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It’s a funny concept, bitterness is.

Yoongi likes to think that he isn’t bitter. Though, his circumstances would make it quite easy: an early graduate from a visual arts academy gets accepted into an elite foreign photography school at seventeen; graduates early from that as well, moves back home to find domestic work, and then…nothing. (He’s not bitter about it.)

Freelance photography is hard to make a living off of, even with a background as extensive as his. Which is why he took to…other hobbies to fill up his free time.

They weren’t exactly sex clubs, per se, only that’s exactly what they were, but with a little more edge to them. Chains and whips excite him, if you will. Attending in the first place was really just the fruition of a lost bet with a close friend of his who always seemed to laugh a little too hard at his expense, but he surprised himself by getting hooked immediately. Like, immediately.

BDSM never caught his eye much before this point, although to be fair, little did. All he really paid attention to were his Nikons before they stopped paying the bills.

The club was a surreal experience, at first. The tastefully flavored mood lighting, the elaborate costume designs, the flush all attendees seemed to wear with pride on the peaks of their cheekbones, the electrical charge in the air…oh, how badly did his fingers yearn to press down on a shutter.

For once, he seemed to have found an interest outside of photography – although they were similar to each other in all the right ways. Handling his cameras and the fruits of their labor had always given him a high, and the only sensation comparable would be the euphoria that rushed rampantly through his veins during a scene.

He’d started out observing, first, as he had when he’d caught his first glimpse of his father’s Polaroid. They had scenes most nights of the week, and Yoongi was coincidentally free all nights of the week, so he had plenty of time to study the craft. He’s nothing if not dedicated to his passions, and before execution comes extensive tutelage.

As he gazed up onto that stage from the condensed crowd below, it was as if he felt the familiar weight of his Nikon D850 in his calloused hands; the curve of its bodice reminiscent of the imagined feel of the submissive onstage; a change in exposure when the mistress exchanged her riding crop for a flogger; the hot metal seemed to sear into Yoongi’s hands as the submissive writhed and begged in agony. And when the telltale click! went off – when they spilled white and hot all over like flash – Yoongi knew that photography would no longer be his only profession.

Finding a play partner wasn’t hard, but finding a worthwhile one proved to be a daunting challenge. Much like selecting salvageable shots from a tricky shoot: you had to know what to look for. After months of observing, Yoongi had the unfallable confidence in his belief that he knew exactly what to look for.

There was Namjoon, who was the first submissive he’d had the privilege of playing with. They were both equally as inexperienced (though thoroughly read-up) and ended up trashing the scene midway through because Yoongi had made a passing reference to a rapper he’d been interested in at the time and Namjoon immediately picked up on it, and, well. Who needs orgasms when you can spend two and a half hours talking about Superbee’s internal rhyme scheme?

There was Taehyung, who specialized in petplay. Before their scenes together Yoongi wasn’t particularly interested in the title “Master,” but Tae lended a helpful hand in correcting Yoongi’s perception. To this day, he still has a thing for pups.

There was Jimin, who Yoongi submitted for if only for the learning experience. He held firm in the philosophy that it was necessary to see a situation from all possible angles to grasp the best possible understanding of it; effectively, he decided that in order to be the best Dominant he was capable of being, he must see it through the lense of his submissive. It was…educational. (Read: the best orgasm in all his twenty-seven years.)

Then there was Jungkook.

God, Jungkook.

Freshly graduated, doe-eyed, rosy-cheeked, plump-lipped Jungkook that went as malleable as developing film at the tips of Yoongi’s fingers. Disassembled as easily as a lens, and fell apart so candidly on Yoongi’s workspace, baring all of his nuts and bolts like he trusted Yoongi to piece him back together again.

He likes to think of it like this:

Sure, there are different beauties to use for different shoots. But Yoongi always seems to gravitate to one at the end of the day, no matter the content matter or the type of shot. It feels comfortable in his embrace. It feels like home. Putting it down feels wrong, and so he likes to keep it close at all times, even if it’s to run to the convenience shop on the corner; who knows what adventures he might find on the way there? He’d rather not spend them alone.

Jungkook was like this to him. Only, not a camera and very much a real, living, breathing human being which Yoongi had considerably less experience with feeling this level of attached to but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

And try he did. For the better part of a year, Yoongi’s focus was centered on Jungkook. The rule of thirds didn’t apply here, not when Jungkook was left, right, and center at all times. He doesn’t know when, but their monthly trysts became more than just scenes for him – they were artwork. After around the fifth month Jungkook had begun letting Yoongi take photos after their scene, and then around the seventh month Jungkook gave him the OK to shoot him during scenes, and fuck if that didn’t up the intimacy inconceivably high for Yoongi.

“Hyung makes me feel so good all the time,” Jungkook said, “I’d like to do whatever I can to make him feel the same.”

Oh, if only he knew. If only, if only, if only.

Yoongi was actually compiling an album of shots from their scenes. Nothing too explicit, but nothing very safe-for-work, either. No two photos were taken on the same day, and no two shared the same lighting, the same angle, the same composition period; it was meant to show the diversity of Jungkook’s effortless beauty. This boy who’d found him in the middle of his floundering foray into the world of sadomasochism and took him by the hand and plunged him deep under the surface.

He would’ve shown him, too, but the day he planned to present his gift came with some complications.

“I’m sorry, Hyung, but we can’t keep doing this,” Jungkook said, “I’m trying to get more serious about my teaching career and I – well, I need to do some maturing. That isn’t exactly accomplished by slipping into a regressive headspace. I’m sorry. Let’s keep in contact, okay?”

They did not keep in contact.

Yoongi likes to think that he isn’t bitter.

It’s a funny concept, bitterness is.

To add salt to the injury, that same week, he’d been forced to accept his fate was doomed as a freelance photographer. So, he bit the bullet and signed a contract with a company that specialized in yearbook photography of all things. To think that he’d flown all the way to America to study under some of the best in the field only to grow up to take pictures of children who couldn’t keep their fingers out of their mouth for the five seconds it took to snap their photo.

He’s long since made peace with his fate, though. The job puts dinner on the table and channels on his television screen, so he can’t really complain. The work is as tedious as it is an insult to his talent and training, but beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes.

With full days of work came less and less time for the BDSM scene. And if his lack of participation just so happened to directly follow Jungkook’s decision to break things off, then that’s just how it was.




Today, he has a nine-thirty shoot for Hangsang Secondary School. He honestly prefers shooting younger children; their unabashed lust for life shines something warm in him, gives him a reason to show up to take their pictures.

Going through the motions of preparing himself for the day ahead is muscle memory at this point: Kick himself out of bed, wash his ass, shovel something quick and easy down his throat, and pack away his Nikon Coolpix B500 safely in her cushioned case. He pats her head and gives her a soft kiss on the Velcro straps encasing her for good luck. She’s one of his favorites to use during shoots – her range is absolutely exquisite – and something tells him today that he will need her by his side. The sky is particularly overcast for this time of spring, and everything feels…gray. Yoongi doesn’t like to feel gray. He lives his life looking for the beauty that is embedded into its every moment. Dull colors do not bode well.

Hangsang is only about fifteen minutes away from his blessedly centrally-located flat, so he takes the leisure of arriving early to walk around the campus and study the architecture. It’s an old school, with vines of ivy intertwining along the cracked cement foundations. Out in the front foyer is a large willow tree where two seated swings have been nailed into the branches, the handiwork no doubt done decades ago. Although the campus is desolate right now as all the children are in their morning lessons, Yoongi can still see them worming their wriggling bodies up and down the bark, shrieking with glee as they beg their friends to push them higher and higher. The image makes him smile. It’s instinct to slip his camera out of her bag and snap a shot of the swinging tree to tuck into his personal album.

A quick glance to his watch tells him that there’s thirty minutes before he’s supposed to be set up in the gymnasium, so he hurries to the front office to check in.

“Hello,” he hums to the rather young-looking secretary, “I’m Min Yoongi here with Yoo Photography. We’ve scheduled a nine-thirty yearbook shoot, is that correct?”

The secretary flutters her lashes, flicks her brunette ponytail to the front of her bust, and that’s all Yoongi really needs to see. “Oh, photographer Min! Yes, sir, we’ve got you penned in right here. I can personally show you to the gym if you’d like, it’s really no problem at all.”

“That would be lovely…?”

“Hana! Kim Hana.”

“Alright then, Hana-ssi, lead the way.”

She delicately unfolds herself from the padded office chair she’d been sitting in probably since before the start of the school day, and walks around the desk to meet Yoongi by the visitor’s chairs. As she passes him to get to the glass door, he beats her by a hair’s breadth and opens it before she can. He holds it for her, gesturing with a gentle incline of his head for her to step out first. Her answering flush makes him crack a smile, and off they go.

The interior of the school is just as dated as the exterior, but in a charming, vintage way. As they pass various classrooms and bulletein boards, he takes the liberty of running his fingers along the textured surface of the cracked drywall, inhaling the scent of mildewed materials and faded paint. He makes a mental note to take some more shots of this place before he leaves.

After a few sharp turns and one long stretch of hallway that he feels Hana is leading him down just so he has enough time to ogle her pencil skirt-clad behind, they finally arrive in the gymnasium. The backing paper and support lights have already been set up, courtesy of the company crew that beat him here this morning. All Yoongi has to do is take out his tripod and his baby and wait for the first batch of students to arrive.

“Well, here it is, sir. Please don’t hesitate to call if you run into any complications.” And then she actually slips into his loose fist a tiny, furled piece of lined paper before spinning on her heel and exiting just as quickly as she’d shot her shot. A cursory glance at the digits confirm that it is indeed not the school’s phone number, but her personal line, instead. It makes him chuckle. He pockets it with the knowledge that it will become nothing more but sodden lint when he inevitably leaves it in this pair of slacks and throws them in the washer tonight.

Just as he’s finished setting up his equipment and plops down on the stool provided for him, a message crackles over the intercom:

Teachers from classes 1-A and 1-B, please report to the gymnasium! Again, teachers from classes 1-A and 1-B, please report to the gymnasium. Thank you.

So they’re deciding to shoot the teachers first. That’s new, and a little uncommon, but Yoongi’s not complaining. As long as he gets paid at the end of the day.

He doesn’t look at them as they file in, too engrossed in fiddling with his camera to make sure that she’s comfortable in the position he’s got her in on top of the tripod. The aperture looks a little crooked, so he goes to right that, paying no mind to the teacher that takes a seat across from him, not until he hears an entirely too familiar “Hyung?!”

Yoongi does not look up. He doesn’t need to. He’d know that voice anywhere; knows all of its inflections and hitches; what it sounds like when its drawn to the brink of overuse; what it sounds like on the precipice of slumber; how it wraps around syllables like its coating them in honey, sweet and rich and decadent.

“Hello, sir, please excuse me, I was just setting up the equipment.”

“Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook hisses, and Yoongi can just see his fingers digging into the meat of his outer thighs, a bad nervous habit he’d always had. “Yoongi-hyung, what-“

“Alright, We’re ready to begin. Sit up straight for me.”

Jungkook’s body reacts almost involuntarily. Before the last word even passes Yoongi’s lips, Jungkook’s back is as straight as a bow pulled taught, shoulders loose and sloped, head tilted slightly up. Their ready position at the beginning of a scene.

His form is immaculate.


“Straighter,” murmurs Yoongi, lest the line of waiting staff members overhear what’s about to transpire.

And straighter Jungkook goes. He pulls his body rigid until his well-sculpted pectorals bulge with effort in the confines of his dress shirt. An inconspicuous glance thrown to his face shows his cheeks a ruddy magenta, with his bottom lip held captive by his overbite. A sight Yoongi has sorely missed.

“Good,” he praises, and Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut.

Oftentimes, Yoongi is well aware of what he’s doing; there’s rarely ever a moment where he isn’t in complete control of what’s going on.

Right now, though?

At this particular moment in time?

Yoongi doesn’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

All he knows is that he didn’t realize how much he yearned to see Jungkook again, let alone in a state of equal parts disarray and equal parts arousal, panting and clinging to the edge of his seats like he used to do so prettily for Yoongi all those months ago.

(Or, rather, Yoongi knew exactly how much he yearned to see Jungkook again, but compartamentalized accordingly.)

He just looks so good – like he’s presenting himself for the taking. His head is tilted back ever so slightly, baring his unmarked neck, and Yoongi would like nothing more than to leap across the measly four feet that separate them and take a bite. Jungkook looks delectable, edible, goddamn delicious, and Yoongi is a famished man. He hasn’t slept with anyone since their splitting, let alone engaged in play, and he missed Jungkook so badly. He missed Jungkook so badly.

There was a point in time where Jungkook was his sole muse, what got him up in the morning and captivated his lens, what dominated his albums and his waking thoughts. Maybe to Jungkook they were just play partners, but to Yoongi?

They were everything.

“Are you ready for me to take the picture, or would you like a moment?”

Jungkook wobbles a little bit on the stool. A few feet away, someone coughs in the line of teachers waiting to go next. The air conditioning whirrs like thunder overhead.

“No! I want it, Sir!”

Yoongi raises a brow.

“…T-the picture. I want you…to…take the picture…” Jungkook says belatedly, sentence trailing off as he realizes the implications of what he’d previously blurted out.

He’s just as fucking cute as the day they’d met. Yoongi could not possibly be any more enamored. You’d think seven months apart from one another would put at least a bit of a damper on things, but in his case, it only seems to intesnfiy them by contrast.

“Alright, then. On the count of three. One…two…”

Jungkook flashes the camera his biggest, brightest Colgate smile and it hits Yoongi square in the chest like a sack of bricks. His finger slips on the shutter, and the resulting picture is blurry and unfocused.

“Ah, excuse me, it came out unfocused. Stay still for me and I’ll try once more.”

Wordlessly, Jungkook nods.

This time when he presses down on the shutter, he makes sure his grip is firm and tight on the bodice of his camera. He snaps one shot, instantly knowing that he’s going to snap another because he needs at least one picture of Jungkook for himself. Is that creepy? That’s probably creepy.



“Do you…um. Know where the bathroom is? Because if you don’t, I could totally show you. I mean, you’ll probably need it. Eventually. Since you’re gonna be here all day.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink.

“That would actually be very useful.” A beat. The next time he speaks, it’s lower and with charged intent. “Can you be patient and wait for me to finish shooting this batch?”

Jungkook’s gulp is audible. “Yes, Sir,” he says demurely. And then he slips off the stool and slinks back from whence he came, signaling for the next person waiting in line to hop up. All in all, the entire exchange couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes. Yoongi’s heart is beating tripletime.

Finishing up the rest of awaiting teachers is tedious and tiresome, as this work usually is. He hates shooting the adults. They are so uncreative – most struggle even to crack a smile. The children, on the other hand, blossom under the watchful gaze of his lens; all bright grins, ruddy cheeks, crescent moon eyes and missing teeth. They are what make the job worth it. Not a bunch of burnout middle-aged mopes who couldn’t want to be there any less. That makes two of us, is what Yoongi always silently bites back.

He lets his mind wander as he takes picture after picture, directions on how to pose and where to look falling past his lips on autopilot. His brain has much more demanding tasks at hand: like imagining what he’s going to do to Jungkook the moment they’re alone.

His blood burns with it. The prospect of being able to taste, touch, feel what he’s been starving for, for so long. Even just jerking Jungkook around with innuendo for five minutes was enough to stir some interest in his nether regions, though a sizeable problem isn’t a threat just yet. If only these bastards would just hurry up and pose so he can get to what he’s really after.

As soon as the last person in line steps off the stool, Yoongi hops off of his own and rushes past the set equipment. A few Yoo crew members are scattered here and there amongst the gymnasium, and he makes sure to tell one of them that he is about to embark on a very urgent bathroom break, no questions, please, thank you very much. Before he can even clock their response, he’s rushing to the double door exit where Jungkook is waiting rather anxiously.

For one, he’s fidgeting, which Yoongi can discern as a telltale sign of his restlessness. But other, less easily picked up on tells are the way his eyes jump between different focal points in the room, how his breath comes in staccato spurts, the dilation of his blown pupils.

“Lead the way,” says Yoongi quietly, because there are still groups of people milling about.

For the nth time that day, Jungkook obeys without question nor complaint.

The path they take is short and direct, unsimilar to the winding, circuitous adventure Hana had taken him on earlier that morning. They find themselves at their destination before Yoongi can begin to think about the repercussions their rendezvous will most certainly have for the both of them if they’re caught.

It’s an unassuming gender neutral faculty bathroom, thankfully with a lock on it. Jungkook knocks once, and then tries the handle, which gives easily under his weight. The heavy oak door yields with a groan that gives Yoongi a momentary panic that someone (namely the principal or his boss) will nonsensically pop out from behind the corner just a few yards away and fire them both on the spot. By God’s good will, that doesn’t happen, and they slip into the bathroom quickly and discreetly, making sure to lock the door behind them and flip on the lights.

They take a moment to size each other up. It’s been months, after all. Jungkook’s dyed his hair from the youthful strawberry blond he used to sport so impishly to a mature, professional jet black. It suits him. Brings out the strength in his jawbone. Yoongi can’t wait to break him.

But first,

“Are you really sure you want this, Jungkook?”

“Yes,” the man in front of him all but gasps out.

“We can stop at any time.”


“Do you remember your safeword?”


Jungkook sets his jaw, almost like he’s being impatient. It seems that he’s forgotten his place in their hiatus.

All Yoongi has to do is look at him a certain way to remind him. Jungkook has the decency to flush and drop his gaze, but the message has been received loud and clear. No matter how much time has passed, there are some behaviors that cannot be unlearned.

“Are you ready, Kook-ah?”

“Yes, Sir,” says Jungkook to the tiled floor.

And so, they begin.

Yoongi circles him slowly, loafers tapping smartly against the linoleum. With his hands behind his back and his strides even and calculated, he spends five entire minutes building up Jungkook’s anticipation until his knees start to quiver under the pressure. Yoongi can tell he’s on the brink of an outburst. His brattiness was always cause for him to get himself into trouble, and even months of play couldn’t train it out of him. Yoongi is not looking to punish him today, though, especially not after such a gap between their last time spent intimately with one another, so he pounces before Jungkook can set himself up.

“Do you still like being called ‘whore,’ darling boy?”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut and shakes like a leaf.

Oh no, no, no. This simply won’t do.

Quickly, before he can see it coming, Yoongi comes to an abrupt halt in front of him and strikes his cheek hard enough to leave it a light pink. “You are to answer me when I speak to you. It is either ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘No, Sir,’ or ‘I don’t know, Sir.’ Or are you too simpleminded to have remembered?”

The sight of Jungkook silently staring holes into the flooring as he tries desperately not to cry makes Yoongi’s heart thunder raucously in his chest.

He snatches Jungkook’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces his head up, bringing them nose to nose with barely a hair’s breadth of space separating them.

“You still are the same dumb slut, aren’t you,” he whispers against the swollen skin of the other man’s bottom lip.

It is then that Jungkook’s tears well over his waterline.

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Oh, so he does speak. A little too late for that, sweet thing. I’m disappointed in you.”

“No, no!” Cries Jungkook, hands shooting up from where they were previously stationed at his sides to clutch at the lapels of Yoongi’s blazer. “K-Kookie is sorry, didn’t mean it. …Just shy.”

“Little one is shy, hm?”

Yoongi tightens his grasp on Jungkook’s face to keep him still as he leans in the last centimeter it takes to gently press his lips to his boy’s – it isn’t even a kiss, really, just enough of some semblance of contact to make Jungkook’s eyes roll back inside his skull. He’s a drooling mess already, and nobody’s even unzipped their pants yet. The sight is so erotic that Yoongi must take a moment to get some oxygen to his brain before he passes out.

Slowly, he moves his hand up so that Jungkook’s chin rests in the junction between his pointer and thumb, and his fingers can cup and squeeze his malleable cheeks. Yoongi pinches them so that Jungkook’s lips pucker out crudely.

“Do you think that’s an excuse? Do you think Sir takes excuses?”

To Jungkook’s horror, he realizes that he cannot move his head to shake or nod, that he will have to speak with his speech impaired by how Yoongi holds him.

“No, Shir,” he lisps, words muddled by both hands and tears. “Shorry, shorry, Kookie shorry!”

“Well, then. You know how to make it up to me. Be good enough and maybe you’ll be forgiven.”

As soon as Yoongi releases his face, not a second passes before Jungkook is down on his knees and eagerly unzipping Yoongi’s fly. It’s all muscle memory, which gives him a bone-deep sensation of satisfaction that he trained his pet this well.

He would have said he trained him perfectly, but…

“Ah, ah. Have you forgotten, pet? Hands off.”

There’s always room for improvement.

Jungkook rips his hands away from Yoongi’s slacks as if they’ve been burned. The zipper is about halfway undone, so he carefully attaches his teeth to the end of the metal appendage and drags downwards until it can go no further. Latching onto the hem of his pants and pulling down proves a bit more difficult without an even distribution of downward force, but Jungkook manages to pull it off in less than ten seconds; as a product of sheer determination or sheer desperation, Yoongi cannot discern.

The boxers are done away with just as quickly, and then there’s Yoongi’s half-hard arousal.

Jungkook wastes no time.

The intimation that he wasn’t already good enough was really what got him, Yoongi muses as Jungkook sinks down on him. It’s always what’s gotten him. The kid could stand whips, floggers, chains, leather, and restraints, but God forbid someone told him he was inadequate.

It’s endearing in a lot of ways. Jungkook has always wanted to be the best in whatever he does, and has always wanted all the praise associated with that, otherwise he feels like he’s failed. It’s Yoongi’s job to help him see the gray areas and get him acquainted with the truth that sometimes he just won’t be good enough on the first try.

But he can always do something to make up for it.

The noises Jungkook is making down there are downright filthy. Practically no time passes at all before Yoongi’s once half-mast situation is now rock hard in the hot cavern of Jungkook’s mouth. He lets him have his fun just a bit longer before he takes the reigns back into his hands again.


Immediately, Jungkook ceases his bobbing movements and freezes mid-suck.

“I’m going to use you and you’re going to take it. Is that understood?”

He tries to nod and Yoongi gives his cheek a firm slap.

“I said: is that understood.”

Speaking around a (let’s be honest) large dick in your mouth isn’t really feasible.

Jungkook still tries his best, though. It doesn’t exactly sound quite like “Yes, Sir,” but Yoongi is growing far too impatient to wait around for the right syllables to fall out. The sight of Jungkook on his knees, tears in his eyes, drool and cum leaking out the corners of his mouth is propelling him far closer than he’d like to be to the edge. And without further ado, he gets to work.

He starts out with light thrusts at first because he doesn’t know how long it’s been since Jungkook has done this and the last thing he wants to do is hurt him. He makes sure the boy’s hands are resting firmly on the backs of his thighs, so he can pinch hard if he needs a breather.

Jungkook doesn’t seem very inclined to tell him to stop any time soon, however. If anything, he’s using the grip he has on the backs of Yoongi’s legs as leverage to propel his hips further into his waiting, wanting mouth. With every carefully measured thrust forward that Yoongi gives, Jungkook pushes it a step farther and gags himself on Yoongi’s cock.

“It’s nice to see you haven’t changed,” muses Yoongi from above. “Still a messy little slut. Is that all you’re good for? Being used? Being taken from? Can’t even answer me, can you? No, that’s right, that mouth is only good for one thing. Open up now, let’s see if you can be a good boy.”

The pace picks up. Where Yoongi was once cautious and controlled, he quickly flies into reckless abandon, pistoning his hips into Jungkook’s mouth and gripping fistfuls of his hair to keep him locked tight onto his cock. The sounds alone are what shove Yoongi closer and closer to the precipice; but when he makes eye contact with Jungkook – really, truly looks into those wet, shiny orbs and sees a boy desperate to do anything he asks of him, desperate to please, desperate to be good enough, so scared that he isn’t good enough, it’s the perfect shot. He could create thousands of albums and portfolios and collages with just that one image. Yoongi climaxes.

One hand flies to the back of Jungkook’s head and shoves him all the way down to the hilt, and the other comes up to plug his nose and force him to swallow everything Yoongi gives him. In any circumstance other than this one, Yoongi would have never dared to act so brazenly.

But he knows just what Jungkook wants.

The younger boy waits for Yoongi to release him rather than to pop off by himself. And when he does, he opens his mouth to show Yoongi that he’s caught the entire load before even being prompted for it.

“Good boy,” murmurs Yoongi, mesmerized by the vision in front of him. His fingers itch for the shutter. Jungkook swallows, and wastes no time before he starts begging.

“Please, Sir,” he rasps, voice shot from use, “need to – Kookie – need to, Kookie needs,” he begins to rut his hips down unto Yoongi’s loafer, and he would be content to get off like that. Yoongi knows he would.

So he lets him.

“There are needs and there are wants, sweetheart. You don’t need to come, you want it, and I don’t see why I should let you. Give me one good reason.”

Jungkook begins to sob. “Need! Need!” His face is red and blotchy and he is unabashed in his disheveled state, seemingly reveling in his state of disarray. He brings his arms to wind around Yoongi’s leg and cling to it for dear life as he grinds his clothed cock into the leather beneath it, writhing and moaning on the gritty tiled floor.

Oh, how Yoongi missed this.

It’s picturesque, really.

“That’s not a reason, my sweet boy.”

“Because – ‘cause – Kookie needs ‘cause –“

Yoongi flexes his foot upwards and bathes in the sounds of Jungkooks screams. They ricochet off of the tile and something small in the back of his head tells him that he should hush him, that they are playing on thin ice and have probably been gone for far longer for it to still be in the realm of believability, but if he’s being honest with himself?

Yoongi couldn’t give less of a damn.

He’s waited months just in hopes of catching a passing glance of Jungkook again. To have him here with him so intimately, gazing up with tears streaking down his puffy, swollen cheeks, looking at him like he hung the moon and painted the stars…

“Go ahead, Jungkook,” says Yoongi, throat suddenly dry, “you can come.”

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!”

Jungkook slips Yoongi’s now flaccid cock back into his mouth as he rides out his orgasm, causing Yoongi to jolt and moan in overstimulation. He flexes his foot once more to give it right back to him and Jungkook whines high in the back of his throat.

After he finishes, they both linger there for a little while. Beyond this cramped bathroom with its single toilet and rusting sink, they are both busy with lives that do not concern each other anymore. As soon as they step outside of the door, it’s back to being Photographer Min and Jeon Seonsaengnim, not Yoongi and his Jungkook.

The moment Yoongi’s fingers reach to card through Jungkook’s hair, the younger looks up from his slumped position on the floor, and his tears have yet to dry.

“Oh, Jungkook.”

He hurriedly pulls up his underwear and pants and sinks to the floor, gathering Jungkook in his arms. Rocks him back and forth how he knows he likes, hums the last song he can remember Jungkook singing to him. Scritches at his scalp and shushes him because if he has to see Jungkook cry in an un-sexy way then he will most definitely start crying in an un-sexy way.

“I jus’ missed you ‘s all,” Jungkook says quietly, syllables smushed into the meat of Yoongi’s neck. “Missed you lots, Hyung.”

“Hyung missed you.”

 “…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You did what was best for you.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t consider that you’d also be apart of that decision.”

“Stop that right now, Jeon Jungkook. You did what you had to do, and look at you now. Out of school with your own stable, professional, well-paying job. I’m so proud of you. You did so well. You are doing so well.”

Jungkook sniffles and burrows himself further into Yoongi’s embrace. “’M still sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“Can I give you my number? ‘Nd we can go for coffee this weekend? Or whenever you’re free, maybe?”

“I’d really like that. But, uh, Jungkook?”


“You’re going to need to let go for me to get out my phone.”

“Oh, God, right, sorry.”

“Also…let’s get off this bathroom floor. Shall we?”

Jungkook giggles as he begins to extricate himself, light and bright and youthful, and Yoongi finds himself itching for his camera.