Yoongi might actually kill Namjoon.
It’s hard to tell under the blinding strobe lights and neon colours that reign in this club, but they’re at the very edge of the place, far enough away from the real nitty-gritty of the dance floor and the drunkards that the music isn’t deafening Yoongi and he’s able to actually make out whatever drink he’s ordered. He can see his stupid friend standing a little ways off, talking to a large group of people, because a drunk Namjoon is a loud Namjoon, and given that he looks very attractive in eyeliner and does this sort of thing with his jaw when he laughs and he's not too picky about who he shoves his alcohol-induced affections towards, he always tends to attract large groups in clubs. One-night friends, as Hoseok likes to call them.
“See that guy over there?” he can hear Namjoon practically yelling, over the droning EDM blasting out of the speakers and the drunken chorus of cheers and chatter from the rest of the club and possibly through his own alcohol haze. “That's my friend, Yoongi. Buuuut you might know him by another name. Suga.”
There's a murmur of negatives. Yoongi feels eyes training on his back from his spot at the bar and tightens his grip around his glass, lets the condensation wet his sweaty palms. The music pounding low and bass-heavy in the background is now too loud. He can feel a headache coming on and wishes he could’ve just stayed home and bothered Hoseok.
"You know, Suga? The—" here, Namjoon's voice drops to a stage-whisper, loud enough that anyone within a ten feet radius can hear him "—prostitute?"
There's a low gasp, and everyone is turning to Yoongi (like oh shit a prostitute as if these club-going drunk fucks have never seen one before). He kinda wants to hit Namjoon, just a little bit, because now he's going to get weird stares and annoying questions all night, and basically this entire club scene is ruined for him. But there's no fun in hitting a drunk Namjoon, so Yoongi has to settle for glowering at the bartender and hope that no one believes him.
Seokjin, at least, is a good friend. He stomps right over to Namjoon and grabs him by the back of his collar, dragging him away with a glare that can kill. "You need to learn to keep your fucking mouth shut, Joon," he groans, cheeks and ears flushed with either embarrassment or the alcohol fuzzies or the fact that he may or may not have a crush on their mutual friend that Yoongi for the life of him can never understand how or why, and Yoongi could've kissed him.
"It's not like I'm lying or anything, fuck, Jin," Namjoon whines, put out now that he is no longer the center of attention, and Seokjin shoves another glass of whatever-the-fuck into his hand to shut him up.
The damage is already done, though, because someone detaches himself from the group and slides into the stool next to in a way that he probably thinks looks casual. Yoongi glances at him from the corners of his eyes and gives him an once-over. He's not bad looking, as far as faces go, but he's got that look in his eye that Yoongi's seen on plenty of tipsy clubbers before, and it makes him clam up immediately. This is ridiculous. He's technically off-duty. Why can't he just be a normal guy at a club and drink with his friends in peace?
"So, you're, um, Suga? I mean, Yoongi?" The guy clears his throat. "The, uh, prosti –"
"Sex worker," Yoongi interrupts with a tight-lipped smile. There’s not nearly enough vodka in his bloodstream to be enough to deal with this. "The community doesn't really use the word 'prostitute' anymore. They think it's derogatory."
"Oh." The guy pauses, daunted by Yoongi's refusal to carry the conversation. At first glance, Yoongi doesn't seem like the type of guy to be openly a sex worker called Suga, or such a popular one at that. He doesn't have abs or a huge dick, and he doesn't have the height or the muscle to look like he can manhandle. At the same time, he doesn't carry himself as a guy who "takes it", either. He's a little short and more than a little grumpy, with brightly coloured hair and a semi-permanent sleepy expression. There's potential, though, and that tiny bit of potential that leaks out regardless of whether Yoongi wants it to or not is what drives these kinds of people to proposition him. It's the way his words slur together ever-so-slightly in what could possibly be described as a lazy, sexy drawl, regardless of his current alcohol intake. It's the way he fidgets with his hands, small and pale but with long, sure fingers, and the way he licks his lips before he speaks out of habit. "So, what's that like? You know, having sex for money and shit?"
Yoongi shrugs. "Soul-sucking, identity-crushing, like every other job in the world, I guess." He sees the look on the guy's face and pities him, only slightly. "It's actually not that bad. You get used to it after a while, and I'm lucky enough to be allowed to choose my customers."
"Oh. You choose, huh?"
"That's right. And I am very particular about who I work with."
That's Yoongi's hint, combined with a dismissive tone and a glance away from his general direction, for the guy to realize Yoongi's not interested in anything else he's got to say. This guy doesn't seem to catch it, though, because he shifts in the stool in a way that emphasizes the tightness of his leather pants around his crotch and the way his shirt falls open to show slivers of collarbone and skin. Yoongi is unimpressed.
"So, how much money would it take me to have one amazing night with you?"
"Nothing. I'm not interested."
Yoongi doesn't wait for the awkward pause, or for the guy's reaction. Embarrassed, angry, defensive, he just doesn't give a shit. He drains his glass and walks away without a second glance.
“Yeah, so I'm heading out,” he says to Seokjin, who's busy preventing Namjoon from speaking by keeping him in a loose chokehold and looking like he's enjoying it way more than he should be. Yoongi doesn't understand his friends, sometimes.
"Done for the night?"
He can see a few girls looking at him, mouths filled with unspoken words of wanna find somewhere private and I've heard so much about you and mind if I sample your services? and he's completely done. "Meh, this club wasn't fun anyway. The DJ fucking sucks."
Namjoon is eyeing a girl a few feet away and looking as though he wants to ask her onto the dance floor. Seokjin shakes him by the nape of his neck, a far too pleased smile on his face as he does so. “Don't you dare try driving home.”
“I’m taking the bus.”
Seokjin gives him a Look, and Yoongi kind of wants to tell him that he's not his mother, and Yoongi is already twenty-six and he's not an idiot and not even that drunk, either. But he's tired, and those girls look like they're making bets on who should go up and talk to him first, and it's too damn hot and suffocating and claustrophobic and he just wants to leave.
The night air outside is cold and crisp, blowing Yoongi's mint-green locks away from his sweaty forehead and souring in his liquor-soaked mouth. He pulls his jacket closer to his chin, ignoring the way his fingers immediately complain out of the warm confines of his pockets, and tries to make the mood more romantic by staring up at the moon while he waits for the bus. It's a little less romantic when the moon is covered by a thick layer of ugly black clouds and the stars have disappeared behind the city's smog, but whatever.
His phone rings, interrupting his cynical musings, and when he picks up a voice like honey and silk echoes from the other line. "Suga-ah~, I'm sorry I'm calling you so late. Are you free?"
He closes his eyes and briefly inhales, mentally preparing himself, before he opens his eyes and smiles, voice dropping into what Namjoon very unoriginally likes to call his Sex Voice. "Hello, noona. Is your husband out on another business trip?"
"Yes, and he's left me very lonely."
Yoongi doesn't really feel up to the job, but taking a dirty public bus back to the apartment he shares with Seokjin and Hoseok sounds even more unappealing, and after Namjoon's drunken fuck-up he's practically simmering with pent-up steam he needs to let out. He's not feeling particularly choosy about how he lets it out, either. Not to mention this particular noona always pays him well.
When he doesn't answer right away, the noona sounds a little put out but says, "It's okay if you can't make it, Suga, sweetie, I know these aren't your regular working hours."
Yoongi makes up his mind. "No, not at all," he purrs, purposefully dragging his voice so it's like claws catching on velvet, and he can almost feel the noona melt on the other line. "I'm just wondering how to get to your place. I don't have my car right now, you see."
"I'll come pick you up, baby."
Yoongi tells her the address and hangs up, staring once more at the polluted black sky, lets the chill clear his head. The noona, despite her friskiness whenever her rich husband leaves town, is honestly quite nice, and not a bad lady to have sex with, either. She also would never have given him the time of day if he didn't fuck her half as good as he did. Not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like to have a normal job.
A loud honk distracts him from his thoughts, and he looks down as a shiny black Ferrari speeds its way towards him, the few people outside at this time of night staring in unashamed awe.
It parks more-or-less smoothly in front of Yoongi, and the driver's side window rolls down. A pretty older woman smiles at him, all perfectly styled hair and French manicures even at this time of night. "Come in, Suga," she says with a giggle.
Yoongi flashes her a cat-like smile as he climbs into the passenger seat, giving her a chaste peck on the lips. "Hello, noona. Shall we go?" He lets his hand land naturally on her thigh, bare from the dress hitching slightly upwards in her seat. He knows she likes it.
"Yes, please," she breathes, and they're off.
Yoongi catches the envious, dazzled faces of the people who saw him get in the car, and tries to hide a bitter smirk. This job does come with its perks, at least.
Seokjin doesn't ask why Yoongi returns home late next morning, or why his neck is covered in faint hickeys. He does raise an eyebrow, though, when he hands him a cup of coffee.
"Thanks," he grunts, slumping onto the counter.
"Rough night?" Seokjin asks carefully.
Seokjin delicately avoids the subject. It's not that he doesn't approve of Yoongi's occupation — he doesn't particularly like it, either — but he's made a few comments here and there about his worries on how it'll affect Yoongi's mental health. It's not good, he's told him, that he takes all these weird hours at odd times of the night (and sometimes day) to fuck people he doesn't even like, that he's never once had an actual relationship with someone despite knowing seven different ways to make a person's toes curl since he was nineteen.
"You're going to burn out one of these days, Yoongi," Seokjin had once said to him, after Yoongi came home from a particularly excited customer sore and exhausted, "and it's going to suck if no one's on the other end to catch you."
"I thought you were supposed to do that," Yoongi had retorted, grumpy and uncomfortable with the conversation. "Being my friend and all."
Seokjin just shook his head, and gave him a small smile, and that smile reminded Yoongi that Seokjin had been there for him back when he just started out in the sex work business, and he couldn't afford to be choosy about his customers, and had escaped some close calls with pretty disgusting people (and forced himself through a few of those calls as well). "That's not what I meant."
But now is different, and Yoongi doesn't have to worry about telling some drunk, groping "customer" he's actually not feeling it and have that customer keep going anyway. Now he's distinguished enough that he can fuck rich sexually-unsatisfied trophy wives and hot band singers and shy virgins who have the money to spend to get the absolute best out of their first time. Yoongi likes the virgins best, likes being able to be gentle and intimate with them, watch the way their faces scrunch up in mindless pleasure when Yoongi's fingers and tongue and dick expertly wring out orgasm after orgasm, so that they’ll always remember their first time and think of him. It's almost ... romantic, in a way. Shit. Maybe Yoongi really is lonely.
“I was just having an off day,” he finally says, staring into the steam wafting out of his mug and not at Seokjin. “I won't take customers at weird hours again.”
“Uh-huh.” It's a promise Seokjin's heard before, and they both know it, and now Yoongi feels ashamed.
Namjoon's snoring obnoxiously on the couch behind Yoongi, a constant dull drone of white noise. “Hey,” Yoongi says, feeling the need to make amends despite Seokjin not giving any indication that he’s upset, “listen. I can pay for that lunch you said you were going to today.” He pulls out a wad of cash from his bag and waves it under Seokjin's nose.
“She paid you in cash?” Seokjin examines the bank notes, looking impressed despite himself. “Jesus, Yoongi, this is more than four hundred dollars.”
“And that's just half of what I got last night,” Yoongi said. “Here, you can treat your friend. It's on me.” And it’ll keep Seokjin from giving him that Disappointed Mother Look for a few weeks.
"Do you want to come along?" Seokjin asks, cheery now, as Hoseok stumbles out of his room with a loud yawn, pants hanging low around dancer hips without a care in the world. "It's your money, after all. I think you'll like this guy."
Yoongi makes a face and avoids having to answer as long as possible by taking a heavily delayed, slow sip of his coffee. Seokjin watches, bemused. Eventually, he can no longer escape and mutters, "I don't even know him. Is this some blind date you're trying to set me up on? You know how well those work out."
"He's just a guy from work, real nice, been helping me a lot since I got this job. Come on, please? Jimin's a really good guy, and he'll definitely like you." When Yoongi grimaces, Seokjin quickly raises his hands in a defenseless gesture. "Not in a blind-date way, I promise!"
"Really? He'll like me?" Yoongi shuffles to the side as Hoseok pushes him away to get at the coffee machine, pinching one of his hickeys until Yoongi swats at him. "Yeah, I'm sure. Accountants tend to love sex workers."
Hoseok gives him an amused grin and sings, “Mom got mad at you.”
Yoongi contemplates throwing his still-hot coffee at his stupid dark-haired head, then decides against it. No point wasting a perfectly good cup. “I hate literally all of you.”
“Then find your own place,” Hoseok immediately retorts, his smile not slipping a fraction. Seokjin doesn’t even react. They know him too well. “Go room with Namjoon.”
“And listen to this?” Yoongi gestures vaguely behind him at Namjoon, still snoring like a trucker and nearly knocking over a lamp when his leg twitches in his sleep. “No blind dates, promise?”
Seokjin grabs the roll of paper towels sitting on their counter and throws it at Namjoon, who jerks awake with a shout of surprise. “Promise.”
The Good Day Café is very orange and brown, as if the entire aesthetic of the dying autumn season is captured in this single space. Yoongi fidgets in his brown leather booth seat and fidgets with his orange and brown menu and wishes he isn’t wearing an orange hoodie, because it makes him look like he’s just another part of the set, a backdrop in the café’s palette. It’s the only hoodie he owns that’s big enough to swamp him and hide most of the hickeys on his neck, though, so it’s what he has to wear to this stupid lunch-not-a-blind-date.
“At least try to look like you weren’t forced here dragging your feet,” Seokjin whispers, looking like a model or a Disney prince or some shit in a tan-coloured pea coat and grey scarf. The girls lunching at the table nearby keep stealing glances at him and giggling over their chocolate milkshakes.
“I’ll do my very best,” Yoongi mutters in response, but Seokjin either doesn’t hear his snark or ignores it, because he looks up as the café’s door opens in a flurry of wooden wind chimes and breaks out into a friendly smile and waves.
“Jimin, over here! You don’t mind if I brought a friend along, do you? We’re using his money to pay for this meal.”
Yoongi stares at his knees and picks at his nails, reluctant to start engaging in conversation. It’s not that he doesn’t like talking to people—he does, sometimes, but that’s not the point—but he knows how this play ends after act one. Regardless of the first act and how well that goes, there’s an intermission, where the conversation turns to jobs, as does all conversations among twenty-somethings, and Yoongi will have to tell him that he’s a sex worker, and then he has to drop the name Suga, and then one of two things happens: Jimin will give him an awkward, oh that’s um kind of cool smile and avoid talking to him because sex is something sacred or he’s a slut or whatever, or he’s going to be one of those assholes like the ones he meets at clubs that think him being a sex worker means he’ll fuck anyone who asks nicely.
Yoongi is just exhausted of knowing how act one ends, the same way, every damn time. Because it almost always means that there’s no act two.
“Yoongi,” Seokjin says, giving him a not-so-subtle kick in the calf. “This is my work friend, Park Jimin. Jimin, this is one of my housemates, Min Yoongi.”
Yoongi looks up, just as Park Jimin says, “It’s very nice to meet you, Yoongi.”
His voice is soft and high and lilting, and Yoongi’s mouth abruptly goes dry.
Because Jimin isn’t what Yoongi was expecting. Jimin is young—younger than Seokjin, probably younger than Yoongi—with soft round cheeks and eyes crinkled into crescent half-moons as he smiles. His hair is dark and carefully parted and when he takes off his leather flight jacket his white-collared shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and Yoongi can’t breathe.
“Hi,” Yoongi croaks out, suddenly unable to form more than two words.
Jimin’s eye smile crinkles up even farther and he holds out a hand, small and pretty and smooth, and Yoongi shakes it, and he decides that, without a single doubt, he cannot ever mess this up and tell Jimin about his real job.
This cannot end at act one.
Seokjin and Jimin are cut from the same cloth; overwhelmingly polite and friendly, with a hidden dose of sarcasm Yoongi secretly loves that they soften with blinding smiles. They spend at least ten minutes just joking around and deciding what to order, which to Yoongi is ridiculous because unless they want cake for lunch there’s only about half a dozen actual meals to choose from. Yoongi only forgives them for the long wait because Jimin’s eyebrows furrow together when he’s concentrated on ordering, and it’s almost unfairly cute.
Their food arrives, plates of Caesar salad and rigatoni Bolognese. Yoongi stuffs his mouth to avoid having to talk and instead listens as Seokjin and Jimin casually talk in-between mouthfuls. A lot of work talk that he can’t contribute to, anyway—names are dropped that Yoongi can’t associate a face to, lots of someone tell Jinhwan to stop hanging by the printer, I trip over his dumb feet every time I need to photocopy something and let me tell you what Junghwan said to the manager the other day.
Seokjin gestures to the side of his mouth, where Jimin has a reddish-orange sauce stain. He laughs and licks it off. Yoongi nearly chokes on his water.
“How did you and Seokjin meet, Yoongi?” Jimin chirps.
Yoongi’s voice sounds slightly groggy, as though he had just been asleep, and to his embarrassment he hopes he doesn’t sound drunk. “I, ah, we’ve known each other forever. Since we were eighteen. We met through a mutual friend, Hoseok, our other house—housemate.”
He turns to Seokjin ever-so-slightly, suddenly unable to talk and look at Jimin and remember old history at the same time, and to his relief Seokjin spares him only one questioning glance before taking over, as smoothly and naturally as if that was his plan all along. “Yoongi worked part-time at a music studio back then, and Hoseok was part of a high school dance team, and he asked for a mix of songs to dance to. This dumbass was already class president and part of the yearbook committee and working two jobs, and he still took the time to compile a brand-new, personalized mix for Hoseok.”
Jimin giggles, the sound almost overwhelmingly, tooth-achingly sweet, and Yoongi’s fingers twitch where he’s nervously fiddling with them underneath the table. “Class president and yearbook committee, Yoongi hyung? Really?”
Yoongi chuckles, a little nervously although hopefully his voice sounds low enough for it to not be noticeable, and runs his hands through his minty hair. “Yeah, don’t really, um, look like the type right now, do I?”
“Like a little troublemaker,” Seokjin says with motherly fondness. Yoongi kicks him underneath the table and hopes he leaves a bruise on Seokjin’s annoyingly pretty legs.
Jimin laughs again. “Don’t sweat it. I had my hair dyed bright red or orange for years now, only just brought it back to natural because my boss was starting to throw a fit every time I walked into the company.”
Yoongi looks at Jimin, as mild-mannered and sweet-looking as can be with his white collar and black brogue shoes, and imagines him with bright red hair. A little troublemaker.
He thinks he’s in love.
Seokjin excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Yoongi is left sitting awkwardly across from Jimin, silence settling in the way an ocean tide trickles up a beach. The table next to them asks a passing waiter for another glass of coke.
“Is there something on my face, Yoongi hyung?” Jimin asks.
Yoongi starts at the sudden question, trying to ignore how much he likes hearing “hyung” tacked onto the end of his name. “Suga oppa” or “Suga hyung” doesn’t quite match up to the same level of satisfaction, even if the person calling out his name is doing so while sobbing in pleasure. He wonders what Jimin looks like sobbing in pleasure. He abruptly feels his dick twitch in interest, to his horror, and digs his nails hard into his thigh to try and will it back down.
Fuck. “No,” he mumbles, wondering if he sounds rude. He probably does. Jimin doesn’t know that Yoongi’s voice sounds so rough and short because he’s trying to stop thinking about Jimin’s lips and the way they wrap around his name like a mouth around a cock.
“You’ve been staring at me.”
Yoongi fights back a startled flush and meets Jimin’s eyes. He still has his friendly eye-crinkle smile, but there’s something almost knowing in his look. It gives a new feeling in Jimin’s expression that Yoongi doesn’t know how to deal with, so he doesn’t.
“Lost in thought,” he finally says. Safe.
“Any you wanna share?” Jimin is teasing him, probably. Yoongi is the kind of person that’s easy to tease, once you get past his grumpiness.
“Nah, just—just—” Yoongi’s mind blanks, popping and dying like a clunky old car engine. He says the first thing he can think of, and immediately regrets it. “Just work stuff.”
“What do you do?”
Yoongi can’t answer. Not if he wants Jimin to look at him like this and smile like this.
Luckily, he’s saved having to come up with a lie or a half-truth by Seokjin returning from the bathroom. “Playing nice, Yoongi?” Seokjin asks, casually steering his ankle just out of kicking reach.
“Fuck you,” he mutters on reflex. Jimin laughs, a bright sound as sunny as the warmth overheating the side of Yoongi’s face and hair. Yoongi can feel himself soften in response, feel the embarrassed scowl on his face slip into almost a smile, his furrowed eyebrows relax, and he hopes when Jimin glances his way again he looks less exhausted and moody and maybe more like a person like Jimin.
But Jimin doesn’t look back at him. Instead, he turns his smile to Seokjin and takes the sun with him. “I think we’re all just about done our lunch, huh?” he says. “Should we call for the bill?”
And suddenly, too fast to even blink, Yoongi watches Seokjin hand over the bills he had earned from a long night’s hard work, and then Jimin and Seokjin are pulling on jackets while Yoongi tightens the strings around his hoodie, and then they are stepping outside. The afternoon is a confusing conundrum of warm sun and chilly winds, a tipsy balance between fall and winter, an uncertain mixture of golden leaves on trees and the faintest flakes of the first snow flitting down to earth. It seems appropriate, considering Yoongi’s own little enigma that is meeting Park Jimin. A single day, a single afternoon, and then he’ll be gone and it’ll be like he never existed in Yoongi’s life, and Yoongi never existed in Jimin’s.
“Be careful, alright?” Seokjin is saying, and Yoongi shakes himself out of his thoughts and finds that they already walked down the street to Jimin’s parked car, an unassuming little Hyundai that somehow suits Jimin perfectly. “The traffic is crazy at this time of day.”
“I’ll manage,” Jimin says brightly. Yoongi watches, hands burrowed deep into the pocket of his hoodie so he can flex them into tight fists without being caught. He wants to ask Jimin out for a coffee, a dinner. He wants to know what Jimin’s hobbies are, what his dreams are. He wants to bend Jimin over a table and leave fingerprint-shaped bruises on his hips and bite marks on his neck in the most possessive, animalistic way he knows. He wants to lay Jimin down on a bed of roses and worship his body with his lips and tongue until Jimin can’t remember his own name. He wants Jimin to smile at him the way he sometimes sees Seokjin smile at Namjoon.
He wants a lot of things that he’s never wanted in a person before. It’s a sobering reality when he reminds himself that none of them can come true.
“Ah, Yoongi hyung?” He looks up, sees Jimin smiling at him. The sun is back. “Do you wanna exchange numbers?”
“Ah.” Yoongi can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe this is happening. “Yeah. Sure.”
Seokjin watches, an odd look on his face, as Yoongi fumbles with his cell phone and gets Jimin’s number, unable to believe his luck, sure that it must be some big joke because he’s been nothing but quiet and sour the whole time and why would Jimin even want to see him again?
But then Jimin is gone—a final smile goodbye, then he’s climbing into his car and pulling out onto the road, and he turns a corner and he’s gone.
Yoongi turns back to find Seokjin staring at him. His expression is almost unreadable, which is not a good sign. Yoongi prides himself on being able to differentiate Seokjin’s carefully hidden range of emotions.
“Are we taking the bus back home or what?” Yoongi finally asks, as the wind picks up in intensity and nearly threatens to throw his hood back.
“Sure,” Seokjin says, and that’s the end of that.
It’s more than two weeks later when Jimin texts him. Not that Yoongi’s been counting.
Do you think ties should be solid coloured or patterned? Let me know thnx :)
Yoongi stares at his phone, blinking blearily. He’s just come back from a very extensive session with the high-strung son of a wealthy law firm’s CEO. He’s putting so much pressure on me, the son had whined, all strong eyebrows and square jaw and scratchy stubble and a too-tight grip around Yoongi’s arms, I’m going crazy, I need to feel like I have some control in my life.
I can help with that, Yoongi had purred, the sentence gliding smoothly out of his lips over years of practice. And now he’s curled up in his bed at three in the afternoon, so sore he barely managed to stumble home, his skin speckled with purple-red hickeys and bruises.
The first thing Park Jimin says after they exchange numbers is a question about ties. It’s so typical of him, honestly.
is the only thing Yoongi responds with, heart suddenly pounding out of his chest. Maybe it’s just the spots swimming in front of him in the darkness of his bedroom, curtains drawn tight, but he thinks the exact shade of Jimin’s brown eyes are what he sees when he blinks.
Five minutes pass, then Jimin texts him again. This time, it’s a picture of him, face just out of frame and instead revealing the lovely expanse of his shoulders and torso, showing off a black button-up shirt and a solid red tie.
Yoongi swallows and imagines wrapping that tie around Jimin’s wrists and pinning him to the headboard of his bed. He imagines helping Jimin straighten that tie properly so it’s not as crooked before he goes out for work in the morning.
Jimin responds back with another smiley face, and Yoongi suddenly can’t feel the soreness of the bruises peppering down his shoulders and back.
Are you free? :)
It’s been at least three weeks since they started regularly texting each other. By this time, the trees have grown bare and the weather has abandoned all semblance of warmth. Yoongi likes winter best. More layers of clothing to cover up any marks. Turtlenecks and jackets and scarves. It’s great.
Yoongi is embarrassed to admit it (and he’s not—at least, not out loud) but his life is slowly starting to revolve around Jimin’s stupid emoticons and frequent text messages. He finds himself refusing Namjoon’s invitations to clubs and parties, instead huddling up in the apartment staring at his phone, waiting for a cheery
good morning Yoongi hyung!
text Seokjin for me and tell him to get out of the break room and get back to work kekekeke
Star Wars or Lord of the Rings marathon? Help me decide!
Yoongi is an infrequent texter, and when he does respond he tends to be short and to the point. But for Jimin, he replies as quickly as he can, and he makes the effort to try and say something that might make Jimin think he’s interesting. He doesn’t know if it works, but the texts come every day, without fail, and it makes Yoongi feel a twisting, fluttering thing in his stomach that spread all the way to his arms and fingers and makes him feel jittery.
texted Seokjin for you, he sent me a response not appropriate for a work environment
star wars for sure. don’t watch the prequels first, though.
He stares at his phone and Jimin’s innocently simple three words. Followed by that annoying smiley face. He knows it probably doesn’t mean anything, but his chest suddenly constricts in the queasiest way possible.
“What’s up?” Hoseok asks, bumping Yoongi with one sharp hip bone as he sidles past him to the living room so he can throw himself down onto their couch and turn on the TV. His hair is sticking to his forehead and he smells like sweat, so he must’ve come back from morning dance practice. Yoongi wonders when he left, or when he came back. Time moves oddly once Jimin starts texting him.
“You’re smiling at your phone like a goof.”
Startled, Yoongi discreetly checks his facial expression. He feels nothing but his usual moody, slight pout. “No, I’m not.”
Hoseok flashes him a heart-shaped smile, brimming with cheery energy that Yoongi can never for the life of him hope to obtain and taps the side of his head, near his temples. “Yes, you are. It’s all in your eyes.”
“You don’t know shit about my eyes, asshole,” Yoongi says, but he ducks his head down farther just in case as he types out a feverish reply to the dark-haired boy taking over his dreams.
I am. what’s up?
I need help moving some stuff back in my place. Seokjin hyung said you were free today.
Even if he had something today, he would’ve cancelled it in a heartbeat.
I can help you out.
Good! I’ll come pick you up :) Meet me outside your apartment in 10 minutes! :)
Yoongi looks up from his phone to find Hoseok watching him with great interest. He wants to tell him to fuck off, but he’s not as irritated anymore and he can never bring himself to be too snippy with Hoseok, anyway. Hoseok is, technically, one of his oldest and closest and first friends, and it’s hard to be angry at someone who owns those titles.
“What are you staring at?” he grumbles.
“Got yourself a girlfriend?”
“A boyfriend? I know you swing both ways.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Do you need dating advice?”
“Shut up. I’m getting changed.”
“Because I’m covered in enough hickeys to look like leprosy, and because I’m wearing gross ratty sweatpants.”
“Since when do you care how you look?” Hoseok says it like a statement, not a question. Like he already knows what’s going on when Yoongi doesn’t even know himself. Yoongi ignores him and almost runs back to his bedroom to search for something nice to wear. He wastes his first few minutes digging through the clothes in his closet, unable to find anything to hide his ravaged neck. He needs to take a break off of his customers for a while, honestly, to give his skin time to recover.
“Are you going out with someone?” Hoseok yells through his closed door.
“Are you lying? You have to tell me if you’re lying.” Hoseok sounds far too excited, to Yoongi’s sheer embarrassment. It’s like a father with his son going on a date for the first time, which is both kind of true and absolutely not, and this isn’t a date. “Hey, do you have that leather jacket? Wear that, wear that! And brush your hair!”
There is a second step of footsteps outside his door, followed by Namjoon’s voice out of all fucking people. “Who’s going on a date?”
“What are you doing here?” Yoongi yells, nearly tripping and falling as he tries pulling on a pair of faded blue ripped jeans. Five minutes, five minutes, Jimin’s coming in five minutes.
“Hoseok invited me! Who’s on a date?”
“I already told you no!” Yoongi snaps, scrambling to apply at least some foundation to hide his nastier bruises. It doesn’t do much except make them look a little more faded, makes the hickeys turn a faded purple-blue colour, like he’s moldy bread.
“No, I’m not, I’m—”
“Yoongi’s going on a date?”
“Shut up, shut up, I’m not—”
The doorbell rings.
“Is it your date?”
“He’s not my date, he’s not—don’t fucking open the door!”
Hoseok ignores his half-pleading threats, and Yoongi hears his bare feet padding down the hall and back to the living room. Desperately, Yoongi grabs a hoodie and throws it on to help hide the worst of his hickeys and slams open his bedroom door. Namjoon is leaning on the opposite wall of the hallway, a massive shit-eating grin on his face.
“Have fun,” he sings. Yoongi shoots him his best death glare before stumbling out into the living room, where Hoseok is cheerily chatting with Jimin.
He’s not wearing button-ups and trousers, he’s wearing ripped jeans like Yoongi and a simple oversized white T-shirt. His hair is pulled away from his face with a backwards snapback, leaving his forehead bare, and he suddenly looks much younger.
He’s more beautiful than Yoongi remembers.
Yoongi can’t breathe.
“Hey, Yoongi hyung,” Jimin says, and hearing his voice is so, so much more different than reading it through a text message. For starters, Yoongi can see Jimin’s lips, ridiculously plump and soft even before being kissed. He wants to know what Jimin’s lips look like after they’ve been thoroughly kissed, then shakes himself because no, he can’t be thinking about this or he’ll never survive this afternoon.
“Hey,” he croaks out, seeing Hoseok’s spreading grin out of the corners of his eyes and making a mental promise to destroy him and Namjoon if they make any comments in front of Jimin. “Shall we go?”
“Have a good day,” Hoseok says, his voice sing-song and as joyfully wicked as Namjoon’s. Yoongi fights back the pink creeping up his neck and ears and nearly pushes Jimin out the door.
“Sorry about that, that’s Hoseok, he’s just, um.” He can’t quite describe what his friends are, actually. At least, nothing he can say in front of Jimin.
Jimin just laughs, giving Yoongi a brilliant smile that puts the wintery sunlight outside to shame. “Hoseok is really nice, I like him.”
“That’s what I was worried about,” Yoongi mutters before he can stop himself. To his relief, Jimin bursts into high-pitched giggles, amused. An angel couldn’t have made a cuter sound.
They take the elevator down to the ground floor, where Jimin’s parked his cute grey Hyundai on the curb. Yoongi can’t believe he’s even here, sliding into the passenger seat without Seokjin as a buffer, sitting so close to Jimin that their arms brush.
“It’s a little cramped, sorry,” Jimin says, “I wanted a small car for the city.”
“It’s fine,” Yoongi says, although it’s not really, because they’re close enough that he can smell Jimin’s cologne and can trace the shape of his jawline as he leans over slightly to shift gears into Drive. His head is spinning.
Suddenly, Jimin stops moving. There’s a brief inhalation, then nothing, as though he’s holding his breath.
Yoongi realizes that Jimin’s head is tilted at an exact angle where he can see the hickeys Yoongi’s failed to cover up on his neck.
There’s a brief moment of painfully tense silence, as Yoongi internally panics and Jimin says nothing at all.
“Had fun, Yoongi hyung?” Jimin whispers. He’s smiling, which Yoongi doesn’t understand, and there’s a brilliant and playfully dangerous gleam in his eyes, a look that both suits Jimin and doesn’t suit him, a Jimin never seen before, a Jimin that always existed. A Jimin that Yoongi can imagine willingly going to bed with a sex worker. Yoongi doesn’t answer, mostly because he can’t think of anything to say with a blank mind and a dry mouth. These kinds of things are all part of a game Yoongi’s far too used to playing, but he’s been caught off guard.
He didn’t think that Jimin, with his sweet smile and happy eyes and giggles, knew how to play the game, too.
Finally, Jimin switches gears and leans back into his seat, and it’s like nothing had happened. As the car eases its way into the road, Yoongi stares out the window at the passing apartment buildings and storefronts and desperately tries to calm the frantic double-time of his heart.
TL;DR: Friends are sometimes assholes and sometimes the only people you care about. Sometimes both at the same time.
Jimin lives in the suburbs—1882 Jonquil Way, to be exact—and Yoongi, obviously, reacts with complete and utter terror.
When Yoongi means suburbs, he means suburbs. As in, boring identical houses built the exact same way, brick by brick, all the way up and down streets. As in, carefully cultivated gardens and freshly mowed grass even in the ass-end of November. As in, couples jogging together with their breaths intermingling in little puffs of cold air, as in newly formed parents going for walks and pulling their toddlers on red plastic wagons, as in white picket fences and families all the way down the fucking assembly line with 2.5 children, a moderate-to-high income, and a doting old grandmother.
Jimin lives here. Yoongi is horrified.
“Is this not your kind of neighbourhood, hyung?” Jimin asks with a laugh as they pull into his driveway. His house differs from the others by means of a cherry tree in his front yard, bare and brittle in the wintertime, a taupe-coloured wicker bench on the porch, and a yellow door.
“Do people really live like this?” Yoongi complains, stepping out of the car and landing his beat-up old Nikes onto the crisp crunch of pavement. “In cookie-cutter houses where you say a chipper ‘good morning, neighbour!’ and have block parties and pretend to give a shit about yearly barbecues and whose daughter is being rebellious and dating whose son?”
Jimin happily waves at a passing middle-aged woman who calls out his name in greeting, but there’s a slight smirk on his face when he unlocks the door.
“Unfortunately, I missed this year’s neighbourhood barbecue,” he says, with the barest hint of delicious sarcasm, and Yoongi thinks it’s impossible for him to fall any more head over heels.
The door is opened and they step inside, but Yoongi barely has time to map out the confines of the house (Jimin’s house, he’s literally standing in the foyer of Park Jimin’s house, where he lives and eats and sleeps, and oh god he’s turning creepy, shut the fuck up Min Yoongi) when a small golden-brown tornado barrels its way towards him and nearly knocks him right off his feet.
“Ah! Butter! Butter, no!” Jimin tugs the thing away, and Yoongi realizes it’s a golden retriever wagging her tail furiously and attempting to wriggle out of Jimin’s grasp to salivate all over Yoongi’s face. “Butter, down, girl!”
“You own a dog called Butter?” Yoongi asks incredulously, gingerly holding out a skinny pale hand for the dog to sniff. She does so and then licks his hand until it’s grossly wet and smells like dog fur.
“Isn’t she a beauty?” Jimin beams, and Yoongi feels almost like running away. Park Jimin is an accountant and owns a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a golden retriever. Min Yoongi is a sex worker that shares an apartment with two of his only friends and doesn’t even know how to drive a car. It’s like they’ve lived two completely different lives.
Yoongi’s an idiot to even think he could try to have something with Jimin. He doesn’t even know if Jimin likes men, which in retrospect is something he probably should have found out before he decided to dedicate his soul to being completely enamoured by the kid.
“Her fur isn’t really the colour of butter,” Yoongi remarks, patting Butter’s head until she calms down and Jimin can let go of her.
“I got her when she was still a puppy. I swear to God, her fur was as yellow as anything back then.” Jimin shrugs off his jacket, revealing a white long-sleeved shirt that isn’t even tight but it shows off the way his arms curve around muscles and the soft material stretches over his chest, and good God Yoongi has to bite the inside of his cheek until his tongue tastes blood so his dick won’t start straining through his jeans and embarrass him to death. “Come on, it’s in the living room.”
Yoongi, shaken and feeling far too vulnerable, follows after Jimin down a spacious hallway and into the so-called living room. It certainly looks lived in, mixing the suburbs-appropriate cream-coloured leather couch and spotless glass coffee table with the carefree, young laziness Yoongi can see in Jimin when he forgets to cover it up with pleasant smiles: cans of half-empty diet cokes resting on coasters; sweaters dangling over the backs of armchairs; a stack of fitness and National Geographic magazines next to a fiddle leaf fig tree happily photosynthesizing in the corner next to a window.
Yoongi blinks, and suddenly he can see himself lounging in this living room with comfort, with ease, with the familiarity of the word home falling out of his lips. He can see himself coming home and collapsing onto the couch, can see himself turning on the sixty-inch flat screen TV next to the bookshelf to a basketball game, can see himself opening a can of coke and have Jimin softly chastise him, “Yoongi hyung, I told you to use a coaster, come on”.
The fantasy is so idealistic and soft and perfect, that Yoongi instantly realizes that it can’t ever come true. He blinks back into reality and only just misses Jimin saying something to him with those perfect plump lips of his.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I said, it’s these boxes here. I hope you don’t mind? They shouldn’t be all that heavy, but …”
Yoongi follows Jimin’s line of sight to the other side of the coffee table, where several cardboard boxes had been lying on the carpet just out of sight.
“Where to?” he asks, immediately walking over to them and lifting one up. It’s not impossible for him to carry but it’s heavier than he expects, and a soft grunt escapes out of his mouth. He looks up and finds Jimin staring at him, and heat crawls up his neck and ears and shit, he needs to calm down. “Jimin?”
Jimin shakes out of his mysterious reverie. “Oh, up to the attic. Here, I’ll show you, just let me get one.”
Together, they grab a box each and heave them carefully up the stairs, a smooth polished wood that curls up towards a railing. Butter wags her tail and follows them up, nearly causing Yoongi to trip and smash his skull in.
“What are all these, anyway?” Yoongi asks. From what he can see, the contents of his box are nothing more than an assortment of junk: porcelain dolls with vapid, prettily painted faces; elaborately carved bits of pottery, Chinese dragons and miniature temples; boxes of Esse cigarettes that look untouched and unopened.
“Oh, they—um—” Jimin pauses, falling silent for a few seconds, before letting out a weak laugh. “They’re my dad’s. He, um, died half a year ago.”
“Oh, fuck.” Yoongi doesn’t know what to say, his throat freezing up on him. His own relationship with his parents is practically nonexistent. His father had been out of the picture since he was fifteen, leaving behind debts to pay that were mostly the reason why Yoongi got into the sex work industry in the first place. His mother—well, they just seemed to run out of things to talk about once Yoongi made a name for himself as Suga and she remarried a respectable man, one that probably gave her a house just like this in the suburbs with a white picket fence and 2.5 children. He meets up with her once every six months and sends occasional texts, and that’s about it. Yoongi tries not to think about it, but it does remind him why he hates suburbs so much. Eventually, he just weakly says, “I’m so sorry. How did he, um …”
“Lung cancer. Those stupid fucking cigarettes he always smoked.” They reach the top of the stairs, and they set them down to go back downstairs and grab more boxes. They take a few more trips this way, shipping the boxes from the living room to the second floor. When they’re all congregated at the head of the stairs, Jimin fumbles with the trapdoor and pulls down the ladder that leads up to the attic. “You can see some in your box, I think. I always complained about them, how they smelled awful, how he’d kill himself on those things, but I still bought him a deluxe pack every holiday, because dad always cheered and clapped me on the back when he opened them up.” He sighs, not quite sad, not quite accepting. “It’s always like that, huh? You never really think that someone so close to you can die, not really, until they do.”
“Oh.” Yoongi bites his tongue and tries to think of anything else to say. He’s not like Seokjin, who knows what to say in almost any situation, and he’s not like Namjoon, who radiates charisma and confidence so even if he says something stupid at least he sounds like he means well, and he certainly is not like Hoseok, who would have by this point probably pulled Jimin into a hug and made him a cup of hot chocolate or some shit. So all he can say is, “Sorry.” Again.
Jimin gives him a smile, although it’s not nearly as brilliant as usual. “Hey, it’s fine. Anyway, these are some of his things. Mom’s moving down to Busan so she can take care of my grandparents, so they sold the house and I didn’t want to sell all of dad’s things and—well, I’ll leave them in the attic for now. They’ve just been sitting in these boxes and cluttering up my living room all this time, I couldn’t really bring myself to move them up here.” He pauses, then gives Yoongi another smile, this one much warmer and sweeter than the last. “Thanks for helping me. And listening to my sob story.”
“No—I mean—it’s not any bother,” Yoongi stutters. The ladder is fully extended now, and the two of them gingerly make their way up, balancing their boxes, until they step out into the small attic. Yoongi is no giant, but he still has to crouch a bit so his head doesn’t smack the sloped ceiling. There are already a few items held in storage up here, mostly old furniture collecting dust or children’s toys that are living precariously on the line between being too old to want them but too nostalgic to give away.
“Just put them here,” Jimin says quietly, setting his own box down. Yoongi follows, and for a brief second they’re as close as they were in the car, and Yoongi’s heart jumps. Jimin’s gone almost too quickly, leaving behind only Yoongi’s lingering desire to touch him.
They carry the boxes up to the attic in silence for several long minutes, Yoongi struggling to think of something to say, Jimin unreadable. Eventually, as the last of the boxes make their way up into the dusty room and Yoongi and Jimin are almost arm-to-arm close to each other, setting the boxes down carefully so as not to break any of its contents, Yoongi gathers the courage to say something.
“Hey,” he says, slowly, and tries not to forget his words when Jimin looks at him. “I—that—is—how have you been, since your dad, um.”
“I’ve been okay,” Jimin answers, and it’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth, either. Yoongi just knows. “It’s hard, but I’ve had time to come to terms with what’s happened, you know? And, I mean, at least mom is still healthy. She’s keeping herself nice and busy back in our hometown, and I call her as much as possible, so that’s good.”
“That is good,” Yoongi says faintly, because what the fuck else can he say except echo back whatever Jimin says. Luckily for him, Jimin is too nice of a guy, and he gives Yoongi a blooming smile. Yoongi can’t move, standing exactly where he was when he straightened up, and for some odd reason Yoongi can’t fathom Jimin doesn’t move either.
Finally, Jimin speaks up. “What about your parents?”
Yoongi should just make something up, a “they’re fine” and leave it at that. He curses whatever possessed him to blurt out the truth. “My dad split eleven years ago. My mom and I don’t really talk.”
Jimin’s eyes soften, lips parting briefly, and his hands move as if they’re about to do something. That something could have been anything from punching Yoongi to touching his hoodie-covered arm to pulling him in for a kiss. But then his hands fall to his sides, and neither of them will ever know what he meant to do. “I’m sorry.”
Yoongi tries shrugging it off. “She’s happy. Got herself a nice husband and new family. I think she’s pregnant with maybe a third or fourth half-sibling of mine right now. Dunno. Been a few months since we talked.”
“You don’t even know about your half-siblings?”
“I think the oldest one is a girl called Taeri. I’ve seen pictures, but she never let me—I mean, I never visited them. Her new family, I mean.” Yoongi fidgets, uncomfortable. He’s never one for oversharing details about his personal life. It’s dangerous and unnecessary in his line of work. His customers are looking for someone who knows how to fuck, not someone with a life outside of willingly joining them in bed. And even then, there’s always been the few who get a bit too attached to the persona that is Suga, a bit too possessive with whatever act Yoongi gives them, and Yoongi has to be even more careful around them.
“That’s not fair.” Yoongi is surprised to hear the sudden bite of anger in Jimin’s voice. It’s small, laced through his words with the thinnest of needle and thread, but Yoongi can detect it because it’s something he never expected to hear in Jimin, and especially if Jimin is angry for his sake. “You’re still her son. She can’t just live happily ever after with a different family and not bring you. You don’t deserve that.”
Yoongi isn’t so sure. “I’m not a—good influence—on her kids, I think,” he mumbles. He’s said too much.
Jimin’s hands move and keep moving, this time. They wrap around Yoongi’s arms, fingers curling into the ragged sleeves. His voice takes on a slight tone of desperation. “That’s not true, Yoongi hyung. You’re a good person, I know you are, one of the nicest people I’ve ever—”
Yoongi stares at him, and Jimin stares back, and suddenly Yoongi is painfully aware of how close they are, how they haven’t moved from their spots since they put down the last of the cardboard boxes. How if Yoongi moves his head forward even a few more centimetres, his lips would touch Jimin’s. The urge to do so overwhelms him for a moment, flooding his senses, his eyes flickering against his will down to Jimin’s mouth before darting back up, ashamed.
Jimin saw that action. Of course he can. The distance between them is so miniscule, there’s nothing else Jimin can look at.
“Yoongi hyung,” Jimin whispers, hot breath wafting over Yoongi’s upper lip Jesus Christ, and there’s that look in his eyes again, the look that he gave Yoongi in the car earlier, “do you want to kiss me?”
Yoongi makes a half-strangled noise quietly from the back of his throat. Is Jimin really asking, is he suggesting …? But why Yoongi, when Jimin’s so beautiful and perfect and should be made love to by someone whole and pure and fits into a house with a white picket fence and could give Jimin the whole world?
But then Jimin copies his actions. His eyes travel down to Yoongi’s lips, slow and measured and meticulously planned out, like it’s a suggestion, a dance, before sliding back up to look into Yoongi’s eyes. It’s neither—it’s a dare, a continuation of the game Jimin had initiated in the car.
“I want you to kiss me,” he says, so softly it almost melts out of existence, but Yoongi can hear him, and he knows that. And then he gives Yoongi a slightly nervous smile. And then he licks his lips.
“Fuck.” Fuck is right, and Yoongi barely has the word tumbling out of his mouth before he surges forward and kisses Jimin.
Jimin reacts immediately, eagerly, like it’s been something he wanted to happen and had been waiting to get a chance for it. His arms slide naturally around Yoongi, one cupping the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away, the other wrapping itself around Yoongi’s back with more strength than Yoongi expected but should have known based on how Jimin’s arms look in this shirt. A shirt Yoongi now wants very much to rip off of him, oh fuck.
Yoongi can’t think, can only press harder against Jimin, can only run his fingers through Jimin’s hair and tug lightly until Jimin is sighing sweetly into his mouth, can only run his tongue along Jimin’s, can only drag his teeth against Jimin’s soft and plush lower lip. This can’t be real, it can’t be—but it is, Yoongi is kissing him and Jimin is kissing back, and Yoongi’s head is spinning so fast he feels like he might just fall out of orbit and spin right out of the earth. His senses are flooded with Jimin—Jimin’s silky-smooth shirt, Jimin’s soft skin, Jimin’s lips and tongue, Jimin’s delicate voice singing little gasps and whimpers that fill his ears, Jimin feeling so good in his arms, not too tall and not too short, like a puzzle piece, like Jimin is made for him, Jimin Jimin Jimin.
His dick is so hard it strains in the confines of his jeans, and Yoongi lets out a surprised shout when Jimin’s hand travels down south to gently rub his bulge.
Jimin’s hand jumps away, and he breaks away from their heated kisses, shocked. “Did I h-hurt you?” he stammers, gasping for air. His lips are swollen, and his cheeks are flushed, his hair is messy and he looks wrecked and they were only kissing and Jesus shit, Yoongi is so fucked up right now.
“N-no, no,” Yoongi says, embarrassed, unsure whether the mood is ruined, if he should kiss Jimin again or pull away and pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. He can’t sense the atmosphere beyond the desire to touch the boy in front of him again. He’s practically aching. “No, I, uh, sorry, I just, fuck.”
“Was I moving too fast?” Jimin asks weakly, and it’s impossible to tell if his face is red because of their previous activity or because he’s now mortified and embarrassed.
Yes, and no. Yes, because holy shit they really have only known each other for a little over a month and have seen each other in person exactly two times, and no, because now that Yoongi’s felt Jimin’s hand against his cock, even through layers of boxers and jeans, he can’t get enough of it.
“No, no, I just, shit, I’m so hard right now,” he’s not even making sense, he feels like he’s drunk, but he wants Jimin so badly, “I—fuck, I really want to touch you—please, let me—”
Jimin lets out a gasp that sounds like a moan and drags Yoongi in for another searing kiss. This time, their bodies align and press right up against each other, providing Yoongi with the most amazing and most painful friction against his dick. He lets out an embarrassingly needy groan, but it’s not as needy as Jimin, who fucking rubs himself against Yoongi, and Yoongi can’t fucking believe this but Jimin is hard as a rock, just as hard as Yoongi, and this is all moving too fast and—“Fucking fuck, Jimin, oh God—”
“Downstairs,” Jimin says, and Yoongi is almost half certain that the breath Jimin took to say that single word is recycled from the oxygen he had taken out of Yoongi’s mouth. “Please—hyung—”
Yoongi groans, dizzy, and lets Jimin drag him with surprising strength and confidence back down the ladder and towards a door on the second floor. Jimin smacks it open with the palm of his hand before pulling Yoongi back towards him, pulling them both until the back of Jimin’s knees hit the edge of his bed and Yoongi falls forward.
Yoongi wants nothing more than to keep his lips firmly on Jimin’s skin, and when Jimin breaks their kiss to gasp for air, Yoongi immediately moves to his neck. Jimin lets out a half-moan, half-giggle when Yoongi noses along the side of his jawline.
“Ticklish?” he grunts out, careful not to make any hickeys. It’s been trained into his body that many customers, unless they specifically asked, weren’t happy about getting hickeys in places where other people could see them. Especially the married ones.
“A l-little,” Jimin gasps out, voice straining high-pitched and reedy. He’s wriggling way too much, practically jerking his hips up so they clashed against Yoongi’s, and at this point, fuck, Yoongi’s probably going to come into his pants, he needs to—
“Jimin—wait—fuck, wait a second, I’m going to—” Yoongi curls a hand down to forcibly push Jimin’s hips back onto the bed, keep them out of danger, but his hand must be too close to Jimin’s crotch because he moans, a full-on, unabashed, lustful moan that sings in Yoongi’s ears and nearly makes his legs lose strength.
“Hyung, hyung,” Jimin cries out, hands grasping for Yoongi and curling into his hair, his shirt, “Yoongi hy-ung!”
He knows the signs. He knows the cues.
And maybe, even if this whole thing turns into a big regretful mistake, Yoongi can use everything he’s learned and practiced and performed to give everything he can to the boy underneath him. Make sure that even if Jimin regrets this in the morning, at least he’ll be given the best goddamn fuck of his life. “Okay, okay,” he pants, unbuttoning Jimin’s jeans so he has room to slide his hand down and cup Jimin’s erection. Jimin nearly sobs. “I got you, Jimin, I, fuck—I’ll take care of you—”
Yoongi keeps his palm rubbing slow, deliberate circles as he fumbles to remove Jimin’s shirt. Jimin practically rips it off of him, and before Yoongi can react he’s pushed to the side as Jimin’s pants and boxers are yanked off too, thrown to the side of the room somewhere, its destination unimportant.
Yoongi never expected Park Jimin to be so forceful, although he’s hardly upset by this newfound revelation. He lets himself be pulled and pushed along, yanked back to Jimin’s embrace and lips willingly. He’d be a fucking rag doll for Jimin if that’s what the kid wanted.
“Please, please, please,” Jimin mumbles into his mouth, and Yoongi instantly complies. His hand returns downwards until they wrap around Jimin’s dick, so fucking pink and pretty and desperately hard, Yoongi’s never seen a more fucking beautiful dick in his life, but it makes sense that the first one he sees would belong to a man like Park Jimin.
Jimin chokes when Yoongi’s fingers wrap around fully and tighten, and before long his hips are shaking and jerking upwards, chasing the friction Yoongi’s calloused hands offer. Yoongi weakly tries to push him down, control the movements, but it’s hard to resist when Yoongi’s own dick is leaking a mess into his underwear.
“Ji-Jimin, slow down,” Yoongi says, running his fingernails gently down Jimin’s bare chest in an attempt to soothe him. “It’s too dry, we need lube, you’re gonna—”
“I can take it,” Jimin pleads, “I can take it, just, j-just—”
Yoongi can’t believe this, can’t believe that this is happening and they’re both so wrecked over a little kissing and grinding, they’re both over the age of twenty but suddenly it’s like Yoongi’s fourteen again and just discovering masturbation for the first time. He forces himself to stop, to pull his hand away, and Jimin whines. “Jimin, lube—we need lube, okay? Where—”
“I’ll get it!” Jimin chokes out, sliding off the bed and racing to the connected bathroom. Yoongi takes the opportunity to grind the heel of his palm against the bulge in his pants and gasp for air, attempt to ground himself. This isn’t about him, this is about Jimin, he can’t lose himself in the sensation, he has to make sure this goes right.
Jimin returns not even a minute later, clutching a pack of condoms and a bottle of lube—clear, simple, nothing weird like flavoured or scented ones, as if he couldn’t get any more perfect. Yoongi tries to take in the sight, tries to trace his eyes over every feature of Jimin’s naked skin to put it to memory, but Jimin’s not having it.
“Hyung, why are you still wearing your clothes?” Jimin asks, a weak giggle bubbling out of his throat as he pushes Yoongi down onto the bed and climbs on top of him, their positions reversed. Yoongi has an extraordinary view of the beads of sweat trickling down Jimin’s clavicle and chest, the slight dips and shadows around his abdominal muscles, the way his biceps flex to keep him upright, and it’s like staring at a living, breathing statue of Adonis or some shit. It’s a work of art. “Off, off.”
“I-I—” Yoongi can’t, he can’t show Jimin the fading hickeys and bruises decorating his body like a wall of shame. “Jimin, this is supposed to be about you, I can’t—”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” Jimin mutters, oddly petulant even in the middle of arousal, mouthing over the hickeys on Yoongi’s neck as though they were nothing, as though he was replacing them with his own, and Yoongi gives out a full-body shudder. “How is this about me, dammit, hyung, that’s not what sex is.” His fingers, cold even when everything else feels so hot, trails up beneath Yoongi’s hoodie to press at his skin. “It’s supposed to be about both of us. Hyung.”
Yoongi can feel his hoodie inching up his stomach, slowly, and he stares up at the ceiling and tries to remember how to breathe. “J-Jimin—”
And Yoongi can’t believe this—can’t believe that Jimin of all fucking people, sweet, angelic, beautiful Jimin with a smile that could heal the sick and wounded—doesn’t say a word about the blue-red bruises, the fading pink scratch marks, the obvious signs that Yoongi’s been used and marked so, so many times before. Jimin instead moves immediately for the darkest discoloration against Yoongi’s pale stomach and latches his mouth there.
“Fu-ck, Jimi—nngh, shit!” Yoongi throws his head back against the blankets as Jimin sucks and licks and bites a little against the already-sensitive flesh, and his hands move until they’re busy with pulling down Yoongi’s jeans. Yoongi, embarrassingly, almost chokes when the uncomfortable restriction against his dick is gone. All forms of resistance have disappeared. He weakly lets Jimin slide down his boxers, with almost too much care, and strips off his hoodie as fast as he can, ugly hickeys be damned.
Jimin crawls back up Yoongi’s body, until they’re pressed flush against each other, bare, and the both of them moan into each other’s mouths when Jimin fucking rolls his hips, shit, Yoongi thinks he can actually come like this, frotting against Jimin’s pretty dick and thick thighs until he sees stars.
“Need you,” Jimin mumbles, heavily, against the soft skin just next to Yoongi’s lips. “Please. Hyung. Want you inside me.”
Yoongi curses, lets out a drawn-out and mindless “Fuu-uuu-uuck,” and gropes around for the lube and condoms. Jimin gets to them first, and Yoongi stares, open-mouthed, as Jimin pops open the cap and starts prepping himself right on fucking top of Yoongi, like he’s done this dozens of times before.
Jimin notices Yoongi staring and grins, hair falling into his face. “Hurry up and get ready, hyung,” he pants, and then makes a big show of arching his back and moaning like a fucking cat in heat as he stretches himself with his own fingers. Yoongi lets out the most choked-up, inhuman, desperate noise he’s ever heard and scrambles to pull a condom on, pumps himself once or twice to ease the tension running through him like electricity.
Yoongi just finishes lubing up the condom when Jimin pulls his hand free, sticky and wet, and crawls up Yoongi’s body so he can align himself. “I’m ready, I’m ready—”
“Y-you sure?” Yoongi asks through gritted teeth. It takes all his concentration and willpower not to just thrust his hips up and slam into Jimin’s heat. Clumsily, hesitantly, as though he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to, he reaches up and shakily smooths back Jimin’s hair away from his sweaty face. “Don’t want to hurt you.”
Jimin smiles at him, and there’s so much affection and sweetness in his smile that Yoongi almost stops dead. “Hyung, I’m ready, I promise. Please.”
And then he sinks down, ever so carefully, and Yoongi tries and fails to hold back a loud, embarrassing moan.
Being inside of Jimin is like heaven. Yoongi can’t believe this. He’s fucked dozens of men and women, of varying ages and size and sexual experience, and none of them comes even close to this feeling. Some men may take dick like they were born to do it, but Jimin takes Yoongi’s dick like it was made for him, specifically.
Jimin doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated on Yoongi, thighs quaking against Yoongi’s hips, hands pressing against Yoongi’s chest and shaking to support himself. Yoongi feels like a single movement will make him lose his mind, but he takes several deep breaths to drag himself back to reality and rubs comforting circles along Jimin’s back. “You okay? Take—” he grunts when Jimin shifts and clenches around him, “—take your time.”
Jimin is shaking like a leaf, eyes glassy and teary, and so fucking wrecked. “Hyung,” he cries out, “fuck, hyung, it feels so fucking good.” His hips jerk spontaneously, roughly, and the two of them both cry out in pleasure. “Hyung, I can’t—it’s so good, so—”
“Okay, it’s okay, Jimin,” and Yoongi moves his hands down to press into Jimin’s waist, as tight as he can without leaving marks, and repositions his legs so he has more leverage. All he wants to do is fuck like an animal and chase the high buzzing throughout his entire body from his very core, but seeing Jimin like this above him reminds him of what he should do. “I’ll take care of you, I told you that, I’ve got you, okay?”
And then he moves, careful thrusts upward, bouncing Jimin on his cock. Jimin lets out a high-pitched moan that sends sparks up Yoongi’s spine, limbs already starting to give out as precum leaks out of the tip of his dick and pools onto Yoongi’s stomach. Yoongi’s own legs are shaking, the sensations almost too much for him, but he keeps going, keeps searching until he finds the angle that makes Jimin shriek.
From there, he loses it a bit, and his thrusts get harder, hips snapping faster, fighting for that perfect angle until he can hit it almost every time. Jimin’s cock bounces, his head tilting backwards as he cries out Yoongi’s name, so goddamn gorgeous even when he’s getting fucked open, and when it starts to get too much and he thinks he’s about to come Yoongi removes one hand from Jimin’s waist to wrap it around his dick instead, pumps and twists to the rhythm.
“Fuck, fuck, Yoongi, Yoon-gi hyung,” Jimin wails, using whatever strength he has left to help bounce down when Yoongi rolls up. His moans take on a higher pitch, and Yoongi knows what’s happening.
He lunges up into a sitting position, hungrily kissing along Jimin’s jaw and licking up trails of sweat, and both his hips and his hand moves faster. “You can come, Jimin, please, come for me,” he whispers, and Jimin lets out a small hiccup and comes, his whole body tensing up, and he doesn’t relax for almost a minute.
Yoongi helps as best as he can, even as his own end reaches the horizon and his movements get sloppy and wild, and tries to time his rocks to the waves of Jimin’s orgasm. Almost the moment Jimin is done and he’s clenching weakly around Yoongi’s dick in tiny little hypersensitive aftershocks, Yoongi’s own orgasm hits him like a wave and he curses, burying his face into the crook of Jimin’s neck.
When his hips stop twitching, he wearily helps Jimin pull out and cleans up as best as he can, removing the condom and throwing it away and sweeping the other condoms and lube bottle off of the bed. The two of them lie there in silence, side by side, for several minutes, trying to catch their breath.
This is where it gets awkward, Yoongi thinks. It happens sometimes, after a job. Once the heady rush of an orgasm is gone, it takes away the pleasure and the dizziness of the moment and leaves behind just the people themselves, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
“Yoongi hyung?” Jimin’s voice is weak and hoarse, and when Yoongi turns his head to look at him he’s knocked breathless by how perfect he looks, covered in sweat, chest heaving, smiling in satisfaction.
“Do you want to go on a date sometime?”
Yoongi forgets everything he’s told himself ever since he met Park Jimin. He forgets that Jimin owns a big, beautiful house with a dog and has a decent job, and that being with a sex worker is not something Jimin will be happy with. He forgets that he’s never had a relationship before and has no idea how to keep one.
He forgets everything except that Jimin is smiling at him and they’re both sweaty and naked and that Yoongi almost felt religion when he touched Jimin, like his body was an altar and Yoongi wants nothing more than to worship it, revere it.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
All beginnings have an end, and all endings have a beginning.
But this story is far from over.
Tune in for the next chapter!