Chapter Text
The key turned in the lock with a solid, satisfying clunk, a sound that still felt new, that still meant mine. Yoongi shouldered the door open, dropping his backpack onto the small wooden bench he’d refinished himself, its pale ashwood a stark contrast to the deep charcoal of the apartment walls.
This was his. A one-room studio five minutes from the university gates, all his because he’d decided the dorm’s fluorescent lighting and perpetually sticky floors were slowly killing his creative soul. It was small, sure, but it was his sanctuary. A mood board hung above his drafting table, peppered with fabric swatches, paint chips, and sketches of minimalist furniture. A single, healthy monstera plant thrived in the afternoon sun streaming through the large window. It was a space that felt like an extension of his own mind: ordered, intentional, and quietly confident.
His personal style was an extension of that sanctuary. Most days, Yoongi was a study in monochrome and texture. He favored black ripped jeans, band tees faded to softness, and a well-worn leather jacket that smelled of coffee and rain. Silver rings adorned his fingers, and a simple chain glinted against the dark fabric of his shirts. It was a uniform of quiet defiance, a armor of aesthetic cohesion that kept the world at a comfortable distance. People in the design department understood it; it was just another form of self-expression. Others in the halls often gave him a wider berth, their glances a mix of curiosity and apprehension, categorizing him as the "quiet, gothic kid."
University life, for the most part, was exactly what he’d hoped it would be. His classes in the Interior Design department were a challenge he eagerly met head-on. He loved the logic of spatial planning, the poetry of light and shadow, the psychology of color. He could get lost for hours in the precise lines of a technical drawing, finding a strange, meditative peace in getting the perspective just right.
It wasn’t a passion everyone understood.
“So, you, like, pick out curtains?” a business major with a loud laugh and a perpetually popped collar, had asked him at a party the week before, his eyes skimming over Yoongi’s black-on-black outfit with barely concealed judgment. He’d slung an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders, his breath smelling of cheap beer. “My mom loves that stuff. Thinks a throw pillow can change her life.” The guys around him had chuckled.
Yoongi had just shrugged the arm off, offering a small, unbothered smile. “Something like that,” he’d said, his tone even. He didn’t bother explaining the complexities of architectural drafting, sustainable material sourcing, or client psychology. Their opinion was a room he had no interest in decorating. Their laughter was just noise, easily dismissed.
Because they didn’t see him hours later, in the locker room, undergoing a transformation. The leather jacket and silver rings were carefully stored in his locker, replaced by the uniform of his other life. The stark red and black of the jersey, the tight compression shorts, the high-top sneakers—it was a costume that signaled a complete shift in identity. The moment he pulled the jersey over his head, the perception of him changed. The "quiet, gothic kid" vanished. On the court, he was just Min Yoongi, shooting guard for the university’s Division 2 team. The guys who might have sneered at his daily wardrobe now clapped him on the back, their respect earned through skill and sweat, not fabric.
He loved basketball with a ferocity that sometimes surprised him. The strategy, the split-second decisions, the pure, cathartic release of a perfect jump shot. He’d been playing since he was a kid, and his average height had never been a disadvantage in his mind, only a challenge to be smarter and quicker. He weaved through the legs of giants, a blur of red and black, using his low center of gravity to his advantage.
As they lined up for a drill, Kim Taeho, their six-foot center, clapped him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Ready to get stuffed, little man?” he rumbled, a good-natured grin on his face, seeing only a teammate, not the guy in the leather jacket.
Yoongi just adjusted his shooting sleeve, looking up at his friend. “Keep dreaming, Taeho. You’re too slow to even get near me.”
The whistle blew. Yoongi caught the inbound pass, faked left, and drove right. He ducked under a reaching arm, created a sliver of space, and launched the ball. It arced high, spinning perfectly against the bright lights, before swishing through the net without touching the rim.
Nothing but net.
A few of the guys on the sidelines whooped. The guy just shook his head, laughing. “Lucky shot, designer boy!”
Designer boy. Yoongi jogged back on defense, a real smile finally breaking through his game face. He liked the dissonance of it. The guy who could spend an afternoon debating the merits of eggshell versus off-white was the same guy drilling three-pointers over players a head taller than him. One required a keen eye for detail, patience, and vision. The other required a keen eye for detail, patience, and vision.
They weren’t so different after all. And as the ball found its way back into his hands, he knew he wouldn’t trade either part of his life for the world.
Of course, the only thing that ever ruined the bliss of the court was Kim Seokjin.
He was technically their small forward, but Yoongi had his own names for him: narcissist, poser, pain in the ass. Seokjin strutted into the gym like it was a catwalk instead of a place where sweat and grit mattered. His warm-up jersey was never fully zipped, his perfect hair never mussed no matter how hard the drills got, and he had an almost magical ability to peel it off right in front of the cheer squad—always timed to when they were watching. The resulting shrieks and giggles made Yoongi’s teeth ache.
And the worst part? The bastard really was that handsome. All sharp jawline, perfect skin, and annoyingly broad shoulders. He didn’t even need to flex to draw eyes.
Yoongi despised him.
It wasn’t just the showboating. It was the way Seokjin manipulated people with that stupid smile, all charm and dimples. Professors overlooked his late assignments because “he’d been sick.” Teammates carried his gear without him asking. He’d have classmates running errands for him like it was an honor just to be in his presence. And he rewarded them with nothing but a lazy smirk or a wink, like he knew exactly how easy it was to bend people to his will.
Yoongi saw through it. Always had. Behind that golden-boy exterior was someone shallow, selfish, and careless with people’s feelings.
Case in point: during scrimmage that afternoon, Seokjin caught a pass, ignored Yoongi’s perfect cut to the basket, and instead pulled up for a flashy three-pointer. He bricked it so hard the rebound slammed off the rim and nearly hit someone in the head.
“Bro, pass next time!” One of the teammates barked, swiping the ball off the floor.
But Seokjin just ran a hand through his sweatless hair, flashing the cheerleaders a sheepish grin. They screamed louder, as if the missed shot was the most charming thing they’d ever seen.
Yoongi, standing on the wing, rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath.
And when Seokjin jogged past him, he had the audacity to wink.
“Don’t worry, designer boy. They don’t come to watch you.”
Yoongi gritted his teeth, fingers tightening around the ball like he could crush it. He despised Kim Seokjin—his arrogance, his shallowness, his ability to turn the court, the one place Yoongi felt free, into yet another stage for his own stupid performance.
But worse than all of that was the nagging, infuriating fact that, sometimes, Seokjin’s shots really did go in. And when they did, he looked even more untouchable.
Yoongi knew more about Kim Seokjin than he ever wanted to.
It wasn’t because he cared—God no—but because Seokjin was impossible to ignore. The guy was everywhere: in class, on the court, in the cafeteria, holding court with that stupid, easy laugh that carried across the quad. If there was a spotlight anywhere within a mile, Seokjin would find a way to step into it.
He studied economics, which somehow made sense. Seokjin liked things with clear winners and losers, things that could be manipulated with just the right smile, the right word. His parents were loaded—some old money business empire that kept him wrapped in silk and convenience. He had an older brother, and a little white dog named Jjangu that occasionally showed up on his Instagram in carefully curated bursts of “soft boyfriend aesthetic.”
And his friends… Yoongi had no patience for them. A group of preening assholes cut from the same expensive cloth, loud and entitled, puffed up on their own charm. If Seokjin was manipulative, they were reckless, worse than him in their arrogance. Yoongi had seen it more than once—one of them sneaking off at a party, hand in hand with someone who wasn’t their girlfriend. And right after, Seokjin covering for them, lying through his perfect teeth without hesitation.
“Relax, he was with me the whole night,” Yoongi had overheard him say once, smiling so easily that the girl’s doubt melted like ice under the sun. The audacity of it had stuck in Yoongi’s head for weeks after, bitter and sharp.
But even if everyone loved Seokjin and didn’t see how evil he was, Yoongi saw through him and what he was, a handsome, spoiled bastard who got whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. And every time Seokjin flashed that smug grin, every time he winked at Yoongi like they shared some private joke, Yoongi felt the urge to wipe it right off his face.
It was a litany of Kim Seokjin’s supposed wonders, each one sanding down his nerves. The whispers followed Yoongi all week, a constant, infuriating soundtrack to his life.
In the cafeteria, he overheard two juniors sighing about how Seokjin had “generously” paid for a entire table’s lunch after someone forgot their wallet. Yoongi’s grip tightened on his tray. Generous, he thought bitterly. He probably just wanted an audience for his magnanimity. The cost was nothing to him, but the admiration was everything.
Walking to his economics elective, a class he knew Seokjin was also in, though he rarely deigned to show up, a group of girls gushed about how he’d “saved” a presentation last week. “He didn’t even prepare! He just stood up there and charmed the professor into an A! He’s a genius!”
Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek. He’d been in that class. He’d seen it. Seokjin had stumbled in late, offered a breezy, flattering apology that made the professor blush, and then proceeded to bullshit his way through a analysis of market fluctuations with smooth, confident sentences that contained almost no actual substance. It wasn’t genius. It was manipulation. And the professor, a woman in her late fifties, had beamed at him like he’d just discovered cold fusion.
It was the same everywhere. A senior from the basketball team mentioned how Seokjin had talked his way out of a parking ticket right in front of the campus security office. “The guard was just smiling like an idiot by the end of it. Jin didn’t even have to flash the famous smile! He’s just got it, you know?”
Yoongi knew. He knew exactly what “it” was. It wasn’t charm. It was a weapon. It was a lifetime of being told he was beautiful, of learning that a well-timed smirk or a strategically widened eye could get him out of trouble, could get him what he wanted, could make people overlook his utter lack of character.
People just… let him. They laid down like doormats because he was pretty. They excused his arrogance as confidence, his cruelty as humor, his manipulation as charisma. They were so dazzled by the packaging they never bothered to check if the box was empty.
And Seokjin knew it. He knew the power his face held, and he wielded it with the precision of a surgeon and the ethics of a pickpocket. He used his “pretty privilege” like a master key, unlocking doors, bypassing rules, and disarming anyone who might pose a threat to his effortless reign.
It made Yoongi sick. It was the most transparent, pathetic con in the world, and yet everyone fell for it. They were all willing participants in their own exploitation, lining up for the chance to be used by him.
The air in the gym was thick with the smell of sweat and floor polish, a scent Yoongi usually found grounding. Today, it felt charged, heavy with the impending friction he knew Seokjin would inevitably create. They were running a full-court scrimmage, and Coach had explicitly paired them as defensive match-ups.
“Let’s see some intensity! Yoongi, you’re on Jin. Don’t let him breathe!” Coach barked.
Perfect, Yoongi thought, sinking into a defensive stance. This was a challenge he could respect, a pure basketball problem to solve.
For the first few possessions, it was just ball. Yoongi was a pest, his lower center of gravity making him a brick wall against Seokjin’s drives. He denied him the ball, fought through screens, and when Seokjin finally posted him up, Yoongi dug in, his forearm a solid bar against Seokjin’s back.
“Getting a little handsy there, designer boy,” Seokjin grunted, his voice tight with effort for the first time all practice.
“Just playing defense,” Yoongi replied, his tone flat, his focus entirely on the ball. “Something you’d know about if you didn’t rely on your height.”
Seokjin elbowed back, a little harder than necessary, creating just enough space to receive the pass. He faked a spin, but Yoongi didn’t bite. He stayed grounded, his eyes locked on Seokjin’s waist, reading his true movement. Seokjin, frustrated, forced up a awkward, contested hook shot that clanged off the rim.
“Nice D, Yoongi!” Taeho yelled from the other end.
A flicker of irritation crossed Seokjin’s perfectly composed face. He didn’t like being shown up. Especially not by Yoongi.
The game continued, and Yoongi continued to be a shadow, his defense a silent, persistent rebuttal to Seokjin’s flash. On offense, Yoongi moved without the ball, cutting backdoor for an easy layup while Seokjin was caught watching. He sank a three-pointer right in Seokjin’s face, the net snapping with a sound that was, to Yoongi, pure satisfaction.
Seokjin’s smile became tighter, more forced. The performance was cracking.
During a dead ball, as they waited for a substitute, Seokjin decided to change tactics. He leaned close, his voice a silken, mocking whisper meant only for Yoongi.
“You know, all this aggression… it’s very telling,” Seokjin began, wiping fake sweat from his brow. “Spending all day with fabrics and color swatches must get pretty frustrating. All that pent-up… creativity. Need an outlet, huh?”
One of Seokjin’s friends on the sideline, a hulking backup center named Minho, snorted loudly. “Maybe he’s jealous he can’t make a pretty pillow out of a basketball, Jin.”
A few other sycophants chuckled. The sound was cheap and hollow.
Yoongi just took a deep drink from his water bottle, his expression unchanging. He let the laughter die down on its own, its life cut short by his lack of reaction. He met Seokjin’s waiting gaze, his own eyes cool and assessing, like he was studying a poorly designed room.
“You’re trying too hard,” Yoongi said, his voice so calm it was almost conversational. “The material is cheap, and the delivery is clumsy. You should workshop it with your fan club. I’m sure they’ll tell you it’s brilliant.”
He didn’t wait for a response. The whistle blew, and Yoongi turned his back on Seokjin, fully engaged in the next play. He completely shut Seokjin out, treating his existence as irrelevant to the task at hand.
On the next play, Yoongi slipped past him without hesitation, body low and quick. The ball arced, perfect, kissing nothing but net. He didn’t so much as glance in Seokjin’s direction as he jogged back to defense.
Seokjin, of course, wasn’t about to let it go.
“Careful,” he called, loud enough for his friends to hear this time, “you keep working that hard and you’ll sweat your pretty hands off. Who’s gonna hold the paintbrush then?”
More laughter from the sidelines. One of Seokjin’s cronies added, “Don’t mess up your manicure, Yoongi!”
Yoongi’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet, eyes locked on the court, on the game. Calm. Always calm. That was the thing Seokjin would never understand, Yoongi didn’t need to bite back with words. He spoke in clean jump shots, in flawless passes, in defense so tight Seokjin barely managed to get a shot up when Yoongi was on him.
The laughter dulled when Yoongi drained another three, smooth as water.
Seokjin was left standing there, the patronizing smile finally wiped from his face, replaced by a look of genuine, bewildered annoyance. His usual tactics, the charm, the mockery, the crowd-work, were bouncing off Yoongi like rubber bullets. Yoongi wasn’t ignoring him out of hurt feelings; he was ignoring him out of sheer, utter dismissal. He was treating Kim Seokjin, the campus king, as a minor nuisance, an uninteresting problem.
As Yoongi stole the ball on the next possession and raced down the court for an uncontested layup, he could feel Seokjin’s stare burning into his back.
The shrill blast of the whistle ended practice. Everyone groaned, collapsing onto benches or tugging at sweat-soaked jerseys. Yoongi grabbed his water bottle, chest heaving, sweat cooling sticky on his skin. His muscles hummed with exhaustion, but also with the sharp satisfaction of having shut Seokjin down all practice.
The team shuffled toward the locker room, the smell of liniment and damp clothes hitting them the second they stepped inside. Metal lockers slammed open and shut, the hiss of showers filling the air.
Yoongi dropped onto the bench in front of his locker, tugging his shoes off with quick, efficient motions. He felt rather than saw Seokjin flop down a few lockers away, his voice already filling the room.
“Man, Coach needs to chill. Not everyone’s a robot like designer boy here,” Seokjin said loudly, jerking his chin toward Yoongi as he peeled his jersey over his head. His friends chuckled on cue.
Yoongi ignored him. Or tried to. He kept his eyes on the knot of his laces, unhurried, deliberate. Calm. Always calm.
But Seokjin had a way of pulling attention, even when Yoongi wanted nothing to do with it. The stretch of smooth skin across his torso as he yanked off his shirt. The way he deliberately dragged a towel across his chest, smirking when the cheerleaders outside the door squealed at the sound of the team’s laughter.
Yoongi told himself he was annoyed, that his eyes only drifted because Seokjin was loud, because he occupied too much space. But the truth was his gaze lingered—on the lines of muscle, on the easy arrogance in every movement. Just a second too long.
He focused on the anger. He needed to focus on the anger.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to summon the memory, a shield against the unwanted pull of Seokjin’s presence. It wasn’t hard to find. The humiliation was still fresh, a permanent stain.
It was a few weeks ago, after a particularly brutal practice. Yoongi had been bent over, digging through the bottom of his locker for a missing sock. The room was loud, Seokjin and his pack of hyenas roughhousing and bragging about some party.
He’d heard their laughter shift, becoming sharper, more targeted. They were making fun of some freshman on the swim team, mocking his lisp, their voices cruel and grating. Yoongi had straightened up, ready to tell them to shut the hell up, when a sudden, solid weight crashed into him from behind.
Seokjin.
He’d been shoved into his friends, and he’d stumbled forward, planting his hands on either side of Yoongi’s locker to catch himself. And then, instead of moving away, he’d done it. A deliberate, grinding thrust of his hips, pelvis connecting with the curve of Yoongi’s ass. It was a vulgar, mocking gesture, held for a beat too long.
The locker room had erupted. Seokjin’s friends howled, slapping their knees. “Whoa, Jin! Buy him a drink first?” one had yelled.
Seokjin had just pushed off, laughing that rich, empty laugh. “Relax, it’s a joke. He’s so tense,” he’d said, ruffling Yoongi’s hair like he was a dog before sauntering away. “Lighten up, designer boy.”
Yoongi had stayed frozen, his cheeks burning, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The heat hadn't been from attraction; it had been pure, undiluted fury and shame. He’d wanted to turn around and slam Seokjin’s perfect face into the metal lockers. But he hadn’t. He’d just stood there, swallowing the acid taste of his own silence.
That was the real Kim Seokjin. Not this… this carefully constructed illusion of casual magnetism. A cruel, entitled child who thought everything and everyone was his to play with.
The memory worked. The unwanted heat in his veins cooled, replaced by the familiar, cold resentment. He finally yanked his second shoe off and tossed it into his locker with more force than necessary, the bang echoing in the tiled room.
“Yo, designer boy,” Seokjin called across the row, making Yoongi snap his eyes up and the cheerleaders’ earlier screams almost echo in Yoongi’s ears as Seokjin was pulling a fresh, ridiculously soft-looking designer t-shirt over his head. The moment of vulnerability was gone, covered up by expensive cotton. “Didn’t know you had that on you on the court. Must be a special occasion.”
Yoongi didn’t answer. But Seokjin wasn’t finished. He strutted to his locker, chatting idly with his friends, but every few seconds he threw a line over his shoulder. Teasing, needling, waiting for Yoongi to snap.
Yoongi didn’t snap. He glanced. Just a glance, quick and sharp as lightning, when Seokjin peeled off his shorts. His skin glowed faintly with sweat, muscles moving with lazy confidence. And there, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers, was the outline Yoongi hated himself for noticing. Too obvious, too present. Seokjin adjusted without shame, as if he knew.
Yoongi’s eyes lingered a fraction too long before. The locker room was loud with the hiss of showers, bursts of laughter, and the slam of locker doors, but the noise seemed to dull in Yoongi’s ears the second Seokjin caught him looking. That smirk was sharper now, his eyes glinting like he’d found something he could finally use.
“Well, well,” Seokjin said loudly enough for half the team to hear, stretching the towel around his neck with deliberate ease. “Didn’t know we had an audience. You like the view, designer boy?”
A few of his friends snorted, others laughed outright. One muttered, “Knew it,” under his breath.
Yoongi’s chest tightened, but he didn’t flinch. He straightened, meeting Seokjin’s eyes head-on. Calm. Always calm.
“So what if I do?”
For a split second, the room froze.
Then the laughter erupted like a bomb.
“Holy shit, he admitted it!” Minho howled, slapping his knee.
“Yoongi’s got a crush,” another chimed in, their voices ricocheting against the tile and metal lockers.
“Damn, Jin, even the guys can’t resist you,” someone else jeered, and that sent the chorus of laughter up another notch.
But through all the noise, Seokjin wasn’t laughing.
He was still standing there, towel slung around his neck, his smirk brittle now, sharp at the edges. His friends’ laughter echoed around him, not with him, the words suddenly cutting closer to bone than to Yoongi.
Yoongi leaned back against his locker, crossing his arms, letting a slow smirk tug at his mouth. His gaze never left Seokjin, calm and unbothered. “What can I say?” he said, voice smooth and quiet beneath the noise. “Good design’s about knowing the materials. You’re… interesting. Flashy. But maybe not as solid as you think.”
The laughter doubled, but this time it wasn’t at Yoongi.
It was at Seokjin.
“Not as solid as you think,” Minho echoed with a wheeze. “Bro, he’s roasting you while wanting you. That’s wild.”
“Careful, Jin,” another teammate laughed. “You might not survive his ‘design critique.’”
The mockery was subtle but relentless. For the first time, Seokjin’s fan club wasn’t lifting him up—they were dragging him, making jokes at his expense, the unshakable king dented in front of his own court.
And Yoongi just sat there, he leaned back against the bench, unbothered, his gaze unwavering. “At least I’m honest about what I want. Can’t say the same for half the guys in here sneaking around behind their girlfriends.”
That landed like a stone in water. The laughter died completely. One of Seokjin’s closest friends froze, jaw tight, and looked away. Another slammed his locker shut with more force than necessary.
For a moment, the room was thick with the weight of exposed secrets.
Seokjin’s smirk shifted, almost into a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He swung his locker closed with a sharp clang and turned toward the others. “Out.”
No one moved at first. He repeated, firmer this time, “I said out.”
The team shuffled, muttering under their breaths, a mix of discomfort and relief. One by one, they filtered out of the locker room until it was just Yoongi and Seokjin left in the echoing quiet, the air still buzzing with everything unsaid.
Seokjin tossed his towel onto the bench, still too close. “You’ve got some mouth on you,” he said softly, the smirk curling again, but this time it felt different, less mocking.
Yoongi sat back down heavily on the bench, towel draped around his neck, his hands busying themselves with nothing in particular. His calm face was intact, but inside he cursed himself. He should’ve kept his eyes off him, should’ve ignored the bait. But now the locker room was empty, and Seokjin was still here.
Seokjin didn’t head for the showers or finish changing. Instead, he stepped directly in front of Yoongi, blocking his view with that tall, broad frame. Yoongi tried to look away, to keep his gaze on the floor, but instinct betrayed him. Just for a flicker, his eyes darted lower, at the bulge that strained casually against Seokjin’s boxers, impossible to ignore.
His throat tightened. Heat crept uninvited up his neck.
And Seokjin noticed. Of course he noticed. He always did.
“Thought so,” Seokjin murmured, his smirk turning slow and deliberate. He shifted his stance just enough to emphasize what Yoongi had been caught looking at.
The locker room felt impossibly smaller now. The last echoes of the team’s laughter faded, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant hiss of showers. Yoongi stayed on the bench, shoes unlaced, shoulders slightly hunched, but his calm was brittle.
Seokjin moved closer, slow, deliberate, the smirk gone. This wasn’t a joke, not a performance for anyone else. His presence pressed against Yoongi in a way that made the air feel thick, heavy, charged. For the first time, the arrogance and charm were stripped away, leaving raw, almost dangerous intention.
“You… couldn’t keep your eyes off me, could you?” Seokjin’s voice was low, teasingly calm, but threaded with something sharper. He stopped directly in front of Yoongi, standing tall, confident, a predator in a suit of charm removed.
Yoongi’s chest tightened. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He’d been here before, felt the pull, the dangerous heat of Seokjin’s presence when no one else was around, but something in the way Seokjin was holding himself now, stripped of the mask, made the stakes feel different.
He could feel it: the tension between them, the unspoken rules of their game cracking under the weight of something raw. Yoongi’s eyes, despite his best efforts, drifted again, just for a moment, but it was enough. He knew exactly what was coming. And he didn’t resist. He never could.
And Seokjin was smiling because he knew exactly the effect he had, the power of being seen, stripped bare, and still commanding control.
The heavy locker room door swung shut with a final, echoing thud, sealing them in. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the drip of a distant shower and the frantic hammering of Yoongi's own heart. Seokjin didn't move. He just stood there, a statue of arrogant, half-naked perfection, his gaze pinning Yoongi to the bench.
"Well?" Seokjin's voice was a low, velvet challenge. "Cat got your tongue? Or is it just mine you're thinking about?"
Yoongi's jaw clenched. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to shove past, to throw an insult, to reclaim the moral high ground he'd just spectacularly jumped from. But his body refused to obey. The heat coiling in his gut was a traitorous, familiar ache. He hated this.
He hated the way Seokjin could reduce him to this, a mess of want and self-loathing with just a look, a stance, a whispered implication.
He hated that he knew exactly what was coming, and that a part of him was already anticipating it.
Seokjin took another step, closing the final distance. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the sharp, clean smell of his sweat was intoxicating, a scent Yoongi associated with humiliation and illicit, overwhelming pleasure. Seokjin's fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed under Yoongi's chin, tilting his head up.
He didn't wait for another command. With a frustrated, almost angry sigh, Yoongi slid off the bench and onto his knees on the cool, damp tile. The position was familiar, degrading, and his stomach twisted with self-loathing even as his blood ran hot.
The worst part was the gnawing knowledge that he was no better. He saw the con clearly, he despised the conman… and yet, when the door closed and it was just the two of them, his own body betrayed him and responded to that very same privilege. He was just another fool, albeit a self-aware one, caught in Kim Seokjin’s orbit. The only difference was that he hated himself for it, while everyone else seemed to think it was a privilege.
Seokjin's smirk was a victor's trophy. He didn't say a word, just carded a hand through Yoongi's sweat-damp hair, not with tenderness, but with possession. He guided him forward, until his lips were just inches from the prominent bulge straining against the thin fabric of Seokjin's boxers. The heat radiating from it was a brand.
Yoongi's breath hitched, a soft, pathetic sound that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
Seokjin's other hand tangled in Yoongi's hair, not roughly, but with a firm possessiveness that made Yoongi's resolve shatter. He didn't push him, he just held him there, a silent command.
And Yoongi, despising himself with every atom of his being, obeyed.
He leaned forward, nuzzling against the fabric, inhaling the musky, uniquely Seokjin scent.
His lips parted, and he pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the head of Seokjin's cock through the cotton. A low, appreciative groan rumbled from above him.
"That's it," Seokjin coaxed, his voice thick. "No more pretending."
With a deft movement, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy and already fully hard, curving proudly upward. Yoongi's mouth watered traitorously. He'd done this before, too many times to count in secret, shameful encounters, and the sheer size of him still stole his breath.
Seokjin didn't give him time to adjust. He guided himself to Yoongi's lips. "Open."
A wet, choked sound escaped Yoongi as the broad head pushed past his lips. He tried to relax his jaw, to take him deeper, but Seokjin was impatient, hungry. He pushed forward, the thick length stretching Yoongi's mouth, hitting the back of his throat in one smooth, relentless motion.
Yoongi gagged, a loud, involuntary sound that echoed off the tiled walls. Tears sprang to his eyes instantly. He gripped Seokjin's muscular thighs for balance, his knuckles white.
Seokjin groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure. "Fuck, yes. Just like that."
He began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust was a measured invasion, each withdrawal a brief respite before he sheathed himself again in the tight, wet heat of Yoongi's throat. The locker room filled with the obscene, wet sounds of sucking, of ragged breathing, and of Yoongi's repeated, muffled gags.
Ghk... Ghk…
The sounds were unmistakable. Anyone walking past would know exactly what was happening. The thought should have horrified Yoongi, should have given him the strength to stop. Instead, it sent a jolt of dizzying, degrading arousal straight through him. This was the person he despised most in the world, using his mouth, and he was letting him. He was participating. He hollowed his cheeks, swirled his tongue around the shaft on the downstroke, earning another broken moan from Seokjin.
"You're so good at this," Seokjin breathed, his hips stuttering. His grip in Yoongi's hair tightened. "Such a pretty mouth for such an angry boy. All you do is glare at me... and then you do this."
This had happened before. In the blur of a party where they'd argued in a deserted hallway.
In the storage closet after a particularly tense game. It was their filthy secret, a nuclear option deployed when the tension between them became too volatile to contain any other way.
Yoongi always gave in. He always hated himself after. And he always came back for it.
"Fuck, Yoongi," Seokjin breathed, his hips giving a shallow thrust, deepening the choke.
"You take it so well. So much better than they do."
The comparison, the casual cruelty of it, should have made Yoongi shove him away.
Instead, it sent a perverse thrill through him. He focused on the mechanics, on breathing through his nose, on relaxing his throat through the burn. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, his hands gripping Seokjin's powerful thighs for balance, his knuckles white.
Seokjin's composure began to fray. His breaths came quicker, his grip in Yoongi's hair tightening. "The girls... they always complain," he grunted, his voice losing its smooth edge, turning raw. "They can't... they don't know how to handle it. But you... you never complain, do you? You just... take it."
Yoongi's only answer was another wet, gagging sound as Seokjin thrust deeper, fucking his mouth in earnest now. Tears traced clean lines through the sweat on Yoongi's cheeks. He was a mess of conflicting sensations: the ache in his jaw, the strain in his throat, the dizzying lack of air, and beneath it all, a dark, coiling heat in his own gut. He thrust deeper, and Yoongi's nose pressed into the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. He gagged violently, tears streaming down his face, but he didn't pull away. He took it. He swallowed around him, the muscles of his throat fluttering desperately.
Seokjin was lost in it, his head thrown back, his perfect facade finally, completely gone.
He despised the man above him, but he was addicted to this-the raw, undeniable power of being the only one who could take all of him, the one who reduced the untouchable Kim Seokjin to a groaning, desperate mess.
This was what he truly enjoyed. The power. The absolute submission. The proof that even his most vocal critic was helpless against him.
And Yoongi, choking on the cock of the man he hated, felt a corresponding wave of pleasure crash over him. It was twisted and wrong, but the physical sensation was undeniable-the fullness, the taste, the sounds, the sheer wrongness of it all combining into a potent, addictive drug. He was giving Seokjin a blowjob, and he was enjoying it. The realization was the most humiliating part of all.
He was just a secret in a locker room, a series of gagging sounds echoing off the walls, giving everything away to the one person he never wanted to give anything to. And he couldn't make himself stop.
He kept sucking, his rhythm becoming more sure, more demanding, drawing out the groans and filthy praises that Seokjin would never, ever utter in the light of day. In this echoing, tiled room, on his knees, Yoongi held a terrible, powerful truth in his mouth.
The air in the storage closet was thick with the scent of sweat, bleach, and the raw, metallic tang of sex. Seokjin's thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, shallow jerks of his hips. A low, guttural groan was ripped from his throat, a sound so utterly stripped of its usual polished charm that it was almost a different person entirely.
"Close... fuck, l'm close," he choked out, his voice ragged.
Yoongi's eyes, blurred with tears, flickered up. He saw the desperate tension in Seokjin's abdomen, the way his perfect composure had shattered into something primal and needy.
And in that moment, a new, devastating impulse took over. He pulled back, just enough so that only the swollen, leaking tip of Seokjin's cock rested against his wet, bruised lips.
Seokjin whimpered, a broken sound of protest at the loss of heat. "Yoongi-"
But Yoongi wasn't stopping. His hand came up, wrapping around the base, and he began to stroke him in time with the shallow, teasing flicks of his tongue. He'd push the tip against his tongue, then pull back, stroking, then push it back in, hitting that sensitive spot just under the head with a practiced, cruel precision. He was orchestrating Seokjin's fall, controlling it.
The vision was undoubtedly what pushed him over the edge. The sight of Min Yoongi, his face a mess of tears and saliva, his dark eyes blazing with a mix of hatred and intense focus, expertly working him with hand and mouth. It was the most debauched, beautiful thing Seokjin had ever seen.
"I'm-ah, god-Yoongi!" Seokjin's body locked up, his fingers twisting viciously in Yoongi's hair, holding him in place as his orgasm crashed through him. He spilled hot and bitter over Yoongi's tongue, a series of pulsing jets that Yoongi swallowed without hesitation, his throat working around each wave, taking every last drop until Seokjin was shuddering and oversensitive, finally slumping back against the shelves with a gasp.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing. The fluorescent light hummed overhead.
Seokjin's eyes fluttered open, the haze of pleasure already being replaced by his familiar, infuriating smirk. He looked down at Yoongi, who was still on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You're too good at that," Seokjin said, his voice regaining its smooth cadence as he tucked himself back into his shorts. "It's almost a shame."
Yoongi pushed himself up, his legs shaky, refusing to grant him a response. He turned to leave, to escape the suffocating evidence of what they'd done.
"Weekend," Seokjin said casually, as if reminding him of a dentist appointment. "I've got some dreadful dinner party today. Some daughter of a business partner my parents are trying to pawn me off on.”
Sometimes, Yoongi knew about Kim Seokjin’s outings before everyone else, just because Seokjin was extra talkative once they were done.
“It'll be a bore."
He wanted to say no. The refusal was a hot, solid weight on his tongue. No. Go to hell. Find someone else to use. He wanted to watch the smirk vanish, to see the shock in those wide eyes, to finally, finally put Kim Seokjin in his place and prove that not everyone in the world was waiting for his scraps of attention.
But his body betrayed him. The memory of Seokjin's taste, the phantom ache in his scalp from where those crooked fingers had gripped him, the electric humiliation that somehow felt like power-it was a drug he'd already taken. And he was addicted.
He'd tried to say no before. The first time Seokjin had shown up at his apartment, weeks ago, buzzed and arrogant after some party, leaning against Yoongi's doorframe and looking at him with a challenge in his eyes that had nothing to do with basketball. Yoongi had told him to leave. He'd called him every name he could think of.
Seokjin had just smiled, that infuriating, knowing smile. "You don't mean that," he'd said, and then he'd kissed him, and Yoongi had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood. Seokjin had laughed, licking the crimson drop away, and kissed him again. And Yoongi had let him.
He'd let him push his way inside, let him back him against his own drafting table, let him ruin the ordered sanctuary of his life with the chaos of his touch.
He'd shown up again the next week. And the week after that. Yoongi's protests grew weaker each time, the door opening a little quicker, until he'd simply stopped pretending.
He didn't need more convincing. His body was a traitor, humming in anticipation of the very thing his mind claimed to despise.
So now, standing in the humid, sex-scented locker room, his knees aching and his mouth still burning, the word "no" died before it was born. It was a useless fiction. They both knew it.
He felt the fight drain out of him, leaving a hollow, aching resignation. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. He couldn't look at him.
Seokjin continued, zipping his gym bag.
“Make sure you're ready for me."