Chapter Text
“okay, i’ll go.”
that stops jimin mid sentence, his mouth comically ajar. two beats in and he finally recollects his jaw.
“wait– really?“
yoongi smiles, bemused, fingers tapping the table patiently. “i said yes, didn’t i?”
“well yes, but.” jimin lurches to yoongi’s chair, hand perched on the edge of the table. he looks dubious, eyes squinting. “i just wasn’t expecting it.”
“you want me to say no?”
“no!” jimin recovers smoothly, that cheshire grin growing in size again. “don’t you dare. my god, min yoongi’s finally going to a party with me. only took me, what, a hundred tries?”
if you ask him what’s different this time, yoongi wouldn’t have an answer. maybe it’s a handful of things at once — if jimin asked, though, yoongi would call it boredom.
but he knows better than that. he’s something else entirely, something much more slippery, like a half-finished thought that refuses to settle. a whisper that could curl into a moan if he listens close enough.
yoongi feels caught by it — a trail that unwinds sediments in his ribs, in the back of his throat, his navel, between his thighs, a string to be yanked loose until this simmering unravels. its a restlessness yoongi’s not used to, lodged somewhere inside him only another could reach, begging to be set loose by the flick of someone’s fingers (— long, deep).
he’s not sure what’s stoking this reeling eagerness. is it the too-sharp taste of his sudden freedom? the quiet drone of loneliness creeping in where adrenaline used to be, nothing but ashes of its frenzy left to hold.
maybe the answer is simpler than that. maybe it’s someone’s name.
thankfully, jimin doesn’t ask.
“tomorrow night, jeongguk’s frat. they’re celebrating the win,”he fills in, front camera open while he fusses with his hair.
his iphone shuts off with a click. jimin turns to yoongi, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “you want me to come get?”
yoongi fixes him a look.
“i’m sure it’s easy to miss, but i’ll be fine with a map.”
“ha, funny.” jimin rolls his eyes so hard yoongi’s surprised it doesn’t get stuck at the back of his head. “you say that, until i actually ditch you and leave you in a miserable corner by yourself. see if you can fend for yourself then.”
the older man snorts, biting back a huffed out laugh. “okay,” he gives in. “i’m sorry. you go ahead with guk, i’ll meet you there.”
and that’s that. jimin’s easy like that. face smoothed out, that excited glint back and bright in his eyes.
“alright hyung. come at eight.”
“mm.”
“and dress sexy.”
“i’m too old for that.”
“nonsense. you have no idea how many of these frat boys are dying to fuck an older man.”
yoongi finally swivels around, arching a brow. “you would know, huh?”
“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” jimin quips primly. then he wiggles his brows, his smirk triumphant. “these soccer boys might have egos the size of a fucking stadium, but they sure as hell back it up. jeongguk could go for hours—“
that earns him a nose scrunch, equal parts flustered and equal parts mortified. “shut up, i didn’t need to know that,” yoongi rubs at his nose, grimacing. “he’s my sweet summer child.”
jimin cackles, watching yoongi gather his things. “okay fine. he’s actually more of a golden retriever. so eager. so full of energy—“
“jimin,” yoongi groans. he can’t fully hide his amusement though, the corners of his mouth twitching. “stop speaking.”
but what is jimin, if not stubborn? he’s like a predator to yoongi’s unexpected shyness, the older belly up to the claws of his teases.
“you know who isn’t a little golden retriever, though?” jimin beelines to yoongi, unflappable even with the door nearly being swung towards his face. no, he just follows yoongi out, nudging him with a gleam in his eyes. “kim taehyung.”
yoongi’s chest hitches, ever so slightly. he hikes up the strap of his bag, looking right ahead.
“kim taehyung?” he murmurs, wilfully ignoring the little stir in him. “what about him?”
“oh, you know,” he draws out. well, no, he doesn’t. “i’ve heard things. from the grapevines.”
a faltered blink, and then two. he keeps his eyes fixed right at the cold grey of the floor, and not at the smirk he’s sure is spreading on jimin’s face.
jimin crowds in his space and slings an arm over his shoulder, the stretch of his syllables mischievous. “yeah, i heard about your little exchange at the match. i can’t believe this plot development happened right under my nose—“
“your huge nosy nose,” yoongi mutters.
“a little wink, huh?” jimin taunts, skipping over yoongi’s jab entirely. “careful, hyung. that’s how you get pressed up against the lockers. and then next thing you know, the clothes start coming off—‘- ow!”
“that’s enough,” yoongi mumbles, voice dragged out in a whine while he swats at jimin’s arm.
“but you make it so easy,” jimin grins, voice oozing with mischief. then, at yoongi’s pout, “aw, c’mon hyung, it’s not a big deal if you got a little flustered. tae’s hot, isn’t he?”
yoongi doesn’t deign that with a response. everyone already knows.
jimin pushes the door open, remnants of the spring air skittering over their skins. he turns to yoongi, abruptly thoughtful.
“are you still fooling around with that cutie? the lawyer-to-be?”
“jiwoo — and it’s paralegal,” yoongi corrects. “sort of. it’s not exclusive or anything, we just meet up when we feel like it.”
“hm,” jimin muses. “is that your type?”
yoongi’s brows furrow at the random question. at jimin’s open stare, he considers.
“he’s cute,” is what yoongi settles on. “sweet. he’s good to me.”
“right,” jimin says, inflection carrying a thread of impatience. “but how’s he like in bed?”
yoongi’s cheeks flare despite himself. he shoots jimin a half-hearted scowl—ignored, of course—and lets out a resigned sigh. “jiwoo’s… accommodating.”
he fights back an immediate grimace.
accommodating feels pathetically unremarkable, limp and tasteless on his tongue. saying it to jimin of all people makes it sound even more steeped in implication — like yoongi’s sex life is just a lacklustre string of uninspired fucks, a reflection of him as painfully forgettable.
the sex’s far from bad. it’s nice, even. but he’s too pressed for a better word — and serviceable would be even worse.
as expected, jimin’s brow arches, leaning in like a beast in famine. yoongi shrinks back.
“wow,” jimin says, voice lilting in mock scandal. “you’re really selling it. accommodating like a hotel concierge, or accommodating like ‘tell me if it hurts?’”
“oh my god,” yoongi mutters. “i’m not doing this with you.”
“oh you are absolutely doing this with me,” jimin fires back, his grin all teeth. “you haven’t cut him loose yet, so whatever he’s doing must be working.”
if there’s any refute on yoongi’s end, it doesn’t make it past his teeth. it’s always easier when yoongi’s agreeable. “i guess so.”
still, there’s that nagging voice in the back of his head, a hollowed out laugh that drips with condescension. it’s a mothball lodge in his throat, like the prospect of bitter truths hiding in the back of an old closet.
the voice circles around him like a buzzard, taunting and relentless — that maybe jiwoo’s the only one willing to indulge him.
the way they met could only be described as a tumble. yoongi, freshly unburdened by exams, had been five b-52s deep, pent-up and flushed and horny, reservations drowned somewhere at the bottom of shot glasses.
yoongi had been a poor man’s siren, half-lidded and dopey, slick lips draped around the rim of the glass like he’s imagining something else entirely — something warm and thick, something that would pulse in his mouth, sheathe into the buzzing between his legs.
jiwoo had been the one to right yoongi up, with his gentle hands and flustered eyes. yoongi barely had to try — just a hazy, giggling smile, all need, no subtlety, and jiwoo bit into the hook.
and why wouldn’t he? yoongi was needy, and jiwoo was right there.
sure, the gap between them’s barely two years, but it feels bigger in practice. he had that sweetness to him, that impressionable, eager-to-please puppy trait many twenty-three year olds still possessed — he’d been a nervous, stuttering mess the second it clicked who’d stumbled into his chest — the campus president — but still.
jiwoo had been willing to give whatever yoongi wanted, and what yoongi wanted was to be fucked, however shocking it must’ve felt to hear these little entreaties from someone like him.
these shameful little desires yoongi kept tucked in a cage, batting against the bars with their gossamer wings — they flocked to jiwoo the second they were freed of inhibition.
he wanted to be held down and called pretty, wanted to be made to feel small, wanted that heady release of surrender. alcohol was one hell of a deluded enabler, yoongi’s lips bitten raw and shiny with spit, hung open on a moan and spilling words he’d never say sober for jiwoo to sound out, sweet nothings yoongi could pretend weren’t his projections.
there was no push and pull, no natural learning curve between the two of them; just a willing jiwoo and a wreck of a yoongi begging to be pressed down and taken apart.
morning came with a vengeance: a grievous hangover, faded splotches of love bites yoongi didn’t remember receiving, and a deep, clawing embarrassment.
jiwoo had been kind about it, though, pseudo-feathers all fluffed up and smiling like he’d won something, naive in his satisfaction. sweet, shy, pleased. it’s jiwoo all over.
that’s the crux of it all. yoongi can’t escape the nagging thought that whatever’s been keeping jiwoo coming back isn’t really attraction — it’s a response more than anything else, an illusion of desire fueled by his eagerness to please, a hunger to be needed that feeds on yoongi’s desperation.
“that may be a problem, then,” jimin continues, completely oblivious to yoongi’s internal spiral. “i don’t think you’d survive taehyung. he would eat you alive.”
yoongi’s stomach flips, his gaze snapping to jimin. “what do you mean?”
“oh come on, hyung,” jimin says, deceptively light for the conspiring gleam it carries. “haven’t you heard what people say about him? about what he’s like in bed?”
“no,” yoongi says too quickly, trying for disinterest and missing by a mile. “what … things?”
jimin casts him a sidelong glance. the curl to his lips is obnoxiously wicked, and yoongi knows whatever he’s about to say will ruin his peace.
“he’s got a reputation,” jimin murmurs, his voice dripping with suggestion. “not just good, big — devastating. takes his time, knows what he wants, and always gets what he wants. and what he wants, hyung, is usually a lot.” jimin pauses, and then smirks. “allegedly.”
yoongi swallows, heat licking at his throat. “sounds egotistical,” he mutters, ignoring the way his pulse picks up.
“you’ve seen the guy up close, haven’t you?” jimin’s elbow digs into yoongi’s side, as sharp-edged as the glee in his eyes. yoongi swats him away. “he can afford to be egotistical.”
jimin just shrugs, his pace lazy as they stroll down the worn path cutting through the quad. yoongi stares ahead, the occasional group of students flickering in his periphery. his focus keeps slipping, pulled in different directions by jimin’s words.
“word on the street is,” jimin drawls, his tone saccharine, “taehyung’s good at getting people to beg. got a way of working them until they’re dripping for every inch.”
he eyes yoongi down, turning to him with a slow, deliberate once-over.
“and you know what, hyung?” when his gaze finally meets yoongi, it’s sly, calculating—like he’s already figured out something yoongi hasn’t. “i think he’s exactly what you need. taehyung would see right through this cute act of yours and shove it down your throat.”
yoongi jerks his gaze away, skin prickling. “that’s bullshit,” he says, but the words fumble past his throat. “and crude. does jeongguk know how much you’re sucking up to taehyung?”
“jeon doesn’t care as long as he’s the one i’m sucking off,” jimin says smugly, snorting when yoongi rolls his eyes. “what? you asked for it. besides, jeongguk’s the one filling me in on the dirt. they’re roommates, remember?”
yoongi bites his lip, thoughts swirling. the heat that pools in his belly is confusing, a sweet ache tangling with souring unease. his mind drifts to bodies writhing underneath taehyung, unable to shake off the vision.
he blinks, catching himself. what the hell is wrong with him?
“takes his time, i hear,” jimin presses lightly, humming now. “stretches you out real good, until you’re a crying mess— think you’d want that, hyung? someone who can take control like that, fuck you until you forget your name?”
something in yoongi overheats, and for a moment he’s consumed by the thought. staving off these indecent thoughts feels like shoving a palm against a thrust, the rough drive of hips too close for control.
he thinks of taehyung — all coiled strength and measured intensity — thinks of his strong body pressed close, big hands holding him still until yoongi’s ragged. thinks of those demanding eyes.
how feverishly the idea’s taken root overwhelms yoongi, his defences snapping into place in a sudden spring lock.
“i’m not into that,” yoongi murmurs. it’s a soft thing, too wispy to carry weight.
jimin’s smile shifts, lingers. it’s a touch slower, knowing, like fingers trailing across a locked door.
“you sure, hyung?” his voice floats, tracing a line between them. answering a question that feels known. “or are you just scared you can’t take all of him in?”
yoongi knows it’s bait. knows jimin’s trying to get under his skin, pull yoongi out of it while he’s there.
and yet, yoongi takes.
“i could handle him just fine,” he exhales, the cut of his voice low.
“handle it?” jimin laughs. “i know you, hyung. not the president, but min yoongi. you’d fold before he even gets you out of your clothes. taehyung would have you spread and wrecked so fast you wouldn’t know which way was up.”
he watches yoongi for a beat, his smirk open and shameless. “but hey, it’s alright. taehyung? he’d probably find that sexy. he loves that shit.”
yoongi trudges ahead, shaking his head like that would brush off the comment, the heat in his nape. “ridiculous,” he mutters. “there’s no way i’m his type.”
jimin opens his mouth, either to refute or to agree, but yoongi doesn’t get to find out when jimin’s phone starts blaring. relief comes to him like a deflating balloon — he’d rather not know. hope is a restless thing, and yoongi would rather swallow his expectations.