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Jimin's been back in Seoul for three months and his sleep schedule is still fucked. Jet lag from years of flying between Paris, Milan, and New York, late nights that bled into early mornings, a body that never learned when to rest. It all caught up with him. Now he lies awake until four or five in the morning scrolling through his phone, and crashes hard in the afternoons.
Today he wakes up to his alarm at 2:30, groggy and cotton-mouthed on his sister's couch. He has half an hour to make himself presentable and get to Mina's school.
He drags himself up, splashes water on his face, smooths down his shirt. In the hallway mirror his hair is still perfect even after sleeping on it, blonde and soft. He swaps sweats for jeans, throws on a necklace, grabs his keys and heads out.
Soyeon's at work until seven. Her ex-husband is in Singapore living a whole new life, and Mina needs someone consistent. Jimin doesn't mind helping, he loves his niece, and it's not like he has anything else to do. The modeling work dried up before he left Paris. Twenty-nine is old in fashion years, and he was tired anyway. Burned out. Hollowed out. Coming back to Korea wasn't a plan so much as the only option left.
The elementary school is fifteen minutes away. He parks and joins the other parents waiting outside the main entrance, leaning against the brick wall with his phone out. His Instagram is still active even though he hasn't posted in months. Messages from brands he's ignoring, photos from models he used to know, lives he's not part of anymore.
He's about to close the app when he notices someone standing nearby.
Black t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps. Tattoos covering both forearms. Geometric patterns, delicate linework, what looks like piano keys wrapping around his left wrist. Dark hair styled back in an undercut, a little messy like he didn't try too hard. Sharp features, pale skin, hands shoved in his pockets. He's staring at the school doors, expression unreadable.
Jimin's brain catches up a second later.
That's him. That's agust d.
He's seen the photos on Instagram. Not many, mostly old posts, the occasional mirror selfie or candid shot from someone else. But it's definitely him. Same tattoos, same face, same hands that Jimin has watched for hours on his phone screen, fingers moving over guitar strings in videos that he's replayed so many times he knows them by heart.
Jimin moves without thinking, closing the distance between them with the easy confidence of someone who spent a decade being looked at. He knows how to approach people. He's good at this.
"You're agust d, right?"
The guy turns. His expression stays flat, unimpressed, maybe tired. Dark eyes take Jimin in, quick and assessing, then settle back on his face.
"Yeah," he says.
Jimin bows slightly, smiles. "Park Jimin. I've been watching your videos. You're really good."
"Min Yoongi," the guy says. His voice is low, a little rough. "Thanks."
"I used to play guitar," Jimin continues, because he's already committed. "A long time ago. I've been thinking about picking it back up." He lets his voice warm, his smile widen just a little. "I saw you offer private lessons."
"I'm full," Yoongi says. Flat, factual. "No open slots."
Jimin's smile doesn't drop. "Ah. That's too bad."
He should walk away now. Should say it was nice to meet you and leave it alone. But he's spent too many sleepless nights watching those hands move across frets, imagining what they'd feel like adjusting his grip, correcting his posture, and he's not ready to let this go yet.
"Can I give you my number anyway?" Jimin asks. "In case something opens up?"
Yoongi looks at him for a moment, expression still unreadable. Then he pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and holds it out.
Jimin takes it, types in his number and his name, and hands it back. Their fingers brush, just barely, and Yoongi's hands are exactly like he imagined. Warm, calloused, real.
"If something comes up, I'll call," Yoongi says.
"I'd appreciate that," Jimin says, and means it.
The school doors slam open. Kids flood out in a chaotic wave of backpacks and noise. Jimin spots Mina immediately, pigtails bouncing as she clutches some kind of art project. He turns back to say goodbye to Yoongi.
But Yoongi isn't looking at him anymore.
A little boy is running straight toward him, maybe six or seven, dark hair and the same nose as Yoongi. The kid crashes into Yoongi's legs and starts talking, words tumbling over each other too fast to follow, hands waving to illustrate whatever story he's telling.
Yoongi's face changes completely.
He crouches down to the boy's level, and he's smiling, really smiling, eyes soft, expression open in a way that makes Jimin's chest do something strange. He listens to the kid like whatever he's saying is the most important thing in the world. When the boy throws his arms around Yoongi's neck, Yoongi hugs him back without hesitation, easy and natural, like this is the best part of his day.
"Uncle Jimin!" Mina crashes into him, almost dropping her painting. "Look what I made!"
"It's gorgeous," Jimin says, steadying her. When he glances back, Yoongi is already walking toward the parking lot, the boy's hand in his. He doesn't look back.
Jimin buckles Mina into the car, half-listens to her talk about her day, and drives home on autopilot. Back at the apartment, he makes her a snack, helps with homework, sets her up with a cartoon.
Then he pulls out his phone.
He finds @agustd on Instagram. Hovers over the follow button. Min Yoongi has a kid in his life. Maybe a partner. A whole life that has nothing to do with Jimin or his stupid late-night fixation on a stranger's hands.
He follows anyway.
His phone stays silent for the rest of the night.
The text comes two weeks after the school pickup, when Jimin has almost convinced himself it's not happening.
this is min yoongi. i have an opening. tuesdays and thursdays at 7 if you're still interested
Jimin stares at his phone for a full minute before typing back.
i'm interested. where?
Yoongi sends an address in Hongdae. Jimin saves the number, then spends the next three days thinking about what to wear.
He buys a guitar on Monday. Nothing too expensive, nothing too cheap. The guy at the shop helps him pick something decent for a beginner, and Jimin pays without haggling. When he gets home, he sets the case by the door and doesn't open it.
Tuesday arrives. Jimin wakes up at noon, showers, spends an hour on his hair. He puts on the striped shirt, leaves three buttons undone. Not an accident. The necklace sits perfectly in the hollow of his throat, silver against honey skin. He adds his glasses, checks himself in the mirror. Black pants, tailored but not tight. He looks good. He knows he looks good.
The address leads him to a narrow building wedged between a coffee shop and a record store. There's a door around the side with a buzzer. Jimin presses it, and a few seconds later the lock clicks open.
The stairs lead down instead of up.
The basement is bigger than Jimin expected. Unfinished walls, exposed pipes running across the ceiling. The space smells faintly of smoke and wood polish and the dust that settles into concrete. Equipment is scattered everywhere, amps and cables and microphone stands, a keyboard shoved against one wall. In the center of the room are two stools facing each other.
Yoongi is sitting on one of them, tuning a guitar.
There's an ashtray on the equipment table beside him with a cigarette stubbed out in it, still trailing a thin line of smoke. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, nothing special, but the way the fabric fits his shoulders makes Jimin's mouth go dry. He looks up when Jimin reaches the bottom of the stairs.
"You found it," Yoongi says.
"Yeah." Jimin sets his guitar case down. "Nice space."
Yoongi glances around like he's seeing it for the first time. "It works." His gaze returns to Jimin, drops to the open collar of his shirt, lingers there for a beat, then back up to his face. "You dress like that for guitar practice?"
Jimin smiles. "You don't like it?"
"Didn't say that." Yoongi stands, gestures to the empty stool. "Sit. Let me see your guitar."
Jimin opens the case and hands it over. Yoongi inspects it, plucking each string, adjusting the tuning pegs with quick, efficient movements. His hands move with the same precision Jimin has watched on screen, and being this close to them, seeing the calluses and the veins and the ink up close, makes Jimin's pulse kick up.
"It's good," Yoongi says, handing it back. "You remember anything from before?"
"Some." Jimin settles the guitar on his lap. "Basic chords. It's been a while."
"Show me."
Jimin positions his fingers over a G chord. His hand feels clumsy, the strings biting into his fingertips in a way he doesn't remember. He strums once, and it sounds okay. Not great, but okay.
Yoongi watches without commenting. "C chord."
Jimin shifts his fingers, strums again. This one sounds worse.
"Your posture is wrong," Yoongi says. He stands and moves behind Jimin's stool. "Sit up straighter."
Jimin straightens his spine. Yoongi's hands land on his shoulders, warm and solid, adjusting the angle. The touch is brief but Jimin feels it everywhere, skin too tight, pulse kicking up in his throat. He can smell Yoongi now, cigarettes and something woody, maybe cedar.
"Relax," Yoongi says, voice close enough that Jimin feels the breath of it against his ear. "You're not going to play well if you're tense."
"I'm relaxed," Jimin lies.
Yoongi makes a sound that might be a laugh. His hand moves to Jimin's left arm, guiding his elbow into a different position. "Your wrist is bent too much. You'll hurt yourself." He adjusts Jimin's hand on the fretboard, fingers pressing lightly over Jimin's to demonstrate the right pressure. "Like this."
Jimin can feel the heat of Yoongi's body at his back, close enough that if he leaned back even an inch they'd be touching. He catalogues every detail to keep himself still. The roughness of Yoongi's palms. The black ink curling around his wrists. The silver rings catching the overhead light. The way Yoongi's thumb presses against the side of his hand, calloused and sure.
"Try again," Yoongi says, stepping back.
Jimin exhales and strums. It sounds better this time.
"Good," Yoongi says, returning to his own stool. "Again."
They work through basic chords for the next half hour. Yoongi corrects his finger placement, his strumming pattern, the way he holds the pick. He's patient but direct, not wasting words. Every time he demonstrates something on his own guitar, fingers moving quick and sure across the frets, Jimin watches his hands more than he watches the technique. The way Yoongi's wrist flexes, the way he bites his bottom lip when he's concentrating on a tricky progression.
At some point, Yoongi sets his guitar aside and stretches, rolling his shoulders back. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest for a second before he relaxes. "Take a break. How are your fingers holding up?"
Jimin flexes his left hand. The tips of his fingers are red and sore. "They'll survive."
"They'll toughen up." Yoongi pulls out his phone, checks something, then sets it on his knee.
Jimin adjusts his glasses. "Haven't seen you at school again. When we met, I was picking up my niece and you were..."
"Oh, right. My son." Yoongi glances up from his phone. "My ex usually handles pickups. I only go Fridays."
"Makes sense. Easier than coordinating every day."
"Yeah. It works for us." Something in Yoongi's face softens for a moment. "He's seven. Good kid.”
Jimin nods. He wants to ask more, wants to know about the divorce, about whether Yoongi misses having his son around all the time, but Yoongi is already picking up his guitar again.
"Ready to keep going?"
They run through more exercises. Yoongi moves behind him twice more, adjusting his posture, and each time Jimin has to concentrate on not leaning back into the touch. By the time the hour is up, his fingers are sore and his brain feels fuzzy with proximity.
"That's good for today," Yoongi says, setting his guitar on a stand. "Practice what I showed you. We'll build on it Thursday."
Jimin packs up his guitar, slips his case strap over his shoulder. "Thanks. For the lesson."
"You paid me," Yoongi says. "No need to thank me."
Jimin smiles anyway. "See you Thursday."
He climbs the stairs and steps out into the cooling evening air. His hands are shaking slightly, adrenaline or anticipation buzzing under his skin. He drives home in a daze, barely registering the traffic.
That night, after Mina is asleep and Soyeon is in her room, Jimin lies on the couch with his phone. He opens Instagram, finds @agustd, and scrolls through the feed. There aren't many posts. A photo from a gig three months ago, Yoongi on stage with dramatic lighting. A shot of his guitar setup. An old selfie from two years back, Yoongi in a mirror with his undercut freshly done.
Jimin likes all three.
Then he locks his phone and stares at the ceiling, heart still racing, and wonders what the fuck he's doing.
Over the next two weeks, Jimin has four more lessons.
He starts showing up earlier each time, ten minutes before seven, then fifteen. Yoongi never comments on it, just nods when Jimin comes down the stairs and gestures to the stool. The routine settles into something familiar. Yoongi tunes both guitars while Jimin sets down his case. They start with whatever Jimin practiced since the last lesson, and Yoongi corrects what needs fixing.
The corrections get more hands-on as the lessons progress. Yoongi moves behind him naturally now, adjusting Jimin's posture with steady pressure on his shoulders, guiding his wrist angle with fingers that linger half a second longer than necessary. Jimin learns to anticipate the touch, the warmth of Yoongi's body at his back, the smell of cigarettes and cedar that he's started associating with the dim lighting and concrete walls of this basement.
During the third lesson, Yoongi teaches him a simple fingerpicking pattern. He has to lean in close to demonstrate, his chest nearly against Jimin's shoulder, and Jimin loses the thread of the instruction entirely. He has to ask Yoongi to show him again.
"Pay attention," Yoongi says, but there's something almost amused in his voice.
"I am," Jimin lies.
By the fourth lesson, Jimin knows where Yoongi keeps the spare picks, knows which stool he prefers, knows that he drinks his coffee black and cold because he brews it in the morning and forgets about it by the time lessons start. He knows Yoongi hums under his breath when he's tuning, always the same melody Jimin doesn't recognize. He knows the way Yoongi's jaw tightens when he's frustrated with a student's progress, and the way his expression clears when something finally clicks.
Jimin is getting better. His fingers are developing calluses, his chord transitions are smoother, and he can play through a simple progression without looking at his hands. Yoongi doesn't praise him outright, but he nods more often, says "good" in that low rough voice, and once, at the end of a lesson, he says, "You're a quick learner."
Jimin rides that high for two days.
He's careful about what he wears. Nothing too obvious, nothing that screams I'm trying to get your attention, but he puts thought into it. A slim-fitting shirt one day, his nicest jeans the next. He wears rings, switches up his necklaces, makes sure his hair is perfect even though he knows it'll get messed up when he leans over the guitar.
Yoongi notices. Jimin can tell by the way his gaze sometimes catches on Jimin's hands, his throat, the line of his collarbone. But he never says anything, just teaches the lesson and sends Jimin home at the end of the hour.
It's Thursday night after the fourth lesson when Jimin's phone buzzes.
He's on the couch scrolling through nothing, half-watching TV with Mina, when the notification pops up.
agustd started following you
Jimin's stomach flips. He sits up, opens Instagram, refreshes to make sure it's real. It's real. Yoongi followed him. Which means Yoongi went to his profile, looked at his photos, his follower count, whatever else was there, and decided to follow him back.
Jimin stares at his phone. He locks it, then immediately unlocks it again.
Another buzz.
agustd liked your photo
Then another.
agustd liked your photo
And another.
agustd liked your photo
Jimin opens his profile with his heart in his throat. Three likes, all from Yoongi, all on photos from months ago. One from a shoot in Paris, Jimin in a black blazer with nothing underneath, layered necklaces on display. One from Milan, black and white, Jimin's profile in shadow. One from a candid someone took of him at a cafe, laughing at something off-camera.
Yoongi scrolled through his feed. Looked at his old work and liked multiple photos.
This is a move. This is Yoongi saying something without saying it.
Jimin locks his phone and presses it to his chest. He can feel his pulse everywhere, too fast, too loud. He waits five minutes, trying to calm down, then unlocks his phone again.
He goes to the bathroom, checks himself in the mirror. His hair is still good, tousled just enough to look effortless. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt, nothing special, but the necklace is there and the lighting is decent. He takes a quick selfie, just his face, glasses on, the smallest hint of a smile.
He posts it to his story before he can overthink it.
Then he goes back to the couch and pretends to watch TV.
Ten minutes later, he checks.
Yoongi viewed it.
Jimin stares at the little profile circle. @agustd. He's online. He's looking at Jimin's story. He saw Jimin's face and spent however many seconds it takes for a story to play through.
Jimin sets his phone face down on the couch and tries to breathe normally.
He can't stop smiling.
That night he lies awake thinking about Tuesday's lesson, thinking about what it means that Yoongi followed him and liked his photos and viewed his story within minutes of Jimin posting it. Thinking about the way Yoongi's hands feel on his shoulders, the way his voice drops when he's explaining something close to Jimin's ear.
Something is building between them, and Jimin is done pretending he doesn't want to see where it goes.
Jimin wears the black lace on purpose.
It sits low on his hips. He puts on low-rise jeans, the lace edge just visible above the denim, and throws on an oversized grey hoodie loose enough to ride up when he moves. He knows the precise angle that shows a sliver without looking intentional. He styled shoots for years. He knows how to make an accident.
Silver hoops in his ears, a single chain around his neck. In the mirror he looks casual, effortless. Good.
The basement is warmer than usual when he arrives. Yoongi's already on his stool, guitar across his lap, tuning by ear. He looks up when Jimin reaches the bottom of the stairs, nods once.
Jmin sets his case down and unzips his hoodie halfway. They start with scales. Jimin's fingers are stronger now, calluses forming, and his transitions are cleaner than they were two weeks ago. Yoongi corrects less often, nods more. When Jimin reaches down for his water bottle, the hoodie rides up his back. Cool air hits his skin.
When he straightens, Yoongi is watching him. Not his face. Lower.
The lace must be showing.
Yoongi looks away, back to his guitar. His jaw tightens. "Again. From the top."
Jimin plays through the progression. This time when he finishes, Yoongi stands and moves behind him. His hands land on Jimin's shoulders, warm and firm.
"You're tensing," Yoongi says, close enough that Jimin can feel the words against his ear.
"Am I?"
Yoongi's hands slide down to his elbows, adjusting the angle. His thumb presses against the inside of Jimin's wrist. "Loosen up."
Jimin tries. He's aware of everything. The heat of Yoongi's body at his back. The smell of smoke and something woodsy. The way Yoongi's breath sounds when he's concentrating.
"Better," Yoongi says, and steps away.
They work through another twenty minutes. Jimin has to adjust the tuning pegs, has to shift his weight on the stool, has to stretch his shoulders when they start to ache. Every time he moves, the hoodie rides up. Every time, he knows the lace is visible. Every time, Yoongi's gaze catches on it before sliding away.
He never comments.
When the lesson ends, Jimin packs up slowly. His fingers feel clumsy on the latches. Yoongi is across the room putting his guitar away, and the space between them feels deliberate.
"Thursday," Yoongi says. "Same time."
"Yeah."
Jimin drives home in silence. His head feels full of static.
Later that night, he's lying on the couch with his guitar. Everyone else is asleep and the apartment has gone quiet. He positions the guitar across his lap, angles it so the lace waistband is visible above his jeans. He's shirtless, and the lamp beside the couch throws warm light across his skin.
He takes the photo. Crops it so his face isn't showing, just his torso and the guitar and the black lace.
He types: been practicing
Sends it before he can think too hard.
The message switches to ‘seen’ within a minute.
Then nothing.
Jimin stares at his phone. Locks it. Unlocks it. Still nothing.
He goes to bed around four in the morning and doesn't sleep well.
When he wakes up at ten-thirty, there's a message waiting.
interesting practice outfit
Jimin sits up in bed. His stomach flips.
you noticed
The typing indicator appears. Disappears. Appears again.
i noticed a lot of things during our lessons
Jimin's throat goes dry.
like what?
Two minutes pass. Long enough that Jimin considers putting his phone down.
like how you keep testing me. wondering how far you can push before I push back
Jimin reads it twice. Three times. Types and deletes four different responses before settling on:
and?
keep pushing. see what happens thursday
Jimin stares at the screen. Tomorrow. He's been playing a game, and Yoongi just told him he's been watching the whole time. Waiting.
He sets his phone on the nightstand face down and tries to breathe normally.
It doesn't work.
Jimin barely sleeps Wednesday night.
Thursday comes slow and then too fast. He showers twice, spends an hour on his hair, changes clothes three times before settling on leather pants and a loose white button-up that he leaves open over a tank top. Golden hoops, layered chains, rings on both hands. He looks at himself in the mirror and knows exactly what he's doing.
When he gets to the basement, Yoongi is waiting.
He's in his usual all black, hair pushed back, and when Jimin reaches the bottom of the stairs, Yoongi doesn't move. Just watches him cross the room and set his guitar case down.
The air feels different. Thicker.
"Hi," Jimin says.
"Sit."
Jimin sits on the stool. His hands are shaking slightly when he takes out his guitar. Yoongi moves to his own stool, picks up his guitar, and for a second it almost feels like a normal lesson.
"Show me what you practiced," Yoongi says.
Jimin plays through the progression. His fingers slip on the third chord. He starts over. Slips again on the fifth. He can feel Yoongi watching him, and it's different now. Heavier. The weight of his gaze makes Jimin's skin feel hot.
When he finishes, the silence stretches.
Yoongi sets his guitar aside. Doesn't pick it back up.
"You're distracted," he says.
"Maybe."
"Why?"
Jimin looks at him. Yoongi's face is unreadable, but his eyes are dark. Intent. Jimin swallows.
"You know why."
Yoongi stands. He moves in front of Jimin, close enough that Jimin has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that Jimin can smell cigarettes and that cedar scent he's memorized.
"Do I?" Yoongi asks.
"You said to keep pushing." Jimin's voice comes out steadier than he feels. "So I'm here. Pushing."
Yoongi doesn't respond right away. His hand comes up slowly, fingers brushing Jimin's hair off his forehead. The touch is light. Intentional. Jimin feels it everywhere.
"And what do you want me to do about it?" Yoongi's voice is low.
"Whatever you want."
Yoongi's fingers trail down to Jimin's jaw, tilting his face up. His thumb brushes over Jimin's bottom lip, and Jimin's mouth parts without thinking.
"Say it clearly," Yoongi says. "Say yes if you want me to touch you."
Jimin's heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. "Yes."
Yoongi's thumb pushes into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. The touch is firm, commanding. Jimin closes his lips around it and sucks, slow and wet, eyes locked on Yoongi's. He can feel Yoongi's other hand slide into his hair, gripping tight enough to make his scalp tingle.
"Look at you," Yoongi murmurs. "So eager."
Jimin hums around his thumb. The vibration makes Yoongi's grip tighten. Jimin hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, then pulls back just enough to drag his teeth over the pad of Yoongi's thumb. Testing.
Yoongi's jaw clenches. "Careful."
Jimin does it again. Bites down a little harder this time, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point. Yoongi's eyes flash, and then he's pulling his thumb out and gripping Jimin's chin hard.
"You want my attention?" Yoongi asks. "You have it. Now what are you going to do with it?"
Jimin's mouth feels empty. He wants more. He slides off the stool onto his knees, and Yoongi's hand stays in his hair, following the movement.
"Tell me what you want," Yoongi says.
"I want your cock in my mouth."
Yoongi's face stays flat, but his eyes go dark. "Then take it."
Jimin's hands go to the button of Yoongi's pants. His fingers fumble slightly, adrenaline making him clumsy, but he gets it open. He drags the zipper down slowly, watching Yoongi's face. There's a flush high on Yoongi's cheekbones now, the first real sign that he's affected.
Jimin hooks his fingers into the waistband of both pants and briefs and pulls them down together. Yoongi's cock is half-hard, thick and flushed, and Jimin's mouth waters.
He wraps his hand around the base, feeling the weight of it, and leans in. He licks a slow stripe up the underside, tongue flat and wet, and feels Yoongi's hand tighten in his hair. He does it again, tracing the vein, then closes his lips around the head and sucks.
Yoongi makes a low sound. Not quite a groan, but close.
Jimin takes him deeper, working his way down inch by inch. Yoongi's fully hard now, and Jimin has to relax his jaw to take him. He pulls back, gets his breathing right, then sinks down again. Farther this time. He can feel Yoongi's cock hit the back of his throat, and he swallows around it.
"Fuck," Yoongi mutters.
Jimin pulls off, gasping. Spit runs down his chin. He looks up at Yoongi, makes sure he's watching, then takes him deep again. This time he doesn't stop. He pushes past the resistance in his throat, eyes watering, until his nose is pressed against Yoongi's stomach.
He holds it as long as he can, throat working around Yoongi's cock, then pulls back coughing. His eyes are streaming. His chin is a mess. He loves it.
"Again," Yoongi says, voice hoarse.
Jimin does it again. And again. Each time he gets a little farther, holds it a little longer. Yoongi's hand in his hair guides him now, setting the pace. Jimin lets him, goes pliant and willing, takes everything Yoongi gives him.
"You like that?" Yoongi's hand tightens in his hair. "Choking on my cock?"
Jimin moans around him. The words go straight to his dick. He reaches down to palm himself through his pants, desperate for friction, but Yoongi's other hand catches his wrist.
"Not yet," Yoongi says. "Hands behind your back."
Jimin obeys, clasping his hands together. The position makes him feel more exposed, more vulnerable. Yoongi's hips start to move, shallow thrusts that Jimin takes eagerly. Then deeper. Yoongi's fucking his mouth now, using him, and Jimin's brain goes hazy with it.
"That's it," Yoongi says. "Taking it so well. Such a good boy."
Jimin whimpers. The praise makes something warm bloom in his chest. He wants more of it. Wants to be good for Yoongi, wants to make him feel this good, wants to be used like this.
Yoongi pulls him off suddenly. Jimin gasps for air, mouth open and messy. A string of spit connects his lips to Yoongi's cock.
"You're so pretty like this," Yoongi says, thumb brushing over Jimin's swollen lips. "All fucked up and desperate."
"Please," Jimin breathes. "More."
"Greedy."
"For you, yeah."
Yoongi's eyes darken. He guides Jimin's mouth back onto his cock, and this time he doesn't hold back. He fucks Jimin's throat hard and deep, both hands in his hair now, controlling the angle. Jimin's jaw aches. His throat burns. Tears stream down his face. It's perfect.
He can feel Yoongi getting close, the way his breathing changes, the way his thrusts get less controlled. Jimin wants it. Wants to taste him, swallow him down, but Yoongi pulls him off at the last second.
"Up," he says, voice strained.
Jimin stands on shaky legs. Yoongi pulls him in and kisses him, dirty and deep, tasting himself in Jimin's mouth. His hands go to Jimin's shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. Jimin pulls the tank top over his head and tosses it aside. His skin feels overheated, sensitive. When Yoongi's mouth moves to his neck, biting down hard enough to bruise, Jimin gasps.
Yoongi works his way down. Teeth scraping over Jimin's collarbone, sucking marks into his skin. Each bite sends heat straight to Jimin's cock. He can feel himself leaking through his briefs.
"Off," Yoongi says, tugging at Jimin's waistband.
Jimin kicks off his shoes and strips out of his pants and underwear. He's hard, flushed, and Yoongi looks at him like he wants to devour him. Yoongi pulls off his own shirt, steps out of his pants completely, and Jimin can't stop staring. The tattoos covering his arms and chest, the lean muscle, his cock still thick and wet from Jimin's mouth.
Yoongi sits back down on the stool, legs spread. He reaches under the equipment table and pulls out a bottle of lube from a drawer, tosses it to Jimin.
"Open yourself up for me," Yoongi says. "I want to watch."
Jimin catches the bottle. His hands are steadier now, adrenaline replaced by focused intent. He moves to the empty stool and bends over it, bracing one hand on the seat. He slicks his fingers with the other and reaches behind himself, pressing one inside. It's been a while since he's done this, and he has to go slow. He works himself open, adding a second finger, then a third, and the whole time Yoongi watches him with dark, hungry eyes.
"That's it," Yoongi says. "Show me."
Jimin turns slightly, angling so Yoongi can see. He's making a performance of it, moaning louder than necessary, working his fingers deep and slow. He's not faking the pleasure though. The stretch feels good, and knowing Yoongi is watching makes it better.
"You like putting on a show," Yoongi observes.
"Only for you."
"Good answer."
Jimin adds more lube, working himself thoroughly. He's breathing hard now, face flushed, and his cock is dripping. He crooks his fingers, finds his prostate, and moans.
"Beautiful," Yoongi murmurs. "Keep going. Get yourself ready for my cock."
Jimin's so focused on the slide of his fingers, on the heat building in his stomach, that he doesn't hear Yoongi move until there's a hand on his wrist, pulling his fingers out. Then a sharp crack lands on his ass.
Jimin yelps. The sting spreads across his skin, hot and sudden.
Yoongi's hand rubs over the spot, soothing. "You like that?"
Jimin's breathing is ragged. "Yeah."
"Tell me if you don't. If it's too much."
"It's not. I like it. Do it again."
Yoongi's hand comes down harder this time. The sound echoes in the basement. Jimin moans, arching into it.
"Fuck," Yoongi says. "So desperate for it."
Another smack. Then another. Jimin's ass is burning, and his cock is so hard it hurts. He's making needy sounds he can't control.
"Good boy," Yoongi says, voice rough. "So pretty when you bruise.”
Then Yoongi's on his knees behind him, and Jimin feels his tongue press flat against his hole. He nearly collapses. His legs tremble. Yoongi holds his hips steady and eats him out like he's starving for it, tongue working him open, licking inside.
"Oh fuck," Jimin gasps. "Oh fuck, Yoongi—"
Yoongi doesn't stop. He's thorough, methodical, using his tongue in ways that make Jimin see stars. One hand reaches around to wrap around Jimin's cock, stroking in time with his tongue.
"Please," Jimin begs. "I'm going to… I can't—"
Yoongi hums against him, and that's all it takes. Jimin comes with a broken cry, spilling over Yoongi's hand and the floor, entire body shaking with it.
Yoongi works him through it, gentle now, until Jimin is boneless and gasping. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and swollen.
"There it is," Yoongi says, standing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "So pretty when you fall apart.”
Jimin's brain is hazy. His legs feel like they might give out. Yoongi steadies him with hands on his waist.
"Come here," Yoongi says, guiding him across the room.
There's a large mirror propped against the far wall. Yoongi positions Jimin in front of it, standing behind him so they're both reflected. One arm wraps around Jimin's waist, holding him steady. The other hand trails up his chest, over his stomach, spreading the mess he made earlier.
"Look," Yoongi says, lips against his ear.
Jimin looks. He's been looked at for a decade. By photographers, by stylists, by strangers who bought magazines with his face on the cover. He knows what he looks like when he's performing. This is different. His face is flushed, lips swollen and red. Dark marks bloom across his neck and collarbone. His hair is wrecked. He looks ruined in a way no camera has ever caught, and his cock is already filling out again.
"So pretty," Yoongi murmurs. "All fucked up and spent, and you're already getting hard again."
Yoongi's hand wraps around him, stroking slowly. In the reflection Jimin can see Yoongi's tattooed fingers moving over his cock, can see his own mouth fall open. He's never watched himself like this. Never wanted to.
"I want you inside me," Jimin says.
"Yeah?" Yoongi's grip tightens. "Right here? Want to see yourself get fucked?
"Please."
Yoongi reaches for the lube, slicks himself up. Jimin tracks every movement in the glass. Yoongi's hand on his own cock, the way he bites his lip while he works himself wet.
"Wait," Yoongi says. "Let me grab a condom."
"I'm clean. Got tested before I left Paris. I can show you."
Yoongi pauses. "I got tested last week."
"Then I don't want one. I want to feel you."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. I want to feel you. Just you."
Yoongi's hand comes up to cup his jaw, turning Jimin's face so their eyes meet in the reflection. "You tell me if something's wrong.”
"I will."
Yoongi pushes in slow. Jimin's mouth opens on a silent gasp, and he can't look away from himself. The way his expression breaks open, the way his eyes lose focus. He's spent years controlling what his face does in front of a lens. He can't control this..
"Eyes on me," Yoongi says.
Jimin focuses. Their eyes meet in the reflection. Yoongi sinks all the way in, and Jimin's knees nearly buckle.
"Fuck," Jimin breathes. "So full."
"That's it. You feel so good, baby.”
Yoongi starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust pushes Jimin forward slightly. He has to brace himself. Yoongi's arm tightens around his waist.
"You feel perfect," Yoongi says. "So tight. So good for me."
The praise hits him somewhere deep. He clenches around Yoongi and hears him groan, feels his hips snap forward harder.
"You like hearing it," Yoongi says. Not a question. "Like being told how good you are."
"Yes." It comes out broken. "Please."
Yoongi's pace picks up. His free hand slides into Jimin's hair, pulling his head back. "My pretty baby. Taking everything I give you."
Jimin's leaking, desperate for friction, but he can't reach himself. Yoongi has him pinned. Controlled. He loves it.
Then Yoongi pushes him forward until his chest presses flat against the glass, cheek against the cool surface. His necklaces catch between his skin and the mirror, metal biting cold. The angle changes, deeper now, and Jimin cries out.
Yoongi fucks him harder. One hand on his hip, the other pressed flat between his shoulder blades.
"Feel that?" Yoongi's voice is rough. "How deep?"
"Yes," Jimin moans. "Don't stop."
Yoongi's hand cracks across his ass. Once. Twice. The sting bleeds into pleasure and Jimin can't keep quiet, sounds spilling out high and desperate.
"Let me hear you," Yoongi says. "Want to hear how good this feels."
Jimin's thighs are trembling. He can barely hold himself up. Yoongi must notice because he slows, pulls out carefully, and Jimin whimpers at the loss.
"Come on," Yoongi says, guiding him away from the mirror. "Couch."
They make it to the old leather couch shoved against the wall. Yoongi sits down, reaching for Jimin, but Jimin puts a hand on his chest.
"Let me," Jimin says.
He climbs into Yoongi's lap, straddling him. Yoongi's hands go to his hips, steadying him as Jimin lines himself up and sinks down in one smooth motion. They both groan.
"Fuck," Yoongi breathes. "Yeah, just like that.”
Jimin starts to move, rolling his hips, finding a rhythm. He's good at this, knows how to angle himself to make it feel good for both of them. Yoongi's hands guide him but let him set the pace, and Jimin takes his time. Slow and deep, then faster, grinding down on every thrust.
"So pretty like this," Yoongi says, eyes fixed on him. "Riding my cock like you were made for it."
Jimin leans down and kisses him, messy and desperate. Yoongi's hands slide up his back, one tangling in his hair. They move together, finding a rhythm, and Jimin can feel heat building in his stomach again.
He's close. Too close. His movements get less controlled, more desperate.
Yoongi's hands tighten on his hips, stopping him. "Not yet."
"Please," Jimin gasps against his mouth.
"Not yet, baby. I want to feel you longer."
Jimin makes a frustrated sound. His cock is leaking between them, untouched and aching. Yoongi's thumb brushes over his lips.
"Lay down for me," Yoongi says.
Jimin shifts to the couch, stretching out. Yoongi settles between his legs, bracing himself on his forearms, and kisses him slow and deep before pushing back inside. The angle is different now, intimate, their faces close enough that Jimin can feel every breath.
Yoongi fucks him slow and thorough, and Jimin wraps his legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. They kiss through it, tongues sliding together, swallowing each other's sounds.
Yoongi's mouth moves to Jimin's chest. His lips close around one nipple, sucking, and Jimin arches up with a gasp. Then teeth scrape over it, and Jimin's hands fist in Yoongi's hair.
"Sensitive," Yoongi murmurs. He does the same to the other side, pinching and biting until Jimin is squirming beneath him.
"Please," Jimin begs. "I need it. I'm so close."
Yoongi pulls back slightly, bracing himself better, and starts fucking him harder. Deeper. The angle hits Jimin's prostate on every thrust, and he can't think anymore. Can't do anything but take it and moan.
"You're so good for me," Yoongi says. "Taking everything I give you. My pretty baby."
Jimin's close, so close he can barely breathe. But Yoongi slows down again, rolling his hips in shallow thrusts that aren't enough.
"Yoongi," Jimin whines. "Please. Please let me come."
"Beg for it."
"Please. Please, I need it. I'll do anything, just please—"
Yoongi straightens up, changing the angle, and starts fucking him hard and fast. Every thrust punches the air from Jimin's lungs, hits that spot inside him that makes his vision blur.
"Come for me," Yoongi says. "Let me see you fall apart."
Jimin comes with a broken cry, untouched, spilling all over his stomach. His entire body shakes with it, pleasure rolling through him in waves. Yoongi fucks him through it, relentless, until Jimin is oversensitive and gasping.
Yoongi pulls out at the last second and comes over Jimin's hole, hot and wet. Before Jimin can catch his breath, Yoongi's fingers are there, spreading his come and pushing it inside. Then his cock follows, sliding back in slow and gentle, and Jimin makes a broken sound.
He's so full. Stuffed with Yoongi's cock and his come, and it feels perfect. His brain is fuzzy, floating.
Yoongi stays inside him, leaning down to kiss him. It's different now. Soft. Lazy. Their lips moving together without urgency. Jimin makes a sound of protest when Yoongi starts to pull out.
"Stay," Jimin murmurs. "Don't want you to leave yet."
"I need to clean you up, baby."
"Just a little longer."
Yoongi kisses his forehead. "Okay. A little longer."
They stay like that, Yoongi still buried inside him, their breathing evening out. Jimin feels warm and boneless and safe. Eventually Yoongi does pull out. Jimin whimpers softly at the loss.
Yoongi stands, and Jimin watches him cross the room to a small door in the corner. He comes back with a damp cloth and a bottle of water. He cleans Jimin up gently, careful around the sensitive areas, then helps him sit up to drink.
"You okay?" Yoongi asks, sitting beside him.
"Yeah." Jimin's voice is hoarse. "Really okay."
Yoongi brushes hair off his forehead. "You did so well. You were perfect."
Jimin curls into his side, and Yoongi's arm comes around him, holding him close. His hand strokes through Jimin's hair, gentle and soothing. Jimin's eyes feel heavy. He could fall asleep like this.
"You're good at this," Jimin mumbles against his shoulder.
"At what?"
"The after part."
Yoongi's hand stills for a moment, then continues. "You deserve it."
They sit in comfortable silence. Jimin's mind is starting to clear, reality creeping back in. He should probably get dressed. Go home. But Yoongi's holding him, and it feels too good to move.
"So," Jimin says eventually. "Do I still have to pay for lessons?"
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. "Yes."
"Worth a shot."
"You're still a terrible student."
"You're a terrible teacher."
Yoongi tilts Jimin's face up and kisses him, soft and unhurried. "Brat."
Jimin grins against his mouth. "You like it."
"Unfortunately." Yoongi's thumb brushes over his cheekbone. "You free Monday night? Not for a lesson."
"Like a date?"
"If you want to call it that."
Jimin's heart does something complicated in his chest. "Yeah. I'm free."
A few weeks later, Jimin is waiting outside the school on a Friday afternoon when he sees Yoongi pull up. The bell rings and kids pour out. Mina runs over but immediately spots Minho, and the two take off toward the playground together, already deep in conversation.
Yoongi walks over. He's wearing sunglasses and a black leather jacket, and Jimin has to remind himself they're in public.
"Hey," Yoongi says.
"Hey yourself." Jimin adjusts his own sunglasses. They've been doing this for a couple weeks now, Friday pickups where they run into each other, and it still feels slightly surreal. "Kids are getting along."
"Too well. Minho asks about Mina constantly."
They stand in comfortable silence, watching the kids play. Jimin's aware of how close Yoongi is standing, close enough that their arms are almost touch.
"So," Jimin says, keeping his voice low. "Last night was nice."
Yoongi's jaw tightens. "Don't start."
"I'm just saying. Actual restaurant. Wine. You even walked me to my door."
"Jimin."
"Very romantic of you."
"Keep talking and I'll make sure you can't walk at all next time."
Heat flashes through Jimin's stomach. "That's not the threat you think it is."
Yoongi turns to look at him, and even through the sunglasses Jimin can feel the weight of his gaze. "Careful, baby."
"Uncle Jimin!" Mina runs over, Minho trailing behind her. "Minho says there's a new superhero movie. Can we see it? Please?"
"We'd have to check schedules—"
"My dad already said we could go if you guys wanted to come," Minho says.
Jimin glances at Yoongi. "You inviting us?"
"If you want," Yoongi says. His voice is casual, but there's something careful in the way he's holding himself.
Jimin thinks about the past few weeks. The lessons that stopped being just lessons. Nights at Yoongi's place when it's just the two of them. The way Yoongi kisses him, gentle and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world.
"Yeah," Jimin says. "We'll come."
"Can we get popcorn?" Mina asks.
"And candy?" Minho adds.
"We'll see," both Jimin and Yoongi say at the same time.
The kids grin at each other and run back toward the playground equipment.
Yoongi's hand brushes against Jimin's, just briefly. "Movie's at seven. I'll text you the theater."
"Okay."
"And next time you stay over, bring an overnight bag. I'm tired of lending you my clothes."
Jimin's face heats. "You like seeing me in your clothes."
"I do." Yoongi's mouth curves. He calls out toward the playground, "Minho! Time to wrap it up."
Jimin watches him walk toward the playground, and doesn't stop smiling the whole way home.