Chapter Text
Seoul. Night. The city was a ruin of steel and smoke, its skyline broken into jagged teeth that tore at the ashen sky. From what Jimin could see. He couldn’t see a lot of the sky these days. Neon signs flickered half-dead above streets slick with oil and rain, their colors bleeding into puddles that no one dared step too close to. In that wasteland of noise and shadow, Jimin moved like something out of place... too graceful, too pretty, as though he had wandered in from a world that no longer existed. His pale skin caught the sickly glow of the lamps, his ears swiveled at every sound, jewelry glinting like defiance against the grime.
People stared, as they always did on days he chose not to cover his ears and tail. Some with hunger, some with contempt. Hybrids like him had long been treated as curiosities at best, abominations at worst. Jimin had learned to lower his gaze, to let his dark eyes slide away before admiration curdled into cruelty. Yet even in his shyness, there was a quiet resilience. Layers of fabric way too fine for the streets, rings and chains that clinked softly when he moved. Rebellion, perhaps. Every step he took was a refusal to vanish into the gray even though his heart was empty and already mostly there.
Maybe that's why he danced. Because in those moments, the ruin around him blurred, and all that remained was the shimmer of a boy who had been told too often to hide, choosing instead to be seen. Seen by everyone who mattered most to him, anyway.
The rain started again. He ducked underneath a half-collapsed awning. That was when he noticed he wasn’t alone.
When he met the stranger’s eyes, it was tentative, shy... like someone testing the air. And in that fragile moment, Jimin’s beauty was no longer just a light against the city’s decay; it was a question: Will you see me differently?
For a long moment, they stood in mutual silence. The sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the nasty pavement was soothing, in a way. The stranger was studying him; the curve of his ears, the soft fur of his tail. It was neither lascivious or derisive, just observant. He pulled on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing; and the smoke coiled out of his nose in a way that reminded Jimin of an angry dragon.
Then, he turned his gaze away entirely, watching the rain lightly fall. The sounds of a dog fight sounded in the distance, and some asshole on a neon bike shot by and splashed water on the stranger’s boots. He did nothing but grunt.
"Not a good neighborhood for someone like you. You should go home."
Jimin's tail flicked nervously, his ears flattening slightly against his head as he caught the way the man’s dark eyes lingered on him. Not with cruelty, surprisingly, but something unreadable. He swallowed hard. He fidgeted with one of the knock-off rings on his finger. The man sounded like he’s been smoking a pack a day since he was ten.
The stranger looked away dismissively. Jimin felt an unexpected twinge of... something? Not fear. Irritation? No one had ever told him what to do so casually before. Like they didn’t even care enough to make it a threat or an insult.
"I live here," he said firmly, "on purpose." He rolled his eyes. "And if this isn't a good neighborhood for me... what does that say about you being here too?"
He was challenging. Jimin was used to being talked down to, always on guard. A flicker of defiance in those feline dark eyes.
The stranger didn't laugh, or even crack a smile.
"People like me are the reason this isn't a good neighborhood. Ever think about that?"
He flicked the butt of his cigarette in the oil-slick rain, looking up as it slowed to a drizzle.
"Go the fuck home before you get robbed."
The stepped out from the awning, unconcerned about getting wet. As he crossed the cracked street, he looked back at Jimin with a quick glance that said: 'Don't be stupid'.
Jimin bristled. His tail flicked involuntarily. He wanted to hiss and spit. He hadn't expected such a blunt response, or the annoyance that it sparked in him.
He took a step forward, following the stranger into the street. The rain slowed to a mist, but dampness lingered in the hot night air, making his clothes cling uncomfortably to his skin while he walked. Humidity carried the stench of rot.
"I can take care of myself. I don't need you ordering me around."
The man kept walking in his jeans that were soaked from the shins down from that bike. He didn't ask why this kid was following him. They walked past several broken AI-generated screens that were playing on loop, and the stench of street food cooked in too-old oil wafted down the sidewalk.
"That so?"
With lightning speed, the stranger grabs Jimin by the collar of his expensive jacket and yanks him down a shitty alley next to a graffiti'd ramen shop that's a front for a whore house. Jimin stumbles, but doesn't fall; he takes the opportunity while the hybrid is off-balance to pull his pistol out from underneath his jacket.
The safety clicks off.
"Give me all your shit."
Jimin's heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him as he was jerked into the dark mouth of the alley. His feet barely avoided a puddle of god-knows-what before he regained his footing.
When he felt the cold, hard barrel of the gun press against his temple, his breath froze in his lungs. Fear surged through him, his ears flattening and tail fluffed out.
He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as they reached into his jacket.
He slowly pulled out a wallet, a cellphone, a few loose credits, and the rings on his slender fingers. He placed them on the ground at this man’s feet.
His body was trembling now, fear and defiance warring within him. But beneath it all was mostly anger. At this situation, at the stranger who had so easily taken control, at the world that made him need to hide his true nature in order to survive.
That man pressed the pistol harder into Jimin's temple. And then...
"Bang." he whispered, nearly sounding bored. He tucked the pistol back beneath his jacket where it was hidden from view.
"You wanna 'take care of yourself'? Go home before someone does more than just scare the shit out of you."
And then he's gone. He turns the corner out of the alley, leaving the hybrid alone with this valuables on the ground.
Jimin stood frozen for a long moment, heart hammering so hard he swore that man might still hear it. His breath came in shallow, shaky gasps; the adrenaline crash making his knees feel weak.
Slowly, he crouched down to pick up his things. His fingers were trembling as he slipped the rings back on one by one.
"...Asshole," he muttered under his breath, but his voice was shaky too. Confused. Why scare him like that just to leave everything behind?
Not a robbery. A lesson.
He straightened up and peered out of the alleyway cautiously, just in time to see that stranger’s silhouette vanish into the neon-drenched haze of Seoul's underbelly.
A strange thought crossed Jimin’s mind: Would I see him again? And stranger still... part of him hoped he would.
The next day. Dusk.
Yoongi sat in his office just on the other side of Banpo bridge, one of the nice districts left in Seoul. If you were rich enough to live above it on The Plate like he did. Why? Because his pockets were bottomless. Almost.
He was halfway through his second cigarette, looking out the window at the brokenly lit skyline. A hybrid. He hadn't seen one of those in a long, long time. Not since years ago when his conscience got in the way of trafficking them for the elites. Pretty, too. Yoongi wonders what the hell he was doing in that area, dressed like he was asking to be mugged. He wonders where the cat got all that jewelry from.
He swivels his chair around, narrowing his eyes at Sangwoo, his brother, who's lounged on the couch in his office lazily.
"Hey. Do me a favor." Yoongi says thoughtfully, stubbing the butt out in an ashtray. Although Sangwoo knows that anything this older brother wants isn't a 'favor'. It's a goddamn order. "Truck in a shipment of clean water to Yongsan. Discreetly."
Sangwoo lifted an eyebrow at the request, leaning back as though he were used to Yoongi making such odd demands. He had grown up around the mafia scene, after all.
"Yongsan?" he echoed, his voice lazy and uninterested. Sangwoo brought in a certain stench of stale pussy and greasy pits to the office. "Why bother delivering clean water there? It's a dump. No one cares about that place."
Sangwoo's gaze was shrewd as it flicked over to his older brother. He was clearly curious about the motivation behind the order. But Sangwoo knew that getting information out of Yoongi was about as easy as pulling teeth.
"Just do what I fucking say."
Yoongi shooed his brother away with his hand, picking up his cell from his desk once the door to his office clicked closed. He shot off a text to Namjoon, his right hand man.
`Potable water. Yongsan. Help Sangwoo with a truck. Don't ask dumbass questions.`
Yoongi dropped his phone back on the desk and leaned back in the chair, the leather protesting at the movement. What a pretty cat. Hmm.
Across the city in one of the slum’s ports, Namjoon's phone buzzed with the text. He raised an eyebrow at the unexpected request, but didn't question it either. If Yoongi had ordered it, then it must be important.
Namjoon had been the right-hand man to a certain criminal overlord for years, and he knew better than to ask questions on an assignment. He simply nodded at his phone even though nobody was around to see it and began making arrangements for the shipment. A few hours later, a nondescript truck was making its way towards Yongsan with a load of clean water in the back.
In Yongsan, the sight of the truck was met with both surprise and relief. Clean water had been a luxury in this area for months now, as the city's infrastructure continued to deteriorate. People watched as the truck rumbled through the narrow, potholed streets, their eyes following its progress eagerly.
When the truck rolled to a stop in a central location exactly as Yoongi had instructed, it was swarmed by people desperate for the water. They filled whatever containers they could find, grateful for the unexpected delivery. Homeless, slumlords, even desperately thirsty children. Namjoon kept a keen eye out for any local gangs looking to ransack the truck for profit.
Word spread quickly in Yongsan. The truck's arrival became the talk of the slums, and a small crowd gathered around it as people filled up their battered bottles and buckets with clean water. Some folks even brought their bicycles and carts, loading up as much as they could carry.
Rumors about the mysterious benefactor who had sent the shipment began to spread. Some whispered that it was the government, while others speculated that it was some secret charity organization. Little did they know that the order had come from the head of the Seoul mob himself. Because the government didn’t give a shit about who got clean water.
Back in his luxurious office, Yoongi leaned forward in his chair, watching the news feed on his computer screen. He chewed on the end of a pen, expression nondescript as he watched the footage of the people in Yongsan rushing to get water from the truck, their tired faces filled with the glimmer of hope.
And then, at the back of the crowd, Yoongi's eyes zeroed in on what he'd been waiting for. A certain sweet little hybrid, tail hidden under a jacket and ears flattened against his hair.
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied, when he saw Jimin walk away with two containers full of water.
Jimin clutched the water containers tightly in his hands, glancing around warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching, that this small act of kindness wasn’t as random as it seemed.
His feline ears flicked once, picking up whispers from the crowd about who could have sent such a gift. Some even dared to dream it was a turning point for their forgotten district.
But Jimin remembered cold steel pressed to his temple, and rough words that somehow carried more warning than malice.
‘Who are you. really?’ he wondered, casting one last look at the truck before disappearing into the maze of Yongsan's alleys.
Against his much, much better judgment, Yoongi's mind kept drifting back to the young cat who stupidly walked around the slums wearing possibly fake luxury clothing and jewelry. The image of him popped up in his brain over the next several days, so much so that his father had to smack him in the back of the head during one of their business meetings. He could have robbed him. Easily. Kidnapped him, even. But Yoongi isn't that kind of man. He has more money than he knows what to do with, he can't be bothered to rob an innocent boy of petty possessions. Besides, he still has some ethics. He doesn't fuck with civilians like that, either way.
But the thought that he could have? It gives him some kind of strange, dark thrill.
So, one night, Yoongi plucks his phone off his desk with his tongue poked in his cheek contemplatively, shooting off a text with one hand.
`Find out where he works.`
Namjoon received the text with a deep sigh, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t unusual for Yoongi to send vague orders. Another one so soon. It was different. He knew exactly who Yoongi meant by "he," because that little cat hybrid had been an anomaly in their world, and Namjoon wasn’t blind.
A few discreet inquiries later (and some thinly veiled threats to the right people), he had an answer: Jimin danced at a speakeasy called The Halo, tucked deep in the underbelly of Yongsan. It was a place where hybrids and other outcasts could gather without fear of being exploited by elites. You had to be careful if your blood was anything less than pure these days. If you were seen by the wrong people, you might find yourself the owner of a cybernetic collar and new slave owners.
Namjoon sent the details back to Yoongi with minimal comment:
`The Halo. Underground venue near 3rd Alley.`
He left it at that. No questions asked.
Yoongi finds it, unmarked, tucked beneath the bones of a collapsed theater and hidden behind an old service door, past a stairwell that stank of wet rust. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and static, the scent of ozone mingling with sweat and perfume and drugs and the smell of rot that was impossible to mask. The walls were lined with broken mirrors and salvaged screens, flickering with fragments of old music videos and surveillance glitches and beautiful AI women advertising makeup on a loop that hadn't been sold in ages.
「NO CASH. CREDITS OR BARTER ONLY.」
He blends in, more or less; in his ripped black jeans and patterned flannel that's only half tucked in, leather jacket hiding the pistol that he once pressed against Jimin's head. Nobody spares him a second glance, or recognizes him at all. Good.
Yoongi orders a whiskey neat from the shitty chrome bar and waits as if he was a specter under Jimin's bed.
The moment Jimin stepped onto the makeshift stage, a circle of reclaimed wood stolen from the port and tangled wires, the air in The Halo shifted. The dim, fractured lights caught the glint of his jewelry, his tawny ears twitching as he stretched lazily. Then the music pulsed through the speakers, something raw, electric, and Jimin moved like liquid incarnate.
His body knew every beat before it even came. He rolled his hips in slow defiance, arms weaving through air thick with smoke and desire. His tail undulated like it had its’ own mind.
And then he saw him.
That figure at the bar. Hollow eyes fixed on him like he could physically feel it. That man. Jimin didn’t falter, but he gasped just once before melting back into rhythm.
Was this why water had appeared in Yongsan? Was this why he’d been spared?
(...Was this dangerous?)
Yes. But Jimin smiled anyway, spinning on one heel before dropping low to the ground with feline grace… right as a spotlight fractured across Yoongi’s face for half a second.
Yoongi watched the way Jimin’s body moved. Every step, every sway of his hips, every flick of his tail was deliberate. The crowd around him pulsed with energy, but Yoongi remained still as a shadow at the bar, swirling his whiskey absently between fingers. People subconsciously gave him a wide berth, as if they could sense the air around Yoongi was wrong. But he wasn’t here to cheer or lose himself in the rhythm. He was here to observe.
And he did, closely.
The way Jimin's gaze had locked onto him for just a split second before dissolving back into performance told Yoongi everything he needed to know: He remembers me. Not just some faceless thug in an alleyway. Him, specifically.
Yoongi took another sip of whiskey. The burn down his throat matched the low simmer in his gut and the twitch in his fingers. This little cat had nerve.
Jimin finally finished and disappeared backstage behind a tattered curtain leading to what Yoongi assumed was probably a glorified storage closet. Yoongi didn't move immediately. Instead, he finished his drink slowly. Waiting. He was a patient man.
Backstage, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Jimin wiped the sheen from his skin with a damp towel, trying to slow his still-racing heart and failing. Every beat reminded him of those dark, sharp eyes fixed on him.
A hand patted his shoulder, and Jimin looked up to see Jungkook, one of the other dancers, a wolf hybrid, grinning at him with sharp teeth.
"You saw that strange guy out there, right?" Jungkook asked, nodding towards the curtain.
Jimin’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once in annoyance. Or maybe nerves. Both. He was scared. He tossed the towel aside with a forced nonchalance.
"I saw him," he muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his sheer top. His fingers lingered on the rings Yoongi had once demanded from him but never took.
Jungkook tilted his head, sniffing the air subtly before smirking. "Smells like trouble."
Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he peeked through a gap in the curtain, just in time to see Yoongi still sitting at the bar, swirling his glass with that infuriating calm.
(...Why was he still here?)
The moment Jimin stepped out from behind the curtain, Yoongi's gaze snapped toward him like a shark that smelled blood. He didn't move, still as if he was an eerie mannequin leaning against the crappy bar.
Yoongi pulled out a crumpled back of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and lit one. He'd wait. He couldn't chase Jimin because that might scare him away permanently. He'd be patient and see if the cat boy would come to him.
If not? Well, Yoongi is in the business of crime. But not that kind of crime.
Jimin hesitated near the edge of the bar, tail flicking behind him in restless arcs. He shouldn’t approach. He knew that.
But curiosity had always been his weakness, and defiance his armor as much as his jewelry was.
"You don’t blend in," he said, sliding onto the stool beside Yoongi before he could stop himself. His voice was light, teasing even. But there was an edge beneath it that betrayed his nervousness. "Who are you?"
“Yoongi.” There was no elaboration.
He remembered the gun. He remembered how easily Yoongi could ruin him. ..And yet.
Jimin smirked but it was forced. Tilting his head as if daring Yoongi to correct him.
"I do whatever the fuck I want." Yoongi corrects, blowing a thin stream of smoke away from Jimin's face. So Jimin at least wasn’t too scared. Not enough to keep his distance. At least now Yoongi knew he'd been on Jimin's mind just as much as the hybrid has been on his.
But also, it was just the truth. Yoongi does what he wants, when he wants. Who's going to stop him?
Yoongi lets his eyes wander to what he can see of Jimin's body through the sheer top, just enough to really look, but not enough to be considered perverted.
"I have something for you."
Jimin's breath hitched in anxiety when Yoongi’s gaze dragged over him. Not from fear, not entirely. There was something electric about the way this man looked at him, like he wasn't just seeing fabric and skin but something underneath it too.
His tail twitched against the stool before he caught himself, forcing another playful smirk. He wasn’t as smooth and fluid as he had been on stage just now. "Oh? And what’s that? Another gun to my head?"
He regretted the joke immediately. It was reckless, prodding a beast that hadn't decided if it wanted to strike or not yet.
"That was a well-deserved lesson. I wasn't going to shoot you." Yoongi didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He held the cigarette loosely between his lips before reaching into the inner pocket of his leather jacket.
From it, he produced a small bottle of Valentino perfume, just an ounce if Jimin had to guess. The bottle was crystal and the fragrance inside a pale yellow. It had one or two scuffs, like it had been handled several times as it traveled through the black market. Something like this was completely unheard of in the slums. And even in the nicer districts, unless someone had connections.
Yoongi held it out to Jimin like it was completely immaterial to him.
Jimin’s breath caught. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the bottle. The glass was cool against his fingertips, and when he tilted it, the liquid inside caught the dim light like liquid gold.
His ears flicked up in disbelief. "This is...” He swallowed, "...Why?"
Did Yoongi know how long it had been since he'd smelled anything but smoke and sweat? Did he know how much something like this meant in a world that only saw hybrids as either toys or trash? Was it payment? A bribe? Or, God forbid, a favor with strings attached. His fur prickled.
Why? Why not? Yoongi didn't need reasons for things. He was the product of his whims, mostly. His pupils were dilated in the dim like, and his fingers held a faint, permanent tremble as he plucked the cigarette from his lips.
"I felt like it." he said eerily.
Yoongi held his cigarette between two fingers and swiped his whiskey off the sticky bartop. He watched Jimin over the rim of his glass, movements almost inhuman-like; as if Yoongi was some strange species that had to make effort to appear normal.
"You're pretty," he says confidently, "I used to sell little creatures like you."
Something twisted in Jimin's stomach at the thought, his hands clenching tight around the perfume bottle. Creatures like him. Things to be sold, used, played with. He’d never been caught, and he’d never talked to anyone who’d escaped. The thought terrified him.
He'd always thought he was different. Faster, quicker, his dancing a cut above the rest. But here, beneath the neon glow of that filthy bar, all he was was a hybrid. A pretty toy for someone much stronger. Something that could be snapped like that cigarette in Yoongi's hands.
His tail curled defensively around his ankle, the light catching on his jewelry. "You don't sound very sorry about it."
"Relax. I said used to."
Yoongi took a sip of his whiskey. He spared Jimin the details; he wasn't going to act like some good guy who'd suddenly realized that dealing in the trafficking of actual people went against what razor-thin morals he had. He didn't think hybrids were some lowly, inferior race, either; which was usually the primary motivator behind criminals who did. And the money. But it was always power first, money second.
Jimin swallowed the bitter words that rose in his throat, trying to hide the way his tail trembled. He was being paranoid, he decided. Yoongi could crush him. But he hadn't. He'd brought a bottle of stolen perfume and was talking like they were nothing more than casual acquaintances.
Slowly, he opened the bottle and carefully applied it over his pulse points; at his inner wrists, his throat. The scent bloomed like roses. The fragrance was intoxicating, a rich, warm, floral aroma. Jimin's tail flicked unconsciously as if he was trying to bury it in the scent of the perfume and nothing else and Yoongi could see that. The way Jimin's eyes fluttered shut for just an instant, his guard momentarily down. His slender neck was on display as he lifted his chin, and his fingers trembled slightly as he capped the bottle and hid it amongst the clutter of the bar so it wouldn’t get stolen like so many of his other things had. "You expect me to believe you suddenly… grew a conscience?"
Jimin's eyes met Yoongi's again, defiant. Challenging. Stupid. "I'm not naïve."
Yoongi scoffed, the only expression of amusement he'd shown so far.
"No. But I have enough of a conscience to choose not to dabble in the sale of people anymore."
Yoongi exhaled smoke through his nose, watching the way Jimin touched the perfume to his skin like he was learning what luxury felt like.
"...You wear knockoffs? Or you get real designer clothes and gold jewelry in this dump?"
Jimin laughed, but it was a brittle sound, sharp and bitter. "No one in this slum can afford the real deal."
He toyed with one of his earrings, the chain of it glimmering in the neon glow. He'd found the fakes at a flea market in Hongdae months ago, and it had taken every single Won he'd earned over many a month. They felt cheap in his fingers, now. Inadequate.
His eyes narrowed, flicking to Yoongi's clothes. He wasn’t fooling anyone. The cleanliness of it and the fact his jacket was real leather. "You're the one with real luxury."
"Real luxury isn't about that shit," he says flatly, almost robotically; dropping his cigarette butt into the neck of an empty beer bottle. "It's about power."
Jimin's tail flicked once, restless against the barstool. He scoffed, half a laugh, half something else entirely.
"Power." He repeated the word slowly, testing it on his tongue like it was a foreign concept. Then he leaned in just slightly, close enough that Yoongi would catch the full weight of that stolen perfume on his skin. "Is that why you're here? To show me yours?"
Or to take mine? The unspoken question hung between them.
Yoongi's brows furrowed as Jimin leaned closer, matching his movement with a lean backwards. It was like his behavior was completely indecipherable. Was he disgusted? Intrigued? Uninterested? Jimin couldn't tell.
"You're awfully ballsy for a cat that just learned I used to kidnap and sell your kind."
Jimin's tail swished at the casual mention of trafficking. It was true, he'd just learned one of the worst secrets Yoongi could have possibly told him. And he was still here; bold, reckless, stupid. Why? His brain screamed danger.
He leaned back again, the scent of the perfume like a blanket. "You talk too casually about it," he said, fingers curling around his thigh. "As if you'd do it again. If the money was good enough."
The lashing of Jimin's tail gave away his unease, and Yoongi's eyes latched on to the movement. The stage’s one working spotlight swung to him suddenly, and Jimin could see the dark flecks in his eyes, the way they weren’t entirely black but something deeper, like he was looking into a hallucination.
"I don’t need money." His voice was low, a growl that curled around the words, "And if I wanted to steal you, I would have when I saw you underneath that awning. You wouldn't be here right now."
Yoongi leaned back more, deliberate in his distance. "I'm not going to shoot you, either."
Jimin’s breath stuttered in his chest, caught somewhere between fear and something far more dangerous. Trust. He should bolt. Run before those dark eyes and that pistol pinned him down for good.
Instead, he lifted his chin, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, maybe a little less forced this time. Or maybe he’s just too determined not to show Yoongi his fear. "Then what do you want?" The question was quiet, barely audible over the thrum of music and drunken chatter around them. But it hung there.
Was this a game? A hunt? Or just another cruel lesson from a man who dealt in power that Jimin doesn’t understand?
Yoongi didn't answer right away. He finished the rest of his whiskey, setting the glass on the bar top with a muffled thump.
"You're pretty, and I want to see you naked. And touch you. I want you to come home with me."
He said it so bluntly like it was the most normal thing in the world. But he was serious; still standing there so stock-still in his ripped jeans and flannel like he hasn't a care in this shitty, dystopian world.
Jimin’s ears flattened instantly; his entire body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. He should have expected this. Should have known that kindness, if you could even call it that, always came with strings.
But the worst part was that his pulse leapt anyway, traitorous and warm beneath his skin. He swallowed. And he hated that he noticed that Yoongi watched his adam’s apple bob.
"That’s it?" His voice was sharper than he meant it to be, tail lashing behind him in agitation. "You bring me perfume and tell me you used to sell people like cattle just so I’ll spread my legs for you?"
"No." Yoongi said easily, sliding his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"Keep the perfume. Sell it for all I fucking care. It was a gift, do what you want with it."
Yoongi took half a step forward. Not enough to crowd, but just within arm's reach. Close enough for Jimin's acute sense of smell to pick up something strange from Yoongi, like... formaldehyde? Blood?
Yoongi kept his hands in his pockets.
"I know how to handle the word 'no'." he adds on, almost a little defensive. Manically so. "Have I put my hands on you?"
Jimin hesitated, his tail whipping anxiously behind him. He knew he should tell Yoongi no, to walk away and never look back. But the more he tried to find his voice, the more the word lodged in his throat.
He was curious; intrigued, even, in a way he couldn't understand. This man was violence and money and raw power given form. Probably. Jimin didn’t know, but he guessed. His nostrils flared to take in Yoongi’s distinct scent. A monster wearing human skin, maybe; but there was a sincerity in his voice that felt real.
Jimin swallowed hard, his hands clutching his thighs. "No," he finally said.
Yoongi didn't argue. In fact, his expression remained carefully neutral as he plucked a crumpled stack of won from his jeans pocket, throwing it on the bartop to pay for his whiskey without even counting it.
"I might come and see you dance again."
And Yoongi left without even so much as an angry tone in his voice at being denied; the strange, unsettling atmosphere following him out of the lounge as he went. Even as the bartender called out to him that they don’t take cash here, did he even read the sign?
Jimin watched Yoongi disappear out of view, the sudden absence of his presence leaving him feeling strangely bereft. The bar seemed louder, the air stale without the musky and strange undercurrent of his scent.
For just a fleeting moment, he wondered if Yoongi would keep his word. If he would come to watch him again, with his dark eyes and even darker promises.
He quickly banished the thought, his ears swiveling at the sound of the door slamming shut. The sooner he stopped thinking about him, the better.
But when Jimin walked home that night through the crumbling alleys and flickering neon of Yongsan, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder. Just once. Twice.
The bottle of perfume weighed heavy in his pocket.
...Would he be back?
Would he want him to?