Archive of Our Own

The shadow of Seoul’s Continental Hotel looms over the approaching taxi, its gigantic dark mass an out-of-shape, out-of-place sight in the otherwise modern, neon-filled setting of Myeongdong’s streetlights. 

Despite being relatively empty, the twists and turns of the neighboring area have small pockets of undisclosed individuals huddled close together, conspiring beneath the shade of the Continental’s imposing walls. Those brave enough, or fool enough, to go about the premises at this time of night are always up to no good, which is why there’s an unspoken agreement that tourists and civilians are to steer clear of the surrounding areas past midnight. 

That’s good, Yoongi thinks. That’s a decent rule to have. There has been, after all, a huge wave of unnecessary bloodshed that he sure as hell doesn’t wish to partake in anymore. And especially not on Continental grounds, not even on its premises if he can avoid it. There are things worse than death in his world, and many rules must be followed. Yoongi knows from experience just how far The High Table can go to make sure their rules, their laws, are obeyed. It’s been a long time since Yoongi has tried defying them, and he has no wish to do so again.

There’s an odd nervousness in the pit of his stomach that's both unnerving and terrifying, and which he can’t explain or understand. It’s been a long time since Yoongi felt like this. Years, in fact. It’s a feeling that almost reminds him of the very first time he stepped foot into the Continental, wide-eyed and green and desperate to prove himself, the intricate crest of his newfound family still aching where it was burnt on the inner part of his arm, the skin starting to scab over and scratch. 

It’s been decades since then, and Yoongi is no longer a young orphan who was oh-so impressionable. The things his hands and body have done since that night has long since turned him into something else, and the reputation he built through the years now precedes him everywhere he goes. That was his burden to carry, crafted by his own actions and led by the calloused hands of his jopok. 

“We are here, sir,” the taxi driver announces, pulling Yoongi back to the surface.

A deliberate flatness in the man’s voice tells Yoongi all he needs to know about him. He’s not in the game, not really, but he has definitely been carrying liars and killers in the backseat of his car for years. Enough to give him some confidence, but not enough to look Yoongi in the eye.

Smart of him, Yoongi thinks. Such a sight is one that many people have as their last one.  

Regardless, Yoongi doesn’t file the man as someone who demands or deserves much of his attention, so he simply thanks him. Pays his debt. Grabs his suitcase. Exits the car. Stands there on the sidewalk. Looks up. 

The shadow of Seoul’s Continental Hotel looms over his head. 

There’s an odd nervousness in the pit of his stomach that's both unnerving and terrifying, and which he can’t explain or understand. 

Yoongi walks in.

The lobby’s vast and glorious-looking, not unlike a church or holy place, as it’s decorated with images of saints, martyrs, and historical figures. A part of Yoongi has always loved to take it in. It’s very striking at first glance, and regardless of how many times you’ve seen it, the awe is impossible to contain. It’s a mundane, human reaction that Yoongi can’t afford to have or show, but this is the Continental. If a man like Min Yoongi can be free anywhere, it’s here.

There are not a lot of people in the lobby, though Yoongi quickly recognizes all of them. Some nod to him respectfully in greeting, and he nods back. Some just stare, and he ignores them. Still, all of them swiftly turn their faces away from him soon after, avoiding eye contact. The man closest to him, Codename V, grips his wine glass so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Good evening, Agust,” the Concierge greets politely, sounding warm and welcoming as always.

Kim Namjoon is a tall, lanky man with impeccable posture and undeniable iron underneath tan skin. His cheeks are full and healthy, and sports dimples when he smiles. 

Yoongi has always thought that Kim Namjoon looks kind, more than he should be in a reality such as theirs, though Continental employees were generally known for being pacifists.

They work on sacred grounds, after all, and they have to be less prone to anger and violence, and more so to service and sympathy. 

The Continentals’ personnel, especially the Concierges, were a great enigma to Yoongi, despite the old connections he had to the manager of this specific one. 

“Good evening, Mr. Kim.”

“It’s been a while,” Namjoon comments conversationally, one of his eyebrows rising up in consideration. “Over a year, if I’m correct.”

“You are,” Yoongi agrees and doesn’t elaborate.

Namjoon smiles. “Still a man of few words, I see,” he quips, eyeing the suitcase Yoongi carefully placed on the ground beside him.

“I’d like a room, please. The usual one,” Yoongi says, sliding his payment across the mahogany desk between them. 

Namjoon hums, swiftly pocketing the coin. He seems to have already grown tired of Yoongi’s monosyllabic responses, and the old familiarity would honestly be amusing if Yoongi wasn’t already preoccupied with other things. The Concierge has always tried to make small talk with him, and Yoongi had a lot of fun over the years being purposely dismissive of the attempts. The exasperated edge in Namjoon’s mannerisms afterward is always a bit funny. 

After registering something manually in the check-in book, Namjoon hands Yoongi the old-fashioned, dirty-gold set of keys to his designated room. The keys have a chimera engraved on one side, and the Continental’s saying on the other.

fortis fortuna adiuvat

Yoongi nods in thanks, dismissing himself wordlessly when Namjoon gestures to the hallway leading up to the elevators, wishing him a good night in the process. Yoongi ignores the numbing sensation of multiple pairs of eyes staring at the back of his neck. 

“Mr. Agust?”

There’s something in Namjoon’s eyes that unnerves Yoongi when he turns around. The Concierge’s posture is stick-straight, with his arms folded gracefully behind his back. Namjoon’s chest is exposed and open. He has nothing to hide.

Yoongi realizes then that Namjoon knows. 

“Do enjoy your stay here.”

/

Yoongi hasn’t been in his room for more than 5 minutes when there was knocking on his door, and something coils inside his stomach as he walks over to greet his guest.

It’s been a long time coming. 

The insistent knocking picks up speed the longer he takes to open up, and Yoongi smiles despite himself. Despite the two years between them, it seems like his boy hasn’t changed a thing.

“You, sir, are late.”

Yoongi thinks he could live a thousand lives, and it’d be a thousand too little to get used to having Jungkook around. 

Jungkook’s known in their world as Gladius, owner of a reputation that rivals Yoongi’s very own. The boy's a member of a different jopok, though Yoongi’s doesn't know which one is it—as per his own choice. The young assassin was renowned for the use of his weapon of choice, a set of Roman gladiuses, which eventually granted him his name and reputation.

(Despite being a master in all sorts of weapons, Yoongi prefers pistols and thinks that swords and blades are too pretentious, much to Jungkook’s dismay. This has caused arguments to blow out between them one too many times.)

Their abilities have been compared by many in their line of business, though they are yet to meet in battle. Yoongi’s not looking forward to the day that happens. 

It took a long time for Jungkook to trust Yoongi with his name, and it was only in the throes of their pleasure, years down the line, that the boy felt confident enough in whatever it is that they have to do so.

I’m not scared of you, big bad 

Jungkook said, throwing his head back against the sheets, and whimpering, gasping, and quivering under Yoongi’s hold.

My name is Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook

You should be scared, Jungkook 

All Jungkook did was laugh in his face and beg for more.

Since then, Yoongi has made a point of not trying to look into Jungkook’s past, humbly accepting the offering of the man’s name at face value. 

Yoongi knows that in their reality, this can be a dead man’s decision. 

Knowing about someone’s life in this business means leverage, and having a trick up your sleeve. People would do all kinds of monstrous things to protect their own, and forfeiting that for the sake of their strange connection is something incredibly stupid to do, but Yoongi would rather slash his own eye again than betray this fragile almost-something he has with Jungkook, despite it being one-sided. Despite the fact that he knows that Jungkook, unlike him, isn't a fool in over his head.  

It doesn’t matter, though. Yoongi is as good as dead at all times anyway.

He'll allow Jungkook to have his death sentence in his golden hands. There’s no one better to wield it.

“Forgive me, beautiful. I had to take a detour coming here.”

Jungkook hums, still hovering by the threshold of Yoongi’s door with his arms crossed and a big pout on his face. 

It was a "detour" alright. A two-year-long one.

Since they last saw each other, Jungkook has grown wearier. He’s smaller than Yoongi remembers, clearly having lost weight, and his shoulders slouch a tad lower. A seemingly new scar peeks from the waistband of his low-cut jeans, angry and red, and the sight of it makes Yoongi's eyebrow twitch. 

Jungkook looks a little tired, but there’s mirth in those big doe-eyes as they glimmer under the pale corridor lighting. 

Sometimes, when Yoongi’s feeling both fragile and stupider than usual, he likes to entertain the idea that those gemstone eyes shine for him—because they’re seeing him. But that's a private idealization that he’ll take to his ever-approaching grave, lest he gives Jungkook the satisfaction of knowing just how much power he has over Yoongi. 

Jungkook’s cheeks flush at the term of endearment, absurdly bashful. That’s the infamous Gladius at his door, one of the world’s most skilled assassins, and yet he blushes high on his cheeks at being called “beautiful” by a dead-beat, burnt-out monster. Figures.

Jungkook hums and stares at Yoongi for a while, making Yoongi feel exposed without even trying. Yoongi’s not used to being stared down, not used to having people looking deep into his eyes—he’s usually done with them before they can even see him. Before their minds can comprehend that Agust is standing before them. It’s the way that’s always been. 

Not here, though. Not with this hurricane of a boy.

Jungkook doesn’t simply look at Yoongi, he sees him. He watches patiently as the little creature that lives deep inside Yoongi’s chest squirms in discomfort at being analyzed. Jungkook looks into the monster’s eyes and doesn’t seem fazed. Jungkook seems to like the monster. He seems to welcome it back. 

It’s been years, and Yoongi’s past the point of pretending that what he feels for Jungkook is not love. Yoongi knows, all the way down to where that little parasitic creature lives inside his chest, that he’s in love with Jungkook. 

He’s in love with his hands, his skill, his voice, and his mind. Yoongi’s in love with the way Jungkook sighs, whines, and moans his mean against his mouth. He’s in love with the weight of Jungkook’s legs around his hips, and how he feels like a human when he’s between Jungkook’s thighs. He’s in love with the way Jungkook makes him feel like a real person, a real human being. 

It’s dangerous, he knows, to love in their world. It’s dangerous to feel anything other than rage in their reality. Yoongi’s been stupid to let himself fall, and to allow this, whatever it is, to become something other than a sloppy fuck in the bathroom of Seoul’s Continental like it originally was, back when they were both reeking of adrenaline and desperate for something after a successful hit all those years ago.

Min Yoongi could anticipate pretty much anything, but not Jungkook. It’s almost funny. He’s not unlike Jungkook’s targets, after all. 

It's a foretold tragedy, Yoongi thinks. 

The infamous, dangerous Agust, a man whose reputation makes eyebrows rise even in the jopok, has become undone by the hands of a pretty boy with quick wits and an even quicker blade.

Yoongi just couldn't anticipate the addiction that would rapidly follow the sweet taste Jungkook left in his mouth, so much more powerful and ever-lasting than whisky. He couldn't anticipate the desperate need for more when Jungkook, still Gladius to him at the time, raked his short nails down Yoongi’s scarred back and cried Agust Agust Agust so loud that not even the towering walls of the Continental could muffle. 

And how could he anticipate this? How could a man like Yoongi, such a non-believer, anticipate the benediction that would be bestowed onto him by this wondrous boy? 

Jungkook giggles after he comes, sated and happy, and looks so satisfied at being torn apart. Jungkook asks him for good night kisses and dozes off with a hand resting over Yoongi’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of Yoongi’s heartbeat as if that’s a symphony composed exclusively for him. Jungkook pouts at him, needy, when Yoongi doesn’t answer the door for him as quickly as he’d like. 

And he looks at Yoongi with those big, expressive eyes of his that tells way too much for someone who’s supposed to feel so little. So full of hurt when Yoongi’s short with him sometimes—just sometimes when he’s feeling raw.

Yoongi never means to, and he hates to see the pain he mindlessly causes Jungkook to feel, but he’s also a fucking bastard. Yoongi lies and cheats and kills, and it’s not like they are in a relationship anyway, so why should it matter? Why should it? It’s not like they could ever be more than a secret kept inside the walls of the Continental. This fire would be put down immediately if it ever saw the light of day. 

Yoongi and Jungkook could never survive in this world. Apart, maybe, though not for long. Together, never. Not a chance. 

Such frustration leaks out of Yoongi sometimes, staining his voice like blood over white cloth, and of course, Jungkook notices. Yoongi doesn’t have to say it, it’s in the way he grows detached. He doesn’t want to be short with Jungkook, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Yoongi pulls away, void of emotion. Cold. Jungkook kisses him and tastes the ashes underneath his tongue, remnants of a fire that’s been quenched by desperation and the certainty of hopelessness. 

Jungkook tastes the ashes, knows what they mean, swallows them down, and doesn’t leave. 

He knocks on Yoongi’s door as soon as he arrives. 

Jungkook is always there, waiting for him at the door.

Yoongi wonders what that means.

“Can I come in?” Jungkook asks, finally.

Yoongi simply opens the door wider, gesturing inside.

Jungkook walks in silently, and Yoongi knows then that there won’t be much speaking for them for the time being, which is fine. They have always been good with silence, speaking only through glances and touches, which was just one of the many things that Yoongi appreciates. His mind is always loud, searching for something, and never even resting. But Jungkook allows him release, quietness, and compatibility. They communicate everything through silence.

Closing the door behind them, Yoongi follows Jungkook deeper into the room, and huffs when he immediately recognizes where Jungkook is heading.

The boy seems to have a special penchant for balconies. Jungkook loves to wake up early and walk out to meet the morning sun while it’s still cold, half-dressed, and sometimes even naked. He says there’s something fortifying about embracing the cold mornings' first thing, though Yoongi is none the wiser—he loathes the cold. 

Yoongi won’t complain though, not when the habit allows him to get a full view of Jungkook’s delicious body as the man stretches his muscles, raising his arms above his head and getting into his tip-toes like a ballerina, reaching for the sky. 

The wind strikes Yoongi’s face, sharp and unforgiving, when he’s guided by Jungkook out into the night. It’s so cold, and Yoongi conceals the desire to protectively fold over himself. Unlike him, Jungkook has his bare arms out and seems completely unaffected by the climate. 

“Have you been here for long?” Yoongi asks, coming to a stop behind Jungkook as the latter stares out into the city. 

After a moment, Jungkook leans over the metal railing, arms wide apart, and bends his head backward to embrace the night fully. The wind combs through the long strands of his dark locs like a lover would. 

Like Yoongi would.

It’s a strange haircut, the one Jungkook has—short in the front and longer in the back like in a shaggy chop. It looks very nice. The longer strands seem to tickle his closed eyelids, and it takes a lot of effort from Yoongi not to reach over and touch Jungkook’s face, and tuck his hair behind his ears.

“Not too long,” Jungkook says, simply, and doesn’t elaborate. Yoongi wouldn’t ask him to regardless.

There are limits to their words, affections, and worries. Ideally, none of these feelings should exist at all, but they’re both past the point of pretending such emotions are non-existent. They have known each other for a long time now.

Jungkook opens his eyes after a while, and when he turns to look at Yoongi, there’s so much wonder in that precious gaze that it makes Yoongi’s knees feel a little weak. How wondrous, Yoongi thinks, not first the first time.

How dangerous.

“Are you working?”

Jungkook hums, dismissive. “Are you?” 

“Yes,” Yoongi answers, simply.

Though he didn’t want to be. Yoongi promised himself that he’d retire after his last hit, and finally leave this life behind. But it pained him to admit that despite all the violence and the blood, the idea of losing Jungkook disturbed him more than leaving his family behind. 

He doesn’t underestimate Jungkook and knows the boy would find him if Yoongi were to disappear. However, despite being more monster than man, Yoongi’s incredibly unnerved by the prospect of never seeing him again. He’s not a teenager with a crush, and he’s not blinded by his own feelings either. Yoongi knows for a fact that Jungkook desires him. At the very least, Jungkook’s attracted to him. And maybe, in another life, they would have something more than this.

But regardless of all that, in this life, Yoongi doesn’t hate himself enough to take the chance and find out that Jungkook actually doesn’t give a fuck about him. 

The idea of leaving and never hearing from the boy again takes a harder toll on him than he ever thought it would. Yoongi doesn’t want to confirm his human insecurities, so he stays. Because Jungkook stays. 

Yoongi remembers being young and scoffing at the mere mention of love.  

He remembers the look in his father’s eyes while he spoke of all that he’s done and left behind for his partner’s sake.

Back in the day, Yoongi’s grandparents weren’t so keen on the idea of their only son being attracted to other men. They weren’t violent to Yoongi’s father, but they weren’t kind either, and isn’t that violence in and of itself? How can a parent deliberately not be kind to their child? Their only child?

Needless to say, Yoongi’s father ran away with his high school sweetheart who just so happened to be a man too, not long before they both turned eighteen. 

Yoongi remembers hearing this story, as a child and again as a grown man, and thinking that his father was a fool. How could love bring someone to their knees quite this badly? How could love make someone run towards the unknown like this, with nothing but their lover’s hand on theirs? How reckless. Unplanned. Unhinged.

It was only when Yoongi turned 29 that he met love for the first time, the very embodiment of it in the face of a young assassin who had huge eyes full of life and a sharp mouth, and Yoongi has been held captive by this love ever since. 

Agust is one of the best-known and respected killers in the world. He’s dangerous, feared, and famous. The “second coming of John Wick”, as people would casually refer to him.

And yet, one word from Jungkook would be enough to silence him forever. For Jungkook, he’d walk to the ends of the world completely bare and make it out alive, make it out triumphant, if that was what Jungkook asked him to do. 

Yoongi realizes then, with Jungkook’s bottomless eyes on him, that he has somehow turned into his father. He too would do what it takes, and leave whatever plans he might have had, to simply run away with this boy into the unknown. 

It’s a painful thing to realize.

“I am too,” Jungkook says, and it takes Yoongi half a second to realize that it’s in response to their previous conversation, about whether or not they were working. It almost makes him want to laugh.

Yoongi’s world has come undone in minutes after his realization, and on top of that, this is the only reason why they are here. They have a job to do, and that’s all there is to it. Take that away, and what are they? Who are they?

Yoongi’s not sure if he wants to know the answers to those. 

“Don’t do that,” Jungkook complains, suddenly upset. He makes a little tsk sound in the back of his throat and boldly reaches over to smooth down the wrinkle pulling in between Yoongi’s eyebrows with the tip of his fingers.

“Don’t do what?”

“That,” Jungkook explains, flicking Yoongi’s forehead like that’s supposed to explain it. “Don’t think about these things.”

“And what do you think I’m thinking about?” Yoongi questions, amazed at the barely concealed sadness behind Jungkook’s pretty eyes. 

One of Jungkook’s hands has moved to cup Yoongi’s jaw, and the boy’s thumb rests over the delicate, scarred skin under Yoongi’s eye. It takes a mountain not to lean into the warm touch.

“I wouldn’t know,” Jungkook murmurs, refusing to meet Yoongi’s stare and observing the careful movement of his own thumb as it caresses Yoongi’s face instead. “But it makes you sad. Sometimes you look at me, and it’s like something inside of you is hurting. I hate to see that look on your face.”

Oh.

What a precious disaster that is. 

Yoongi thinks it’s an act of cruelty to ignore the way that his heart aches inside his chest at Jungkook’s admission, but that’s exactly what he does. It doesn’t matter how badly he wants to grasp at the man’s words, cherish them, and dip his bloody hands deep in their sticky, profound truth.

It doesn’t matter how much he wants to hold such words tight against his chest and ears and let Jungkook’s sweet voice replay inside his head in an endless loop.

It doesn’t matter, because none of this does.

“How heartfelt,” Yoongi teases, coming closer to steal some of Jungkook’s warmth for himself. 

They are close, so much that he can feel the heat of that body emanating in the small space between them, warming him up bones and all. Jungkook always runs hot while Yoongi runs cold. They are opposites in every way, even this. 

Yoongi thinks it says a lot about who they actually are inside.

Jungkook groans and the almost-moment gets instantly broken. Yoongi can’t contain the huff that escapes him at the sight of Jungkook’s obvious indignation, the boy making a point to try pulling away from Yoongi’s grasp. Yoongi doesn’t let him, jumping over his inhibitions for the joy of having Jungkook in his arms. 

Yoongi circles Jungkook’s small waist with his arms, pulling his hips closer to his while Jungkook protests with shoves and punches to Yoongi’s chest.

“You’re so fucking annoying, I was trying to have a conversation,” Jungkook grumbles, not acknowledging the way his body has melted itself into Yoongi’s own, and opting to look over to the half-awake city far below them. 

“Oh? So I’m annoying?” Yoongi teases again and jostles Jungkook’s body against his, trying to own up to the title and annoy the boy enough to make him give in—which he eventually does, begrudgingly looking at Yoongi with an unamused expression on his face. 

Yoongi could honestly laugh. God, they look like such a couple, not unlike the giggly, sappy ones you’d see on the street, giggling and playing and fighting like teenagers. Something about the secrecy that Yoongi’s room provides allows him to be rendered to their most genuine, simplistic desires. 

They’re not a couple, they’re not playing house, they’re just… together. It’s something nearly innocent, and the ugly irony of it all doesn’t fail to make Yoongi want to scream. They couldn’t be further away from innocent, but sometimes, in these moments together, it feels like they could be anybody else. Anyone else. Just another couple you’d see on the street.

High school sweethearts, college roommates, or coworkers in a boring office job. Anything but hitmen and killers.

Yoongi wants to slap himself, grab his own shoulders and shake himself off this delusion, but when Jungkook looks at him with such dead contentment behind his eyes, Yoongi realizes that he can’t let go.

So fuck it. He’s not unused to being selfish, so he’ll surrender to the hands of selfishness and greed once again, and make the most of it while he still can. While they both have beating hearts because Hell only knows when exactly that will change.

Be it tonight, be it tomorrow, be it a week from now. That will change eventually and there’s no escaping from it. People don’t live for very long in their world, and they’re both still working. When morning comes, they’ll both go out to meet their fates, so Yoongi will be damned if he doesn’t allow himself to wish and treasure tonight. Just a little bit. For the last time. 

“Yes, you are,” Jungkook sighs, giving up on trying to look unaffected and lifting up his arms to circle Yoongi’s shoulders and bring their bodies close enough for their foreheads to touch. 

He nuzzles Yoongi’s nose with his, humming some melody that Yoongi doesn’t immediately recognize. Jungkook’s eyes look huge from up close, even bigger than usual, and Yoongi wishes he could live in their depths forever.

There’s a wonder in the brown of those eyes, there are stars and secrets. And Yoongi may be a fool in love, but if there’s one thing he knows well is that everyone has secrets. Jungkook isn’t exempt from this rule. However, Yoongi’s willing to embrace the dirt of who Jungkook is if only it means that the boy will continue to look at him like this.

Like there’s something other to Yoongi than a cursed, beat-up assassin at the end of his rope. Like Yoongi’s worth something other than a bullet to the head. Like he doesn’t care about the creature in Yoongi’s gut that tells him death is the only way to be free. 

Like Jungkook truly believes that, somewhere deep inside, Yoongi can still be a good man. 

“You seem to like it, though,” Yoongi says, and he swears he can hear it when Jungkook’s breath hitch in his throat. 

It’s quiet, nothing more to the air between them than gentle breathing starting to pick up the pace, the wind blowing over their ears and messing up Jungkook’s hair, and the faint sounds of cars and motorcycles somewhere in the distance.

In the end, none of these things matter. The world could end right now and Yoongi would gladly meet his demise, because Jungkook is in his arms, breathing him in, and looking at him like he’s human. And Yoongi is in love with him. 

“Will you kiss me?”

Jungkook’s voice is syrupy and sweet in his mouth. Their lips are close enough that they rub against each other when Jungkook utters the words. The milliseconds seem to stretch to infinity before Yoongi closes the space between them and answers Jungkook’s request with actions rather than words.

The kiss is gentle, languid, and unhurried. Jungkook’s lips tastes of the cherry lip balm Yoongi has longed for over 2 years, and fit soft and perfectly against Yoongi’s chapped ones. Jungkook makes little noises when he kisses, melodic hums, and whines that only feed into the fire that begins to curl like snakes in Yoongi’s groin. Their bodies are so entwined that Yoongi can feel every curve of Jungkook’s shape against his, gorgeous and tempting and made for him. 

It deepens when Yoongi willingly accepts Jungkook’s tongue in his mouth, slick sounds escaping their joined lips and disappearing into the night like thieves. Their breathing is growing hectic, and Yoongi’s heart races so hard inside his chest he wouldn’t be surprised if Jungkook could feel it pushing against his, begging to be let in, begging to make a home out of Jungkook’s bones. 

Jungkook moans against his mouth, arms trying to hug Yoongi’s body impossibly closer to his. Yoongi’s own hands release their iron grip on Jungkook’s hips to touch him everywhere, worshipping the curves of the body Yoongi has hungered for like a madman for nearly half a decade.

Yoongi feels Jungkook up everywhere—his long hair that tangles beautifully in between Yoongi’s fingers, his wide shoulder blades, his toned biceps that hold Yoongi close around the neck like a noose, the small of his back where it arches gracefully towards Yoongi, all the way down to the soft curve of Jungkook’s ass, and Jungkook yelps when Yoongi squeezes his cheeks with such desire that it makes him go up on his tip-toes. 

The little sounds Jungkook makes are enough to make the snakes coiling in Yoongi’s groins burst into molten lava, setting him aflame from the inside like a supernova. It’s only instinctual when the need makes him lean down and lower his groping hands to grab the back of Jungkook’s toned thighs. The boy immediately understands what he wants and allows his body to be pulled up, and when Yoongi stands up straight, he has an armful of a pliant, needy assassin. 

“Please,” Jungkook begs hot and lustful against Yoongi’s mouth, and it’s a miracle in itself that Yoongi’s knees don’t completely give out when he starts to move back inside the room’s confines.

A bit blindingly, Yoongi lowers Jungkook down on the bed as gently as he can manage, but Jungkook still bounces a bit on the mattress, his glossy hair bouncing along with him at the top of his head. Somewhere in the back of his pleasure-drunk mind, Yoongi squirms in fondness at the sight.

“What do you want, gorgeous? I’ll give you anything,” Yoongi promises, eyes zeroing in on the unmarked skin of Jungkook’s collarbones peeking out the front of his loose top. Yoongi leans over and tucks his face into the curve of Jungkook’s neck, kissing the skin hungrily, and feeling the tang of soap and sweat under his tongue.

Jungkook sounds gone already, sweet moans and gasps escaping from between his clenched teeth, trying and failing to keep them inside. Yoongi holds himself up with his forearm, while his other hand resumes its ministrations from earlier, caressing every curve of the body beneath him before slowly sliding inside Jungkook’s shirt over his stomach. 

Instinctively, Jungkook opens his legs wider for Yoongi’s body to fit in more comfortably, so sweet, keeping himself open. Always welcoming Yoongi in. 

“I want,” Jungkook gasps, seeming overcome already. “I want...” 

“Tell me,” Yoongi urges, and pinches one of Jungkook’s nipples with his wandering hand. Jungkook squirms beneath the pads of his fingers, squeaking in surprise. “Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck,” Jungkook groans, when Yoongi pulls his legs even further apart, hiking them up his hips. Jungkook’s so open for Yoongi, allowing him to take so much more than he should be given, that it almost makes Yoongi angry. Just how willing this boy of his is. “Want you to take me, just want you inside. However way… whatever you decide”. 

Yoongi’s brain completely shuts down, and he goes a little dumb after that.

When Yoongi eventually regains some sort of intellectual awareness, finally starting to resemble a human being again, and not an animal surrendered completely to its most innate instincts, they are both already naked and joined in such a way that it’d be physically impossible for Yoongi to get any deeper inside. Jungkook’s chest and lower belly are soaked with cum, so he knows for a fact that he made Jungkook jump over the border of pleasure at least a couple of times.

Yoongi can hardly even thrust, slicked up and so balls deep inside Jungkook’s tight heat that it’s a wonder he hasn’t fucked through reality and melded their bodies together. Despite the minimal, circular movements from Yoongi’s tired hips, Jungkook still sobs beneath him, trying to keep his eyes wide open and meet Yoongi’s worshipful gaze. 

He has no idea when exactly Jungkook’s crying began, though it doesn’t surprise him that it did. Jungkook is a bit of a crybaby in bed. 

“Yoongi,” Jungkook cries, and cries, stretching the last syllable of Yoongi’s name in a long, overwhelmed whine. He has his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders again, and Yoongi vaguely registers the faint burn of scratching in his back muscles. 

Intimately, Yoongi prays that the indents don’t fade away from his skin, wants them to burn him, mar his bones, and brand him forever. If he can keep anything after all of this is done, he hopes that it’s this. This, being:

“Yoongi, oh my God—”

“I know,” Yoongi moans, still so hard inside Jungkook that it must be uncomfortable for the other man. But Jungkook only ever squirms arches his back painfully deep and cries, and cries, and cries.

Yoongi doesn’t try to pull away. Jungkook always complains when he does, kicks his legs in protest, and weeps for him until he comes back. 

“You are doing so good, sweetheart, fuck—” Yoongi groans, sounding desperate even to his own ears. He lifts himself up just enough to support his weight on his forearms, wants to look at Jungkook’s face. Wants to see the twitch in Jungkook’s eyebrows when he slams his cock back inside. “Look at what you let me have. Fuck. What the fuck.”

“You have me, I’m right here. I’m right here, right here, right here,” Jungkook whines, kicking his feet at Yoongi’s back like Yoongi knew he would. 

Jungkook doesn’t seem to want any distance between them, so he unclenches his fists from the silken sheets, circles Yoongi’s arms with his own like inverted backpack straps, and tug Yoongi’s spent body back down.  

“Look at you,” Yoongi coos, enamored, causing Jungkok to bashfully hide his face. It doesn’t surprise him when he sees a new wave of fresh tears bathe Jungkook’s face and salt his skin. “My sweetheart, my little dove.” 

Yoongi’s voice is drenched in blind desire, desperate earning, and so much devotion that it shakes his own cursed self to its core. Even the monster in his chest seems appalled, in awe at hearing such sacred words being uttered to a man as bad as itself.  

Liars and killers, that’s what they are. How can such condemned men be allowed a benediction like this? What have they done to deserve such a miracle?

Yoongi’s self-flagellation is interrupted by yet another one of Jungkook’s noises, but this time, he immediately recognizes it as a bad one.

The monster picks up his ears, interested. Now that’s what it's used to.  

“What happened?” Yoongi questions, stalling. There’s dread in the pit of his stomach, in his loins. “What did I do?”

Jungkook shakes his head at the barely concealed desperation in Yoongi’s voice, thrusting up his hips to meet Yoongi’s still one in appeasement. “No, no,” Jungkook sobs, rubbing his wet, runny nose on Yoongi’s shoulder, which he should find gross, but Yoongi’s too neck deep to find it anything but endearing. “Just… you didn’t do anything, just,”

“Tell me,” Yoongi commands, intimately fighting against the urges that make him want to jostle Jungkook in his hold, make the boy tell him what it is already. He doesn’t allow the instinct to win, though they make him shake in place, buzzing in collared adrenaline.  

“You don’t call me by my name,” Jungkook’s voice is tiny, and the sadness in it is enough to sober Yoongi up. 

Yoongi pulls his head back, consequently causing Jungkook to lose his hiding place. Jungkook whines, but doesn’t complain.

“What?”

“You don’t call me by my name,” Jungkook repeats, and his eyes are puffy and red with nonstop tears. There’s something in those eyes that Yoongi has never seen before, so he doesn’t recognize it as quickly as he’d like to. 

The air feels soggy around them, filled with the smell of sex and skin, drowned by hectic breathing, and muffled by Jungkook’s sniffles. Their bodies are still joined, deeply as ever, and Jungkook’s flexible legs rest thrown high over Yoongi’s waist, his knees almost touching the back of Yoongi’s armpits.

When Yoongi leans back in to leave a fortifying kiss on Jungkook’s lips, the man’s body basically folds in half to welcome it. Yoongi has always been immensely grateful for Jungkook’s malleable limbs, but now more than ever, he can truly appreciate it—despite knowing that, of course, it's a painful result of their line of work.  

When they resurface from the kiss, Jungkook still looks hesitant, but willing to share whatever it is that he meant by his previous words. 

“You call me beautiful, and gorgeous, and sweetheart. You call me your little dove,” Jungkook says in a voice so low that Yoongi basically needs to read his lips to understand him. Jungkook ducks his head a bit not to meet Yoongi’s eyes. 

But something seems to shift after a heartbeat or so, because Jungkook sighs, swallows, and looks at him. It’s only then that Yoongi recognizes that little thing in the boy’s eyes that he couldn’t name at first. 

It’s trust.

“And I love it, being called sweet things by you. But… no one else in the world knows my name. Outside of these walls, I’m Gladius. I’m a killer. A murderer. But in here, with you,” Jungkook sighs. His beautiful, strong lungs pick up the air, making the chest under Yoongi’s body expand, and retract, and repeat. Alive. A real human being. “In here, I’ll be your sweet things, but I’d also like to be Jungkook. Just Jungkook.”

It’s been many years since Yoongi has cried out all of his tears.

As a young boy, alone in the streets, having to fend for himself not to starve, not freeze to death, not to fall prey to the whims of men much like the devil. He used to cry at the depravity of the human race, of how people would rather pretend they didn’t see him begging for change than take their faces off of their phones. 

As a teenager, frail and green in training, trading his soft skin for bruises and scars from the fists and knives of men thrice his age. He used to cry at the cruelty of having a pair of hands he’d love to use to make art being used instead to assemble a pistol from scratch in under 10 seconds. 

As a young man, with inexpert wide eyes honed just enough to immediately catch how many weapons someone might be hiding on their person. He used to cry at the inhumane task of killing a father of 3 for daring to step away from criminality to live as an honest man.  

It’s been many years since Yoongi has cried out all of his tears.

But suddenly Yoongi feels as if he has oceans to cry once more.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve the boy in his arms. This boy of his has his own burden to carry. No, he doesn’t find Jungkook perfect. Yoongi doesn’t think Jungkook is a good man either. He knows that Jungkook’s hands have been trained to kill and destroy much like his own have, but sometimes…

Sometimes, Yoongi looks at Jungkook and thinks that there’s more to this. More to life.

Because sometimes, Jungkook looks at him and thinks that Yoongi’s someone worth trusting. 

Looks at Yoongi and thinks he’s a man worth calling him by his name.

“Jungkook.”

The look on Jungkook’s face is beatific, and the sight of it makes Yoongi think that if he wasn’t already crawling on his belly for the boy beneath him, he’d fall to his knees in worship. 

“You are the only one who’s ever been inside me,” Jeongguk tells him, hugging Yoongi’s torso with his legs with renowned vigor. He kisses the portion of Yoongi’s skin that’s closest to him, which ends up being his neck, and brands Yoongi with his lips so deeply that even the marrow of his bones will bare its crest. 

When Yoongi is all but decaying beneath the earth, when the worms come to feast on what’s left of him, even those mindless beings will know just how deeply he was desired. 

“You’re the only one who has ever touched me like this, the only one who has called me by my name. So do it evermore. Call me by my name, call for me.”

When Yoongi comes, it’s with a litany of Jungkook Jungkook Jungkook being punched out of him, and Jungkook’s writhes and screams edging him on. Yoongi’s vision whites out, and on any other occasion he’d feel embarrassed by the depth of his own emotions and reactions, but he promised that tonight he’d allow himself to simply feel, and be a man for once. It doesn’t have to happen again, and it probably never will, but tonight… he’ll allow himself tonight.

The feeling of Jungkook’s soft hands on his hair is what welcomes him back to the moment. Yoongi’s stomach feels uncomfortably wet and sticky, and he feels a deep satisfaction at knowing that he made Jungkook come yet again at some point when he did. 

Jungkook giggles quietly at the top of his head, in that special way he does every time he’s satisfied, but he still winces a bit when Yoongi lifts his head up and accidentally jostles his softening cock that’s still buried inside him.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook, my dove,” Yoongi says, pulling out as carefully as possible, but Jungkook still sucks in a breath to keep himself from crying out in discomfort. Yoongi kisses the jut of his hipbone in apology. 

Jungkook’s legs have fallen limp in exhaustion, tired but still open for Yoongi. Still allowing him to nest in the space between them, for which Yoongi’s immensely grateful. He’s completely beaten. Fuck. 

Yoongi dismisses himself after a while, running to the bathroom as quickly as his wobbly legs allow him to, and fetches a warm towel to clean them up with. He runs right back to gently wipe Jungkook’s body clean, which the boy quietly allows him to do, his malleable body yielding to Yoongi’s careful manhandling. 

Jungkook’s face is slack, staring at the ceiling with little to no expression on his face, completely spent. Yoongi makes no comment, not even to tease—although he really wants to, and just resumes his ministrations in companionable silence.

He cleans himself up, exhausted in a way not even a busy night of killing can make him feel, before tossing the towel aside and lying down beside Jungkook’s limp body. They’ll definitely have to shower later, but this will do for now.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi says mostly to himself, and closes his eyes, allowing the syllables to rest over his tongue and sweeten his mouth. It’s such a pretty name. A pretty name for a pretty boy.

Jungkook hums beside him, and Yoongi feels a tentative hand circle his wrist. The man's fingers find rest in the middle of Yoongi’s palm, and Yoongi breathes. 

They don’t speak for a long time, allowing their breathing to slowly go back to normal. Jungkook’s thumb draws lazy circles on the palm of Yoongi’s hand, and the intimate touch makes his very soul quiver.

“I like the way you say my name,” Jungkook says, slurring the words. There’s something bashful about his tone. 

How strange, Yoongi thinks. And hopes he doesn’t ever get used to it. 

Jungkook resumes. “You say it like it’s a good thing.” His face is solemn when Yoongi turns on his side. Jungkook’s eyes look irritated from all the crying, and his big, attractive nose is all red. He keeps sniffling. 

Yoongi thinks Jungkook has never looked prettier. Yoongi leans in, making their foreheads kiss, and blinks a little wonky when his hair gets in his eyes. 

Jeongguk giggles.

“Your hair is getting long,” he comments, his free hand lifting up to tug on Yoongi’s hair playfully. 

“Ouch,” Yoongi groans, just for the sake of complaining. He can’t keep in a laugh when Jungkook rolls his eyes in response. “It’s okay, you can cut it for me.”

“What?” Jeongguk scoffs, surprised. “I can’t cut hair.”

“Eh, I know you can.” 

Jungkook sighs and looks at Yoongi in silence for so long that the weight of his gaze on Yoongi feels like a physical touch. 

The boy doesn’t say anything for a while, and Yoongi’s eyes eventually start to droop on their own. It’s only then that Jungkook’s response comes. 

He tugs at Yoongi’s hair again, gentler this time, just to catch his attention. “Okay.”

A while later, they find themselves inside Yoongi’s obscenely luxurious bathroom. The thing is huge, fit for way more than just one person, despite this being a single room, and with a stall, Yoongi realizes that he has never been with anyone other than Jungkook inside it. 

It’s dizzying, the realization of just how deeply he’s gotten himself involved with this man that’s currently rummaging through the drawers of Yoongi’s bathroom as if that’s his own. 

Yoongi likes sex and has had numerous partners, in and out of the underworld. He may have had a crush once or twice and may have felt genuine infatuation, though he never had an experience quite like this before. Not like he does with Jungkook. 

He has never missed someone before. 

Many nights after his and Jungkook’s first, he met with a woman during work. He remembers it vaguely, the feeling of the faceless woman’s hands on him, raking her red nails down his stomach. The memory doesn’t bring him any chill, unlike the way his whole body shivers when Jungkook touches his bare shoulders with one of his hands, the other waving the scissors he must have found somewhere under the sink in front of Yoongi’s eyes.  

They are both still naked, and Yoongi takes the time to marvel at the sight of Jungkook’s beautifully toned body as it reflects on the mirror, the half-light of the bathroom attractively deepening the curves of his waist. 

For a silly moment, Yoongi wishes he had a penchant for art, just so he could ask Jungkook to pose for a picture or a painting. The boy’s beautiful in ways nothing but art can convey. Jungkook should be eternalized. Jungkook should be worshiped.  

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jungkook asks. He looks a bit nervous, still tired over their earlier activities, but there’s something in his voice and in the way that his eyes shine with mischief, that tells Yoongi that he too wants to do this. 

“Yep,” Yoongi says, nodding along for good measure. 

“I don’t mind if you don’t, I told you I never cut anyone’s hair before,” Jungkook insists, biting down on his plump bottom lip.

Yoongi’s sitting on a stool in front of the mirror with Jungkook standing right behind him and has to look at his reflection when they talk. Jungkook lifts up an eyebrow in question.

“Do your worse.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes and gets to work. He brushes Yoongi’s hair first, which feels delightful, and Yoongi doesn’t fight the desire to close his eyes. Jungkook works mostly in silence, humming here and there as he makes notes to himself.

Yoongi knows that this is a bit insane, just as it was when he trusted Jungkook with his name. Knows he shouldn’t trust a fucking assassin with a weapon behind his head, the back of his neck exposed for Jungkook to do basically anything. He could kill Yoongi right now if he wanted to. Yoongi has his back to him, he’s unarmed and naked, and yet Yoongi doesn’t find it in himself to mind. 

If Jungkook were to betray him right now, kill him in cold blood like Yoongi knows he can, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t fucking matter because Yoongi’s in love with him. 

Hah. What a human thing to feel. 

Yoongi hasn’t felt like a human, like a man, for many years. He probably never has. From birth, he’s only ever been Agust. 

It’s been a while since an assassin has inspired so much lore and myths in the underworld. After all, since John Wick, others have kind of paled in comparison. Nevertheless, Yoongi was a point ahead of the curve, for some reason. People both fear and respect him in kind. But all of that makes him want to laugh. 

What an ending would it be for him if he were to die right now, he thinks.

Killed in the bathroom of the Continental for wanting another man so badly, for trusting him so much. But well, it’s not like that’s his choice to make. It’s not up to him to decide how and when he’ll end. That’s up to the man behind his neck right now, with a pair of scissors in hand and a pink tongue peeking out his mouth in concentration, wanting to do a good job out of fucking cutting Yoongi’s hair, because that’s all that he’s doing right now.

Yoongi could laugh, he really could. He wants to laugh right now. What have they become?

“This okay, hyung?” Jeongguk asks, looking at him through the mirror.

Yoongi’s stomach churns at the use of “hyung”. Jungkook has never used honorifics with him before, and the novelty of it is enough to make Yoongi stutter. 

“Um, yeah, it’s good. Knew you could do it,” he blurts, endeared at the anxious look in the boy’s eyes, in the way he seems to beg for further guidance.  

Jungkook slaps him with the back of the brush when Yoongi huffs out a laugh at the look on his face, which obviously makes Yoongi laugh for real, and pretend not to notice the way Jungkook runs a finger absent-mindedly across the spot the brush hit, grumbling under his breath at being made fun of. 

“I just need to do the front now, and you’ll be shiny as a new penny.”

“Wow, no one has used that expression in the last 50 years.”

Jungkook groans, flipping Yoongi around in the chair so they face each other. Yoongi instinctively opens his legs, and Jeongguk walks right in between his thighs. “Shut up and let me work. I’m armed with scissors and I’m not afraid to use them.”

“Scary,” Yoongi comments, and doesn’t point out that Jungkook has probably used scissors to kill people before. Hell, even Yoongi has. 

Jungkook’s touch is soft on his forehead as he works, fingertips leaving butterfly kisses on Yoongi’s skin. Jungkook has to pull Yoongi’s head up by the chin a few times, the relaxation making Yoongi’s head fall forward on its own. It makes the corner of Jungkook’s mouth pull up every time, and his eyes sparkle with mirth. 

By the time Jungkook finishes, they’re both half-hard and lazy already. The soft touching, careful gazes, and easy trust turn the moment hazy. After Jungkook announces he’s done and carefully places the brush and scissors on the sink, he pulls Yoongi up to his feet and plants one right on him.

The kiss is slow but full of desire. Yoongi sighs, hungry for the taste of Jungkook’s tongue in his mouth. Their cocks rub together with the way they’re positioned, and when Yoongi presses Jungkook harder against the marble, they moan in sync. 

“Jungkook,” Yoongi groans, wanting to be closer even though it’s physically impossible, their bodies as close as they can be. It still feels like it’s not enough. “Sometimes I think I could eat you whole.”

Jungkook sighs, overwhelmed, and the continuous growth of the gap between his legs falls over Yoongi like a blessing, welcoming him back in, in, in. But Yoongi has other plans for now. 

He grabs at Jungkook’s slight hips, gently turning him around so he can have his front to Jungkook’s back. His aching, leaking cock slides against the soft skin of Jungkook’s ass, enough to take some of the edges off, just so he can hold himself together for long enough to do what he wants to. 

Jungkook’s reflection in the mirror is full now, allowing Yoongi to see Jungkook’s poor cock looking painfully hard, right red and glistening at the tip. His face is slack, and there’s a pinch between his eyebrows as if he’s in pain. Jungkook’s wide-open mouth fogs up the mirror in front of his face. 

He looks ruined already, done for. Yoongi has hardly done anything.

“Bend over for me?” Yoongi asks, and his mouth waters at the possibility. He just wants a taste. “Bend over for hyung?”

Jungkook whines, squirming in mortification and bends over. His pert ass wiggles almost subconsciously, to entice, and the way he arches his back only accentuates his small waist. All of this makes Yoongi crazy. His broad shoulders, toned thighs, tight little ass. He’s curved all over, and fuck, so tiny. Taller and more muscular than Yoongi, yes, but almost petit in the way Yoongi’s hands feel like they could break him. 

“You’re so sweet,” Yoongi says, nearly cooing. “Thank you, my dove.”

Yoongi falls to his knees behind him, ready to worship Jungkook’s body the way it deserves. He palms the plump cheeks with rough hands, finally spreading him open. The pinch of Jungkook’s hole flutters, clenching around nothing, still puffy around the edges. Cute. Yoongi just stares at it like a pervert, loving the way it throbs at Jungkook’s every intake of breath. 

It’s only when Jungkook squirms again, both impatient and embarrassed, that Yoongi takes him out of his misery. He thumbs at Jungkook’s hole, which makes Jungkook’s legs clamp up together at the sudden sensation. With a yelp, Jungkook loses his grip on the marble of the sink, and the side of his face presses up against the mirror. When Yoongi’s wet tongue finally begins to lap at him, Jungkook’s moans are so loud that it echoes around them, amplifying the sound of his pleasure in the open space.

It’s Yoongi’s favorite thing in the world, making Jungkook fall apart under his mouth. And he’s so soft, so hot inside. Yoongi’s drunk on the sounds, the sighs, the hitching of his breath, the surprised yips and yelps. He presses his thumb a little deeper, and licks around him, making Jungkook curse and lift one of his legs up higher, keeping it open for Yoongi. Still, his muscles strain against it as if he’s about to slip down to the floor beneath them. 

With his free hand, Yoongi reaches over in between Jeongguk’s legs to grab his cock. Jungkook’s so, so hard, that he doesn’t moan but rather shouts when Yoongi starts pumping him on both ends. He can tell by the way Jungkook’s moans go high-pitched and stuttery that he’s already close. He grinds his ass back against Yoongi’s mouth as if begging him to go deeper, and clenches tight when Yoongi swirls his tongue in response. 

Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever tasted anything this good in his life. It’s so wet inside that Yoongi feels the strings of saliva start to drip from Jeongguk’s hole down his mouth, his chin, and into the floor below. 

“You’re—you’re gonna make me come,” Jungkook manages, whining as if he’s about to die. He moans long and lustfully when Yoongi shakes his head, causing his nose to rub at the sensitive skin of his intimacy. 

It doesn’t take longer than that before Jungkook starts to come all over the expensive marble, writhing and whining soft and sweet like a woman getting head. There’s loud squelching when his spend gets in between Yoongi’s fingers as Yoongi continues to pump his cock. 

Jungkook’s body jolts in overstimulation, and his legs finally give out underneath him like they’ve been threatening to since Yoongi first touched him. He helps lower Jungkook’s spent body gently on the floor, favorite one of his sides not to overwhelm his ass anymore. Yoongi’s jaw feels sore as he tries to control his breathing. Fuck, for a moment it felt as if he was gonna suffocate in there. Jungkook’s just so damn tight. 

“Hyung,” Jeongguk calls needily, trying to pull Yoongi closer. 

“What is it?” Yoongi asks, cupping Jungkook’s face in his palms. His eyes are hazy and far-away looking, but he meets Yoongi’s gaze determinately. 

“You didn’t get yours,” he complains, jutting his bottom lip out in a pout. Jungkook’s fucking pouting. It’s crazy. “Want you to come too.”

“It’s okay. Wanted to do this for you.”

“No, no,” Jeongguk whines, shaking his pretty head in denial, before reaching down and grabbing at Yoongi’s cock meanly.

Yoongi gasps, instinctively moving into the touch. Jungkook jerks him off, keen on getting Yoongi off as soon as possible, not nice about it. Yoongi shivers, fucking up into Jungkook’s fist each time he brings it down. 

“That’s it, baby. Fuck, that’s it.”

“Come on me, come on my cock,” Jeongguk moans, as if he’s the one getting pleasure out of making Yoongi feel pleasure. He pulls Yoongi closer by the dick, his fist picking up speed, and gets Yoongi’s cock closer to his own. Half-delirious, Yoongi realizes that Jungkook wants him to come right there, right over his cock. 

Yoongi’s vision whites out, and when he finally comes, he does it all over Jungkook, marking him up, and Jungkook does this unusual thing. Still grabbing at Yoongi’s spent cock, he rubs the head all over his own stomach, sighing at the sensation. Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything like it before, doesn’t think he ever felt anything like this before. 

Such pleasure shouldn’t be allowed for a man like him, and yet, he finds it here—in the bathroom of this safe haven for assassins from all over the world. 

Maybe he’s already dead, he thinks. Maybe Jungkook did kill him earlier and this is some sort of dream. Maybe, in real life, his dead body is already being taken away from the premises, and Jungkook is now on the run for breaking the Continental’s primary rule. That would make much more sense than this. 

But when Jungkook giggles, satisfied and sated and looking at Yoongi with so much contentment in his eyes, as if he finally got something that he’s always wanted, Yoongi thinks that if this is a dream, if he truly is dead, may he never leave this limbo. This is better than his life has ever been.

When they fall back into bed together, it’s well past 3 in the morning. 

Yoongi has work to do in the morning. That’s why he’s even here in the first place. But he’s peaceful in his decision to be selfish for tonight. They don’t call him boogeyman for anything. He’s certain that when the time comes, he’ll fulfill his hit as well as ever. Even with Jungkook’s scent still stuck in his skin. 

Jeongguk’s shaggy hair tickles Yoongi’s nose when the boy situates himself on his chest, his long arms hugging Yoongi’s torso possessively, and Yoongi’s fingertips caress the protruding scarring of bullet wounds and uneven burn marks on Jungkook’s nude back. 

“You know, you haven’t even looked at your haircut,” Jeongguk murmurs, sleepy. He conceals a yawn in the curve of Yoongi’s ribs.

Yoongi huffs out a laugh. “I’m sure it looks good.”

“Um, ‘ow?” Jeongguk slurs, seconds away from surrendering to sleep. 

Yoongi waits and only answers when he recognizes the signs that Jungkook has fallen asleep.  

“Because you did it, my love.”

It hurts to love this much, but Yoongi’s used to pain by now, and he knows he’ll live. He promises that if not for himself, he’ll live for the man asleep arms. 

Not for the first time, a memory from long ago comes back to him. What a fool, he thinks, when he remembers the look on his father’s face as he told a young Yoongi of all that he’s done for the man he loved. 

What a fucking fool. 

Yoongi saw that same face mirroring his stare tonight. He smiles, heartfelt. 

It takes a fool in love to know another one, it seems.