over Millak waterside park.

It was deafening, the colors in the night sky and the love that broke through. Jimin thought himself the only one.

“It was a song. I said,” Taehyung’s puffs, pouts even, “you make me feel like charity—”

“—instead of paying enough taxes. It was horrible. I think I threw up in my mouth a little.”

“Sure you did.”

This isn’t exactly getting answers or even closure, and Jimin’s mind is reeling again, squeezed lemon-dry from desperate attempts at keeping his shit at bay. His throat feels tight, a different kind of frail, because he is about to descend into one of those giant Sulks.

“Seems to me like you’re overthinking it,” Taehyung observes wisely.

“I’m not, you asshole, I’m being sensitive,” his voice sounds properly choked up, to further prove the point.

They’ve missed out big time on that acoustic guitar. Taehyung turns him then, keeps him still against the balcony railing. A feeling is there for sure, it brings Jimin to the third question.

“What about you?”

It shouldn’t feel like an impeding punchline, a very bad and scary one, but it sort of does. Don’t think with your dick. Just listen, listen, listen.

“Hey, Park Jimin,” Taehyung’s smile is a little crooked, soft, “you’re the apple of my fucking eye.”

Talk about stalling. Jimin grits his teeth, “I’m gonna punch you in the throat, dickshit.”

He tries not to do something stupid as they kiss, pressed close and sharing the calm. Outside it’s electric but the two of them are in a bubble, soothed and boneless. The kiss turns full and deep, it feels like relief, like that night at the sea.

“So,” Taehyung begins when they get tired of sucking face, “does it mean the fingering doors are finally open?”

“Ugh,” Jimin pokes under his ribs, scowls at his smug swollen mouth. “Your lips are ugly.”

And it falls so right with Taehyung, the words and his fingers tangling wasp nests in Jimin’s hair, he has to close his eyes for a moment. Take a breath, in and out, try not to rip his face smiling. He can’t tell whether Jimin is pissed or horny, so deep is his power saving mode.

He opens his eyes and looks at Jimin’s pleased face. Soft cheeks, full mouth, eyes gleaming. His crooked tooth is showing.

“Your face looks stupid,” Taehyung says, finally, and leans in for another kiss. As many as he is able to manage before his dick overtakes his sappy head. “Gonna eat you up.”

Jimin laughs into the kiss that turns too sloppy and moist to keep up with, “You okay?”

“I’m chill if you’re chill.”

It’s a very uncool thing to say but Jimin still presses closer, breath soft and fingers light, tongue licking into Taehyung’s mouth.

He’s chill.