yumikkaku - Tumblr blog

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

HI this was supposed to be a birthday present for kayla sugaquillz but. i had midterms hell this week and greatly overestimated my ability to write while all that shit is going on, so please consider this a work in progress ><

kayla i hope you have had a lovely birthday!! and i hope you like this lmao you tweeted something like “i want someone to write me dumbification yoongi for my birthday” and i just. did it i’m sorry i hope you don’t mind that i borrowed this idea gjmdskaf;ja but for real you’re a wonderful friend and you’ve been with me here for so long and you are so kind and i’m really grateful to be able to call u my friend and...i am a disaster but i hope you enjoy this anyway!!! it is just a little token of my affection for you!!!! and i am sending u lots of love and smooches on this day hehehe

buT!! without further ado here he is:

It’s been a week since Namjoon brought it up.

He had been joking, Yoongi is more than certain. There’s no other way to interpret what Namjoon had said, a sarcastic little note about how his ultimate kink was being dumb and begging for cock. Yoongi can’t even remember the context of the conversation anymore, the sentences that had followed before and after buried completely in white noise whenever Yoongi tries to recall them. He’d completely focused on that one particular comment, that one particular idea, in the following days.

He knows Namjoon had been joking. He knows that.

He doesn’t know why he keeps thinking about it.

Yoongi stares at the wall opposite the dining room table. It’s completely bare except for a sideboard — old, a little faded, probably antique and magical in some way Yoongi would never anticipate — with a single framed photo of a cityscape hung above it, perfectly centered in between two windows.

He interlocks his fingers, biting into his lower lip as he stares outside. Leaves rustle. Golden eyes glare out at him from the darkness.

He doesn’t know why he keeps thinking about it.

About Namjoon — about himself, groping desperately at Namjoon’s shoulders, whine rising out of his throat as he begs. For sex, for Namjoon’s attention, for the feeling of his cock buried inside Yoongi’s body because he doesn’t know any better, can’t think beyond his own need, nothing but a body and stupid little brain within it, and —

“Hey,” Namjoon says. He taps Yoongi’s shoulder as he returns from the bathroom. His fingers are cold against Yoongi’s skin, no doubt chilly from the water he’d just washed his hands with. “What’s up?”

He takes a seat across from Yoongi, staring at him from behind big round glasses. The faded blue tips of his bangs dip below his eyebrows just far enough that the appear to be comically enlarged from behind his glasses. Yoongi resists the urge to grin. He’ll need to cut Namjoon’s hair soon.

“Nothing,” he says, turning back to his food. He’d cooked that night — had brought all the ingredients and the materials to Namjoon’s house to make dinner for the two of them. It’s a nice thing to do for date night — Namjoon lives alone, so they get the space to themselves, they don’t have to spend the money to eat out, and while Yoongi is cooking he can blast whatever music he wants and shout at Namjoon whenever he grabs his ass. It’s nice. “Just thinking.”

“You looked like you were totally spaced out,” Namjoon says. The legs of his chair drag against the floor as he scoots in. “What’s on your mind?”

Yoongi’s cheeks turn red. “Nothing,” he says. The lie is obvious, and he internally curses, staring down at his own plate. He’s acting weird. Namjoon is going to know he’s lying. Fuck.

But he really doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid. Stupid that he wants to be stupid, because — who wants that?

“Yoongi,” Namjoon says. He tilts his head to the side, reaching across the corner of the table to rest his fingers over the back of Yoongi’s hand. Shit. Fuck. He’s so fucking considerate and caring, genuine fucking worry flashing over his expression when Yoongi glances up at him, and — for a split second Yoongi wonders why in the world he would ever choose to date someone who’s so fucking well-adjusted. It just makes Yoongi look like a dumbass in comparison. “What’s wrong?”

Yoongi groans, tossing his head back. “It’s really nothing, Namjoon, we can just — can we just drop it?”

The sentence comes out sounding harsher than he means for it to. The edges of Namjoon’s lips pull down into a frown, and —

Fuck, why does Yoongi always screw shit like this up?

He feels his whole face heat up as Namjoon stares at him. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, his fingers tapping against the back of Yoongi’s hand, and it’s just —

God, it’s so embarrassing.

“It’s really just — it’s not a big deal, it’s stupid, I’m just — holy fuck.” Yoongi’s tongue fumbles within his mouth, a useless lump of meat. He can’t stop thinking about Namjoon’s broad shoulders, commanding line of his jaw — even if he looks like a noodly dumbass most of the time with his too-long blue hair and his bangs in his eyes and his big Harry Potter glasses and Yoongi also loves that. But there’s something so fucking mouth-watering about all those other qualities, about the idea that Yoongi is small and pretty and Namjoon is big and manly and it’s stupid, because they’re both just people and Yoongi’s stupid lizard brain is being archaic.

He takes a deep breath in.

“It’s really, really dumb,” he says.

Yoongi is really, really dumb. He supposes he’s halfway to fulfilling that weird kink after all.

Namjoon frowns. He looks genuinely concerned. A few seconds tick by, leaves rustling in the wind outside, low hum of the magic that keeps Namjoon’s wacky witch refrigerator cold continuing in the background, Yoongi’s pulse thundering in his ears.

It takes him a few moments before he realizes that he’s made this situation awkward enough that he’s going to have to come clean. There’s no way out of it now. Fuck.

Yoongi resists the urge to scream.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just — it’s not. It’s not important. I just have a new — I was thinking about — sex stuff, and it’s stupid, and nothing’s wrong. Nothing wrong. I just think I might be into something new and it’s kind of weird and I don’t really want to talk about it, and I was just spacing out thinking about how fucking weird and stupid it is and then you came in and I acted weird because I didn’t want to talk about it and now you’re worried and I still don’t want to talk about it but I don’t want you to be worried, so can we please just stop.”

Namjoon blinks.

Their food is getting cold. Yoongi has to work very hard to resist the urge to slap himself in the face.

“It’s a sex thing?” Namjoon asks.

“Yes,” Yoongi answers. He pulls his hand out from underneath Namjoon’s and folds them in his lap. “Completely unimportant. Monumentally stupid. Can we just go back to eating?”

Namjoon blinks. “Um,” he says. He stares out at Yoongi from behind his glasses, eyes wide. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

Yoongi sighs. “Okay,” he says. He throws his hands up in a gesture that’s meant to be flippant, but he’s sure ends up looking more defensive than anything else. He bites his lower lip. “Cool. Awesome. Great.”

—

The two of them watch a movie together, later that night.

Yoongi sits curled against Namjoon’s chest, shoulder tucked into Namjoon’s armpit. He’s not really watching the television, head turned almost completely to the side. His ear is flush against Namjoon’s chest — and if he focuses he can hear the the thump of Namjoon’s chest, feel the way his lungs expand as he breathes in, feel the comforting hum of magic that always rests just beneath his skin.

It’s nice.

Yoongi has never dated a witch before this — not that it’s particularly unusual to have done so, but Yoongi had simply never gotten the chance. There’s not much difference, really, other than the magic. Yoongi had never been around so much magic in his life.

“You awake?” Namjoon asks.

His voice rumbles through his chest. Very slowly, Yoongi nods, snuggling closer. Namjoon is warm and Yoongi is cold. He tucks his bare toes underneath his own thighs, wishing he was in a position that would allow him to shove them under Namjoon instead.

“You wanna, um — talk about the thing now?”

Yoongi groans. He means for it to come out as a groan, at least. In reality it sounds more like a whine. “No,” he says.

Namjoon breathes out. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Internally, Yoongi swears. He hates that Namjoon is so good. And considerate. And nice. What the fuck is up with that? What in the world could Yoongi have done in a past life to deserve someone so fucking kind and caring and well-rounded —

He digs his forehead into Namjoon’s collarbone. “I wanna be dumb,” he hisses.

Namjoon blinks. A long moment passes in silence. “Huh?”

He doesn’t sound judgemental. Doesn’t sound distressed. He just sounds like he legitimately has no idea what Yoongi means.

Yoongi closes his eyes. “I wanna be dumb and beg for dick.” More silence. Namjoon’s hand is soft in the small of Yoongi’s back, his fingers curled gently in the material of Yoongi’s shirt. “Because you made a joke about it a while ago and my stupid little lizard brain is like, really interested or something, I don’t know, it’s stupid, we’re just people, it’s dumb — “

“Okay, stop.” Namjoon cuts Yoongi off and then laughs, tapping his fingers against Yoongi’s spine. “Sorry, I was gonna let you finish — “

“We don’t need to talk about it, it’s fine — “

“It’s really not all that weird, like, we’ve done stuff before where — “

“It’s just really dumb and not important and I’m sorry that I worried you — “

“I’m, like, a little dominant, and I don’t really mind that or anything — !”

“And it’s not like even a thing that we could really do, it’s just a fantasy kind of thing and — “

“Oh my god, will you stop talking over me, I’m trying to have a conversation with you — “

“I don’t wanna!”

Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. Namjoon immediately bursts into giggles.

“Jesus,” he says. “You’re, like, five.”

“It’s embarrassing!” Yoongi hisses. He can feel his own cheeks heating up, his heart pounding against the inside of his chest. The idea of Namjoon manhandling him, bending Yoongi over the side of the bed while he whines and begs and cries for Namjoon to fuck him, hands twisting into the sheets as Namjoon’s larger body hovers over his own —

“You’re so cute.” Namjoon reaches over and pinches Yoongi’s chin. Frown still tugging at the edges of his lips, Yoongi bats his hand away. “And it’s not impossible.”

Yoongi blinks. “What?” he asks.

“I mean, there are spells,” Namjoon says. He reaches back over, dragging the tips of his fingers down Yoongi’s cheek. “Remember that time I made that — “

“Yes,” Yoongi says. He presses his lips into a thin line. He remembers very well the time Namjoon had made a little jelly toy that would wrap itself around a finger or a hand or Yoongi’s cock and squeeze all of its own accord —

“There’s lots of stuff like that,” Namjoon says. And he’s usually so soft, so kind, so sweet with his big round glasses and his floppy bangs and his dimples pressed into corners of his lips. But in that particular moment he seems everything but soft — confident, amused, like he thinks Yoongi is silly and his worries are inconsequential and his shyness is adorable, and —

Yoongi loves it.

“It wouldn’t be that hard.” Namjoon tilts his head to the side. “Little spells that shift your, uh — mood and biological state aren’t really super difficult — obviously there are the, you know, um, ethical considerations but it’s not like that’s really a problem if you — you know, consent. Obviously. Um.”

Silently, Yoongi stares.

“So I could probably make you, you know. Horny. And dumb. If you wanted.” Namjoon stares at him, bottom lip pinched in between this teeth. “If you — you know, obviously that would take a lot of trust, so it’s fine if you don’t, and I don’t think you mentioned it as, like, a thing you really wanted to try, so you know, that’s, um — “

Yoongi doesn’t know how Namjoon manages to be so wonderful.

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment. Voices spill quietly across them from the television, lapping at the edges of Yoongi’s awareness.

With a sigh, Yoongi pulls back just far enough to shove his toes under the curve of Namjoon’s thigh. “Okay,” he says. “Sounds good.”

He turns away and pretends he can’t see quite how wide Namjoon smiles.

—

They talk about it a little more, obviously.

Historically Yoongi has always had a hard time talking for extended periods of time about things that embarrass him. It’s a little hard for him to acknowledge sex outside of the bedroom — thoughts wash through his mind completely unbidden, but the moment he goes to speak them it’s as if his whole body freezes up — but they manage, regardless.

Yoongi wants it to be a surprise. Wants to give up his control over the situation. Trusts Namjoon more than enough to let him take it.

And he wants to be stupid. Yoongi spends so much of his time worrying — anxious about work or life in general or how far he’ll manage to get before he dies. He gets so nervous talking about sex that they end up discussing everything over five or six separate mini conversations because Yoongi feels like he is going to die trying to get the words to leave his mouth, and — he just wants to be able to let it all go for once.

So they decide on a date. Yoongi will stay over the night before, will clear his schedule, and then at some point during the day Namjoon will literally work his magic.

—

“Uh, going to the store,” Namjoon says as he pulls his jacket on over his shoulders, adjusting the sleeves and flipping the collar up. Yoongi resists the urge to snort at how ridiculous he looks. “Back in like thirty, forty?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. He has his laptop sitting on his knees, in the process of answering a couple of emails and scrolling absentmindedly through his twitter. He really doesn’t have much to do that day, and he’s almost regretting it now — his stomach is tied up in knots, his limbs tingling with nervous anticipation. He doesn’t really know much about magic. He has no idea what Namjoon might spring on him — whether it will be a spoken spell or something he drinks or something else entirely. It’s got him nervous. “I’ll be here.”

Namjoon shuffles awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his keys from one hand to the other, gaze falling to the floor. He seems nervous as well. Yoongi can’t help but smile.

“Okay, um, cool.”

He stands there for a few more moments, hesitating in the doorway. Yoongi turns his gaze back towards his computer, hoping that will break the tension, but Namjoon only continues to hover, weight shifting from heel to heel for nearly thirty seconds before he finally steps out of the doorway and over to the couch.

He bends down, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s forehead. His hip brushes awkwardly against the side-table right next to the couch.

“Love you,” Namjoon says.

Yoongi blinks, turning his gaze upwards. He stretches upwards, rising just far enough to press a chaste kiss to Namjoon’s lips. “Love you, too.”

Namjoon grins, squeezing Yoongi’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says. He wanders over to the front door, shooting a glance over his shoulder before finally tugging it open. “See you in, um — soon, okay?”

Yoongi nods, eyebrows raised. He turns his gaze back towards his computer screen. “Okay, Joonah, I got it.”

—

It’s about ten minutes before Yoongi finally sets his computer on the coffee table and stretches out.

He’s answered all of his emails. He’d refreshed his twitter about twenty times. He’d watched a bunch of dumbass youtube videos. His stomach is twisted up into knots, his thighs tingling every time he remembers what’s going to happen at some point during the day —

Or maybe Namjoon is just psyching him out.

Yoongi glances around the room, squinting suspiciously at his own cup of coffee sitting a few inches from his foot is kicked up onto the table. Namjoon wouldn’t psych him out — that’s weird and manipulative and Namjoon is not honest to a fault.

Well — he is also a little weird, to be fair. But that’s a quality Yoongi can deeply appreciate.

He sighs, standing up for a moment before giving up and collapsing back down onto the couch. He’s tired. He wants Namjoon to be home already. This is torture.

Slowly, he glances up. His eyes catch on a piece of paper sitting on the side-table.

Yoongi squints. That hadn’t been there before.

He reaches for it almost without thinking, mouth watering as he feels the thick parchment in between his fingers. It’s folded into thirds like a pamphlet would be, paper thick and coarse. He doesn’t even think as he unfolds it, eyes immediately catching on the ink-black symbols scribbled down the paper. He can’t stop himself from reading them, eyes soaking in each little stroke, each little hook and dot Yoongi’s stomach somersaults inside of him, throat going dry as he looks at each and every character, hands trembling and eyes watering, and —

He sucks in a sharp breath when he gets to the end. Can feel his toes curl and his heartrate pick up, sheen of sweat materializing on the back of his neck. His mind goes completely blank.

Fuck, Yoongi thinks. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that it’s started. That what he just read was a spell, that Namjoon had created to make Yoongi horny and stupid, but it seems so unimportant. Yoongi groans, his eyes fluttering shut as he soaks in the physical sensations — his thighs tingling and his heart pitter-pattering in his chest, his cock growing hard and he just —

Namjoon.

Yoongi groans, paper falling from his hands. It lands haphazardly on the floor and Yoongi bends in half, clutching at his stomach. Namjoon. Where is Namjoon? Why isn’t he here? Yoongi’s whole body is burning and he’s hard and he wants Namjoon, where is Namjoon — ?

Fuck. What the fuck. Yoongi feels his own jaw drop, tongue lolling in his mouth. He wants cock. He wants Namjoon to be there and he wants Namjoon’s fingers twisted in his hair and he wants Namjoon to fuck his throat, wants to choke on it, wants for Namjoon to be there.

Before he’s even completely aware of it, he has his nose buried in the seat of the couch. It smells like Namjoon, fabric dampening as he breathes against it, breathes it in. His muscles completely relax, his hips falling flush to the cushion. He reaches out, groping blindly for one of the throw pillows and presses it to his face as he begins to kick his hips forward, length of his cock dragging roughly against the material of the couch and it feels good but it’s not enough, just breathing in Namjoon’s scent and not experiencing his touch, his presence.

Yoongi groans. A thin stream of drool drips from his lips, wetting the fabric of the pillow. Where is Namjoon? He thought that not too long ago but Yoongi’s brain can’t seem to hold onto the memories, can’t seem to wrap itself around the concept of time, around the fact that Namjoon isn’t there. Why isn’t he there?

When Yoongi hears the door click open, he nearly tumbles off the couch.

#i think all the italics are fucked up but oh well #i am too tired to fight tumblr on this fine day XD

11 notes · View notes

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

anyways, a little reflection before i go to bed. cw for discussion of survivor politics, that sorta thing

i spend a lot of time thinking about, like. i dunno. i think a lot about WHY people feel the need to write about nastier things, and why i specifically write about the things that i do. most of the fic i’ve produced in the last year about rape has been about the recovery process, about those more meta aspects of identifying as a survivor. i think a lot about how the less well-developed fic is a stepping stone to writing other stuff (it was for me, at least, and i know it has been for others) but. i still feel the urge to write stuff that’s more like...just pornographic? and despite myself i still feel a little bit bad about it. and i think i know why that is, but...i think more of that guilt stemmed from not being aware of WHY exactly i wanted to write it.

i think for me, though, it’s like. sometimes you just wanna see something that’s like the whole world thinks you’re incredibly fucked up and you can’t do anything about that, but -- in your world, in your relationships, you can engage with the thoughts you have in a healthy way that doesn’t tear you down. i know that logically, but sometimes it’s still nice to have the reminder? like i’m not incredibly fucked up or unlovable or anything else, it’s just like...it’s okay?

that’s probably not the most eloquently phrased, but. hence some cnc fic. i feel a lot better after writing it which is kind of HILARIOUS considering it’s probably one of the more “gross” situations i’ve put on paper in the last few years, but. it still feels nice. makes me feel like i’m gonna be okay when it seems as if a lot of the world very much doesn’t want me to be XD

#not writing #tldr i don't give a shit what's good for other people. this is good for me and imma fuckin do it thanks

4 notes · View notes

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

another 1k more of this before i sleep. additional warnings for vaginal sex w/out a condom & some mentions of pregnancy?

Taehyung twists the waistband of her panties in between his fingers and begins to slowly, slowly peel them away from her body. Watches as the fabric slips down her thighs, over her knees, her shins. Taehyung runs his fingers over the thin hair on her legs, over her ankles, folds her knees up so he can slip the panties over her feet, her beautiful fucking feet.

He pauses for a long moment before unabashedly spreading her legs.

"Fuck," he mutters. The word echoes from the walls, quiet and intense. He spreads her thighs even wider, spreading her legs far apart enough that it must cause a bit of a stretch. He doesn't care, though -- is so far past caring, too focused on pressing the tips of his fingers up against her labia. "Jimin, so beautiful, Jimin."

He groans as he slips a finger between her folds. The skin is hot and warm, and he takes a moment to just soak in the sight -- she's cleanly shaven, skin smooth and soft against Taehyung's fingers, and he can make out the line where her skin starts to darken, transitioning from her normal skin tone to a darker honey brown and it's so beautiful, and Taehyung --

He slips one finger inside of her. It's hot. Hot and wet and tight, the ridges of her pussy clenching around his finger, slick completely engulfing his digit and he nearly -- he swears he could come on the spot.

"So wet," Taehyung mutters, biting his lip. He pulls his finger out just far enough to press it back in again, his knuckles flush against her labia. And she is so wet -- like Taehyung touching her had turned her on, even in her dreams. Like she likes what he's doing.

"Oh god." The words spill from his mouth as a little squeak. He knows what he's doing is wrong -- so bad, so bad, he's so bad -- but he can't make himself stop. Doesn't want to. The idea of what he's about to do makes his head spin, his heart race, and his cock throb, front of his sweats completely soaked with precome.

"Whatever I want," he mutters. He stares down at her pussy, circling his thumb very briefly over her clit before he finally gives up with a groan.

He pulls his finger out of her, wiping her slick off on her own thigh.

"All mine." Taehyung's voice is breathless as he pushes his sweatpants down -- just far enough to expose his cock, just far enough that he can push the bare head up against her pussy, can feel the warm and the wet, turns his gaze up towards her completely unconscious face, hands limp against the mattress, tits completely exposed, completely vulnerable, and --

Taehyung should be an awful person for this.

But he still presses the head of his cock up against her entrance. Still twists his fingers in the sheets, still rests his forehead against her chest and kicks his hips forward --

He misses, the first time. His cock slides along the length of her pussy, over her clit. A soft little gasp emerges from Jimin, her chest rising beneath Taehyung's forehead but it feels so fucking good he does it a few times more, kicking his hips, sliding his cock over the length of her folds, so slick, so wet --

It takes a few moments before he gathers himself enough to pull back, pushing himself upright and lining himself up again. "Jimin," he mutters, watching this time as the head of his cock disappears inside her, as he's swallowed up in that heat. "Oh, fuck."

He collapses down against her almost immediately. His forehead is slick with sweat, and he -- he can't believe he's fucking Jimin. Fucking her bare, no condom separating their two bodies, and --

He slides his palm from her thigh up over her hip, her ribs, all the way up to her breasts. "Wanted to fuck you for so long," he says, whole body shivering as he kicks his hips forward, presses his cock all the way inside her, so deep.

She makes a noise beneath him, lips parting, eyebrows furrowing. Almost like it hurts.

"Know it's big," Taehyung says, smile spreading across his lips. He feels so sick, so fucked-up, but he just -- "Know you'd never -- never let me do this, but I want it so bad, Jimin, I just...."

He trails off, sliding his face even further upwards to fit his nose into the crook of her neck. "Feel so good, Jimin, feel so good."

He pushes into her harder, faster. Can't remember the last time he got to fuck anything that wasn't a fleshlight or a loosely-curled fist, the last time he was allowed to. He breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of Jimin's shampoo, her sweat, the way she feels squeezing around him, how lucky Taehyung is.

He opens his mouth and licks a stripe up the side of her neck. "Get to fuck you," he mutters, almost incoherent. His hips throb forward, setting a quick, shallow pace -- feels so good for him, the way Jimin's pussy clenches around him, his breath dampening the patch of skin directly next to his mouth, hand squeezing her breast and pulling at her nipple. "Get to fuck you and you can't do anything about it. Just gotta -- take my cock. So good, such a good girl, my Jimin."

He whispers these words directly into her ear.

Taehyung's mind wanders, from there. His mouth opens and words just spill out, muttering almost incoherently about her boyfriend, about how he's fucking her bare, could do anything, could even come inside of her --

His whole heart squeezes at that thought.

"Could come inside of you," he mutters, breathless. He buries his face in her neck, touches her everywhere he can get his hands on without moving -- over her arms, her thighs, her waist. "Could come inside you, that's -- oh, god."

The last word comes out muffled, completely buried into her skin.

"Are you even on birth control?" he asks. The idea is -- makes his heart thunder in his chest, makes his mouth go completely dry. "Are you -- could get you pregnant, could just -- "

HELLO EVERYONE here is 2.7k of a cnc (RAPE ROLEPLAY, PLEASE BE CAREFUL) doodle i’m working on. the ending thing (if i finish it RIP) will have a textual acknowledgement that it’s a scene, but the beginning part of the fic is played off like it’s real. there are some hints, but still please be careful! and please take an additional warning for roleplayed nonconsensual drug use

idk if that’s like. the MOST clear but that’s about as clear as my brain is capable of making it atm. if you want any additional warnings or feel like phrasing should be revised please lmk!

oh also it’s vmin w/ cis-swapped jimin ;P

Keep reading

18 notes · View notes

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

idk if that’s like. the MOST clear but that’s about as clear as my brain is capable of making it atm. if you want any additional warnings or feel like phrasing should be revised please lmk!

oh also it’s vmin w/ cis-swapped jimin ;P

"Jimin?"

Taehyung pokes his head in through the doorway, leaning his weight against the doorknob. He leans in, listening carefully for a response, tilting his head to the side as he breathes in the scent of Jimin's room. Smells like her laundry detergent and her ever-so-slightly floral perfume. Practically makes his mouth water.

But when a few moments pass without a response, Taehyung leans in a little further, daring to take a step inwards. His eyes adjust to the darkness slowly, room only illuminated by the moonlight filtering in from the barely-open slats of the window. He can just barely make out the shape of her body beneath the blankets, the rise of her shoulder, back turned towards the door, hair spilling out across the pillow.

"Jimin?" Taehyung asks, a little louder this time.

It's summer. The blankets are thin. Taehyung can make out the curve of her hip, the shape of her thighs, even from beneath the material. Something hot and guilty twists in the base of his stomach.

Another long moment passes without response.

"Jimin," he says, one more time. His voice is loud enough to echo off the walls, and -- in a brief moment of panic he realizes that he's completely forgotten what he's supposed to say in case she does wake up. What excuse he's supposed to have had for coming into her bedroom at night, for bothering her at such an odd hour. He bites his lip so hard he nearly tastes blood.

But, thankfully -- there's no response in the next moment.

She's usually a pretty light sleeper, Taehyung knows. He figured it must have worked.

Stomach screwed up with guilt, Taehyung takes a step into the room and closes the door softly behind him. "Jimin?" he says, again -- just to make sure. He can't quite tell if what he's feeling is guilt or fear or arousal, just knows that he bites his own lip so hard it immediately swells up under the press of his teeth.

He creeps around the side of her bed, dragging his fingers along the mussed sheets. Her floor is filthy, covered with articles of clothing that Taehyung haphazardly steps over as he approaches her. He carefully avoids thinking about the other pieces of clothing, the ones too big for her tiny frame that probably smell like musk and spice, like man. Taehyung doesn't want to think about that.

The shadow of his own body falls across her face as he approaches -- and it takes another moment for his eyes to adjust in the low light, but his heart completely melts when he makes out that her little face is turned into the pillow, hand braced over her mouth.

"God," he says. He reaches forward, running his fingers through her hair. "Jimin?" he asks, again. Guilt twists deep in the base of his gut, so tight he feels almost as if he can't breathe, but -- it doesn't stop him. He slides his fingers down her cheek, her neck, breathing in sharply when he feels her pulse throb beneath his fingers. Her skin is so warm. "Jimin?"

No response. Her breath continues at an even pace, sheets rising as she breathes in. Carefully, Taehyung pushes at her shoulder with just enough force to roll her onto her back.

The sound of the sheets rustling seems so loud in the relative silence of the room -- but not nearly as loud as the needy noise that rises from the back of Taehyung's throat. He can't help himself -- not when the sheets slide down her body and reveal the soft rise of her breasts, hidden beneath the tattered fabric of her tank top. Fuck.

She breathes in. Taehyung watches, transfixed, as her breasts rise and fall. The ceiling fan whirs quietly above them, goosebumps breaking out over Taehyung's flesh. If he squints, he can make out the little nubs of her nipples poking out from beneath the black material of her tank top, and --

His gaze snaps up to her face. Her eyes remained blissfully closed, her hands lying limply on either side of her head. Taehyung's mouth waters as he examines her plump lips, the little sliver of white he can make out from behind them. A shiver runs down his spine.

"Jimin," he says again. It comes out more like a moan this time as he reaches forward to cup her cheek, to run his thumb along the plump surface of her lower lip. He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress sagging beneath his weight. She's so beautiful, so fucking beautiful Taehyung feels like his whole body, each molecule is about to vibrate apart into nothingness. He can't believe he did this. He can't believe it worked.

He doesn't even dare breathe as he trails his hands down her neck. Locks the muscles of his legs up completely as he drags the edge of the blanket down further, over her ribs and her hips and her thighs, until he can make out the lacy trim of her panties, and --

Taehyung bites his lip.

"So beautiful," he mutters, almost to himself. She can't hear him. Knows that if the drug is working properly, she won't be able to remember even if she could. He admires the strip of that peeks out from beneath the hem of her tank-top, the dark trail of hair that continues past the waistband of her underwear. He'd seen it a few times in passing in the months he'd lived with her -- whenever she'd pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes to reach the top shelf, whenever she'd bounced on her toes with excitement. He'd never gotten to look at it for so long, so openly, and something in his chest catches with an emotion he can't quite place --

Taehyung listens. Jimin's breathing doesn't shift, remaining slow and steady.

It sinks in for Taehyung, all at once -- he can do whatever he wants to her.

A shiver runs down his spine. He should be guilty. Should feel bad for what he's about to do, but in the face of it, he just -- sinks completely into the fantasy.

"My roommate," he says. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in her hair and pulls. She doesn't wake. Doesn't even stir. "My pretty roommate, Jimin."

He turns his gaze back down towards her breasts.

"Never let me touch," he mutters. His gaze flickers up to the massive cotton button-downs he can see hanging in the closet -- taking up nearly half the space. He smacks his lips and turns his gaze back down. "Never -- never let me touch," he mutters again, like he's trying to convince himself.

A shiver rocks his whole body as he presses his fingers against the strip of skin at the base of her belly, sliding his fingertips just barely up the fabric of her shirt. "But now," he says, slowly pushing the material up her chest, over her belly, her ribs, her tits. "I can do whatever I want."

He's already hard. He can feel his cock twitch almost violently against the material of his sweatpants as he pushes the material of Jimin's tank-top up past her tits, settling across her collarbone. Her head lolls to the side, face completely relaxed. She's never let Taehyung touch her. She's so gorgeous and she --

His eyes flick to the shirts hanging in her closet, to the bedside table sitting next to the empty side of the bed, with the half-empty water bottle and the stick of men's deodorant --

Her boyfriend. She could have a boyfriend.

Taehyung whines as he thinks about that. About slipping a little bit of powder into his roommate's drink at dinner, about watching her collapse, confused and disoriented, into bed. About sneaking in under the cover of night to touch her -- all without her boyfriend knowing.

Taehyung bites both his lips, cinching his mouth shut.

"You're so -- god." Taehyung's hands shake as he reaches forward to drag his fingers along her bare breasts -- at first he only gently cups them in his hands. The action feels almost reverent, so tender and gentle. Taehyung feels like every nerve ending in his body is on fire, and he squeezes them so gently, nipples pebbling completely as he plays with her.

"I can do whatever I want," he says. He scoots more firmly onto the bed, leaning in closer. Carefully, he drags his thumbs over her nipples and outright groans when he feels them -- soft, brown skin under his thumbs. He's so hard he doesn't even know what to do with himself, barely resisting the urge to twist his hips and rut down into the mattress. "Nothing you can do about it, Jimin, just -- whatever I want."

He squeezes her tits again. They're so soft in his hands, and he -- he slides his palms over each of them, feeling her nipples drag against the flat of his palms. He groans when he twists his wrists, rolling her perfect little nipples in between his thumb and forefinger, pinching them tight and pulling upwards just to see her tits follow, and it's so -- so obscene. Not something Taehyung is supposed to see, not when --

"Just your roommate," Taehyung says, breath quickening. "Not your -- wonder what your boyfriend would think."

He lets her nipples go, watching her breasts fall back against her chest. For a split second, he catches her eyebrows furrowed as if in confusion out of the corner of his eye -- before her expression goes completely blank once again.

"Your -- boyfriend. Comes over. Leaves all his things here." Taehyung leans down, pressing a dry kiss to the swell of her ribs. She's so beautiful. Taehyung's wanted her for so long, and now he just -- he gets her. He gets whatever he wants. "All the clothes, and the -- " his eyes dart around the room for a moment before he promptly decides he doesn't care enough to clarify. "Clothes."

He drags the tips of his fingers over Jimin's neck, her collar, the ever-so-slightly damp crook of her armpit. "All mine," he says.

His eyes slide down to the waistband of her panties.

He sucks in a sharp breath, yanking them back up. "I'm not supposed to take much," he whispers, fumbling quickly for his phone where it rests in the pocket of his sweats. Her breasts are still bare, nipples pebbled in the breeze. He'd thought about touching her for so long, that should -- that should be enough.

Hesitantly, he turns his gaze down to his phone screen and hits the camera button.

It's not quite light enough, at first. Taehyung has to stumble over to the window and shift the blinds, allowing more moonlight into the room. It drapes across her body like a cloak, illuminating her skin, the little moles she has scattering her ribs, the two on her left breast. She's gorgeous.

Silently, Taehyung points the camera at her and starts to take photos.

"Not supposed to take much," he says. His cock is hard in his sweats -- should be clearly visible if her eyes were to suddenly flick open. "Just enough -- you know." Just enough for him to jerk off to later. Nothing to hurt her, just -- just a little.

Without thinking too hard about it, he sits down on the side of the bed again and starts a video. The camera shakes as he holds it, capturing her unconscious face and the soft rise and fall of her tits as she breathes. He doesn't think about it too hard as he reaches forward, squeezing one tit and then the other, thumbing over each of the nipples, and then -- his fingers trail up towards her mouth all on their own, two fingertips gently nudging her lower lip down and pressing into that hot wet space, fucking into her --

Abruptly, he ends the video.

He's not supposed to take much, but -- who's there to stop him.

He sets his phone on her bedside table, breath picking up as his gaze slides down to her hips, to the fabric of her dark blue panties with the lacy trim. They look so sexy, and as Taehyung continues to look -- her thighs parted ever so slightly -- he can make out the spot where the fabric begins to fold in on itself, the seam of her pussy, the outline of the rise of her labia, and --

He bites his lip. "Fuck," he mutters.

With a sense of urgency, he pushes the waistband of his sweats down just far enough to let his cock bounce free. His heart rattles in his chest, pounding against the inside of his sternum, and as he wraps his fist around the thick base, he thinks -- this will help him calm down. To take the edge off.

He watches her as he strokes himself. Nothing too intense, just -- he rolls his fist over the length, teasing ever so slightly at the head. Watches her chest rise and fall, watches her nipples go softer in the absence of stimulation. She's so fucking beautiful, so hot, Taehyung just can't --

He clenches his jaw.

He could do a little more, right? It's not like anyone would ever know.

He pushes himself up onto his knees very slowly. Shuffles the space in between the two of them before tossing his knee over torso. He stares down at her, straddling her chest with his cock in his hand, and --

His breath catches in his throat. It makes him feel powerful.

"I can do whatever I want," he says -- and this time, instead of feeling like a realization, it feels like an empowerment. He can do whatever he wants. "You can't stop me," he mutters. He feels himself sinking deeper and deeper, mind going ever so slightly fuzzy with the fantasy. "Boyfriend can't -- wonder how he'd feel about this."

Taehyung angles his cock down and touches the head to one of her nipples. He can feel it go hard against his own sensitive skin, and -- watches his own precome smear across her nipple. He drags the head side to side a few times, biting his lip at the stimulation, before repeating the process on her other nipple.

It's obscene. Kind of fucking weird, also, but -- obscene.

He can't remember ever being this hard in his life. The velvet-soft skin of his cock feels so thin, giving way to rock-hard flesh just underneath. Precome drips freely from the head, sliding down the shaft or dribbling onto Jimin's chest in thick, clear drops as he sits there, completely still, trying to figure out what to do.

But the answer is rather obvious, he thinks, as he reaches forward and twists his fingers in her bangs. He gets to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Taehyung bites his lower lip in between his teeth again as he shuffles forward, just close enough that he can rub the head of his cock over her cheeks. He watches, breatheless, as he smears precome across her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, and then her lips, and --

He barely even hesitates before pushing his cock into her mouth.

It's an incredible sensation. The knowledge that he's doing something wrong, so wrong, but her tongue is soft and warm and wet against the head of his cock. He doesn't fuck in too deeply, just enough to get a nice sensation out of it, doesn't -- doesn't choke her. He'd never been good with things like that, but --

All at once, he groans. Guiltily, he turns over his shoulder and stares down at her dark blue panties, cock still buried between her lips, and -- he knows what he wants.

Taehyung shoves his dick back into his pants quickly, scrambling down to the foot of the bed, spreading her legs. She's so beautiful, and she'd said he could do this, they'd talked everything out, she had said it would be fine --

If he hears a small little huff of amusement from above him, he completely ignores it.

#im excited to write the end of this i think it'll be fun #anyways i'm exTREMELY nervous about this but. i hope yall enjoy hahaha

18 notes · View notes

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

MORE BUY ME LOVE DON’T READ THIS UNLESS YOU’VE READ THE REST OF THE FIC HELL YEAH

this is all 5k of the next chapter but you can skip to the *** if you already read the thing i posted a few days ago

When Namjoon walks straight past the open door to Yoongi’s bedroom, Jimin is surprised.

To be completely honest, there’s no reason he should be — he’d known that Yoongi’s apartment was bigger than what he’d already seen. There’s a door off to the side of the living room that Jimin hadn’t been in, and a long hall that extends past the entrance to Yoongi’s bedroom. And the only other door Jimin had ever seen on the same floor was on the opposite side of the hallway from Yoongi’s, which implies to Jimin that his single apartment talks up half of the floor.

Maybe it’s the circumstances, Jimin thinks as he follows Namjoon down the hallway. The base of Jimin’s stomach twists into a knot as he processes what he had seen in Yoongi’s bedroom as the two of them had passed — the empty blue gin bottles, sheets strewn across the floor, lamp knocked off the side of the table. Namjoon had said that Yoongi was okay — is okay — and he had walked right past Yoongi’s bedroom as if he had known exactly where Yoongi would be. As if this had happened plenty of times before.

Jimin swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t quite know how to parse the strange feeling of anxiety that settles in the base of his stomach, that clings to the underside of his skin, that twists sour in the back of his mouth.

He really shouldn’t be so worried, he thinks, as he watches Namjoon come to a stop in front of the last door on the right of the hallway. What would it matter to him even if Yoongi was dead?

Namjoon twists the doorknob, grumbling quietly to himself when he receives only a tinny clanking sound in response. The door is locked.

Jimin twists his fingers into the material of his pants, his teeth digging into the inside of his bottom lip. He’d already chewed it half to death on the way over here, the skin tender and swollen, but that doesn’t stop him. Rationally, it shouldn’t matter to him whether Yoongi lives or dies — he seems like a shitty person and it’s not like Jimin has any sort of obligation to care about him.

But the longer he stands there, watching Namjoon push himself up onto the tips of his toes to feel along the sill of the doorframe for a spare key, the worse Jimin feels about it. The worse he feels about himself.

“God fucking damn it,” Namjoon mutters. Jimin takes a moment to look at him properly — when he’s not distracted by being fucked out of his mind or worried about Namjoon thinking he had stolen something from Yoongi. His shoulders are broad, his face wide, his hips narrow and his ass flat. He’s wearing a button-up shirt, slacks, shiny black shoes that reflect so much light Jimin thinks he could probably see his own distorted reflection in the toe. His black hair is carefully combed back from his forehead, but Jimin watches his bangs fall into his eyes as he collapses back on his heels with a sigh. A little silver key peeks out from in between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why the fuck,” Namjoon mutters. He pushes his bangs away from his eyes. “He’s not even fucking tall enough to reach this anyways.”

Namjoon shoves the little key into the lock, twisting it harshly. The door swings in with almost no sound at all, only the echo of the air conditioning shifting as the shape of the space changes.

Namjoon walks in without saying anything else. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to check whether Jimin is following him, doesn’t invite Jimin in, doesn’t explain to him what this room is or why the door had been locked or anything. Jimin hesitates in the threshold for a long moment, hands clasped behind his back — doesn’t know why he feels so anxious, why he feels like he needs to be welcomed in, why he feels so much like he shouldn’t be here.

But after a gut-twisting moment, Jimin takes a step forward and steps into the room. It becomes obvious to him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the reason he feels as if he shouldn’t be here is because he shouldn’t be.

But he is already here, so — there’s no point in backing out now.

Silently, Jimin remembers some of the first words Yoongi had ever said to him: You didn't put in all that effort just to chicken out, did you?

The room itself looks as if it was set up for a guest. There’s a queen-size bed pressed up against the far wall, matching side-tables on both sides, a plastic lamp sitting politely in the center of each. The walls are papered over with a bland floral pattern, the bedspread seafoam green and dark brown. A dresser stands at the opposite wall.

No Yoongi. Jimin curls his toes into the carpet, feeling it give beneath his digits even through the material of his socks.

Namjoon walks straight past the bed, past the dresser. For a moment, Jimin wonders where in the world Namjoon could possibly be going — before he notices the frosted glass closet door tucked into the corner of the room.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon says. He knocks against the door, the glass rattling beneath the force of it. “It’s been days. It’s time to come out.”

A long moment of silence follows.

Namjoon sighs. He knocks on the wall next to the door, the sound echoing throughout the entire room. “Yoongi. Open the fucking door.”

Jimin bites his lip, taking a shaky step back. He feels like he shouldn’t be here. He feels like he’s watching something that he really, truly should not be present for.

The open door clunks loudly against the wall as Jimin backs into it.

Quietly, a buzzer sounds. Namjoon sighs, slamming his hand down onto the doorknob and pulling the door open.

Jimin can’t make much out of the closet. His stomach pitches with nerves as he watches Namjoon disappear inside — catches a glimpse of what looks like a desk, a computer monitor, a stack of plates and a few empty glass bottles scattered along the floor. Jimin can make out a single sneaker alongside the wheeled foot of a desk chair.

“Hyung,” Namjoon says. “Jesus.”

“I know, I know,” Yoongi says. His voice rumbles from beyond the room, scratchy and tired. Jimin had always thought Yoongi’s voice was sexy — one of the most attractive things about him — but in that moment he just sounds old. “I’m sorry.”

A wave of stale air rushes from the tiny closet — it takes a moment of thought before Jimin remembers that Yoongi does music, and the little computer room is probably a studio — and Jimin immediately recognizes the scent of sweat and weed. He wrinkles his nose.

“It’s been a fucking week.”

“I know, Namjoon, I just — “

“I don’t know why you keep doing this.” The sound of a bottle clanking loudly against the floor. Jimin sucks in a sharp breath. It sounds to him as if Namjoon had kicked it. “What the fuck does this accomplish for you?”

“I was just — I needed to make something.”

“What did you fucking make? Did you actually get anything done?”

“Shut up.”

Jimin stares down at his toes. He should leave. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be listening to this, doesn’t want to fucking know about this, doesn’t want to have to hear this — but something keeps him glued to the spot. The base of his stomach throbs with some kind of vulnerability, some urge that keeps him standing there with his hands clasped in the small of his back and eyes trained carefully on the tips of his toes.

“Hyung — “

Jimin watches, out of the corner of his eye, as the foot of the chair disappears behind the door. A loud thunk resonantes throughout the room, like it had crashed into the wall.

“Just fuckin’ — just fuckin’ drop it, okay? Just stop.” Jimin can make out one sliver of Yoongi’s shoulder and watches how it sways, growing wider before eventually vanishing almost entirely behind the door. “I’m fuckin’ — trashed. Shut up.”

Namjoon sighs.

Jimin’s fingers curl into fists in the small of his back.

“I’ve got — three fuckin’ addictive substances in my body right now, and you’re — “

“Three?” Namjoon interrupts. “Jesus fucking christ, please tell me the — “

“It’s caffeine, you — “ Yoongi’s whole sentence comes to a stop as he hiccups. “Dipshit.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says. He takes a deep breath in, steadying himself. “Okay, that’s — “

“Fuck you,” Yoongi interrupts. Jimin has no time to prepare himself before Yoongi throws the door open, stepping out into the guest bedroom in one confident, off-balance motion, and —

“Oh,” he says. His whole body pitches forward, and Jimin — he sucks in a sharp breath, pressing himself more firmly against the wood of the door. This feels different than the other times he’s seen Yoongi drunk. His face is bright red and his hair is mussed, his pupils visibly unfocussed. He stares at Jimin in a way that makes him feel as if Yoongi is staring right through him. “Jimin.”

Painfully, Jimin stretches his lips into a thin line he hopes is somewhat reminiscent of a real smile. “Hi,” he says.

Yoongi pauses. Namjoon stares out at him, briefly locking eyes with Jimin over his shoulder. Jimin opens his mouth — wants to say something, but doesn’t know quite what. Yoongi looks like a fucking disaster. The apartment reeks of weed and sweat and vomit, and Jimin can’t seem to work past the bags under Yoongi’s eyes, the pallor of his skin, the way his whole body shudders as he takes another step forward and Namjoon has to reach out to give him something to support himself on —

“He thought you were dead.”

“He’s here,” Yoongi says, following the statement with a quiet hum. He leans back into Namjoon just as Jimin leans back against the doorway, hands sandwiched in between his back and the wood. Slowly, Yoongi turns his head to stare back at Namjoon. “He’s really fucking hot.”

An uncomfortable shiver runs down Jimin’s spine. Namjoon sighs.

“And he’s Korean,” Yoongi says. His s drags out, airy and ill-defined. He tilts his head back onto Namjoon’s shoulder and laughs, long and low. “I didn’t ask, but ‘is name is — his name is Jimin. Of course he’s Korean.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says. He shoots a somewhat apologetic look Jimin’s way, eyes wide and lips quirking up at the edges. He looks tired. “Sit down.”

“You’re Korean,” Yoongi says as Namjoon shuffles him over towards the bed. He collapses down on the edge of the mattress and stares up at the ceiling. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole, though.”

“Indeed,” Namjoon says. He grabs a wastebasket from the corner of the room and walks back over to the tiny closet room with a sigh, running his fingers through his hair as he bends over and starts collecting the bottles. “My ethnicity does not make me a nice person.”

“Fuck you,” Yoongi says. “I made music.”

“You made crap,” Namjoon answers. A harsh, unstoppable note of anger rises in his voice as he tosses an empty bottle into the wastebasket. “You never make anything good when you’re drunk.”

“I made Tomorrow,” Yoongi mutters. He turns onto his side to face Jimin, shoulder crumpling beneath the weight of his body. His eyes remain closed, only carefully fluttering open after a few moments. His gaze fixes blankly on Jimin. “That was good.”

“You weren’t fucking drunk,” Namjoon says. Another bottle hits the bottom of the wastebin. “We’ve talked about this.”

“You’re wrong,” Yoongi says. “I was drunk.”

Namjoon sucks in a deep breath. Jimin watches him straighten his shoulders, standing all the way up and breathing in deeply. “No use arguing with a drunk person,” he says. He repeats the words as if he is reciting them, as if they’re something he’s had spoken to him many times. “No use. No use. No use.”

Jimin swallows.

Slowly, he turns his gaze back to Yoongi. Jimin nearly jumps out of his own skin when he sees Yoongi staring back at him with a fully present gaze.

“Sorry,” Yoongi mutters. He blinks slowly, his mouth falling open. “This is uncomfortable.”

Jimin glances to the left. To the right. A long moment passes before he realizes that Yoongi expects him to respond.

Quickly, Jimin nods.

Yoongi hums. Namjoon continues to throw bottles into the wastebin as Yoongi himself sits up, setting wide palms on his thighs. He looks like a ghost — thin and tired and empty. Something a lot like guilt swoops low in Jimin’s stomach.

“Come here,” Yoongi says.

Silently, with hands still clasped in the small of his back, Jimin obeys.

Once he is within arms reach, Yoongi reaches out and presses his palm to Jimin’s cheek. His skin is warm and red, uncomfortably slick. Yoongi’s entire face is flushed bright red, his mouth open as if he’s trying to cool down. All at once, Jimin’s entire brain bursts into worry — wonders if Yoongi is okay, if being that hot for so long is normal, if he’s sick and running a fever, or —

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi says. His breath smells of alcohol and earth. Jimin struggles not to wrinkle his nose. “I didn’t text you.”

Yoongi stares up at him, eyes wide. His lips part, his cheeks flushed bright red. He stares at Jimin, completely open, completely regretful, and Jimin —

He opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You need a shower,” Namjoon sighs. He sets the wastebin down on the carpeted floor of the guest room with an angry clank. “You said your name is Jimin, right?”

He glances up, meeting Namjoon’s gaze with furrowed brows. Yoongi leaves his palm on Jimin’s cheek, and after a moment Jimin reaches up as if to remove it, but just — doesn’t. He leaves the tips of his fingers against the back of Yoongi’s palm, lower lip bitten in between his teeth.

Namjoon sighs. “How about…” He trails off as he reaches into his back pocket. Jimin’s eyes widen when he pulls out his wallet. “Three hundred? To give him a shower.”

He pulls a cluster of fifties out over the lip. As if to prove that he has them.

“Fuck you,” Yoongi mutters, before collapsing back onto the bed.

Jimin’s mouth falls open. His first thought is that — Yoongi is sitting right there. Regardless of whether he’s drunk and high or a shitty person, that’s —

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to fuck him, just — make sure he doesn’t fucking drown. Or pass out and hurt himself.”

Jimin continues to stare at Namjoon, eyes wide.

He doesn’t think there’s much about his expression that conveys acquiescence, but regardless — Namjoon doesn’t seem to think it’s much of a question. He picks up the wastebasket, pats Jimin on the shoulder, and walks directly out of the room.

A knot twists in the base of Jimin’s stomach.

He feels gross, but — when Yoongi glances down at his own thighs and mutters a quiet, sorry, Jimin realizes he doesn’t feel gross about Yoongi.

“It’s okay,” Jimin says. He wraps one arm around Yoongi’s shoulder and gently pushes him to his feet. “It’s alright.”

***—***

“You came back.”

Yoongi stares at Jimin from beneath the spray of the shower — his fancy double-headed shower, because even if there is one in the guest room Jimin feels more comfortable in familiar territory. His hair is wet, slicked flat to the expanse of his forehead. He looks a bit like a sad, wet dog. In other circumstances, Jimin might laugh.

But in the present, he just wrinkles his eyebrows. “Yeah?” he says, peeling his socks off and dropping them haphazardly on the floor and stepping into the shower with Yoongi. He closes the sliding glass door behind him and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. It feels good to be away from Namjoon. “I didn’t leave.”

“I thought you were going to,” Yoongi says. He wobbles forward, and Jimin reaches out reflexively to grab him by the elbows. His body seems so old and small as he leans into Jimin, his toes digging into the slightly textured surface of the shower floor. “Everyone always leaves.”

Something twists in the base of Jimin’s gut.

It should be pathetic. Or at least confusing — it’s not like Jimin has any idea what Yoongi is talking about. Who leaves him. But instead his whole body shivers with something like pity. Sympathy, maybe, because Jimin can’t imagine being so old and so sad and having your best friend (because what else could Namjoon possibly be to him?) offer to pay other people to take care of you, to treat you like a burden. Maybe empathy, because Jimin also knows what it feels like to be alone.

He stands there, staring at Yoongi with his narrow shoulders and his slumped neck, awkwardly arched back. Jimin misses Hoseok.

He misses Hoseok so much, sometimes.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi says. “I’m so sorry.”

Jimin quirks his lips into a smile. It isn’t completely genuine, but he — he wants to smile rather than feeling obligated to. And he feels like that’s worth something.

“It’s okay,” Jimin says. He runs his hands up Yoongi’s arms and over his shoulders. His skin is hot and wet, slowly turning even more red beneath the hot spray of water. “Let’s wash your hair.”

—

There’s something cathartic about washing Yoongi.

Jimin supposes it probably feels like returning the favor — or, he considers after a minute, maybe not. Returning the favor makes it sound as if it was an activity Jimin enjoyed. He isn’t entirely sure if that’s the case. It might be more accurate to call it a reintervention. A subversion. The return to the musical themes at the end of a play.

None of those feel quite right, either.

Jimin supposes it’s probably difficult to describe something when he doesn’t even know how he felt about it in the first place.

But regardless, washing Yoongi is — nice. Jimin runs his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, lathering shampoo against his scalp and directing him to tilt his head back. Jimin braces his hand against the top of Yoongi’s forehead to keep water from running into his eyes, just like his mother used to do for him when he was young. Yoongi closes his eyes and tilts his head back, slides his fingers over Jimin’s hips.

“This is really not sexy,” Yoongi says, after a long moment. His words come out slightly slurred and uneven, as if they’re bubbling out of his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Jimin tilts his head to the side. He breathes out, air sighing past his lips. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t know what to feel.

“It’s okay,” Jimin says. Something a lot like pity stirs in the base of his stomach. Jimin doesn’t really know what to do about it, or think about it, or anything — but he does know that he feels bad. “It doesn’t need to be — all the time, you know? Not everything.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to be like,” Yoongi says. He leans forward, his forehead landing on Jimin’s shoulder with a force that sends Jimin rocking backwards, struggling to keep their balance. “I can’t even do that right. And you’re so hot.” The last word comes out as a whine, gurgled into Jimin’s skin. It’s so ridiculous Jimin nearly finds himself laughing. “And you’re Korean.”

This time, Jimin does laugh. “I am,” he says.

Yoongi grunts. “Do you know how many hot Korean dudes there are here?”

He asks like it’s a rhetorical question which has a very obvious answer. Jimin wrinkles his eyebrows.

“Um,” Jimin starts. “A lot?”

Slowly, Yoongi raises his head from Jimin’s shoulder. Water beats down against his back, occasionally jumping up to spray Jimin lightly in the face. “Yeah,” Yoongi says, after a moment. His eyes are wide like something revolutionary has dawned on him. “Yeah.”

He leans back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. Jimin hums. He knows this isn’t healthy — has gathered that Yoongi has been here for days, working on his music and drinking and smoking and probably not sleeping or eating, judging by the state of his apartment. But there’s something at least a little amusing about his demeanor.

“But you’re the best.”

His hands land on Jimin’s shoulders before they migrate up towards his face, cupping Yoongi’s cheeks gently in his palms.

It’s sweet.

Jimin doesn’t really know how to reconcile that.

“Oh?” Jimin asks. He leans to the side and picks up the bottle of soap, squirting a moderate portion onto his palm. He smiles to himself. “Is that so.”

Yoongi leans in, pressing their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he says. Jimin hums, lathering soap in between his fingers before he runs his fingers down Yoongi’s ribs, his hips, over his dark nipples. “I’m so sorry.”

Jimin sighs, shushing Yoongi quietly. Discomfort stirs in the base of his stomach.

“I’m such a piece of shit,” Yoongi says. His fingers lock behind Jimin’s neck. “I can’t — can’t ever — I’m so sorry — it just feels so good and I’m so fucking selfish I can’t make myself stop, I’m so fucked up, I’m so sorry and I know it’s not enough, but — “

And Jimin — it’s maybe a shitty thing to admit, but he’s been with plenty of friends when they’re blackout drunk. He’s been there plenty of times himself. He knows when someone is beyond the point of incoherence, beyond the point of being consoled or helped by trying to actually discuss with them. And Jimin isn’t sure if anything he could say would make Yoongi feel better, anyways.

At least, not anything that’s true.

“Yoongi,” Jimin says. He gently untangles Yoongi’s fingers from around his neck, trying to ignore the way his chest shakes with the beginnings of sobs, the way his skin breaks out in goosebumps. “Stop.”

Yoongi stares up at him with eerily focused eyes.

Jimin runs his fingers through Yoongi’s hair. “You’re drunk.”

“I know,” Yoongi says. He takes in a deep breath like he’s about to start crying again, tears mingling with the water, and then —

“No, hey, it’s okay.” Jimin runs his fingers down the back of Yoongi’s neck. It shouldn’t be his job to take care of Yoongi like this — he should be bitter or uncomfortable or anything else, but instead he just feels...peaceful. “It’s alright. We’re just not going to worry about anything. And we’re going to get you clean, and then we’re going to get you to sleep. Okay?”

Jimin smiles.

Yoongi is old. Nearly forty. Jimin wonders when was the last time he had someone take care of him, or —

His mind flashes back to the way Namjoon had pulled out his wallet with a sigh. The way his lips had formed around the words Three hundred? To give him a shower. Jimin feels a little bit sick.

He wonders how long it’s been since Yoongi’s had someone in his life who actually cares about him.

“Everything’s okay,” Jimin says. He runs his soapy hands over Yoongi’s shoulders, down his arms. “Just going to get through this, okay?”

A long moment passes before Yoongi responds.

“Okay,” he says. “Alright.”

—

Jimin towels Yoongi’s hair dry. He digs a pair of soft pajamas out from his dresser — which is in complete disarray due to the fact that Namjoon had only managed to clean up the guest room and the living room. He hands them to Yoongi and watches out of the corner of his eye as he steps into them. The material is soft, silky. A designer label Jimin can’t quite place is emblazoned on the bottom of the shirt, and somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to Jimin that it’s quite possible that one pair of pajamas could pay his rent this months.

A wave of bitterness rises up in his throat before quickly dying down again.

That’s just the way the world is, sometimes. There’s no reason for Jimin to be upset about it. He likes his life, and it’s obvious — even if Yoongi doesn’t have problems with money, there are other areas in his life which are lacking in abundance.

Jimin’s mind flashes back to Namjoon.

He has to swallow around the lump in his throat.

The dishwasher hums in the background as Jimin walks Yoongi down the hall. Every so often Yoongi’s feet seem to kick out from under him, or he’ll wobble to the side, or he’ll stumble just a bit into the wall. Jimin keeps his arm wrapped firmly around Yoongi’s shoulders and guides him carefully towards the bedroom, squeezing him tightly.

It isn’t until Jimin has already opened the bedroom door and started to push Yoongi inside that he hears Namjoon begin to approach them.

A sour taste rises in the back of Jimin’s throat. He tries to ignore it as he sets Yoongi down on the edge of the bed, runs his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, watches as Yoongi stares up at him with wide, distant eyes.

He’s a shitty person. Jimin shouldn’t feel bad for him.

Namjoon’s breath echos off the walls of the room. “Hey,” he says. “Ji-Jimin.”

When Jimin turns, Namjoon is fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. He shoves his fingers inside, counts out six fifty-dollar bills, and extends them out towards Jimin, folded in half.

Jimin’s shoulders stiffen.

A moment passes in silence. “Here,” Namjoon says, raising his eyebrows. He extends his arm a little further in Jimin’s direction, bringing the small wad of bills closer, and Jimin —

He feels a little bit sick.

“This is what you’re here for, right?”

Jimin sucks in a sharp little breath. Yoongi says nothing, but Jimin can hear him collapse back on the blankets, body hitting the mattress with a muted thud! Jimin doesn’t know how to explain what he feels, just knows — Namjoon is raising his eyebrows at him, is talking about Yoongi like he’s just a thing, just an inconvenience and Jimin doesn’t like him, definitely doesn’t like him because he’s a shitty person. But Jimin just feels like — no one should be treated like that. At least not by their friends.

Jimin’s skin crawls. He feels his cheeks heat, his fingers dig into the sweatpants he’d borrowed from Yoongi’s dresser, stray droplets of water sliding down the back of his neck, and —

He wants this interaction to be over.

He reaches forward and snatches the bills from Namjoon. Silently, with teeth gritted, he shoves them into his back pocket.

Almost immediately, Jimin feels his belly twist with guilt.

“Okay,” Namjoon sighs. “Is he good?”

“I”m fuckin’ fine, you jackass,” Yoongi says. “I’m drunk, not fuckin’ — in ‘e hospital or dying or what the fuck ever. Not even ‘at drunk.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he has to physically restrain himself from — something, although Jimin isn’t sure what. But the emotion is buried only a moment later, his hand dropping and his features going blank. “Thanks for helping out, Jimin. I’ll walk you out, if you want.”

Jimin hesitates. “Um — “ he starts.

Yoongi cuts him off. “My feet feel funny,” he says. The sheets rustle as if he’s rolling over. “I’m going to sleep.”

Jimin stiffens his shoulders and looks Namjoon directly in the eye. He doesn’t hesitate before he speaks. “I’m going to stay.”

Namjoon blinks.

“Um,” he says. “Okay.” The last word comes out as a sigh — he sounds disappointed, or possibly even annoyed. Reflexively, Jimin hunches his shoulders inward and bows his head.

“If you’d like for me to, that is, um…?” Jimin starts, turning his head to peer back at Yoongi, who delivers no more than a simple thumbs up from where he lies sprawled on the bed. “Okay.”

He turns back to Namjoon, lips pressed into a thin line.

Namjoon sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I can give you another 150, but that’s really not — “

Panic rolls up in Jimin’s throat before he can even think about it. He doesn’t react with thought, just with a gut feeling not completely unlike the sense of discomfort he’d experienced that first night he’d met Yoongi —

“Stop,” Jimin says, holding his hands out. Namjoon is halfway through reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “Trying to — pay me. Stop.”

Silence hangs for a long moment. Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow into an expression Jimin can’t quite place as confusion or annoyance or some kind of worry.

But he doesn’t really have the chance to think about it for an extended period of time. In the next moment, Yoongi rises up from the bed, wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, and mutters very incoherently, “Stop tryin’a pay my whores, Joonah. That’s my job.”

Jimin’s entire face immediately turns bright red. He digs his fingers into the place where Yoongi’s hands meet over his belly, and it’s not — it’s not pretty. It’s not pretty or kind or anything even remotely like what Jimin imagined this would be like, some horrible sense of shame stirring deep in the pit of his gut, and Namjoon just —

He makes a noise that sounds a little pained and mutters, “Whatever,” before turning out of the room and closing the door behind him.

Yoongi’s forehead presses against the small of Jimin’s back. He’s warm, and his breath ruffles the material of Jimin’s borrowed shirt. Jimin clutches at his hands, heart pounding against the inside of his chest and the thought — the thought that whore is all Yoongi fucking thinks of him drifts unbidden into the front of Jimin’s mind.

He braces a hand over his mouth and bites into the blade of his tongue.

“Sorry,” Yoongi mutters. His voice comes out unsteady. Jimin tries to calm the raging dragon in the base of his belly that makes him want to — he doesn’t even know what. He doesn’t know. It just hurts. “I’m drunk.”

A long moment passes in silence.

“Shit,” Yoongi mutters. He pulls back from Jimin, collapsing back down onto the bed again. “I’m so fucking drunk.”

Jimin sucks in a deep breath, shaking his hands out and clenching his muscle groups one by one — calves, thighs, arms, shoulders, stomach —

“Yeah,” he says. The tension flows out of him in one small word, leaving his body like a wave rolling back from the beach. “Yeah, you are.”

8 notes · View notes

yumikkaku · 7 years ago

Text

here’s a preview of the next chapter of bml...warnings for all the things that go on in buy me love i guess?? i wouldn’t suggest reading unless you’ve read the fic in the first place lmao