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The world spins around him, like it always does.
His head aches. His mouth feels way too dry, even after he gulps down half of the contents in his water bottle, and his breath comes too short, too shallow, no matter how much air he tries to take in. He can hear everything—the honks of car horns, people muttering lowly into their phones, rings of bicycle bells, the opening of doors, food being eaten and drinks being drunk, and even the sound of metal against skin, in a little alleyway too far away to see. He blinks, slightly curious.
Somehow, his feet carry him to the source of the intriguing noise, away from the crowded streets and ear-splitting noise levels, and suddenly all he can hear is metal on skin. Hitting hard against flesh and resonating through bones, a sick crunch and a gasp, a quiet whimper of pain.
He steps into the alleyway, quiet like he always does. He’s lithe, quick on his feet, soft in his steps and gentle in his movement, and the world spins around him but it seems to hold in place, just for that moment.
There are two men in this alleyway, but that’s not quite right. Boys, they are. Just boys, and he blinks because already he sees that one is predator and the other is prey. One holds a bloodied metal bat within his shaking, white-knuckled grasp, poised to strike the final blow to the other, who closes his eyes and accepts his fate. But that’s not quite right, Yoongi thinks at the back of his head, despite the world spinning angrily around him. That can’t be right.
So he does the only thing he can think of, in that moment. The only thing he thinks is somehow right. Before the metal bat smashes into the other boy’s head, before it can blow his brains apart and paint the concrete wall red, Yoongi strikes, and the bat clatters to the ground. There is no other noise, the world is silent, the world stops spinning, and everything comes crashing down because ah, there it is.
“What are you doing,” Predator is gritting out, pearly-whites jutting out irritably from his otherwise impressive face. “What are you doing.”
It’s not a question, Yoongi knows, so he doesn’t deign him an answer, only puts on a pair of surgical gloves. Predator’s hands start to shake wildly, more so than they had been before, and to the normal human eye it would seem that he were convulsing but Yoongi knows otherwise. Ah, he’s got issues, he thinks to himself, amused. Shame, he should have come to me beforehand. Then it wouldn’t have gotten this bad.
In a flash, he has Predator bunched up against the wall opposite to Prey, a grin spread wide on his face. Predator seethes, red marring his eyes, and thrashes around his grip but it’s much too late for him. It had already been too late, the moment the world came into focus, and Yoongi just keeps on grinning because he’s no predator after all.
“Little lamb,” he whispers into Preda—no, Little Lamb’s ear, a giggle on his lips. “Small, weak, little lamb.” The giggle turns into a laugh, and the world becomes clearer.
“I’m no lamb,” Little Lamb spits out, angry and petulant like a child that doesn’t get his way. “I’m no fucking lamb, get the fuck off of me!”
Yoongi is still laughing, and he’s so amused. Little Lamb is weak, just a boy, playing with things far too mature and far too adult for his own good, but it’s too late now. If there had been no metal bat, if there had been no Predator or Prey in the corner of this little alleyway, maybe it would have been somebody else. Little Lamb is weak, just a boy, playing with things far too mature and far too adult for his own good but he’s never been one to discriminate, and it’s too late anyway. When the world comes into focus, he kills, and he kills instantly.
“You really think I’d let you go?!” Yoongi yells, loud and clear in the desolate little alleyway with only Little Lamb and Prey inside it. “You’re mine now, little lamb. Your blood would look so good on my knife now, don’t you think? So good, I think I’ll have a taste.”
Little Lamb screams, but the scream is muffled by Yoongi’s shirt sleeve as he stabs. He stabs, and he stabs with vigor, manic eagerness, pleasure and delight, a gleam in his eyes that gives him a rush of adrenaline. His knife is in his hand, and he doesn’t know how it even got there, but he stabs with abandon and the red looks so good on Little Lamb’s skin, so good, it’s beautiful.
He’s careful not to get any blood on himself, as he stabs away, because Yoongi has done this countless times before and he’s always been meticulous. A stab on his chest, his arm, his shoulder, his stomach, his thigh, his hip, his head. Elegant, artful stabs placed quickly enough before he inches away, inspecting his handiwork and sighing contentedly to himself. He’s done a good job, a clean job, with not a speck of red on his sleeves, so he leaves Little Lamb there to bleed himself out.
He wipes his knife with a damp towel that he always keeps in his bag, for situations like this. A glance is drawn over Little Lamb’s dying body, and with a smile his eyes gloss over the silver Rolex that hangs from his latest victim’s wrist. He’s overcome with glee.
So this was a rich one, huh? He chuckles as he unclasps the watch from the boy’s dead corpse. Should’ve counted his blessings while he had them.
The Rolex is shoved into his coat pocket, and Yoongi is about to leave. Already too soon, the world starts to spin again, but it’s a dull spinning that he can deal with for maybe the next few days, if he’s lucky enough. His knife goes back in the bag, among other questionable things, and he takes one long look back at the alleyway behind him.
Little Lamb is lifeless, cold and pale on one side. There is sobbing coming from the other side, and Yoongi remembers with slight alarm that Prey had been there, with them, as he’d killed.
He should really finish him off, just one stab to the head. He contemplates it, as hard as he can with the world spinning and flashing with colours too quick to see, but for some reason, he can’t. That’s not quite right, he thinks just as the idea crosses his mind. That can’t be right.
And he doesn’t know what makes him do it, doesn’t know why he doesn’t just murder him and get it over and done with, but Yoongi turns back, and he doesn’t turn back to kill. The world keeps on spinning, moving, noises screeching at the back of his head as he walks over to Prey and holds out a hand for him to take.
“Come with me,” he says. He’d thought he might regret it, as soon as the words spill out his mouth, but there is none of it in his stomach and he can’t say he isn’t surprised. “I’ll help you get patched up.”
Prey looks up at him then, slowly, wonder and awe sparkling in his eyes. Yoongi thinks it’s slightly weird, because nobody has ever looked at him this way before, but the sparkles are gone and replaced by a sudden nausea he knows Prey wouldn’t be able to resist before he can think much of it.
Before Prey can succumb to the temptations of sleep, he grips the hand Yoongi has to help him up, using it as leverage for his unstable legs. There’s no way he can walk all the way back to Yoongi’s car without him going unconscious, so Yoongi picks him up bridal style, and walks out of the alley without a second of hesitation.
“Hello, is this the police?” he says into the phone, voice masked in panic, as he drives out of a dead end a few streets away. “Yes, I-I just… There was a murder. There—There’s a dead body in an alleyway, I need… Oh god I really need to get away from here.”
It doesn’t take long to drive into the nearest police station with Prey in his arms. Yoongi is good at this, at acting like there’s nothing wrong with him, at masking the way the world spins and twists and turns in his gut, and the police don’t suspect a thing when he enters with hysterical panic.
“I was the one who called,” he cries, sobbing, “t-the person who saw the dead body, I…”
He’s ushered into a seat, and he doesn’t let Prey go for even a moment. He doesn’t trust him, thinks that maybe he’ll spill everything to the police the moment he wakes up, so Yoongi doesn’t take any chances. He grips tightly at his sleeve, shaking slightly.
“Did you know the victim?” the officer asks.
Yoongi shakes his head, large tears falling from his eyes, but there is nothing in his stomach but the intense satisfaction of what he had just done.
“I w-was just passing,” he answers. “I ha-had my car… parked somewhere close by, and… and I just saw and oh my god, the b-blood—” before he breaks down into tears, shivering in his seat. The world spins, shakes, but the noise in the station isn’t so bad to handle.
“And this young man,” the officer gestures to Prey, still out cold. “Do you know him?”
“N-No,” Yoongi replies. He’s taking gasps of air now. “He… He was there, t-too.”
The officer’s expression is grim as he exchanges glances with one of his colleagues, and they both sigh with a second-hand kind of grief that Yoongi knows they’re only feeling out of politeness. The interview is short, only lasting long enough for them to get all the answers they think Yoongi has, and it’s not too long before they’re both brought into an ambulance to speed away to a nearby hospital.
Prey opens his eyes just as they’re nearing the hospital entrance, where a couple of doctors and nurses wait to bring them inside. For a moment, Yoongi’s heart is gripped in fear; he’ll expose me, he’ll tell everyone the truth, all my beautiful work will disappear, I won’t be able to kill again, but Prey only smiles. He opens his eyes, and he smiles at Yoongi with the brightest expression one can muster after he’d been beaten up hard by a metal bat.
“I thought… I thought I was going to d-die,” he whispers. Yoongi thinks his voice is beautiful, in a broken, jaded way. “Thank you. Thank you so… m-much…”
He’s out like a light again, Prey is, just after he says his thanks and they’re broken apart to be treated by different doctors. Yoongi blinks, and the whole world stops spinning, but it’s different. He doesn’t know how, but with the outline of Prey’s smile still engraved into the back of his eyes, he thinks he might find out soon enough.
“No,” Yoongi frowns. He doesn’t know why, but it just doesn’t bode well with him. It makes his skin crawl, makes him feel disgusting, makes him feel unnerved more so than he usually is. “No, I’m taking him home.”
“But sir,” the doctor sighs, tired of Yoongi’s stubbornness after a long day of treating patients. “You’re under severe trauma, after what you saw, and he most likely will be too, when he wakes up. What he really needs right now is someone stable enough to get him into the right mindset.”
“I’m a psychiatrist.” The glare he sends towards the man is cold, unpleasant, a glare that has him fidgeting in his seat. “I know how to get him into the right mindset.”
The doctor massages his temples exasperatedly, and Yoongi knows he has a head ache; he winces every time his own fingers touch his head, and the little grunts he makes aren’t so subtle. “We can’t just take your word for it, sir. How do we know you’re competent enough to take care of him?”
Yoongi laughs, and it’s all he can do not to sound hysterical.
His world stills. He can imagine red trickling down the man’s head. Competent, huh? He thinks I’m not competent. He thinks I’m not competent. The urge there again, rearing its ugly head in the pits of his stomach, and he takes a steadying breath to stop the shaking of his feet. He blinks once, twice, thrice in succession, too quick to be deemed unnerving, and the world starts its usual spin again.
“Look, I’ll give you someone’s calling card,” he says, giving no indication that he’d taken offense. “Kim Namjoon, head of the hospital I work at. He can vouch for me.”
He pulls out a card from his front pocket, placing it on the doctor’s desk and pushing it closer to where he sits. The doctor frowns, but Yoongi only smiles, encouraging him to call.
The man takes one look at the calling card, doubtful, before he blinks and stares for too long a time.
“You work at… Why that’s…”
“SJ Medical Centre, yes,” Yoongi replies, easy with his words, easy with his smile. The lights keep on flashing, the world keeps on turning, but he doesn’t give anyone a clue. “Please, if you will. Inquire about me, anything you like, then we can discuss just how credible my work is.”
The doctor swallows nervously, obviously intimidated, and he has every right to be. SJ Medical Centre is the most elite of all the elite hospitals in South Korea, despite having only been established a few years prior, and Yoongi is a psychiatrist there. His patient is a psychiatrist there.
“Yes, hello? Kim Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi’s doctor hesitates before he talks into his phone. “Uh, I was just calling to inquire if you happen to have a Mr. Min Yoongi working as a psychiatrist at your hospital?” A pause. Yoongi thinks he can hear Namjoon chuckle from the other line. “Ah, yes, I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. We just needed to clarify, for him to take one of our patients home. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“He’s the best psychiatrist our hospital has to offer,” Yoongi hears from the phone, and he preens. “I don’t see why you would need any clarification at all.”
The call ends, and the doctor looks sheepishly towards him. Yoongi merely grins at him, a nonchalant, lazy grin that nobody could ever mistake for psychotic. It’s effortless, light, friendly.
“Well? What did he say?”
“You’re that Min Yoongi,” and the man’s words are disbelieving, slightly breathless. “You’re that prodigy with the 100% recovery success rate.”
“That I am,” Yoongi affirms. He’s becoming antsy now, restless in his seat, and all he wants is to take Prey home. He doesn’t even know why. “I’m perfectly capable of treating my own trauma, as I am perfectly capable of treating his. I’m fine. He’ll be fine. What he needs right now isn’t someone who will get him into the right mindset, but someone who at least knows a semblance of what he’s going through, and I’m confident that I can be that someone.”
The doctor sighs, shakes his head. A few seconds pass without incident, just silence coating the doctor’s office and the air between them thick with tension, before he makes a motion and nods his head.
“Okay,” he says, and Yoongi has won. His grin is stretched wide across his face. “Okay fine, you can take him.”
The moment he enters Prey’s hospital room, he’s silent, giving nothing away, a mystery on his toes like he always is. It’s a habit, and he puts it to good use.
Prey is already awake, despite being a little lethargic in his movements, and he blinks slowly as he takes in Yoongi’s presence at the door. The world’s motion seems to halt for a moment, before it starts up again. Huh, Yoongi thinks. Odd.
“It’s you,” Prey whispers as Yoongi takes a seat beside his hospital bed. He’s careful to sit a few ways away, just far enough so that Prey feels safe next to him. “You-You’re the one who… His… You…”
“Shh,” Yoongi whispers, and it’s calming, gentle like a breeze. “Yeah, it was me. But now’s not the time and here’s not the place to talk about that. I’m taking you home.”
His smile is a little mad, a little unnerving, and maybe Prey notices because he shivers slightly. “Home? M-My home? No, I… I couldn’t…”
“No, baby,” Yoongi reassures him, and maybe he’d been too hasty. Prey is fragile, a bird in a cage, but he’s a specimen he must study so he’ll treat him with all the care in the world if he has to. “My home. What’s your name?”
“Park Jimin.” The boy’s answer is instantaneous, and it takes Yoongi by surprise. “I-I don’t think… Please, take me with you, I couldn’t… I can’t go home in thi-this state—”
The boy is tense, on high alert, breath slightly shallow, and Yoongi knows he’s scared. Of what he’d seen, how he’d been treated. He can tell, even though he doesn’t know the full story. “That’s why you’re coming with me,” he cuts in patiently, his psychiatrist voice bleeding into his words. It’s natural, the transition. “I’ll explain everything to you, when you’ve calmed down slightly. Is that okay, Jimin-ssi?”
“O-Okay,” Jimin replies, and Yoongi’s glad that he’s so cooperative. I wonder, he thinks, because he thinks Jimin’s behaviour is slightly peculiar. How bad could it have been, for him to feel safe even around me?
“I’m Min Yoongi,” he tells the younger, and he moves his chair close enough to Jimin’s hospital bed. The boy seems comfortable enough, not flinching away even once, so he thinks it must be okay. “You’ll be fine, the doctor will be here with your discharge papers soon.”
Jimin blinks. And without a thought in his head, without the influence of the room wobbling in his vision, Yoongi has a hand running through his hair. Impulsive, too late to retract back to his side, so he lets it be when Jimin doesn’t seem to mind. His hair is nice, anyway. Soft. Light against his fingers, smooth against his skin, and Yoongi loves the feel of it. It feels like feathers, airy and weightless in his hand.
“Why did you do it?” Jimin whispers, and even with Yoongi’s hyper-aware senses, he has to crane his neck to hear him. “To Jeongguk, I mean.”
“So that’s his name, huh?” Yoongi muses, as Jimin leans into his touch. He seems to do it unconsciously, as if he were on an auto-pilot setting to react to Yoongi’s warmth, and he should be worried. The world may spin, may twist and turn in his stomach and flash colours too vivid to see, but he knows he should be worried, because Jimin isn’t supposed to act like this. He’s supposed to be repulsed, frightened, moving farther away from him rather than closer. It doesn’t bode well, doesn’t go where he expected it to.
A knock comes from the door, and both Jimin and Yoongi look up in alarm. Jimin inches slightly away from Yoongi’s hand, and Yoongi clears his throat quietly. “We’ll talk about this later. Don’t say anything to incriminate me, unless you’re asking for me to finish you off, too.”
His words are sharp, jagged like broken glass even in his own ears, and it’s expected that Jimin shivers a little from his tone. The world seems to turn violently faster in that moment, the haze of flashes and little splotches of colour igniting behind Yoongi’s eyes, and it dulls only when Jimin sighs and turns his head away.
“Come in,” he calls out, and there is no hesitation there. The confidence is palpable in his words, spilling out of his mouth in an effortless motion, and he must say it a lot. Come in. Yoongi can tell, from the way he pronounces the words so smoothly, with no room for error, and he can’t say he’s not surprised.
The door opens, and in comes Jimin’s doctor, with two nurses right at his heel. He’s dressed in the standard white doctor’s coat with the hospital’s logo on it, and it’s too bright. Yoongi almost winces.
“Hello, Jimin-ssi,” he nods his head to Jimin, before turning his attention to Yoongi. “I take it that Jimin-ssi has consented to you taking him home with you?”
“He has,” Yoongi affirms. The words taste satisfying on his lips, but he doesn’t even grace a smile. “You can hear it from him yourself, if you’d like.”
The doctor takes no time in running his eyes over back to Jimin’s form on the bed, who smiles easily, as if Yoongi hadn’t threatened to take his life just before the doctor came in. He may keep his hands demurely on his lap, but he leans lazily against the bed frame, and in a glance you might think there’s nothing wrong with him. There’s not a single sign of uneasiness, nor fear, nor doubt.
He leans away from the bed, in the doctor’s direction, his face impassive.
Oh, Yoongi thinks, intrigued. He’s good.
“I’m leaving with him,” Jimin declares, and his tone holds no room for argument. Yoongi has to hold back a smirk. “I-I think it’d be good. He’s been nothing but nice”—a lie, but he makes it sound oddly believable—“and it’s… hard for me right now. He sounds like he might understand.”
The doctor grunts, and with it comes his doubtful approval. “If you’re okay with it, Jimin-ssi. Are you sure you don’t want us to contact your family about this?”
Jimin shakes his head. “They have every right to know about Jeongguk’s… his… his death, but I need to get away from them. Just for a few days. A month, at the most. I… I need to recover.” And not just because of what I saw. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t utter so much as a word of it, but Yoongi can hear it. He can see it in his eyes. “I’ll call them in my own time.”
The doctor and the nurses leave, and Jimin is alone with Yoongi again. He’d been surprisingly stable while talking to them, and Yoongi can’t be more pleased. Although he shivers from time to time, eyes Yoongi a little apprehensively, breathes slightly shallower at certain moments and stumbles over his words occasionally, he seems stable. Fine. Not perfectly fine, but Yoongi can fix him no problem, and maybe he can ensure he doesn’t go blabbering about what he’d witnessed, too.
“I’ve got your stuff here,” he announces, pulling Jimin’s now-clean clothes from his bag. He’d offered to launder them off to spare the hospital any trouble—and to spare him any trouble, what with the Rolex still sitting innocently in his coat pocket—and he’d been surprised at how easy it was. The police hadn’t even asked to inspect his belongings. Not that he’s complaining; it would have been a pain if they found the knives in his bag, anyway.
“Thanks,” Jimin mumbles, accepting the clothes with shaking fingers. He doesn’t make any move to take off his hospital gown, however, and Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him.
“What?” he asks, a little irritably. Blink once, blink twice, blink thrice. “Did you want me to go out?”
Jimin looks down at his lap, where his clothes lie, before clearing his throat a little and looking up again. He scratches his head sheepishly.
“I-If you don’t mind helping me get dressed? My muscles are still a little sore.” Yoongi blinks. This brat must be mocking me, he muses, scoffing internally. Is this a joke?
He searches Jimin’s eyes, looking for something, anything. They’re pools of umber with little specks of gold, glistening marvellously in the hospital lighting and Yoongi’s vision stills. For a minute, this time. Hastily, he blinks away the pause, but there’s no urge wrenching in his gut to for him to get rid of.
“You really want me to do that? Me? For you?” Jimin nods, and his blush intensifies. It’s not quite crimson, but it’s not quite rose either, and Yoongi laughs incredulously. “Baby, after what I did? Aren’t you scared?”
Jimin swallows, looking down once more and playing with the fabric of his hospital gown. He’s a boy, just a boy, much like Little Lamb was, and he has no idea what he’s getting himself into. “I-I am,” he confesses, and Yoongi thinks that he really shouldn’t be doing that, confessing. “But you won’t do that to me. I know you won’t.”
And it’s unbelievable, the way he says it. Pathetic, a weak excuse, laughably naïve, but the static at the back of Yoongi’s head muffles out for a moment, and he finds that maybe Jimin’s words aren’t so unbelievable after all.
He looks away, and his mask is in its usual place.
Yoongi’s apartment is in the richest part of Gangnam, close to his workplace and far from any delinquent activity that could trigger his urges. Granted, he’s not so weak that he can’t control them, can’t trigger them synthetically, can’t get better if he really wanted to, but he just doesn’t bother. It’s unnecessary. A pain. Annoying, most of the time.
His apartment is small, only one bedroom, but the living room is spacious and the kitchen is not too far behind in terms of size. The view isn’t so bad either, so he’s lived there for a few years and hasn’t bothered to move out ever since, even when he’d started raking in more money than he could count.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he announces, when he keys in his passcode and lets Jimin into his home. Jimin eyes him doubtfully. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? You’ll be staying with me for a few days. A month, at most.”
The boy remains silent, even as Yoongi leans down to take off his shoes and place them on the rack next to the door.
“B-But why did you do it?” he finally asks, just as Yoongi moves away from his feet and takes care of his own shoelaces. “Why did you k-kill him? He never did anything wrong to you.”
A few streets away, there are two cars colliding against each other, and Yoongi can hear the shatter of glass and honking of car horns even from here. The sounds grate in his ears, reverberate violently through his skull, and he chuckles.
“He was hurting you,” Yoongi says, standing up to find Jimin slightly closer to his face than he’d expected. He takes it all into stride, and leans in close to his ear. “That’s what you wanted me to say, am I right?”
“But it’s not the reason why,” Jimin whispers, and he doesn’t deny it, not a single thing. At least he’s honest, Yoongi thinks, as he leads them into the living room.
“And you’re right,” he replies lightly, takes gentle steps towards the couch. It’s the most comfortable he could ever find, and his limbs sink into the soft cushions in a satisfyingly pleasant manner. “It’s not.”
“Then why?” Jimin is still standing. Yoongi pats the seat next to him, and it’s curious how Jimin naturally slides into it.
“You won’t like it,” He warns, his voice sing-song as he runs a hand through Jimin’s hair. “But if you’re so sure, then…”
The younger makes no sound, no movement to indicate that he feels uncomfortable. He only looks at Yoongi with an expectant gleam in his eyes, a gleam that dulls out the spinning just a little bit. Yoongi sighs.
“Because I could,” he finally answers, and the words taste gratifying on his lips. Pride sinks into his smirk as he holds Jimin’s gaze. “Because I liked it, and I could. That’s the reason.”
“T-That’s sick,” Jimin mutters, low under his breath. Yoongi’s hand doesn’t stop its movements, not when Jimin doesn’t shrug him off. If anything, Jimin leans in, like he’d done at the hospital, into Yoongi’s touch like it’s the most natural action in the world.
“I’m sick, Jimin-ssi,” Yoongi laughs. “I’m sick, and I love it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
His eyes scan the room, cold and dim just as he likes it, to gleam over the shelf of miscellaneous items. They’re all mismatched, some glinting their metal shine, others casting shadow over themselves, but they all stand neatly on that one shelf, and Yoongi can’t be any more proud. I want more, he thinks in his head. I need more, they’re not enough.
He turns back to Jimin, whose head is so close to his chest he might as well lie on it, but Yoongi says nothing about that. “Aren’t you scared, baby? Of what I might do to you, in here? I could kill you, right now, and make it seem as if I had nothing to do with it.”
“I… I know you’re dangerous,” Jimin whimpers as Yoongi trails a finger from his head to the back of his neck. The hairs that stand on end from his touch look absolutely delicious. “But I… I don’t have anywhere else to g-go.”
“What about your parents, then?” Yoongi inquires, raises an eyebrow. “You let me take you from that hospital, knowing full well what I’d done. You could have gone with anyone else but me.”
Jimin sighs, and finally, finally his head is on Yoongi’s chest. It’s alarming, how the world stops for so long without Yoongi having the urges, without having his hands itch for the knife he knows is in his back pocket, but the world stops, and it doesn’t start again until much, much later.
I don’t even know this kid, Yoongi blinks. What is he fucking doing?
But he doesn’t move to get away, doesn’t shy away from Jimin’s warmth, and maybe that’s enough.
“None of them understand,” Jimin is saying, bitterly and voice shaking so bad Yoongi has half a mind to steady him with his arms. “You don’t understand much, either, but y-you saw what he did to me. H-He’s been doing that for years, I… I’d only taken out the ring. The ring. I did-didn’t want to marry him, he was crazy. He locked me up, and he didn’t let me e-eat, god—”
“Shh,” Yoongi whispers, and it’s here. The urge. But it’s thirsting for something else entirely, and he’s so confused but he doesn’t let it show on his face. “And I’m much better? I kill, Jimin-ssi. I kill for fun.”
“But you saved me.” The boy looks up at him, and Yoongi can see the specks of gold in his hazelnut eyes. “Y-You killed him, even if i-it wasn’t for my sake. And now I’m free.”
“And what makes you think I won’t chain you down, baby? Just like he did to you.” Yoongi sidles up to him, lips barely just grazing his ear, and Jimin shivers.
But the look in his eyes is different. The shine, the sparkle, the flash of emotion bursting with umber and gold, it’s nothing like he’s ever seen before. Jimin shivers, an enticing motion that makes Yoongi’s world impeccably clear, but his gaze is different. It searches, looks into Yoongi’s soul, before it pulls out of his mind and blinks. Yoongi wets his lips before he can even stop himself.
“Anything is better than the hell he put me through,” Jimin mutters, and Yoongi’s hands are in his hair again. You met him only a couple of hours ago, he chides himself, but his brain isn’t listening. It always listens, but now it isn’t, and Yoongi doesn’t know what to do.
“S-So if you’re p-planning on… on chaining me down again, by all means, do so,” Jimin is saying, and it pulls Yoongi out of his thoughts. He blinks frantically, and the room spins—he can’t explain to anyone just how relieved he is that it’s doing that—but Jimin is still. And he doesn’t know why.
“What do you mean?” He frowns at the boy’s words, searching his eyes just as Jimin had done mere moments ago. Jimin sighs.
“I mean that… that if you wanted to take me,” and Jimin’s gaze is burning, liquid gold encased in umber that makes Yoongi reel, “then you can. I don’t mind.”