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“What did I come here for?”

Yoongi blinks at the wine label in front of him. Sure he needs wine first, right?

He readjusts his grip on the shopping basket. White or red, white, white, German red again, or maybe anise vodka? Something heavy-duty.

Rows of bottles glisten like dull jewels under the buzzing halogen lights. The air feels blue and cold like the March outside. He blinks at the hand-written WHITE DAY 2003 sign on the urban mart’s greasy glass.

It’s not the lights irritating his ear but the bubble pop blasting in the store, constant PA announcements informing of discounts, looped holiday ads. It begins to itch at his very brain.

White Day offers for your sweethearts, White Day headlines on shiny magazine covers.

Yoongi flips through a couple of obnoxious editions marketed for men, wondering if he can even relate to any of this noise. Cars, tits, bad opinions. He puts it back, deeply unimpressed with their species.

Another magazine cover reads: 5 Ways to Find Out if Your Child is Using Drugs or Alcohol. What does that even mean, he thinks, which kind?

Yoongi is twenty-six and he knows how the people on speed feel.

Was there ever a point for this before the magic of capitalism, Yoongi wonders, dropping the basket on the tiled floor. A bottle of gin goes inside, one bottle of white, one German red, and wasn’t there something else?

“Stop putting me on,” he says to the snack stand. Stop talking to yourself. What must people think of you? Crab chips, he says, and throws a rustling pack into the basket. “Should’ve gone pro,” he mutters, now studying a shaky CD rack.

A woman on the other side of the stand gives him a weird look. She looks good, must be a secretary after her customary office party. She looks good, he thinks, and wants to touch someone, a person.

Yesterday morning, when he came down to the Daegu branch of his entertainment company for a conference call, there he saw a scarily large but soft-looking man in one of the studios. So good, good enough to eat.

Look at me, he thought then, because sometimes he wanted to touch people and remember how to, and so afraid of that too.

That guy wanted a handshake but Yoongi recoiled. Yoongi feared that the stench of hospital still clung to him.

This pretty woman right next to him now, a Park Jinyoung album in her manicured hands, is giving him another odd look. Then she visibly shudders and scurries away. His face must be scary.

I’m threatening when I feel threatened, Yoongi thinks. Because he isn't thinking about yesterday’s call. He isn’t thinking about the second call that is supposed to take place on Monday — this time with the legal department. He isn’t thinking of wax-polished ER floors.

He glances at the window to meet his blurry reflection. The night makes his hollowed face stand out in the doubled image, eye bags more prominent than ever under frizzy black bangs.

What’s with your eyes? Those aren’t shadows, Min Yoongi, those are piss holes in a snow pile.

On the CD stand, the TOP 20 section is full of faded 90s hits and waning poppy rap singles. He spies at least three groups he has produced for, and that somehow makes the sick feeling churn at the pit of his stomach.

He’s always swallowing down nausea these days. And the booze used to help him sleep after endless hours of jerking his weathered down brain over bubble pop song production, for whatever new acts that wouldn’t survive a day.

The soft swooshing sound of automatic doors snaps him back to the reality’s rustle. It’s just another passer-by from the highway, it looks like, but something swings in Yoongi’s chest.

Sick, sick, sicker curiosity.

Because the guy that comes in, looking very casual, with heavily pierced ears all glimmering gold, has a funny frequency. It hooks onto Yoongi’s senses.

He’s young, sturdy, his step is soft. Badly bleached hair falls into his eyes in damaged stands. Long, dirty yellow. Can he even see like that? The poor dye job makes Yoongi wince. He blinks and blinks against the vision and feels the sense of incredible longing tug at his sick stomach.

In the pale blue lights of the store, the newcomer looks hot despite the cold. Snowflakes still melt on his green parka. His ridiculous flannel shirt is tucked tight behind the heavy belt of his black jeans that appear a size or two smaller. He picks a bottle of gin, turns it in his gloved hands. Looks like leather.

Yoongi hears himself snicker at the sight of heavy high-top rubber boots the man is wearing. Did fisherman looks make it to mainstream fashion somehow? He half expects the rubber to make silly squeaking noises.

Yoongi kind of forgets he stands in everyone’s way while staring like that. But the guy looks so tasty, good enough to lick. He’s thick and moving as if it might be his job — just walking for hot topic magazines like a dickhead — fluid and determined to sell this look, reminding Yoongi of something so distant—why is he staring?

What must you look like, Min Yoongi?

Funny frequency, thinks Yoongi, when the guy saunters past his basket and the CD stand, only briefly hovering over Yoongi while looking through some magazines. Yoongi has to resist the urge to sniff him like a creep. Faint scent of soap and sweet shampoo fills his nose. Rows of golden earrings glisten in his periphery. It’s a little hypnotic.

Look at me, Yoongi thinks, not knowing why. Look at me. I must still be alive.

He blanks out. Stop talking like that, he hisses. Since when are you so desperate? Since that first time, since ever. Maybe it’s the day.

Maybe it’s the day.

When he sorts out his thoughts and looks around, the man has already left. Without hesitating, Yoongi throws the pack of peanuts on the basket heap and goes to pay in his still working company card.

As he staggers out in the cold, plastic bag in hand, he finds the place deserted. His riled up mind seems to pick up on his odd neediness, like a whisper in his ear.

Don’t let that fish go.

Cut it out, Yoongi, just go home.

Then the low rattle of an engine registers in his mind, and Yoongi finally makes a turn around the mart to see a lone freight truck in a tiny parking lot. It’s one of those commercial heavy-duty things: slick tractor head, a striking bright orange, with a silver-ribbed cargo trailer. It’s tall, loud, steaming in the dark cold.

Yoongi comes closer and looks up. The man is staring straight at him from behind the windscreen, cigarette clamped between his teeth. Suddenly the air seems thinner, just like Yoongi’s worn down bomber jacket feels useless, and he simply stands there, shivering. He cranes his neck to stare back as if it’s another challenge.

The plastic bag is rustling in the wind. It’s so dumb, he thinks, counting the seconds, minutes of their lazy staring. When the numbness begins to spread from his exposed neck, creeping under thin clothes, Yoongi decides to embrace his sense of questionable adventure.

Thin sheet of snow crunches under each reluctant step he takes towards the truck. He looks up at the passenger window. It reflects the store’s blue neon sign. Finding support on the step under the door, he stretches out his arm to knock on the glass, twice. His knuckles are cracked from the cold.

He jumps off the step and waits. It takes a skip of his heart and a painful swoosh somewhere in his gut. His face prickles. There is heat spreading to his temples. Just breathe. You can still walk home. He closes his eyes and feels a little swayed by the wind.

Then the door swings open. The guy is leaning over the passenger seat, his red flannel unbuttoned, his plush lips munching around his cigarette. Then he leans slowly back and gives a short nod. Yoongi loops the bag’s plastic around his hand for a better climb into the car.

“Grab the handle over there,” his voice is sweet but a little rough around the edges, as if from long disuse.

Yoongi latches onto the handle and pulls his body up and into the stuffy warmth. He lets the man lean over, that same smell in Yoongi’s nose again, and shut the door.

“I still got hands,” Yoongi grumbles and feels the skin of his neck dot with goosebumps from the other’s steady breathing. So close, just another inhale. “Got no problem with closing doors.”

The guy remains silent. Leaning back in his seat, he fishes a lighter from his breast pocket and twirls it between his fingers in thought. He lights the cigarette that has gone out. And Yoongi watches only that, not focusing on his chest. Washed out fabric is bunched together, showing only a bit of tan skin.

“Were you watching me?” Yoongi asks and shakes his head at the offered smoke. “From all the way up here?”

The guy nods and starts buttoning up his shirt with one hand.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says.

Yoongi feels his eyelids flutter shut, just for a second. He blinks, seeing the guy roll down the window, his bicep bulging just slightly under the rolled up sleeve. He gets something from the plastic bag that happens to be hanging off the huge side mirror. The bag is full of crushed ice.

“Drink?”

Yoongi nods. Soon there is a plastic cup full of gin in his hand. The guy spoons some ice from the plastic bag for his own cup and spits out the cigarette before rolling up the window.

“Got some shrimp chips,” he says and pushes the pack into Yoongi’s lap. “Have at it, they’re good.”

Yoongi’s insides are swinging, his own washing drum. He doesn’t feel like eating. But thinking it won’t be wise to chug liquor like that, he rips the pack open, and the smell that immediately hits him only worsens the old nausea.

He ends up shovelling half a pack into his mouth, feeling the other’s careful stare, and then gulps his drink to wash down the salt. The cup is full to the brim in his weirdly steady hands. He downs all of it at once. The bitter gin burns his dry tongue.

“How old are you?” the guy sips from his cup lazily. He is studying Yoongi’s twisted expression. Something in the honey-like sound of his voice makes Yoongi feel warm, almost perfectly comfortable.

“Twenty-six.”

“Older than me then.”

“If that wasn’t obvious from my withered body,” Yoongi scoffs, hearing the other’s soft giggle.

“You were buying so much wine and liquor.”

Yoongi creaks in his seat, his tacky leather pants restricting any basic movement.

What possessed him to think this look was a good idea? Who leaves their house looking like a coked out frontman of an overrated new wave band from the early 90s? Halfway into his vegan phase as well? It’s that kind of look.

But he never planned to even see anyone because there’s an empty apartment waiting for him, back in his muddy neighborhood, waiting for him to gradually drink all of today’s goods over the weekend; no more poppy rap work, more straight-from-the-bottle gulping and spewing it all down the toilet.

“I’ve got a party this weekend,” says Yoongi. “Always better stock up on Thursday.”

“It’s Friday.”

The fact flies over Yoongi’s head no worse than his puking speed. All at once the taste of juniper overwhelms his tastebuds and he struggles not to let his worry show. A warm hand on his back lays heavy, and he forces his eyes up from ogling the other’s thick thighs and to meet a mildly concerned gaze.

The guy puts his hands up as if to apologize for unprompted touching, then points at the cheap portable transmitter with a tiny screen. “Wanna watch TV? Ahjussi.”

Ahjussi, my ass, thinks Yoongi, bristling. “Whatever.”

Yoongi lets himself be pulled into the comfort of pointless soap opera consumption, some idle chatter, more idle drinking.

At some point they stop talking. The only sound besides the engine’s rattle is the faint mumble sipping through the dynamics. His own fidgeting, worsened by leather, brings an occasional side-eye and so he forces himself to calm down.

He properly takes in the surroundings. The cabin is big enough for three people to co-exist comfortably, its insides mostly clean and decked out in florid patterns. The window curtains are brilliant blue, to match the tacky velour upholstery of the wide dashboard. He could probably fit himself there, at least his ass, and chill like that into the next century.

“That’s a little over the top,” he points to the dashboard.

“Touch it,” the driver says, completely engrossed by the show.

Yoongi doesn’t, but instead looks up, marvelling at the weighty bundle of garbage dangling from the rearview mirror. A lot of trinkets, cheap gas station presents, and even a tamagotchi.

“Is your pet alive?” he points at the toy.

“Dunno,” the guy shrugs. “You have any pets?”

“My parents have a dog.” He says the name is Holly. The driver asks if maybe it’s because the dog's a saint.

The upper panelling is littered with a bunch of personal electronics, including a mobile Citizens band radio with a speaker on a coiled cord, like a telephone’s.

“You have FM there?” he points at the radio above the guy’s head.

“Yes, but CDs are better. Weak frequencies, you know.”

Yoongi nods and smoothes one hand over the middle seat. Instead of two separate seats, it’s one long futon-like thing. Looks like the person driving can just sleep here, almost like on a bunk, since there is no gear stick or anything really.

“You can nap, ahjussi,” says the guy, amusement in his voice, and Yoongi resist the urge to flip him off. He believes that unfounded rudeness is a sign of poor character. Min Yoongi is never an asshole for no reason.

Just as he contemplates the offer, a shiny new police motorcycle glides into the parking lot. When the knock comes, he blinks in confusion and sits up to have a better look. The policeman is enunciating something, rather uselessly, and motioning for the window to be rolled down. Yoongi is staring at the driver’s arms again, thinking of nothing at all.

With the glass sliding down comes the cool and moist air. He breathes in.

“There have been complaints about the noise,” the policeman is strikingly polite. “Your engine.”

“I’m sorry,” the driver says sweetly, a soft smile pulling at his reddening cheeks, and passes down his license. “I have morning delivery. It’s freezing.”

“Well, I suppose you can’t turn it off, Park Jimin-ssi.” The policeman returns the license and seems to consider something for a while. “There’s some parking space behind the police station. Please move there.”

There is a brief moment of reluctance as Jimin eyes the gin bottle on the dashboard. The policeman only waves him off, saying it’s quite all right, only some coupla hundred meters.

Park Jimin smiles, bows his head. “In a moment. Thank you.”

After the policeman snails away on his bike, it’s quiet again. Yoongi is watching Jimin fiddle with the ignition key to cut off the engine and start it again. “Hino problems. It’s always the ignition.”

Yoongi realizes he’s talking about the truck’s model. He rakes through his numbing mind for anything to say.

“What a nice guy you are, huh?” He wants to punch himself for always sounding so odd. Condescend your way through poor people skills, Min Yoongi, go on. “Friends with the police too.”

He shrugs, staring at the dark road, “He’s just doing his job. I’m doing mine.”

Jimin creaks with the gear stick and the clutch, taking the truck to the road. If Yoongi thought this enormous and puffing killer machine on wheels was loud on neutral, then he should’ve waited for this moment. Rolling down the slick road in second gear and feeling like they’re riding a giant bug.

The parking lot is peppered with snow and deserted, not even any duty cars there, and Yoongi figures the police actually parks elsewhere. Jimin stops the truck at the end of the lot, right behind the bulky building, and sets it on neutral.

Yoongi gives him a long look, because nothing about Jimin screams snail-brained truck driver. “How old did you say you were?”

Jimin didn’t.

But as it turns out, Jimin talks a lot.

He is twenty-four and has been driving for four years, having started a little after he was unfortunate enough to not finish school. But the job had grown into a habit of living. And what else would he be doing after all the shit he’d done before this trucking gig anyways?

“So you’ve seen some shit, is that what you’re saying?” Yoongi sinks in his seat, wrapping himself tighter in his thin jacket.

“Sure. I play chess, you know.”

Yoongi blinks, “What does it even mean?”

He’d done some work, Jimin says, laughing, some work here and there, and then he bought this giant ladybug of a truck and was happy doing pick-ups.

“Chuseok and Christmas? Worst roads ever, ‘specially Busan and Daegu. I’d be happier swallowing broken glass.” He begins listing this week’s horrifying schedule, one of those heavily packed holiday seasons in his line of work.

Working White Day, laments Jimin, doing another form of pick-up.

“Pick-ups?” Yoongi sounds disinterested to his own ears. Yeah, as it turns out, Jimin talks a whole lot.

“Freelance.”

“You don’t look like a trucker much,” Yoongi hums.

“Why not? Got the getup down and all.”

“Sure,” Yoongi surprises himself by smiling. “I was really charmed by your fancy boots.”

“Need them whenever I go through Gangwon. It snows a lot,” he glances at Yoongi’s amused expression and clicks his tongue. “You’re judging me, aren’t you? Judging my practical footwear. I’m not even wearing 'em anymore, look,” Yoongi leans sideways to find that Jimin has indeed changed into a pair of regular winter boots. “And there you are, judging.”

“Hey, I judge everything, I judge all the time, no problem. That’s my favorite thing.”

Sitting in the front seat like this, with his insides shaking and turning to jelly from the engine that buzzes like a giant insect, Yoongi feels the calm wash over him.

“You always keep the engine running? All night?” His gaze falls to Jimin’s cracked lips. “Why not use a heater?”

“Like a kerosene heater? Shit eats up all the oxygen.”

Yoongi stares and stares, sensing a certain boldness coming back to him. Jimin’s collar is open, showing faint lines of sweat trickling into the dip of his sharp collarbones.

“Electric would be nice then,” says Yoongi, leaning back into his seat, away from the heat of his own mind.

“Then I’d need a diesel generator,” Jimin dims the lights. “Want another shot?”

Frowning at his lap, at his knobby hands that are resting on shiny leather, Yoongi swallows down the words. Like it or not, whatever he’s consumed isn't enough to help his courage or stimulate his mind, and maybe he needs to get stoned instead, but he sure can’t, not for a long time; he doesn’t want any more bitter weedy booze in his heated state.

He only keeps watching Jimin who is downing another cup, his Adam’s apple bobbing, making Yoongi think of that exposed neck as delicious, above all things. Very thick, very lickable. Yoongi watches, wanting to touch it so much, as if his sanity depended on it, to ease this tugging sickness in his stomach.

The need goes off in tremors over his body, almost as if he were sore from a wonderfully rough night of taking it up the ass, all throughout sticky hot summers. His dry mouth craves to hold someone’s cock; to dull down the taste of everything bitter he’s felt for months.

“I want to touch you,” Yoongi says and holds Jimin’s careful gaze.

Sprawled in his seat, his cheek resting in his palm, Jimin says, “Sure. Whatever you want.” A low drawl that makes Yoongi’s mouth itch for having something in it. “Ahjussi,” Jimin adds, the same suggestive teasing. The joke is dumb but so endearing, that all traces of Yoongi’s usual annoyance simply disappear.

“I’m your hyung.”

“Already? This bond is sure moving fast,” Jimin laughs.

Whatever you want, Jimin told him while studying Yoongi’s face and poorly dressed body.

While they watch each other, the air seems to be thickening, turning more cramped. Isn’t it just Yoongi’s head that’s gone so hot?

Whatever you want, Min Yoongi, and his mind immediately rushes to his favorite wants and needs, no shame to it. He wants to taste those gloved fingers in his mouth, wants his skin scratched bloody or numb or both, wants to be taken dry and feel Jimin rocking inside of him.

He exhales, his face tingling, almost painfully hot. He realizes he’s sticky with sweat.

“Hyung. Do you want to come closer?” Jimin asks, soft and encouraging. He chews on his puffy bottom lip, spreading his legs wide, and thrums expectantly at the curtained window.

Yoongi looks away, clears his throat.

“What’s back there?” He nods at the curtain behind the front seat.

“The bunk space. Come out and see.”

Swinging the curtain aside, Jimin hops in the back with practiced ease. Settles himself on the bunk with a heavy sigh. Pats the space beside him, over the old woolen blanket. After another beat of hesitation, in which Yoongi is bracing himself, he’s managed to get himself half-hard.

Nervous and ruffled up, he climbs into the extra cabin. He attempts agility but sort of tumbles over on the blanket.

“Full of grace,” says Jimin and moves to draw the curtain. Under the ugly plaid, the muscles of his back ripple. When he turns, Yoongi has already kicked off the shoes and climbed all the way to the bunk. “Hyung. You all right?”

The room here is small, cramped, little more than a closet.

Sitting back on his legs with hands clasped in his lap, Yoongi looks as if he’s attending some sketchy love motel tea ceremony.

“The best,” he scoffs.

Top of the world on this particular Friday, just as any other Friday, which he normally spends getting banged by a handsome stranger in a giant freight truck, in the chilly parking lot of a local police station.

Why does it matter in the face of dicking, Min Yoongi?

But then again, Jimin doesn’t look like a trucker much. Just a regular guy, this Park Jimin, doing regular guy things.

Like caressing Yoongi’s neck under the collar, his leather gloves so cool against the hot skin. And then Jimin is licking his throat, licking and sucking on it. It’s unhurried and obscene, wet tongue sending shivers through Yoongi’s body.

“Go on,” he inhales, giving under Jimin’s hands.

His body is being stripped slowly, almost reverently, but this time it’s not the gloves gliding over his skin. Jimin’s bare hands are hard and warm, sliding the battered jacket from his shoulders, down his back, and just pressing there, heavy over his tailbone. He can’t help but arch out.

“Arms up,” Jimin’s voice is quiet, but his eyes are hard. He squeezes Yoongi’s right arm below the shirt’s tight sleeve, just enough to leave a faint pink mark. He watches it fading under his open palm.

Yoongi obliges, thinking how it almost feels as if his skin has been scalded, so damp and tight it was in his shirt. Thinking how maybe the buzzing, this loud arousal in his being is the most content thing he has experienced since his filthy underground days.

Something flutters in his chest when Jimin’s hands settle on his naked sides. Small hairs on his arms stand up from every brush of skin against his. It’s a gentle caress at first, down to his hips and back up over the prominent ribs, slow and warm motion that soothes Yoongi’s bones. Gooseflesh is soon wrapping his entire body, Jimin’s dry touch only giving chills.

And then it’s warm, so warm, it washes over him in the first wave of pleasure when thumbs press at his hardened nipples. You could rub them raw, Park Jimin, do something, something—

“Your nipples are so sensitive,” Jimin sounds mildly amazed. “It’s like a—” it’s cut off by Yoongi’s mouth crashing into his very clumsily, good enough to cost them teeth and bit off tongues. What do you think you’re doing Min Yoongi, stuffing your tongue into a stranger’s mouth like that? Tasty, so tasty, and it's time to take a trip, to take a trip—

“Lie down,” Jimin says, moving to the other window.

It gives Yoongi enough space to stretch fully on the bunk, which he does in too much of a rush and hits his head on the cabin’s panelling. He quickly blinks through the sting. From this angle he sees Jimin kneeling at his feet.

“Careful,” Jimin leans over, eyes smiling.

A hand smoothes over Yoongi’s flat stomach, fingers thrumming softly against it as if it were a drum. Short nails trace under his waistband where the button has already been popped open, scraping over the coarse hair and tender skin that shows blue veins. The sharp sensation makes Yoongi jerk up to the touch.

He wiggles unhelpfully as his pants are slowly peeled off, his underwear following to the floor right after. There’s a rough feeling of fabric against his skin, rubbing at his spread thighs where Jimin is kneeling. Nerves coil more like pleasure in his stomach when he hooks his legs around Jimin’s lower back in a sudden need to tug him close, feel it all solid and heavy against his aroused body.

“Hold me down,” his lips brush against Jimin’s with every word. Closing his eyes, he slips the tip of his tongue to trace Jimin’s parted mouth.

It comes like a wave, Jimin’s weight and the delicious lack of breath, movement, any coherent thoughts really.

Jimin presses him down, leaving no space at all.

The pressure is gradual, from the heat between his legs and to his chest, growing until there’s little breath left in him. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs. It feels like falling. Jimin is heavy and strong, and even though Yoongi is trapped like this, he is floating.

“More,” he manages to choke under the weight.

Fisting Jimin’s hair, he attempts the slightest movement of his hips to help with the tension that has been building up in his crotch, but finds it impossible, weighed down like that. Jimin’s body gives a few slow rolls, clothed hips moving against Yoongi’s. The denim is rough, the zipper cold against the sensitive skin of his hard cock. Any other time the flannel would’ve felt soft against Yoongi’s skin, but now it almost burns him. The jeans plastered on Jimin’s legs might as well rub him raw.

“Harder,” he asks and Jimin pins his wrists down.

Yoongi is losing it so fast, shaking, loving every second of it.

He holds his breath.

His hands are released, and he clings to the feeling, clings with his arms and hands, tugging on Jimin’s bleached strands. He’s burning under every unhurried, but intense thrust. Only basic humping, nothing else, but there are bright spots are filling his vision, coloring the dark behind his squeezed lids.

Something slippery under his teeth—Jimin’s thick sweaty neck—and a fire in his struggling lungs. His legs are trembling, feet sliding all the way down to the blanket. Soon his muscles begin to cramp.

As soon as he exhales, he is taken by a new brightness. His eyes hurt in this white noise, and yet he’s never been more aroused.

Jimin stills, sits back. He runs a hand through his hair, watches Yoongi regain his breathing. It’s a dark hooded look that relishes the view of Yoongi’s bare body. Jimin reaches out to finally touch him, almost reverently. One hand traces Yoongi’s hipbone, sending more shivers, then falls to the blanket. Seems like it’s a slow ritual for Jimin. The tip of his index finger traces the line of Yoongi’s hard cock all the way to the tip where he gathers clear drops of precum with the help of his thumb. Yoongi feels no embarrassment and only grunts when Jimin licks his fingers.

“Tell me what you need,” he hums. His hand lays heavy on Yoongi’s knee.

“Let me see you, Park Jimin.”

He gives a soft chuckle. “Just Jimin is fine, ahjussi.” Will you quit it, you brat, it’s only two years, it’s only that I’m hungry—but don’t you want to know my name? Would you ask, Park Jimin? “Hyung, you look sad.”

That thing there doesn’t mean shit, not when he always does look one particular shade of sad or displeased or apathetic. But it’s a trip, and he is taking it, and he feels so good and light, his insides almost singing. Dead man sings, he thinks and feels the compulsion to write it down somewhere. He tries to calm his heart. Biting his lip, Yoongi follows the quick movement of Jimin’s fingers that are nimbly unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

“Don’t worry. I feel great, Park Jimin.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying,” he sheds the shirt and pushes damp bangs out of his eyes. “It’s just Jimin.”

“Won’t you ask me?” Yoongi sounds hoarse.

“Shit, your voice is hot,” Jimin mutters.

“Ask me.”

Yoongi waits, holding his breath. He takes in the sight. Jimin is naked down to the waist, the broad chest hairless and muscular, the stomach flat and hard. Eyes so dark it makes Yoongi think of soaking in oil. The dull orange light paints Jimin’s form golden, glistens on his nipple piercing. Simple silver rings, large enough to tug on with teeth.

“What’s your name?”

“Yoongi. Min Yoongi.”

“Well, Yoongi-hyung,” Jimin scoots all the way back to the window and grips Yoongi’s ankles to tug him closer. The coarse wool burns his skin on the slide. “You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t talk to me like that when we’re fucking.”

Head tilted to the side, Jimin seems to be studying his face. The gaze that follows down the lines of Yoongi’s exposed body is something akin to a touch.

“Talk like what—?” Jimin pulls Yoongi’s legs wide open, tracing down his inner thighs, one hand coming to cup his erection. “Ah. Don’t call you hyung when we’re fucking? Shame I don’t have lube, Min Yoongi. So no fucking.”

His thumb taps teasingly at Yoongi’s entrance, urging him to relax. Yoongi jerks up, trying to find friction in the loose grip around his cock.

“I like it this way.”

“You’re all in goosebumps,” Jimin holds him still. “And spit-roasting ain’t fun.”

“Fuck’s sake. I meant, like. Only fingers,” he breathes, thinking how nice the dry touch burned inside of him the last time, months ago. Everything has been going off the rails. “I want to touch you.” Tell him how, tell him everything, go on, Min Yoongi, ask him to fuck you, let it rock inside of you like that. “Just fingers is fine. Just for a bit. And—you’re clean, right?”

The touch disappears, and Yoongi ends up thrusting into air, then his own hand.

“Yeah. Are you?” Jimin chuckles at Yoongi’s quick nod, saying that they are doing it all backwards. “Okay then. Let’s get you up. Hands off the dick.”

Yoongi obediently folds his arms over his belly. Then he is carefully rearranged into a sitting position, with a soft caress here and there. His knees folded on either side of him, he tries to stay still in the middle of the bunk. The ache in his groin is agonizing and he curses, moving his hips idly to rub himself on the blanket.

“Hey, stay still.”

Yoongi balls his hands into fists but obeys. He looks round the stuffed space, rolling saliva inside his dried mouth.

Once Jimin is flat on his back, he motions to get closer. Yoongi half-crawls on top of him, limbs heavy and prickling from excitement, and flops down. “Come on,” says Jimin, firmly gripping his sides.

Yoongi is being dragged upwards by the hips. He watches his own hands stroke Jimin’s chest in slow fascination. It’s hard muscle and soft skin which strikes him as odd, in a place like this, but there’s a pleasurable prickle in his fingertips from the sensation. He nuzzles at one of the pierced nipples, feeling the cool metal brush the tip of his nose, and then sucks the ring into his mouth. Jimin’s soft sigh is drowned in the low rumble of the engine.

The vibrations spread in tingles through Yoongi’s entire body.

Jimin’s hands seem to be everywhere, no trace of the gentle and slow from before, scratching him, kneading at his ass, and then coming up to pull on his hair and push at his neck until Yoongi falls onto his forearms, only his ass thrusting high up in the air.

Feeling the touch slide down the slope of his back, Yoongi presses his mouth closer to Jimin’s chest, works his tongue, hearing the metal clink against his teeth now and then, all the while trying to keep his hips up. When he feels Jimin’s hands spread him roughly, nails digging into his buttocks, Yoongi bites hard enough to bleed.

Jimin lets out a low moan. “Tug on it.”

He follows the soft command, holding the ring between his teeth and pulling back a little. Unable to see the reaction, he can only sense Jimin’s pain with his body. He bites harder, feeling goosebumps cover Jimin’s skin, and tugs. Pinching the other nipple between his fingers, savoring every broken moan that it gives him, Yoongi slowly moves his head from side to side, ring still caught between his teeth. He hears Jimin panting, feels the grip on his backside turn harsher, spreading him wide enough to tear apart.

“Give me your hand,” Yoongi comes up for a breath. Then holds Jimin’s wrist while swallowing around his thick fingers. He tweaks the raw-looking nipple. “Do you want more?”

Jimin nods, yanking him by the hair. It stings, a million needles to the skull, but Yoongi only moans. He pulls at the nipple with his teeth again, bites for good measure, licking over the swollen nub afterwards, feeling Jimin’s palms cup his ass again. It’s a softer grip now.

Jimin slowly circles his rim, probing, then spits into his hand and rubs saliva over Yoongi’s hole before pushing one wet finger inside. The pain is sharp and shoots up his lower back. Mouth falling open in a silent groan, Yoongi drops his head on Jimin’s chest. Another minute and his legs will give out for sure. He lies like that, pulling Jimin’s nipple by the ring pinched between his fingers, and breathing heavily against slippery sweaty skin under his flushed cheek.

“Another, come on, I wanna feel it,” Yoongi chews on his lips, tries to relax his muscles.

Before doing anything, Jimin removes his hand, only to add more spit. With the second finger pressing inside, Yoongi stops breathing. Jimin waits a beat, one hand caressing Yoongi’s back, giving him time to adjust.

“It’s okay,” Yoongi breathes and catches one nipple ring with the tip of his tongue.

Jimin’s fingers begin a slow slide, but Yoongi bites down again, mumbling for him to hurry up. The burn soon spreads with the three fingers pumping steadily inside of him, and Yoongi falls into the lazy rhythm of their movement.

Everything feels exactly like he’s needed it to — rushed and aching and lovely. He rocks himself back to meet the thrusts, feels his knees begin to wobble when Jimin grows bolder, moving inside of him in small circles, then spreading his fingers wide. Yoongi whimpers. It’s hard but still careful, making Yoongi sway a little and sigh at the way his cock is dragging along the roughness of Jimin’s jeans, probably staining the dark fabric. One brush of fingers sends him falling. A wave of pleasure is racking through Yoongi’s body, and Jimin presses there again, his other hand brushing over Yoongi’s leaking cock.

“Go like that,” Yoongi gasps, his eyelids fluttering shut from the stimulation. The delicious and thick feeling spreads warmth through his entire body. It’s all too much and too quick all of a sudden and his body begins to shake.

With his fingers pulling hard at Jimin’s piercing, he realizes that he’s humming something tunelessly under his breath, and it would be embarrassing if he wasn’t already fucking himself on someone’s fingers and gasping for more. He faintly registers Jimin laughing, even if a little pained from the burn on his chest.

“You always do this with fingers up your ass?”

“I’m in the music business,” Yoongi leans up one elbow to give him a very serious look. “Very important to stay professional at all times,” he closes his eyes at another good thrust while suppressing a shudder. “You gonna rub me raw if we go like that.”

“You tired?”

“No, just—” he almost yells when Jimin presses harder. “My balls will explode.”

“You can cum just like that?” When Yoongi shakes his head ‘no’ and attempts to push his ass back, Jimin pulls out. At the confused look, he simply says, “Show me how you touch yourself.”

“What?”

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Yoongi can only nod and Jimin slaps his butt playfully. Yoongi grunts and falls flat on his stomach, splaying over Jimin’s warm body. “Show me, Yoongi.”

“Give me a hand,” he mumbles into the other’s chest, tasting sweat.

Jimin pulls him upright, squeezing his no doubt scratched butt, and lifts Yoongi onto his belly. They share a long look in silence. Feels a little like electricity. Then Yoongi hunches over, wincing at the faint soreness, and holds Jimin’s face between his sweaty hands. They kiss sloppy and wet while Jimin lazily jerks him off, the angle of it odd but at least giving Yoongi some friction. Feeling the hard pull on his hair, Yoongi wraps his hands around Jimin’s throat for support, but doesn’t push. He breaks away and plants loud, wet kisses all over Jimin’s face, struggling against the grip holding him in place by the hair. He kisses Jimin’s eyes and slips his tongue out.

“Are you licking me?” Jimin huffs and yanks him back.

“I can’t—” Yoongi knows he is frowning. It’s this feeling, this thing that hasn’t been sated for too long. “Sorry.”

To his surprise Jimin laughs, “Don’t worry, just don’t eat my contacts.”

He pats Yoongi’s cheek and reaches down again to stroke him a few more times. “You get really wet. I mean, considering. That’s so weird. Been long?” He looks at his hand that shines from Yoongi’s precum. “Have a taste.” Yoongi does, carefully licking each finger one by one, then dragging his tongue over the palm. He blows on the wet skin, biting down hard, and gets a light swat on the cheek.

“Sorry—are you okay? Is that okay?” Jimin caresses the side of his face where it tingles the best.

There is barely anything, the cheek only slightly stinging, and Yongi needs more. Yoongi doesn’t know how Jimin could’ve possibly guessed. He nods, because it’s more than okay, but Jimin looks incredibly guilty.

“Sorry. I won’t do it again.” Yoongi hears and hopes he’s managed to conceal his disappointment. Jimin snaps him out of it, “Touch yourself.”

That same slightly rough voice that goes straight to Yoongi’s cock. He sets back, wiggling his sore ass in place, feeling the strain of Jimin’s stomach, and wraps his hand around himself to give a few lazy strokes at first, paying special attention to the head and spreading more spit and little precum down his length.

It’s nothing special but he does as told, getting himself off in rough and fast strokes. He watches Jimin’s calm face, his parted red mouth, and the sweat trickling down his flushed neck. It’s so tempting that in the next moment he is licking it, waiting for Jimin to do something. The reward comes soon enough when he is roughly dragged away. A fist in his hair, dragging, pulling, and all is stinging, and then there are hushed words following, just do as you’re told.

And Yoongi does, actually putting the effort into touching himself. It’s fast and loud even behind the engine’s noise. It’s wet and sloppy, all of which is getting to Yoongi’s head. He notices that Jimin’s eyes look a little glazed, probably from having someone rub their balls on his belly. Probably that, probably the way their bodies slide together, touching small like this, somehow making it work. Yoongi is drenched in sweat but his skin feels dry in this heat. After another sway of his hips comes a very familiar tug, a thick dragging feeling, and Yoongi quickly reaches down to circle his fingers tightly above his balls.

“Like this,” he chokes out.

“You’re a funny guy,” Jimin pulls him up his damp glistening body, thrusting one palm under Yoongi’s ass to slide it between the cheeks, slippery with sweat.

“Hold on a little longer,” tone kind and encouraging, Jimin strokes gently over his hole. “You’re doing so well.” Something must have flickered over Yoongi’s sweaty face, because the next second Jimin pinches his thigh. Pulling at Yoongi’s rim with two fingers, Jimin croons, “You’re into that? Need me to praise you?”

Yoongi chokes on a moan when Jimin pushes in one finger, “Is that a yes, Min Yoongi?”

Feeling his strength leave him, Yoongi nods, tries to keep up with his sizzling mind. He holds onto it, not letting himself finish just yet, squeezing tighter at the base, his other hand stroking himself. He tries to match the pace with Jimin’s finger still pumping inside of him.

“Tell me,” Yoongi is irritated now, “please tell me.”

Sliding in another finger, Jimin spreads him wide again.

“What do you wanna hear, Yoongi? That you look beautiful? You seemed to like that. That you’re doing good?” He twists his fingers around, making Yoongi yelp. “That I’m this close to cumming in my pants without even fucking your tight ass? You’re that beautiful.”

Yoongi feels his own rhythm begin to slacken and he almost falls over, panting, when Jimin rubs at his prostate harder. Jimin’s voice is sweet and melodious as he tells him tacky dirty things, helping him stay upright and fucking him steadily, talking of using Yoongi’s pretty mouth until he swallows everything there is, of taking Yoongi high up in the front seat where everyone could see, and always, always ending it with sappy little praises, and—

“Good boy,” he drawls and tugs on Yoongi’s hand, letting up on the pressure in his balls.

Yoongi thinks he can hear himself cursing at the onrush of relief. All that has been sizzling inside of him up to this point goes out in fireworks, mixing with the pain and the ache, washing off the insides of his skull to this pure kind of blankness. He squeezes his eyelids tight, stroking himself through the orgasm and feeling completely drenched. When Jimin’s fingers carefully slip out of his sore hole, Yoongi opens his eyes. He blinks at the sticky ropes of cum wetting Jimin’s chin and face.

“Uh,” Yoongi says, wiping at his chest.

Something about this seems incredibly funny to Jimin. Body shaking with laughter, he wipes the fluids from his face and then rubs it somewhere on the blanket.

“Music business really made hyung very professional,” he snorts. “Let’s get you sorted. I’ve got some shit in the kit.”

Yoongi waits on his back, completely spent. The familiar hollowness of being alone is creeping its way back, even though Jimin is right there at the wheel, rummaging under the seat.

Radio static fills the car. Yoongi closes his eyes to the comforting frequencies. His limbs feel like they are made of wood. Static changes to a crackling station, and Lee Mija begins to sing. It’s a really old song, “Blues of Dusk.”

Jimin is back, wrapping his hands around Yoongi’s ankles. Spreading his legs, smoothing over the skin. When Yoongi opens his eyes, Jimin is between his knees again, a bottle of some green-labeled ointment in hand, massaging the soft flesh of Yoongi’s inner thigh. Lovely tingling spreads over Yoongi’s skin in places Jimin is softly tapping his fingers.

“Does it hurt?” Jimin asks while applying the ointment to the sore spots. Cool pads softly press at Yoongi’s rim, causing a deep full-body shudder. “Sorry.” He feels Jimin’s lips brush his thigh on the apology. “I think I had some Narfen. Let me check.”

“It’s fine. It’s good. I’m—” he is confused where to take it from here. Tell him how that ache is the best thing he’s felt for months and honestly confess it wasn’t enough to really get to him? Shut your mouth, Min Yoongi, you might save it for later use. “You really helped.”

It’s hard to tell what the look on Jimin’s face could possibly mean when he leans over, eyes searching Yoongi’s for something.

“Good,” he drops his head low, kissing Yoongi’s sharp knee. “Now, hyung. I gotta get off, if you don’t mind. Just rest. You can go in the morning.”

After rubbing his body with offered paper towels, Yoongi tugs his underwear on and curls into himself under the blanket. From behind the curtain, he can hear Jimin jerking off to the late night show.

Sleep comes soon in such weird comfort. The scent of peppermint fills his senses before he dozes off. Something wet touches the skin of his neck, giving only a couple of licks. “You taste good,” Jimin mumbles.

You talk too much, Park Jimin.

﹍﹍﹍﹍



Damp wind hurts his eyes.

Six in the morning in early March colors everything in dull pale blues. The snow is melting into slick mud from the light drizzle. The station’s parking lot smells of wet concrete and stale petrol.

Mildly hungover and chilly in his leather pants that he’d managed to squeeze into without waking Jimin up, Yoongi jumped out of the truck and scurried to the edge of the lot. Where the paved ground ended, tangles of withered weeds lay dead.

Yoongi is still staring at it now.

One hand braced on his knee, he sticks two fingers to the back of his throat. The tongue is dry and scratchy to the touch. It takes a few tries until he feels the convulsions, his stomach jerking up, and struggles to breathe through his nose while sour fluids come up to his throat. He spews into the dry grass, feeling hot in the head while tremors pass through his body.

Later he sees it’s just liquor and shrimp chips. Nothing else to puke up.

He rinses his mouth with bottled water he doesn’t remember taking with him. For a while he smokes, watching the evenly veiled grey sky turn lighter. As he walks back to the car, it gets louder in his head. There must be a solution then, because yesterday was so blissfully blank, quiet, the perfect non-frequency.

He jumps onto the step and reaches up. The door is locked. He suppresses the dumb wave of panic, not ready to puke out his aching guts again. He tries once, twice— nothing. By the time his hands go back to familiar tremors, he is knocking on the passenger’s window.

He waits, blinking, unseeing.

When he gets like that, with his guts in a jumble and too much garbage in his head, it’s the only time he truly wants to be with someone. Not just anyone; he’d had a feeling about Jimin on the very first glance before he made the decision. That funny frequency hissed straight to Yoongi’s chest: this can help you sleep, you will be blank, there will be bliss.

Then you can go home.

The door finally flies open. Jimin is blinking down at him sleepily, this underlying silent confusion in his expression. The front of his jeans is open.

“Take me with you,” the words are little more than an annoyed grunt.

“What?” Jimin rubs at his puffy face. “With me?”

Yoongi expects all sorts of questions to be unfurled; what about your job, you don’t even have anything with you besides the wallet, what will you say to your boss, family, friends, you don’t even know me, I can’t really pay you long-term, have you gone and hurt your head?

But after a long quiet moment of staring, Jimin simply says: “Okay.”