Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s the only time of year when Yoongi feels like anything he does matters. The trophies for Best Actor and Best Fetish Scene sit in front of him on the table, glinting in the low light. They both came as a surprise. He never thinks he deserves any awards, even if some part of him has come to expect them. 

At this point, though, he’s just biding his time until he can leave. 

RM, a Dom Yoongi has never heard of, is leaving the stage with the Best Newcomer award. With that out of the way, the host returns to announce the fan choice awards, which means the show is almost over.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Last year, he had taken home the fan award for Favorite Dom. Three consecutive years before that, he’d been awarded Favorite Sub. 

He won’t win this year. He’s not expecting to win. Still, he finishes off his water, wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks, and scoots his chair back from the table. Just in case.

The host slowly breaks the seal on the glossy black envelope. “And the Dom the fans got on their knees for this year,” they start. As they unfold the card, their eyes lock with Yoongi’s—just for a moment. Taehyung, Yoongi’s agent, reaches over and squeezes his knee. 

This is it. The best part. The worst part. Yoongi can’t help but want awards, recognition, but he never knows what to say no matter how much time he spends thinking it over. He dreads this as much as he looks forward to it. 

“Oh.” The host’s smile slips for a moment, then broadens as they turn their attention in the opposite direction. “Our very own Best Newcomer, RM!” 

Yoongi’s legs flex as he starts to stand, only to give up as the words sink in, leaving him to flop back against his chair. His startled “what?” is drowned out under the applause. 

He doesn’t care.

It doesn’t matter. 

It’s just that when RM returns to the stage, his smile is so broad that his eyes are pressed into crescents, deep dimples digging into his cheeks. He starts his speech with this fumbling, “oh wow, I can’t believe it—this is such an honor,” and Yoongi kind of wants to gag. 

“An honor,” he mutters under his breath, leaning in close to Taehyung’s ear. “It’s porn, for fuck’s sake—not the Nobel Peace Prize.” 

It’s loud enough in the convention hall that the sound of Taehyung’s laugh is drowned out, but Yoongi can see the hitch of his shoulders and the way he bites his cheek to hold back a smile. 

“You know,” RM says, “I always told myself if I ended up with a public platform of some kind, I’d use it for good. I can’t say I ever expected that platform to be porn, of all things, but here we are. I just wanted to take a moment to say that everything we have is due to the fact that we live on a planet that sustains life. It’s the only reason we have the luxury to film ourselves fucking each other.”

What the fuck is he talking about? Yoongi shoots a desperate glance at Taehyung, but he’s listening politely, fingers interlaced on his folded knee. 

Jimin is sitting on Yoongi’s left, smiling down at his lap as he types away on his phone. Yoongi wishes he had someone to text to avoid listening to this. His only friends, Taehyung and Jimin, are right here with him. 

“But climate change is killing our planet,” RM goes on, “and it’s up to us to stop it.” 

Nope. That’s enough. 

Yoongi looks around the room helplessly, but everyone else is captivated, nodding in agreement. And it’s not like Yoongi doesn’t agree, per se—it’s just that this is a nuanced conversation and, well, they’re pornstars. This is the adult entertainment awards, not a fucking climate change summit. And this asshole came out of nowhere and thinks he can preach to them? That he has the power to change the world because some horny fans like the look of his dick? 

Ridiculous. 

Yoongi won’t sit here and suffer through the secondhand embarrassment. He shoves himself out of his chair. When Taehyung shoots him a concerned glance, Yoongi mutters, “Gotta piss.” 

He weaves around tables, sidestepping awkwardly between people who’ve chosen to stand and mingle, until, finally, he pushes open one of the doors at the far end of the conference room. It’s only marginally less crowded in the hallway—this is Vegas, after all—but at least RM’s echoing voice and the dull murmur of the crowd is cut off when the door falls closed behind him. 

Now that he’s free, he’s not quite sure where to go. It’s not like he actually has to piss, and there are only a handful of awards left anyway. The afterparty will be held at the bar and casino on the other side of the hotel. That sounds much more appealing than going back to his seat. 

He follows the familiar open walkways until he reaches the bar. Then, whiskey in hand, he plops himself in front of a Jacks or Better machine. It’s a good way to clear his head, the simple strategy and hypnotic button-pressing clearing all thoughts of RM from his mind. He stays there until he feels a pair of arms wrap around him from behind.

“This doesn’t look like the bathroom,” Jimin says. He drops a kiss on Yoongi’s cheek and settles his chin on his shoulder to watch. 

“I’m up three hundred dollars,” is all Yoongi says in reply. 

Jimin snorts and reaches past him to pluck his glass from its perch on the front panel of the machine. He tosses back the rest of the drink. “What are you going to buy for me?” 

“Not a damn thing.” Yoongi swivels on his stool, turning around to rest his hands on Jimin’s hips. “Did you win Favorite Sub?”

Over Jimin’s shoulder, the bar is starting to fill up. A steady stream of people from the awards is trickling into the casino area. 

“Of course I did.” Jimin sways a little, his wrists resting at the back of Yoongi’s neck, the two of them rocking gently with the swivel of the stool. “You missed my speech—you owe me,” he says, pouting. “Three hundred dollars, to be exact.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it was riveting.” Still, he turns back to the machine and cashes out, then passes the printed voucher to Jimin. “Where’s Tae?” 

Jimin shrugs as he pockets the voucher. “Networking or something, I guess. He was mad at you for leaving your trophies—I think he was going to take them back to your room.” 

Yoongi opens his mouth to respond only for the words to die in his throat. Over Jimin’s shoulder, hovering in the threshold between the bar and the casino, is RM. He’s staring right at Yoongi with narrow eyes that brighten when their gazes lock. He has the audacity to raise his free hand—the one not clutching his drink like a lifeline—in a tiny little wave. 

“Jesus fuck,” Yoongi groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “What does he want?” 

“Your autograph maybe?” Jimin says. He turns to face Yoongi again. “I need to find Kookie—want me to bring him back here?” 

Yoongi shakes his head. Jimin’s maybe-boyfriend-maybe-Dom-maybe-both, Jungkook, tends to get himself lost in places like this. Last time, he got distracted following a carpet pattern and ended up in a broom closet. He doesn’t do porn which is probably for the best, because he looks more like a real Dom than Yoongi ever will. 

“It’s fine,” Yoongi says. His eyes drift to RM again, who is looking down at his drink with pursed lips as if it somehow doesn’t meet his standards. What an ass. “I doubt he’ll come over here.” 

“I’ll threaten him on the way out.” Jimin leans down and pecks Yoongi’s lips, leaving behind the taste of cherry lip balm and whiskey. They both know perfectly well that Jimin isn’t going to say anything, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Yoongi has barely turned back to the machine when someone clears their throat behind him. He clenches his teeth—it can’t be RM. It’s not. It was probably just someone passing by.

He deals, his heart skipping when he gets the Ten, Jack, King, and Ace of Hearts. Four to a royal. He taps the hold buttons, his finger sliding back over to the deal button, when a voice pipes up behind him: “Did you win?” 

He’d recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere. He can still hear the words from that stupid speech echoing through his head. Yoongi sighs, slamming his finger down on the deal button. 

Three of Spades. Garbage. 

“No,” Yoongi says tightly. “I didn’t.” 

“But those are good cards, right?” An arm reaches past Yoongi’s shoulder, close but not touching, to point at the high cards. 

“Not good enough.” Yoongi reaches for his glass, only to find it empty. He huffs, turning sharply to face RM. “Can I help you?” 

RM, at least, has the common sense to put some space between them now that they’re facing each other. 

“I just wanted to say hi,” RM says. “I’m Namjoon.” 

Yoongi blinks at him. “Okay.” 

“Um. I go by RM. I won Best Newcomer. Oh, and Fan Favorite Dom.” 

“Cool.” Yoongi turns back to the machine and bets again, trying to ignore the prickle of fury under his skin. Did this asshole really come over here just to rub his wins in Yoongi’s face? 

Yoongi holds a pair of Jacks, just because they’re there. 

“Oh, I get it,” Namjoon says. “Jacks or Better.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes, drawing in a slow breath through his nose. It was a tip Jimin had picked up from a yoga retreat he went to one time, with the idea of working on his flexibility. He was too bored to pursue it any further, but he suddenly had way more advice than he was qualified to give when Yoongi’s emotions started getting the better of him. 

“No. This is not—this isn’t good. This is breaking even. Jesus.” Yoongi slams the deal button again. He turns to tell Namjoon to fuck off, only for the machine to start chiming delightedly behind him. 

“Oh, that has to be good. That’s good, right? You won?” 

Yoongi peeks over his shoulder. A full house—not bad at all. At least this night isn’t a total loss. “Yep,” he says flatly, cashing out. If nothing else, he’s won the perfect excuse to walk away from this conversation. He folds the voucher and tucks it into his pocket, sliding off the stool. 

It’s only then that he notices how annoyingly tall Namjoon is. 

Tall and fucking broad—wide shoulders and a wide chest, big arms and an angular face. No wonder fans like him. He looks dangerous with his silver hair and narrow dragon eyes. His heavy lids block the colorful overhead lights, making his irises look dark and mysterious. 

“Hey, congrats,” Namjoon says, offering Yoongi his hand. Would it be rude if Yoongi didn’t shake his hand? Would word of it somehow make its way back to Taehyung, who would make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be? God, he’d probably find some way to tie it into Yoongi’s image—his brand.

It would be easier to just shake Namjoon’s hand instead of being forced to listen to that. Right when he makes up his mind, Namjoon drags his hand through his hair as if that’s what he was intending to do the whole time. Maybe it was. “It was really nice meeting you, Suga,” Namjoon says, smiling. “Congratulations on your awards, too.” 

“Thanks.” There—now he doesn’t look completely rude. Now that there’s nothing for Namjoon to complain about, Yoongi swoops around him and makes his way out of the casino.

His eyes linger on the bar just for a moment, but he doesn’t want to run the risk of Namjoon sitting down next to him. He glances back into the casino, only to find Namjoon having moved on to talk to someone else.

Networking. Like Taehyung. Like everyone else with a shred of business sense. 

Namjoon’s smile is too wide, his laughs so loud and forced that Yoongi swears he can hear it from this distance. Is it really so hard for everyone else to see through that? Do people really find fake friendliness appealing?

Whatever. 

With or without a stupid fan favorite award, Yoongi’s career is doing just fine. He doesn’t need connections—he is the connection. He’s not going to let himself be an influence for Namjoon to take advantage of, another rung on his way up the ladder. 

He turns on heel and storms out of the bar, making the long way back toward his room. 

The flight from Vegas to Reno a few days later is blessedly short, one that Yoongi has made more times than he can count over the past few years, but he’s still rattled and anxious by the time he gets home. When Yoongi was new and started flying out to Vegas more and more frequently, Taehyung had assured him that it would get easier. 

Yoongi is still waiting for that to happen. 

The closet in his spare bedroom contains his small collection of awards from previous years. He shoves his two newest additions into place before slamming the door closed until next year. 

Not that he can keep this up for much longer. At 31, he’s old for a pornstar. He would have been discarded and replaced already if he weren’t into niche content. Maybe he’ll be replaced by next year anyway, if Namjoon’s popularity continues to grow. 

The thought forms an angry lump in his throat. He grabs his laptop and a bottle of whiskey with hands that are still shaking with flight anxiety, and goes to hide in the bathroom. 

It already feels soothing and comfortable with the steam from the hot water filling the tub. He turns off one set of lights and drops in a bath bomb, the soothing scent of lavender and vanilla filling the room. He sets up his laptop and a crystal glass on a wooden tub tray, then lowers himself into the water to brood. 

It’s tempting to look up Namjoon—RM—and hate-watch some of his videos, but that can wait. He has something else on his mind. 

He pours himself a glass of whiskey and searches for ‘Suga adult entertainment awards’. There are already clips uploaded of his acceptance speeches, which Yoongi avoids. Instead, he focuses on blogs that seem to be commenting on the results. 

‘It shouldn’t come as a surprise,’ the first blog starts, ‘that Suga once again walked away with Best Actor and Best Fetish Scene. We were all expecting it. The biggest shocker of the night for BDSM fans is the winner of an award they voted on themselves: Favorite Dom. Spoiler: It wasn’t Suga.’

Yoongi’s fingers tighten on the glass, and he tosses back the drink in one burning gulp. He scrolls down, skimming through what a surprise it was, how much RM deserved it. 

‘If there’s anything to take away from tonight,’ the post concludes, ‘it’s this: Fans miss submissive Suga. Will he listen to us? That remains to be seen. One thing I can say for sure—you can be the best actor, you can be in the best fetish scene, but none of it matters if the fans aren’t watching.’ 

A dull pain throbs through Yoongi’s lower lip, and he notices all at once that he’s been biting down on it. He releases it, tracing his tongue over the swell of his lip as his heart thrums bitterly in his chest. The sharp tang of blood only adds insult to injury.

He knows he should close this, ignore it, but they have a point. Taehyung had tried to comfort him back in his hotel room, telling him that the fan awards don’t matter much. As if the fans don’t keep his lights on and food on the table. 

There are comments on the post, and he can’t stop himself from looking at them.

He tells himself it’s because he wants to see if anyone disagrees with the post, if anyone is coming to his defense. He’s not entirely sure if that’s the truth.

He scrolls past a few throwaway comments like ‘well said’ and ‘great breakdown, thanks’. There’s also the ever-present porn fare: ‘sexy can’t wait for new vids’ and ‘would probly mary suga if he subed again want to fit my whole head in the asshole yum’. 

At this point in his career, comments like that hardly register. What he sees instead are these: 

‘Ya i miss sub Suga i could never get into him as a dom :(’

‘Suga who?? The only dom I know is RM’

‘I think suga should just sub for rm’ 

That last comment makes Yoongi’s face burn and his blood boil, an anxious rage stinging in his eyes. The thought of going back to subbing for any reason is bad enough. The thought of being forced back into it and then being dominated by his replacement makes his heart shake in his chest. 

He only makes it through a few more articles. The ones that mention him at all are largely the same: Fans still like him, just not as a Dom. RM has somehow captured the porn world’s attention. If he starts snatching up all the good Dom roles, what will that leave for Yoongi?

Nothing. Nothing except bad memories, an empty house he’ll no longer be able to afford, and a closet full of dust-covered trophies that never meant anything at all. 

He stays in the bath until the water goes cold and the whiskey is gone, until he’s tired and shivering and forced to move if only to bury himself in his blankets. 

He’s back in Las Vegas two weeks later, huddled in the front seat of Taehyung’s car and biting at his nails as Taehyung loads his luggage for the week into the trunk. It’s not much. He’s able to keep a second set of necessities at the house that’s shared among all the actors Taehyung represents. Sometimes Yoongi is there alone. Sometimes all eight of them are there at once. Usually, though, it’s just Yoongi and one or two others. 

“Who’s in town this week?” Yoongi asks when Taehyung slips into the driver’s seat. His car is nice—expensive. It always looks brand new even though Taehyung has had it for over a year now. The deep gray leather interior and shiny chrome accents are spotless; the Cadillac logo in the middle of the steering wheel reflects a white-hot flash of sun in Yoongi’s eyes. Taehyung only drives Cadillacs, which Yoongi can’t help but tease him about. They’re a status symbol in Taehyung’s mind, a mark of success, all because his reasonably wealthy grandparents drove one back in the day. 

Yoongi is also pretty sure that Taehyung wears the same brand and color of suits as his grandfather did, because they always look a little old fashioned, but he hasn’t asked. The maroon, paisley tie, though—that smells like mothballs and probably did come out of an old trunk somewhere. 

“Jimin,” Taehyung responds as the engine purrs to life. “And—oh, I don’t think I told you”—he says it in a tone that says he absolutely knows he didn’t tell Yoongi—“but I signed someone new. They’re in this week, too.” 

“Yeah?” Yoongi can’t see Taehyung’s eyes behind his sunglasses, but there’s something about the way he’s presenting this that makes Yoongi uneasy. “Are you going to tell me who it is?” 

“I’m getting to that.” Taehyung pauses, waiting with intense concentration for the opportunity to turn left out of the airport parking lot. The click of the turn signal is quiet and oddly soothing. Yoongi rests his forehead against the window and lets his eyelids relax until the world is a gentle, shaded blur. 

Taehyung makes the turn slow and easy, smooth enough that Yoongi’s head doesn’t even knock against the glass. 

“There were actually a lot of newcomers at the awards,” Taehyung says once they’re on the road. The quiet lilt of his voice is almost enough to push Yoongi over the edge and into actual sleep, but he actually does want to hear this. He blinks his eyes open and makes himself focus. “Some of them didn’t have agents, so it was prime time to scope out some new talent.” 

“Sure,” Yoongi responds lazily, just to show he’s listening. 

“Anyway, do you remember the guy who won Best Newcomer?” 

Yoongi sits up sharply, his heart lurching into his throat. The seat belt locks up and jerks him back against the seat. “Fucking—RM? You didn’t—”

“Okay, there’s no reason to freak out—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yoongi demands. “No reason to freak out—Jesus. Did you even bother to look him up? Everyone likes him better than me. He’s going to ruin my entire career and you’re just going to make it easier for him.” 

Taehyung’s hand lands on his knee, squeezing gently. “Relax, baby. When have I ever done you wrong?” 

Yoongi’s voice sticks in his throat just for a second, his chest going tight. The road noise suddenly seems loud, oppressive, even the gentle breeze of the A/C filling Yoongi’s ears in a dull roar. 

“Shit.” The warmth of Taehyung’s hand slides away. “Yoongi, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Yoongi manages. It’s painful, the word forced out through the sandpaper in his throat. “It’s fine.” 

“Just… listen, okay?” There’s a gentleness to Taehyung’s tone, like Yoongi is fragile. Broken. “If anything happens to your career, that’s bad for me too, right? I don’t want you to miss out on opportunities any more than you do. So… My thinking is this: If there’s any chance RM could actually be a threat to you, then I want to be the one booking his scenes. You know what I mean? I can make sure everything balances out. Find work for both of you.” 

Yoongi bites at the edge of his nail, hardly registering the sting of pain when a sliver of skin pulls a little too deep. Taehyung’s long fingers wrap around his palm, gently lowering it from his mouth. 

“It’ll be fine. Okay? I promise.” That’s not something Taehyung can realistically promise, but Yoongi can’t make himself reply. “RM is actually really nice. I wouldn’t have signed him if he—oh, come on,” he whines when Yoongi yanks his hand away. Yoongi folds his arms across his chest, his left hand squeezed into a tight fist to stem the bleeding against his palm. 

“He didn’t take anything from you,” Taehyung says. “You know that. The fans voted for him, and it’s normal to be jealous”—Yoongi rolls his eyes, sighing loudly—“but he didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, okay, his speech was… We’ll work on that. But having him contracted with me is the best thing that could have happened for you. Alright? I’ll take care of you.” 

Whatever. 

Yoongi leans his head against the window and glares at the broken white line on the road, blurring until it’s almost solid with the speed of the car. He knows Taehyung is probably right—he’s good at his job. He has an eye for talent and a love of porn that would be strange if he wasn’t so sincere. He also cares about Yoongi. Yoongi was one of the first actors to have signed with Taehyung before either of them had found success. Their careers took off together, and Yoongi likes to think that makes him a little less replaceable than everyone else. 

Still. He is replaceable. He’s not Taehyung’s only actor—not even his only Dom—and Taehyung has to look out for his bottom line. If Yoongi stops earning him money, there would be no reason to keep this going. 

It’s money, Yoongi thinks, that Taehyung likes more than everything else. 

It’s another silent 15 minutes before they arrive at the house, nestled in the back of a cul-de-sac. A stucco wall that matches the house’s warm gray exterior separates it from the interstate, giving it the feeling of privacy. Trees peek over the edge of the wall, almost making it look like there could be a small forest on the other side. The constant roar of traffic, punctuated by the sound of freight trucks and sirens, shatters the illusion. 

Still, Yoongi feels a weight lift off his chest as they pull into the short excuse for a driveway. This almost feels more like home than his cold, empty house in Reno. Everything about it is warm, welcoming, from the orange tile roof to the geometrically arched entryway. At some point over the years, a metal gate with a heavy, obtrusive lock had been installed in the archway. Jimin said it made the place look like a prison but, for Yoongi, it’s comforting. Just another thing that makes it a little easier to breathe. 

Taehyung walks Yoongi to the door. He never stays long. He can sometimes be convinced to stay for dinner, but Yoongi can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he checks his watch as he unlocks the gate. 

“I’ll be here at 6 PM sharp to pick you up tonight,” Taehyung tells him. As if Yoongi doesn’t have his itinerary for the week—with the call times and concepts for each shoot—saved on his phone. “All three of you. I don’t know what RM’s time management is like, but—”

“Shit.” Yoongi drags a hand through his hair, rubbing his palm against his forehead to stave off the impending headache. Tonight’s scene is a threesome—him, Jimin, and, in Taehyung’s words, ‘some other Dom’. RM. He should have fucking known it was RM. 

“—you know Jimin,” Taehyung continues, as if he hadn’t noticed Yoongi’s interjection. He pushes open the front door and places Yoongi’s bag just inside. “Make sure he’s ready, okay? He listens to you. No evening naps or video game marathons.” 

From the moment the door opens, Yoongi can hear voices echoing off the sparsely decorated walls and tile floors. There’s only a single couch in the living room that looks like it was picked up for free off the side of the road, entirely too small for the size of the room—which is small to begin with. The flatscreen they’d all insisted upon for the aforementioned video game marathons is too big for the built-in niche in the wall so they’d placed it on the floor instead, blocking the view of the fireplace, the cord traveling up the wall behind it. Around it is an assortment of consoles and scattered games, controllers tangled up in ways that shouldn’t be possible if they were playing games normally. 

They’re pornstars. There are probably few things they do normally. 

“Be good,” Taehyung tells him. He leaves him behind with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass, shutting the door behind him. 

The next thing he registers is Jimin’s voice echoing in from the kitchen: “Okay, but what’s rice husk fiber?” 

“Oh!” Fucking Namjoon’s voice. “Sorry, I forget most people don’t really know about stuff like this.” 

Nope.

No way.

Yoongi can’t do this.

If he didn’t have a week’s worth of shoots scheduled, he’d walk right back out the door and go home. Just hearing Namjoon’s voice puts him on edge, makes his comfortable little nest feel a little less cozy, a little less safe. He doesn’t even realize he’s still standing in the entryway until Jimin emerges from the kitchen, beelining toward Yoongi as he replies with dismissive ‘uh-huh’s, ‘mhm’s, and ‘oh really?’s in response to Namjoon’s long winded explanation of biodegradable, plant-based plastic. 

Namjoon turns the corner behind him, meandering his way through the dining room like he owns the place. He lingers back as Jimin cups Yoongi’s cheek, leaning in for a kiss.

“Thank god you’re here,” Jimin says. He pulls back, smoothing a wayward tuft of wine-colored hair off Yoongi’s forehead. “Look at you—so cute. I missed you.”

“We just saw each other,” Yoongi reminds him. Two weeks ago, sure, but that’s recent as far as Yoongi is concerned. The only thing that changed was Yoongi’s hair color, but that’s not entirely unusual. He takes his spells of being too depressed to change his hair, then being just hopeful enough to think coloring his hair will improve his life in some way. 

If nothing else, it earns him an affectionate eye roll, Jimin’s fingers combing gently through his hair, and a soft, “Well, I like it.” Not life-changing, but he’ll take it. 

He toes off his shoes and steps out of Jimin’s grasp, picking up his bag. 

“Hi Suga,” Namjoon says, lifting his hand in a tiny wave. It takes Yoongi straight back to the casino, the way Namjoon waved at him—does he think that’s cute or something? He’s too big, too mean-looking, to pull it off. 

Just like last time, Namjoon’s other hand is clutching a drink. The only difference is that, this time, it’s a pale blue, plastic travel mug. Not plastic, Yoongi’s mind supplies unhelpfully, dragging up overheard fragments from Namjoon’s explanation. Rice husk fiber. Biodegradable. Dishwasher safe. 

God. He wants to gag. 

Still, he manages a flat, “Hey,” because he and Namjoon have to fuck Jimin together later and it’s going to be awkward enough as it is. 

“Um.” Namjoon shifts his weight, looking entirely too big next to their tiny couch. He has on a pair of gray sweatpants that are probably oversized judging by the way they hang low on his hips, revealing a tan stripe of skin under his shirt, but they’re still too short for him. “Do you need any help with your luggage?” 

Is he fucking serious?

Yoongi looks down at his duffel bag, held easily in one hand, then back at Namjoon. “I think I can handle it.” 

What is he trying to prove? Is he trying to one-up Yoongi already? They’re not even filming, no one is watching them, and Namjoon is already trying to bait Yoongi into some kind of toxic alpha male battle. He’s not falling for it, and he’s not going to let Namjoon treat him like he’s incapable, weak. 

“Oh. Right.” Namjoon looks down at the TV, staring down at the powerless screen as if he’s watching it anyway. “Of course.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, and as much as Yoongi wants to just run up the stairs and escape it, he shouldn’t feel forced to run away from Namjoon in his own home. Well, his second home. His home-away-from-home. 

Even though it’s just as much Namjoon’s now as it is his. 

Fuck.

“Well, this is uncomfortable,” Jimin announces. “I need a fucking enema, so—”

There’s the distraction Yoongi needs. 

“Use the fucking downstairs bathroom this time,” he says, moving toward the stairs with his bag. He pauses a few steps up, blocking the way with one hand on the wall and the other on the railing. 

“My stuff’s in the en-suite,” Jimin tells him, shrugging, as if it can’t be helped. As if Yoongi isn’t fully willing to throw it all down the stairs. 

It’s not like he has an issue with sharing. They all do pretty well, even when the house is full, all things considered. It’s just that last time Yoongi was in for a single night and he didn’t even get to use the soaker tub because Jimin locked himself in the en-suite for hours. 

“You take too long.”

“Excuse me for being thorough,” Jimin says. “And you know the lighting in the downstairs bathroom is shit—how am I supposed to check if I have, like, a stray hair on my asshole—”

“Wow.” Namjoon’s face is pink and he scratches awkwardly at his neck. “So this is… You guys just talk about stuff like this openly, huh?” 

Jimin blinks at him, the same condescending disbelief Yoongi feels reflected on Jimin’s face. “Yes?” Jimin’s eyes lock with Yoongi’s for a second, then flit back to Namjoon. 

“This isn’t fucking Disneyland,” Yoongi tells him. “We have sex. We talk about sex. That’s why we’re here.” He shifts his attention back to Jimin. “Just do the enema down here and we can help each other landscape later.” 

“Fine.” Jimin moves onto the steps, squeezing past Yoongi to go get his supplies. “I like when there’s someone else here for you to be pissed at. It’s so much easier to win fights with you.”

Yoongi’s not sure if Jimin actually won anything, but he supposes tweezing stray hairs alone in bad lighting is enough of a nuisance that Jimin is willing to cut his losses. 

Still, it’s the excuse Yoongi needs to go upstairs and forget about Namjoon—if only for now—so he turns and follows Jimin up without looking back. 

He tosses his duffle bag on one of the beds in the master bedroom, which is his by virtue of seniority. Yoongi also suspects Taehyung had something to do with it in his ongoing quest to stop feeling guilty, but doesn’t like to think about Taehyung talking to the others, making them feel just sorry enough for him to hand over the nicest bedroom without protest. He has no doubt that others take the room when he’s not here, and that’s fine; the stuff he leaves here is generally left undisturbed, and that’s all he cares about. 

Once Jimin exits the en-suite with an armful of tubing, a folded silicone bag tucked under his arm, his free hand fisted around nozzles and bag hooks and lube—staggering and grumbling as if it’s all an impossible inconvenience—Yoongi shuts himself inside before Namjoon can get the idea to take up residence there. 

If anyone is taking up residence, it’s Yoongi—armed with a bath bomb, sheet mask, shower speaker, and his coziest robe. Inconvenient? Maybe. But if Namjoon needs to piss or something, there’s a bush right outside the back door that he’s more than welcome to use. 

Yoongi pushes his hair off his forehead, securing it back with a cat ear headband that once belonged to one of their other housemates until they insisted that it suited Yoongi better. Then, sheet mask in place, candles lit, and low rap music thrumming through the speaker, Yoongi settles into the tub with the intent to stay there forever. 

Without entirely meaning to, he ends up dozing off and on—rousing himself just enough to drain the water a bit when it starts to get chilly and top it off with steaming water from the tap, nudging the chrome handle with his toes.

It must be over an hour later, maybe two, when Jimin lets himself in, clad only in a robe of his own. He must have left his supplies downstairs, because now all he has in his hands are Yoongi’s reading glasses and a pair of tweezers. He holds them out, pleading in his sweetest voice, “Help me.” 

Yoongi sighs, sitting up straighter and gesturing for Jimin to come closer. It’s only then, as he puts on his glasses and inspects Jimin’s immaculately waxed ass, tilting it from side-to-side to catch the sunlight filtering in from the window above the tub, that he wonders if this is the glamorous life Namjoon thought he was signing up for. 

Just for a moment, he entertains the idea of including Namjoon in things like this—all their talks about weird bodily functions and making sure every inch of themselves is visibly perfect before allowing themselves to appear on camera—if only to scare him off. 

Then he wonders why he’s wasting time thinking about Namjoon at all. 

Yoongi sees it the moment it happens. Like flipping a light switch, the sharp transition from pleasure to panic. Jimin’s mouth falls open, his voice cracking as he tries to find his voice, and Yoongi is already pulling out by the time Jimin manages to gasp out, “Red.” 

Yoongi backs off, heart in his throat, searching Jimin’s face—only Jimin won’t quite look at him. His breaths are little more than hitching sobs that he tries to stifle against his own shoulder, his head turned away. 

“Shh… it’s okay,” Yoongi tries, guilt surging through him when Jimin flinches at the sound of his voice. 

Yoongi has worked with Jimin probably more than he has any other sub, fucked him in every position in every conceivable setting—he knows Jimin’s limits. At least, he thought he did. He’s never done anything to make Jimin afraid of him before, and he’s not exactly sure what went wrong. 

Jimin had seemed relaxed, happy, head thrown back in bliss as he relished in the lack of mobility—flat on his back across the bed, ropes securing his ankles to the corners of the headboard, another set of ropes around his wrists going down to the footboard, the pressure of his own arms keeping his thighs spread wide. It was a good scene, the kind that made Yoongi miss being a sub.

Jimin had been so good, holding a chain between his teeth that connected to the set of clamps on his nipples, keeping it taut—and taking his punishment when he forgot to keep his head tilted back and allowed the chain to go slack. And then Yoongi started fucking him, hard and fast with a hand on his throat. The chain slipped out of Jimin’s grasp and Yoongi struck him across the face in reprimand, spitting into his gaping mouth before attempting to shove the chain back in, and, for some reason, that was all it took. 

Yoongi is vaguely aware of the shuffle of movement around them, the cameras shutting off, the small crew waiting around to see if they would be continuing. Yoongi can already tell they won’t be. 

He dampens his lips, forcing himself to speak through the fear that threatens to silence him. “Did I hurt you?” It’s soft, little more than a whisper. Jimin seems to hear it anyway, shaking his head sharply, but it’s not very convincing when Jimin won’t even meet his eyes. 

Yoongi keeps his distance while he waits for Jimin to catch his breath—shallow, staccatoed gasps of panic that morph into slow, shaky whimpers. And all Yoongi can do is sit there, useless, offering reassurances that couldn’t possibly salvage broken trust: “It’s over. You were so good. I’m not going to touch you anymore, you’re safe.” 

And then, when the hysteria seems to have subsided, Yoongi asks, “Will you look at me? Please. I need to know you’re okay.” 

“I’m okay,” Jimin whispers, keeping his head turned away. The eyeliner is doing its job, running down his cheeks in messy black smears that make Yoongi feel sick. 

He did this. One of his most treasured friends—broken, afraid, unable to even look at him. 

But this isn’t about him. Right now, all that matters is Jimin. 

“It’s over,” Yoongi reminds him. “You were so good. Do you want me to untie you?” 

Jimin nods, squeezing his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” It comes out weak, ragged. “I’m so sorry, I’m—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Yoongi keeps his voice soft, speaking slow and careful to keep from inciting additional panic. From letting his own fear bleed through. He unties Jimin’s ankles first, gently easing his legs down one at a time; he’s all too familiar with the cramps that come from moving out of a position too quickly. “You were so good. So good.” 

Once Jimin’s arms are free, Yoongi pulls the edge of the sheet over his torso to give him some privacy. He keeps one of Jimin’s hands between his own, rubbing feeling back into his tiny fingers. Yoongi is shaking, but he doesn’t think Jimin can feel it—not when he’s shaking so hard himself. 

Some weak, desperate part of Yoongi wants to blame Namjoon, even if they hadn’t even gotten to his part of the scene yet. Maybe knowing he was there, hovering nearby and waiting for his cue, made Jimin uncomfortable. Maybe he’s just as put off by Namjoon as Yoongi is. 

Or maybe Yoongi is just sick. Dangerous. Trying to blame anyone other than himself. 

Somewhere deep down, he knows that’s not true. This is just the way things go. Something that’s fun and pleasurable one day might be triggering the next. It doesn’t mean anyone did anything wrong.

Knowing that doesn’t mean he always believes it, though. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi asks. He lays down Jimin’s right hand and picks up his left to start massaging the life back into that one. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Jimin shakes his head, sniffing. He wipes his glassy eyes with his newly freed hand. “I don’t know what happened, I just… Suddenly I was back in my own head and—I don’t know. It was too much.”

Yoongi smooths his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles. “That’s okay. That’s normal.” 

“I ruined the scene,” Jimin chokes out. He turns his head in shame, his face crumpling as a sob overtakes him. 

“No, no—hey…” Before he can finish, there’s a gentle nudge against his bare back. He shoots a glare over his shoulder and his stomach drops. 

Fucking Namjoon. 

He’s standing there like an eager puppy, like he can’t wait for the scene to continue, shifting eagerly from foot to foot. It takes all Yoongi has to rein in his temper, because he can’t afford to scream when Namjoon inevitably asks if they’ll be continuing. 

How can he even call himself a Dom if he can’t read the fucking room?

“We’re stopping,” Yoongi says, slow and calm, just to head this off at the pass. “Get lost.” 

“No, I know.” Namjoon holds out his hands. It’s only then that Yoongi notices that he brought over his and Jimin’s robes, a bottle of water tucked in the bend of his elbow. “I didn’t think you’d want to leave his side just yet, so…” 

“Oh.” Yoongi blinks at him. That’s not at all what he expected, but he can’t pretend Namjoon isn’t right. “Thank you.” 

He takes Jimin’s robe and the water and lays them on the bed, then slips into his own robe as best he can without getting up. 

“Do you need anything else?” Namjoon asks, something soft and understanding in his eyes. Yoongi just doesn’t know why Namjoon’s looking at him. 

“No,” Yoongi says slowly. Does Namjoon think he can’t handle this? Is he trying to turn Jimin’s aftercare into some kind of competition to prove he’s the most capable Dom? God, what an ass. He can fuck right off. “Just leave. Get the crew to go, too.” 

Jimin seems to relax more as the room empties out, granting permission when Yoongi asks to touch him, slowly calming down with the mix of gentle touches and even gentler words. After a while, Yoongi is able to get him into his robe, to drink some water, to speak in sentences that aren’t interrupted by tears or gasps for breaths. 

“Have I ever told you you’re my favorite Dom?” Jimin asks quietly, nuzzling his forehead against the side of Yoongi’s neck. He takes a bite from the bar of chocolate Yoongi offered him—he always carries one in the pocket of his robe before going into an intense scene. “In porn, I mean. Other Doms usually leave the aftercare to someone on the crew, but… it’s not the same when it doesn’t come from the person you were playing with.” 

Yoongi frowns. “I know.” He does know—he knows all too well. “Abandoning someone after a scene is the worst thing you can do, I think.” 

Jimin hums in agreement. He finishes off the chocolate and licks absently at his fingers. His eyes are still red, but he looks better. More present. “Thank you,” he says finally. He leans against Yoongi’s side, snuggling in for a half-hug that Yoongi’s all too happy to wrap him up in. He keeps his hold just loose enough so Jimin doesn’t feel trapped, but firm enough that he’ll feel safe. 

It’s a delicate balance. Like most things are with this kind of play. Always walking the line between good pain and bad, finding the sweet spot that makes it fun for everyone. 

He hasn’t been on the receiving end of that kind of care in a long time. 

Taehyung approaches them a short time later, once Yoongi and Jimin had left the bedroom serving as the set and took up residence in an adjoining sitting room with Namjoon. Jimin is still staying close, on the same couch as Yoongi, but he doesn’t seem to need constant touch anymore. At least, not for now. 

It works out, because now Yoongi is the one who can’t quite bring himself to look at Jimin. The last thing he wants to do is ruin subbing for Jimin the way it was ruined for him. He doesn’t want to destroy Jimin’s trust in him, have Jimin think of him as someone dangerous. Someone cruel. 

Even worse is that Yoongi has been able to feel Namjoon’s eyes on him ever since they joined him. He’s in a flowery armchair directly across from Yoongi, only an old, rickety coffee table separating them, and Yoongi wants to hide under it. 

Their first time on set together and Yoongi fucked it up. What must Namjoon think of him now? 

Yoongi doesn’t even know why he cares. He doesn’t care. It’s just that Namjoon has been trying to outdo him from the moment they met, and instead of proving himself a capable Dom the moment he had the chance, Yoongi hurt the sub who trusts him the most. 

“How are you doing?” Taehyung asks Jimin, kneeling down in front of him and looking up into his eyes. 

“I don’t want to try again tonight,” Jimin tells him, voice small and nervous, and it’s like a dagger in Yoongi’s heart. 

Taehyung smooths his hands up and down Jimin’s thighs. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. I already worked it out with the director.” 

Worked it out. 

Yoongi feels the blood drain from his face, his throat going tight. How could Taehyung have worked something out? There’s only the three of them—him, Jimin, and Namjoon—two Doms and a sub. If the sub doesn’t want to participate, then…

‘Ya i miss sub Suga i could never get into him as a dom :(’

‘I think suga should just sub for rm’ 

Yoongi looks up sharply, his eyes locking with Namjoon’s. Namjoon is looking right back at him, soft and curious, head tilted in thought. 

No way.

He can’t. 

He won’t. 

He’d end his contract before he agreed to sub again, he’d give all of this up forever if Taehyung even asked. Taehyung has to know that. He wouldn’t ask him to do this, especially with Namjoon of all people—

“We have some time before Jimin’s flight on Saturday,” Taehyung says. “We’re squeezing in a reshoot that morning. Sound good?” 

“Works for me,” Jimin says, sounding a little more normal. Maybe he’s just relieved that he has almost a full week before he has to work with Yoongi again.

Yoongi lets out a breath, nodding. Of course Taehyung would never push him back into subbing like this. He almost feels bad for even thinking it. 

For now, at least, he can try to forget about this, and maybe everything will be better by Saturday.

In the days that follow, Namjoon starts this annoying… thing. It’s almost like he considers briefly taking care of Jimin together to have been some kind of icebreaker that meant he could start approaching Yoongi whenever he feels like it.

Which turns out to be often for some reason. 

He never seems to want much. He’ll ask how Yoongi’s doing when they pass by each other at the house, they might have a bit of small talk if Yoongi isn’t able to escape right away, before Namjoon wraps it up with, “No, really—how are you doing?” Softer, more serious—eye contact and everything. 

As if Yoongi should know what that means. 

He has to roll through his memories to make sure nothing happened to him, that no one he knows is sick or dying or dead and he forgot somehow, but there’s nothing. Nothing that would warrant this sudden interest in his well-being. 

Even worse is Jimin. 

He’s not doing anything wrong—he never does anything wrong, and that almost makes this harder. He’s too nice, too sweet, too forgiving for someone like Yoongi. He invites Yoongi to play video games with him, clings to his arm and begs Yoongi to cook for him. He leans in for goodnight kisses and hardly seems to notice when Yoongi pulls away. 

They have synchronized smoke breaks just by virtue of existing in each other’s company for so long, and Yoongi’s been trying to hold off, to wait until he knows Jimin is finished smoking before he goes out on his own. The timing is almost impossible to pin down, because it’s like Jimin is waiting for him, which means Yoongi starts skipping his morning and evening cigarettes and that only makes him feel worse, cranky and headachy. 

He’s not mad at Jimin, he’d never be upset with someone for using their safeword, he just… can’t quite look him in the eyes right now. 

All he can hear is Jimin’s voice in his head on a quiet loop—“I don’t want to try again”—and the guilt is tearing him apart from the inside out, his heart in tatters. Subbing for someone is such a good feeling, having enough trust to let go completely, thoughts and worries disappearing, living completely in the moment and letting your body and mind react on instinct alone, knowing someone will be there to catch the pieces and keep you together. It’s special, sacred almost, and so easily ruined. 

Jimin loves subbing, loves it as much as Yoongi once did. What if, in Jimin’s nightmares, he sees Yoongi’s face? 

Shit happens—he knows shit happens—that’s why safewords exist in the first place. But he can’t help but feel a little bit like a monster. 

By the time Saturday rolls around, Yoongi feels worse than ever. He managed to avoid Jimin and Namjoon that morning, which meant missing his shot at making coffee, and Taehyung was extra talkative in the car which filled the awkward silence while also grating on Yoongi’s nerves, but now that they’re on set…

A headache is throbbing behind his eyes, his fingers itching for a cigarette, and the thought of setting up that same scene again—tying Jimin down, hitting him, spitting on him, choking him—has him on edge. There’s a window in the tiny sitting room where he and Namjoon are waiting while Jimin gets into makeup, and Yoongi can’t stop looking at it, the trees swaying in the gentle breeze just outside. He can almost imagine himself climbing right out the window and running away, can almost feel the breeze on his face, the freedom—

“How are you doing?” Namjoon asks, so gently, and Yoongi feels something inside himself snap. 

He rakes his hands through his hair with enough force that a few strands break under the pressure, small stings of pain against his scalp. “Stop asking me that!” 

Namjoon gives him a look—almost pitying, almost as if Yoongi just proved his point. “You know you didn’t do anything wrong, right?” 

God. This better not be going the direction Yoongi thinks it is. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly. 

“The thing with Jimin. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know that.” He should have expected this, should have known Namjoon would find a way to use this against him. Yoongi’s been doing this for years—there’s nothing Namjoon can tell him that he doesn’t already know, and the fact that Namjoon thinks he can is insulting. 

“I know you do,” Namjoon says. “It’s just nice to be reminded sometimes.”

Yoongi shifts his gaze back to the window, biting determinedly at his nails. They’re too short right now, nothing for him to really bite onto, his teeth dragging and pinching painfully against his skin. 

“Hey.” The sound of something heavy sliding against wood catches Yoongi’s attention, and he turns his head to see Namjoon pushing his obnoxious cup across the coffee table toward him. “I didn’t see you in the kitchen this morning,” Namjoon says. 

“What’s this for?” Yoongi asks, eyeing the cup suspiciously. 

“Most people drink it.” Namjoon smiles softly. “Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you could… you know…” He trails off, his face going red. 

Yoongi’s lips twitch despite himself. “You fuck people for a living. You really can’t make it through a joke about a coffee enema?” 

Namjoon’s face somehow, impossibly, seems to get redder. “Well, you know…” he explains uselessly. “It’s just—yeah. I wanted to share. If you need it, I mean. It’s, like, my third cup of the day, so…”

Yoongi sighs and reaches for the cup. A few years ago, he might have refused simply because he doesn’t like Namjoon, because he doesn’t want to swap spit with him, but—well. Those days are long behind him. 

He also might be a little desperate. Nicotine withdrawal is bad enough; nicotine and caffeine withdrawal is even worse. He’d be stupid to turn down a magic cure that’s being offered to him freely. 

He takes a cautious sip—then has to force himself to swallow. “Fuck. How do you drink this? It tastes like it’s already been inside someone’s ass.” 

Namjoon laughs, deep dimples on full display. He’s always so serious in his videos; Yoongi never even realized he had them. They’d be cute if Namjoon wasn’t such an asshole.

Even if he’s not acting like much of an asshole right now. 

“I know,” Namjoon says, grinning. “Maybe that’s… why I like it?” It’s less of a flop than his first attempt at a joke, but it still comes out sounding more like a hesitant question than anything else. 

Yoongi huffs and takes another sip just to humor him. It really is terrible—Yoongi’s not sure if it’s some weird brand Namjoon likes or if he’s managed to fuck up their community coffee pot—but it works. Maybe it’s his imagination, but the heat rushing down his throat seems to pull some of the headache down with it. 

With the edge of the headache easing off, all Yoongi can think about is how weird this is. Aside from the times Namjoon feels compelled to check on him, they’ve almost fallen into a pattern back at the house. They leave each other alone. Namjoon sits outside and reads while Yoongi makes his morning coffee. Yoongi goes out to smoke and Namjoon goes inside. If Yoongi’s downstairs making dinner, Namjoon is upstairs taking a shower. It’s a natural rhythm they fell into without needing to discuss it, without going out of their way to avoid each other. 

Which is nice, because Yoongi has been going out of his way to avoid Jimin. Intentionally trying to stay out of the way of two people would be too much. 

So this… this isn’t what they do. 

Namjoon checks on him, sure, but he seems to have given up on the cutesy waves and desperate attempts to provoke Yoongi. That doesn’t make them friends, or even people who keep track of each other’s schedules and notice when they miss out on coffee or something. 

“What do you really want?” Yoongi asks. Namjoon blinks at him innocently, as if coming out of a trance—had Namjoon been staring at him? 

“What?” 

“You can’t really expect me to believe that you’ve spent days trying to talk to me just to share ass coffee and tell me the Jimin thing wasn’t my fault.” 

Namjoon shrugs. “Well… Yeah. I mean—I hadn’t planned on the ass coffee, but it seems like it cheered you up a bit anyway.” 

“I wasn’t aware I needed to be cheered up.” He thinks he knows what Namjoon is angling toward, but for his own sanity, he’s going to pretend he doesn’t. It’s not the first time someone’s used a safeword in a scene with him and it won’t be the last—that’s just the way it goes.

If the guilt that niggles at the back of his mind after finishing a scene is a little worse if someone had to use a safeword, that’s his problem. 

“Dom drop is a thing, you know,” Namjoon says, very gently. “It’s one thing to know that a scene is safe and consensual, but sometimes that doesn’t stop your conscience from playing tricks on you. I get it.” 

The sudden burst of anger Yoongi feels is irrational and he knows it, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. His face burns in shame, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. “Is that what this is? Aftercare? Who do you think you are—”

“No one,” Namjoon says. “I barely know you, even though I’d like to. I watch all of your videos—I even have on notifications.” He holds up his phone for emphasis. “I’ve been a fan for a long time, I want to get to know you, but that’s not what this is about. Right now, I’m just a Dom seeing the signs of another Dom dropping, and I want to make sure he’s okay.” 

It takes a moment for Yoongi to sort through Namjoon’s words through the static in his mind, and he latches onto the one thing that makes the most sense. “You watch my videos? All of them?” 

Namjoon smiles, soft and gentle. “Of course I do. I know you’re a Dom in porn now, but… I don’t know if you’re a switch outside of that? It’s, like, my dream to do a scene with you.” 

Yoongi’s skin goes cold. “You want me to sub for you?” Of course Namjoon would want that, wouldn’t he? It’d be the ultimate power move; joining his rival Dom’s agency and overpowering him, making him submit. 

“I mean, if you want. Or if you just like bottoming, or—”

“Well, lucky for you, we have a scene together in about ten minutes. One that doesn’t require me to switch roles.” 

“Right. About that.” Namjoon dampens his lips, looking away from Yoongi’s eyes. “I want to do a scene with you,” he says again. “I really, really want to. But I don’t know if… I don’t think this one is a good idea.” 

Yoongi can feel himself bristling, a chill crawling down his neck and making his hair stand on end. “Tell Taehyung if you’re backing out. I don’t care.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you,” Namjoon says plainly. “You’re not in the right headspace. You can’t focus on taking care of Jimin if you don’t feel right.” 

There it is. That’s what Namjoon has been after. He can pretend to care about Yoongi’s well-being all he wants, but the truth will always come out eventually. He wants Yoongi to back out, wants to cut him out of today’s scene entirely. And this would just be the first of many, the foothold Namjoon needs to replace him entirely. 

But this is all Yoongi has—he can’t sub or even bottom anymore. If he starts handing roles over to Namjoon, Taehyung—and the companies they work with—will start to think Namjoon is more reliable. A better Dom.

He looks more like a Dominant than Yoongi ever will. Tan, tall, and muscular with those hooded, dangerous eyes that stand out in sharp contrast to his frosty silver hair. Decked out in leather or a sharp suit, as he so often is in his videos, his presence alone is enough to command attention, to strike a delicious fear in people’s hearts. 

Yoongi’s not like that. Yoongi will never be like that. He can’t bulk up no matter how hard he tries, his pasty skin turns scarlet if he spends more than five minutes in the sun, and it will only be a matter of time before Taehyung confronts him about the comments he gets on his videos: “Why isn’t the twink getting railed?” “Hot but weird to see a tiny dom lol,” “Anyone else like Suga better when he was a sub or just me?” 

The good comments outweigh the bad, but it’s the bad ones that stick in Yoongi’s mind like needles, that make him feel unworthy, like the ground could fall out from under him at any moment. And the worst part about it is they’re right, they’re all right—Yoongi doesn’t think he can ever sub again but he feels like an imposter every time he steps into a Dominant role. It makes the guilt hit even harder, the fear of losing everything that much sharper. 

“Suga—Yoongi. Can I touch you?” It’s only then that Yoongi notices he’s gotten off the couch, backed himself toward the corner, that Namjoon’s gotten up and moved closer. He doesn’t know if Namjoon has been talking to him, but the realization that Namjoon is right just makes him feel worse. 

He’s not in the right headspace. He’ll lose control and he’ll hurt Jimin. What if he can’t make himself stop? What if he gets so deep in his own head that he doesn’t hear Jimin’s safeword? What if he breaks Jimin the same way he was broken? 

“Yoongi, look at me.” It’s just firm enough that Yoongi obeys on instinct alone, meeting Namjoon’s eyes—deep, warm brown, surprisingly kind. “How can I help?” 

It’s such a simple question, one that Yoongi has asked subs time and time again, but it’s not one he has an answer to. He shouldn’t even need help—not as a Dom. He wants to be insulted that Namjoon would even ask, but part of him still craves the softness, the care. 

But not from Namjoon. Not when this is all just a ploy to get him to back out of the scene and give Namjoon the spotlight. 

Distantly, he can hear himself breathing faster, shallower, the ache in his head turning into something fuzzy and hollow as static pulses through his veins. Maybe he’ll just die. Maybe he’ll pass out right here, hit his head on the ornate fireplace, and die. It would be better than losing everything, wouldn’t it? 

It would be a way to stop hurting. 

“Okay. Okay. Hang on a sec.” Namjoon pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing rapidly, frowning down at the screen. From this angle, Yoongi can make out the shapes of the chat bubbles but not much else.

Is he texting Taehyung and telling him that Yoongi can’t do the scene? Who is he to just decide that on Yoongi’s behalf? He and Taehyung have known each other longer; he would never take Namjoon’s word on something like this without speaking to Yoongi first, right? 

Or maybe this would just confirm what Taehyung already knows: Yoongi was never cut out to be a Dominant. He’s sensitive and fragile, a sub to his very core, but he’s not even cut out for that anymore. 

What if the answer to all of this wasn’t to simply stop subbing? What if he needs to step out of the lifestyle entirely? Get a real job as his family always insisted. God—if they knew what he was doing, if they knew he got off on hurting people for a living, they would talk to him even less than they already do. 

He doesn’t want to do anything else. He doesn’t have the skill to do anything else. Who would hire someone who can’t even manage to lie back and get fucked? 

He’s vaguely aware of a door creaking open, footsteps thudding lightly across the old wood floors. 

“What’s going on?” 

Jimin. 

Of all the people to walk in on this, it had to be Jimin. 

“Hey,” Namjoon says around a relieved sigh. He tucks his phone into his pocket. “Thanks for getting here so fast. Will you talk to him? He’s nonverbal right now, I think, but he’s been dropping hard since your scene.” 

“What?” There’s a soft, aching shock on Jimin’s face, a hurt in his eyes that twists the knife in Yoongi’s heart. 

Namjoon takes a step back as Jimin moves closer. He’s flawless in the warm light, his skin perfected with foundation, lips plump and soft with a silky pink balm, a precisely placed line of eyeliner designed to run when he cries. When Yoongi hits him, hurts him. 

“Oh Yoongi… Why didn’t you tell me?” Jimin’s voice is so soft, so sweet, but as he pulls Yoongi into a gentle hug, all Yoongi can do is stare at Namjoon over his shoulder. The Dom that ruined his life claimed he’d forgotten that Yoongi couldn’t speak sometimes; that, despite the physical signs of distress, he assumed Yoongi was okay because he didn’t use his safeword. 

No one knows unless Yoongi tells them, and even then, very few seem to remember or care unless he’s forced to scribble out a note in the midst of an anxiety attack. 

It took Namjoon mere minutes to figure it out. 

“I’m going to step out now,” Namjoon says, his eyes trained on Yoongi’s. “Is that okay?” 

With Jimin here, Namjoon obviously isn’t leaving to do the scene without him. Whether he’d intended to or not, Namjoon constructed the perfect safety net for Yoongi’s panic, a way for him to step back and give Yoongi some room without causing him to spiral even further.

He doesn’t leave until Yoongi manages a nod, making his way out of the room without another word and carefully closing the door behind him. 

Jimin guides Yoongi back to the couch and gets him to sit down, kneels at his feet and takes his hands. And he’s talking the whole time, telling Yoongi how much he loved their scene, how he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, can’t wait to try it again. And, above all, what a good Dom Yoongi is for listening to him, for stopping when Jimin needed him to. He makes Jimin feel safe, makes it possible for him to relax and have fun and want to try again. 

Slowly, steadily, the knot in Yoongi’s chest begins to unravel. Jimin hasn’t been haunted by their scene, having nightmares about it, fearing Yoongi because of it. Jimin trusts him enough to continue submitting to him even now, gazing up at him from the floor with unbridled affection shining in his eyes. 

He needed this. He needed time with Jimin like this, to see that he’s okay and happy, that the trust between them is still intact, before hopping back into a scene with him. 

And Namjoon realized all of that without Yoongi saying a word. 

They’re half an hour late to set, but Taehyung doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, he just says the director wants to go in a different direction, something a bit more vanilla—just Yoongi and Jimin. 

“Is that okay?” Taehyung asks. “They realized we’ve only ever shot hardcore scenes with you, Yoongi. They think their subscribers might like to see your soft side. RM’s not up to filming today anyway.” 

Bullshit. 

It’s bullshit, but Yoongi’s too relieved to say so. He looks away to hide the way his eyes are burning, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes that Namjoon isn’t around. Instead of trying to take the scene from Yoongi, he was the one to back out entirely. 

Was he the one to suggest doing something different? Why? 

Namjoon has nothing to gain from this—it’s literally costing him time and money, but he did it anyway. And that… makes Yoongi hate him a little less. 

And maybe, in a way, it makes Yoongi feel kind of safe.