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Namjoon’s whole face is wet when he finally staggers backstage. He’s sweating buckets, but he’s content — he might even be so bold as to say that he killed it tonight. The venue was pretty packed and he managed to get the crowd thoroughly hyped up for the final act.
The club they’re performing at is medium-small and dark, the sour spilled-beer stink permanently infused into the floor. However, they’ve got an excellent PA system and an event manager who’s really good at her job, and thus every Thursday night people line up practically around the block to see the latest and greatest of what’s happening in underground hip-hop.
Namjoon goes to grab a beer from the little sticker-covered cooler in the corner of the backstage room, mostly out of habit, before he remembers that he has to pee and determines that enough minutes have passed that it shouldn’t be too awkward for him to go back out to the crowd. People have moved on since he finished his set, some going over to the bar to get a fresh drink, or outside to have a smoke, before the last and most anticipated act of the night comes on.
He goes out the door that leads to the “auditorium” part of the venue (not that this little venue at the back of a divey bar really warrants any part of it being referred to as an auditorium, but y’know, the part where people stand and listen), and strolls through the crowd towards where the bathrooms are. A couple of people do double takes as he passes; he was, after all, just up on stage a few minutes ago, making them bounce and whoop, but no one approaches him or says anything. Namjoon probably wouldn’t admit it, but he’s just ever so slightly disappointed by that — because nothing beats the feeling of some stranger awkwardly coming up to him after a performance and saying something like “uh hey man, sorry to bother you, but wow you were so good up there! Do you have anything recorded?”
When Namjoon enters the men’s bathroom it’s surprisingly empty, probably because the bathrooms in the basement are slightly nicer, or, in any case, easier to do drugs in. When he gets into his stance at one of the urinals though, he hears the door creek open. He throws a glance over his shoulder and oh, it’s just Zico, his friend and fellow performer who happens to be the night’s headlining act.
Zico flashes him a wide grin before getting situated one urinal down from Namjoon. “Hey bro! You murdered out there, good job! Thanks for getting them all good and wet for me.”
Namjoon cringes internally at the choice of words. “Uh, hah, you’re very welcome. Thanks man. You all ready for your set?”
“Yeah, I'm pumped. It's just, you know, that thing where you’re just about to go on stage but your bladder suddenly decides it’s the size of a golf ball and you need to pee like 15 times.”
Zico finishes up, zips up his fly and leans on the wall to face Namjoon, arms crossed over his chest, eyes going wide like he’s got some really juicy gossip to share.
“Hey, guess who I fucking saw out in the crowd during your set!!”
“Uh… Who?” Namjoon kinda hopes it was a representative from one of the cool labels he wishes would wanna sign him, although he doesn’t allow himself to get too hopeful.
“Do you remember that skinny little punk from Daegu who used to hang around us, always acting all tough? The one that got signed with an entertainment company last year?”
“Min Yoongi?”
“Yes!! That guy! Have you been keeping up with that whole thing at all??”
Namjoon decides the best course of action would be to tell Zico the truth, but maybe not all of it. “Yeah I think I’ve seen some stuff online. I mean, his whole crew was pretty decent and we used to chat sometimes so uh, I was kinda curious to see how he’d do as an, uh, idol…”
Zico barks out a laugh. “Hilarious, right? Did you see how fast he went from acting like a wannabe gangbanger with his little Daegu crew, to full-on dancing on stage in a full face of makeup and women’s clothes?? Can you believe that lil twink bitch has the nerve to still call himself a rapper?”
Namjoon isn’t sure how to answer that so he just shakes his head and puts on a mildly bewildered expression.
Zico goes on, “and he goes by Suga now, which is like, almost as gay as Gloss. Almost. What a fuckin joke. He claims he's still making hip-hop, but the minute he got a chance at idol fame he sold his soul and jumped right onto that bandwagon! And now he's out there fuckin… wearing smokey eye makeup and dancing around like a little girl in a fucking cat collar!!“
Zico cackles and slaps his knee theatrically. “He’s like… lil meow meow out there, fuckin…” Zico sticks his tongue out and makes a gesture like a cat holding up one paw, and Namjoon can’t help but laugh at that.
“Lil meow meow,” Namjoon mutters and shakes his head, “that’s funny. Suits him.”
“Right? I just don’t get how he thinks he has any business still showing up to a night like this after he went full homo in a heartbeat. He’s out there fuckin… reapplying his lip gloss while we’re still in the trenches putting in real work. I swear…“ Zico shakes his head and looks at Namjoon like he’s waiting for him to agree, and Namjoon—
He doesn’t know what to say. Namjoon swallows hard. Fuck. Think quick. “Yeah that’s uh… gay.”
“Right?? Fucking sellout. Oh my god, I bet he came here just to try to get all up on my di—“
—a bathroom stall door is thrown open with a loud clatter.
Namjoon just barely manages to spin toward the noise to catch a blur of the man in question, as he storms out of the bathroom. He looks even smaller than Namjoon remembered, swallowed up by an oversized black hoodie over torn black skinny jeans and sneakers. Strands of soft bleach-blonde hair stick to the sweat on his forehead, face like a thundercloud. He bangs the bathroom door shut on his way out.
Namjoon is at a loss for words, mouth agape, as if they’d just seen a ghost.
Zico clasps a hand over his mouth and squeals into it, then giggles,
“Holy! Shit! Bro. Speak of the devil!! Did you know he was in there??”
Namjoon throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fucking… of course not!! I thought the bathroom was totally empty, I would’ve warned you!”
Zico just chuckles and shakes his head. “Welp, it's not like I was saying anything he shouldn’t already know anyway. You know me, I just tell it like it is.” Zico’s smiling like it's not a big deal, like he just accidentally sent a text with a typo that autocorrect had changed into something hilarious. “Oh my god, that was so fucking funny. Anyway, shit, the stage is calling my name. Wish me luck.”
“Yeah uh… good luck up there.”
“Thanks man. And if lil meow meow comes begging you for my number, tell him I don’t want nuthin to do with that gay shit, ya hear?” Zico slaps Namjoon on the shoulder on his way out.
“Yep. Yeh don’t worry.”
Zico exits, still chuckling to himself and Namjoon just—
He feels like shit. He turns on the tap to wash his hands and then just stands there, letting the cold water run over his hands for a little too long, while trying to collect his thoughts.
Namjoon feels like shit for a multitude of reasons, the first being that Namjoon himself is, actually, gay.
He’s not quite out yet — not to most people anyway; he's too anxious about it wrecking his chances of making a name for himself as a rapper. He doesn’t want to use it as a gimmick either — not that he has anything against rappers that are out and loud about it (he fucking loves that they exist actually, and wishes that one day he’ll be so brave). But. He just wants people to like him cause he’s a good rapper, above anything else. Not because he’s good for a gay guy, or because he’s controversial, or whatever. He just wants to be recognized for his craft first, and then, he keeps telling himself, swearing to himself, then he’ll come out with a bang. As soon as he accumulates a significant fan base, he’ll use that as a platform to speak out, loud and clear, on his own behalf and on behalf of everyone else who has trouble getting their voice heard because society doesn’t think they deserve to have a voice. This is the promise he’s made to himself.
But for now, Namjoon is a coward. He hangs around with dudes like Zico because, sure, he’s very talented and he’s a “fun guy”, so to speak, but he also says shit like… all the shit he just said in the bathroom while they didn’t know Yoongi was listening. And Namjoon not only doesn’t say anything about it; he pretends like he agrees. Pretends like he’s the same as Zico. And isn’t that, he wonders, in a way just as bad as actually agreeing with those sorts of opinions?
Namjoon lets out a heavy sigh and splashes some cold water on his face before looking back at his reflection in the graffiti-clouded mirror.
There are so many reasons why Namjoon should’ve spoken up to defend Yoongi, he thinks. He should’ve spoken up because what Zico was saying was really mean and homophobic. He also should’ve spoken up because Namjoon is gay himself, and letting his friends keep assuming he’s not is just spineless at this point. But most of all, he should’ve spoken up for Yoongi because he likes him. Really likes him.
Namjoon had always thought that behind the gang-signs and the occasional bursts of attitude, Yoongi was a really genuine, talented, sweet and hardworking guy. Sure, they weren’t super close, but before Yoongi got signed he used to see him at a lot of events and parties. They’d talked often, and Namjoon always felt a connection with him, like there was a potential for a great friendship there. Like maybe they were even the same, perhaps sharing similar struggles.
There had been one particular after-party where they’d ended up deep in conversation on someone’s dingy old couch for hours. They’d talked enthusiastically about music, their goals and their dreams, a little tipsy and soft, only noticing when the sky started to lighten in the early morning hours that everyone else had passed out or gone home long ago, music still thrumming low through the living room speakers.
They’d been inching closer together as they talked quietly through the night, and Namjoon had thought, in that moment, that he could and he should maybe just lean in and kiss Yoongi on his pretty little kitten mouth. The mood had seemed ripe for it. Yoongi had been looking at him in some type of way… But Namjoon had chickened out, too scared of reading the mood wrong, of embarrassing himself and getting mocked.
He’d asked for Yoongi’s number instead, on the pretense that he needed help with a track he was working on, one of the ones he’d been telling Yoongi about. Which, to be honest; Yoongi's help was something he wouldn’t mind getting either way. He was talented as fuck, and not only could he produce his own music, there was also something so completely mesmerizing about someone so delicate with such a pretty mouth spitting as hard as Yoongi did, swearing as much as he did, and doing it with such measured skill and tact.
After acquiring his number, Namjoon had texted Yoongi a few time asking him to hang out. Incidentally, that had been right around the time Yoongi got signed as a soon-to-debut trainee with an entertainment company, and he had always politely declined, saying that his schedule was too hectic at the moment, but he’d love to get together at some later date, as soon as he got some free time. Still, he’d never contacted Namjoon at any later date, and after a few attempts at getting Yoongi to hang out with him, Namjoon decided to give up. Figured he had read the situation wrong after all, and that he should just leave the poor guy alone, never mind how hot he was or how well they got along.
When Yoongi’s debut with his idol group had garnered some attention, Namjoon had texted him polite congratulations and received sincere thanks in response, but that was all their communication had boiled down to. He’d accepted that he’d just have to watch and cheer for Yoongi from a distance. More specifically, from the safety of behind his laptop screen at home.
More often than not Namjoon's cheering turned into him whining about how hot Yoongi looked to his roommate, Jung Hoseok, who also happened to be one of the handful of people Namjoon was already out to. Hoseok did hip hop dance and choreography, and ran in some of the same circles as Namjoon did, (and as Yoongi had done too, before he got too busy,) and they watched all the live stages and performances of Yoongi’s group together as soon as they came out. At first Namjoon had sort of thought it would be weird to see Yoongi dancing, that he’d look silly and they’d laugh, and that it would help Namjoon get over him. But Yoongi wasn’t even bad at dancing. He actually wasn’t bad at all and he looked hot as fuck while doing it, so instead of laughing and getting over him, Namjoon had to sit there yelling about how good he looked and sounded, and wondering out loud if things could’ve been different if he’d just made a move to get closer with Yoongi sooner, if he’d just actually had the balls to lean in and kiss him that one night on the couch…
Alas, he hadn’t had the balls. He’d had some private moments, after someone uploaded a 'Suga focus' fancam of Yoongi performing and dancing on Youtube; a video he played in the safety of his bedroom, over and over again, allowing himself to fantasize about what might have gone down if a kiss on the couch had happened — fantasies to which he masturbated furiously and shamefully.
Shamefully, because Yoongi probably hadn’t even been interested, wasn’t interested, and he was busy with his new, slightly more glamorous life anyway.
So what’s he doing here tonight then? Namjoon thinks. Zico’s starting to blow up, I guess. Idol rappers would be smart to take a page out of his book, even though… Namjoon does wish that fame would come to someone… a little bit nicer.
Namjoon can hear, judging from the booming bass and cheers coming in muffled through the door of the bathroom, that Zico’s set has already started. It’s high time he get out of the bathroom too; a couple of guys are in there now, looking at him kinda funny as he’s just standing there, staring dead-eyed into the mirror.
Namjoon finally gathers up the sense to exit the bathroom, feeling like shit still. Unsure of how to proceed. I’ll just get a beer for now, he thinks. Then I’ll probably do nothing. Cause I’m a fucking coward.
Just as he’s about to push open the swinging door that leads back into the backstage area, someone clips him on the shoulder. Namjoon looks up, surprised for the second time in a very short timespan to find, again, Min Yoongi standing there, red in the face, looking no less angry than he did earlier (possibly even more angry, to be honest). He’s actually looking very much like he’s headed towards the front door to exit the club, while Zico is still on his first song.
“Yoongi!” Namjoon shouts over the music, panicked.
Yoongi is positively fuming, and Namjoon’s heart breaks a little bit when he catches his eyes.
Shit shit how can I fix this—
“Yoongi, I’m so s—“
“Shut the fuck up, you asshole!” Yoongi shoves him hard.
Namjoon, not exactly prepared to be shoved, staggers backwards through the swinging door. Yoongi stalks closer, following him in, more intimidating than Namjoon ever thought anyone under 175 centimeters tall could possibly be. The music booms on, loud but muffled through the walls, the rest of the club caught up in Zico’s performance and completely unaware of this possibly most stressful moment of Namjoon’s entire life.
“Yoongi, I can expl—”
“Oh yeah? You’re gonna fucking explain why you pretend to be my friend while that’s how you talk about me behind my back?”
Yoongi takes a step closer, jutting his chin out in a genuinely intimidating gesture, while Namjoon keeps shrinking backwards.
“You’re going to explain to me what right you think you have to talk about me like that, while I’m out there fucking breaking my back trying to make a living as an artist, while you’re down here playing your little tough-boy game? Lil meow meow?? You think that’s cute? you think that’s fucking funny??”
Yoongi is literally, physically, backing Namjoon into a corner while he talks, each word delivered with more venom than the last. Namjoon doesn’t stand a chance at getting a word in.
“Yoongi please I didn’t—”
“You didn’t WHAT?! ” He shoves Namjoon again, and his back hits the wall behind him. Namjoon realizes he’s backed all the way inside the gear closet — a little cubby on one end of the backstage area, shelves on both sides; storage space for mic stands and extra keyboard stands, some instruments and gear left behind by performers to be picked up later, masking tape, sharpies — things like that.
”You perhaps didn’t think through how absolutely dumb-as-fuck and juvenile the stage name Rap Monster sounds, before you decided to start calling yourself that, huh? Before you started critting other people's stage names, unsolicited? You didn’t think about how not all of us can just go swing by mommy and daddy’s house in Ilsan if we’re ever low on cash? Didn’t think that maybe taking a Kanye West track and rapping over it in the exact same way Kanye did, except, like, worse, that maybe that wasn’t the most brilliant, groundbreaking creative thought you ever had? That just “not dancing” doesn’t exactly put you above anyone else now, does it?”
Namjoon’s pretty sure that he’s never wanted the ground to swallow him up as hard as he does right this second. His brain can’t even attempt to form a coherent sentence anymore. He doesn’t know where to begin, he already ruined it — making excuses would just make it worse at this point, and he doesn’t get a chance anyway because Yoongi’s on a roll, he just keeps going—
“Like, EXCUSE the fuck out of me for wanting to get paid for my work and not just wanting to perform in some shitty club for a few drink tickets and street cred. EXCUSE ME for wanting to step outside my comfort zone and take a chance that might allow me a bigger platform to connect to people through. I'M SORRY that one ramen cup per day wasn’t really cutting it for me anymore, and that I took the only opportunity offered to me for a better and more meaningful life. I’m so sorry that that’s not cool enough for you and your pissboy friends, in your stinky hole in the wall, where your piss-poor attitude will ensure that everyone will forget about you as soon as you stop being trendy.”
Yoongi effectively drives each of his carefully constructed points home by pounding his fist on the wall right next to Namjoon's head.
He’s literally going to beat me up, Namjoon thinks. Yoongi may be a small dude, but — looking at his clenched fists, relatively big and decorated with a number of solid looking rings, Namjoon determines that Yoongi could definitely throw a very painful, very serious punch. And Namjoon couldn’t fight anyone, even if his life depended on it.
Something about the thought of Yoongi punching him in the face goes straight to Namjoon's treacherous dick, for some unfathomable god-awful reason. Yoongi’s right there, all up in his face, jaw and fists clenched, breathing hard, looking ready to murder, sweat beading on his forehead in the hot stuffy backstage. Namjoon tries to focus every single one of his brain cells on combating his boner. Please, he tries to channel telepathically down to his dick, please don’t do this to me. I’ve experienced more humiliation than I think I can bear today and I don’t think I can survive more.
Think Namjoon, think, just say something, anything—
“You never—!” Namjoon is all but hyperventilating now, “—you never texted me to hang out when you were free like you said you would!”
What the fuck Namjoon.
“Wha— I fucking what?!” Yoongi replies, look of bewilderment prominent on his face. He takes a step back, eyes still on Namjoon’s face, then traveling down him and up again, except, except, they seem to stutter to a stop somewhere dangerously close to Namjoon’s crotch, which, by an unfortunate fashion choice, is clad in jeans that are somewhat on the tighter side.
Namjoon watches as Yoongi’s eyes go wide, as realization dawns on him.
This is how I die. Namjoon thinks.
He’s going to kill me now and no one will hear me scream because Zico’s gotta be so fucking loud out there god damnit.
Yoongi points, literally points a finger at Namjoon’s skinny-jean-clad boner.
“You fucking—! You fucking hypocrite!! You’re a fucking—! Coward and a hypocrite!” Yoongi’s eyes are all but bulging out of his head.
All Namjoon can do in response is wince and nod pathetically.
But just as he’s getting ready to die, something unexpected happens. Yoongi’s eyes go ablaze, and all of a sudden it’s like Namjoon’s sweetest fantasy has been remixed right into the hell nightmare he’s currently experiencing.
Yoongi drops to his knees, looks at Namjoon’s boner head-on, looks up into Namjoon’s face, eyes still frantic, looks back at his crotch and starts undoing his belt faster than Namjoon thought a human could possibly undo this particular belt.
Yoongi freezes as soon as he touches the button on Namjoon’s jeans and looks back up at him.
“Do you want me to stop?” There’s no venom in his question, he just sounds like he genuinely really needs to know if Namjoon wants him to stop.
Namjoon’s dick doesn’t want him to stop. Namjoon’s brain, for some fucked up reason, really doesn’t want him to stop either. Well — a tiny part of his brain is yelling out, from way in the back somewhere, that this is weird, and probably a bad idea, and that he’s probably about to get his dick cut off — but that fear is miraculously in no way discouraging his boner. The rest of his brain thinks he probably deserves to get his dick cut off anyway, and it squashes down the small protesting part in pure desperation for the possibility of Yoongi’s perfect mouth getting closer to his dick.
He realizes he’s just staring dumbly down at Yoongi who is waiting for a response, visibly getting more agitated (is that even possible?)
Namjoon shakes his head vigorously.
“So — you don't want me to stop? You want me to do the opposite of stopping? You want this??”
Namjoon nods his head with an enthusiasm that is entirely uncharacteristic of the type of exchange that’s been going down so far.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Yoongi mutters to himself as he gets back to undoing Namjoon’s fly with immense efficiency, before pulling his jeans and underwear down in one hard, slightly violent tug.
Namjoon slumps back as his dick springs free and bounces against his tummy, his palms splayed on the wall behind him. He’s barely able to breathe in anticipation; he just focuses on holding himself upright against the wall. Yoongi is right there, on his knees, staring Namjoon’s dick straight in the eye with an unreadable intensity, lips slightly parted.
It’s not small, especially not in this particular moment. Head purple-pink and a fat vein running up the side of it.
Then, suddenly, Yoongi breaks out of his daze, wraps his right hand firmly around the base of Namjoon’s cock, shoves the rest of it into his mouth and sucks hard .
“Oh gOD,” Namjoon half whimpers, half moans.
Yoongi keeps sucking with fervor, eyes pointed straight up to Namjoon’s face, brow furrowed in determination.
“Oh my god. Holy shit,” Namjoon exclaims. Great, I’m gonna come in like 3 seconds and Yoongi’s gonna think that not only am I an asshole; I’m an asshole with no stamina. Welp. Might as well add that to the mountain of humiliation this evening’s had to offer me.
His brain reminds him that there’s still a small chance that Yoongi might be planning to bite his dick off. Well, he thinks, if this is how I die, at least it felt really fucking incredible, and the terrifying and beautiful little goblin currently inhaling my dick will be the last thing I see on this earth. What the fuck.
Yoongi suddenly lets up on the sucking to catch his breath, eyes still fierce on Namjoon. After a couple of deep breaths he puts his mouth back on the tip, now covered with saliva and precum, then trails his tongue along the underside and all around it.
“Oh my fuck Yoongi holy hell. That feels ah–amazing.”
Yoongi pops off the head with a loud smack and deadpans up at him—
“who’s gay now,”
—before shoving the entire dick in his mouth and down the back of his throat, as if he’s above the concept of a gag reflex.
“OhH fuuUuuuh—“ Namjoon’s breath is getting erratic, but he still manages to pant out a quiet “—well, technically, both of us are…”
Yoongi pulls the dick out of his mouth again, looking incredibly offended.
“Kim Namjoon, unless you’re telling me to stop, you better shut the fuck up — or else I’ll personally toss your pantsless ass out on that stage and announce into the mic that I found you back here jerking it to yaoi when you should’ve been out there supporting your friend."
Namjoon fearfully presses his lips together as Yoongi gets back to sucking hard and fast, obviously going for the kill now, but it seems like he changes his mind and pops back off after a few seconds, muttering to himself;
“Fucking big idiot, thinks he can be all sweet to me and then talk shit behind my back.”
He gets back to sucking, but takes a break soon again, looking up at Namjoon, “what are you gonna do if your baby-thug, tough-boy, try-hard friends come back here and see you like this huh? Literally anyone could walk in here. Are you gonna explain to them that you just pretend to be a homophobe to try to cover up the fact that you’re so gay that your dick got hard just from me breathing on you?”
Namjoon’s voice shakes, “I—I don’t—“ —his dick twitches and Yoongi cocks a brow at it and gets back to sucking.
He takes another break, still using his hand to jerk Namjoon off, shakes his head and mutters to himself “legs up to his armpits, tibetan-sand-fox-looking motherfucker, acting like he’s better than me…”
Namjoon just shakes his head weakly and clasps a hand over his own mouth to try to quiet his moans as Yoongi goes back to sucking, pressing his tongue hard against the underside of Namjoon’s dick and trailing it around the head like some sort of fucking tongue gymnast. Then he’s in for the home stretch, using every trick in the book, pace relentless.
“Oh fuck, Yoongi oh fuh I'm gonnacum I'm gon-”
Yoongi pulls back but keeps his perfect pink lips wrapped tight around the head, while Namjoon goes rigid and wide eyed and pumps load after load into his mouth, his fingers doing their best to dig into the wall behind him, a long high-pitched whine escaping his lungs.
When he finishes, Namjoon finally loses the ability to keep himself upright and slides down the wall and onto the floor, panting.
Yoongi looks at him, expression dark, mouth full of cum. Then he looks around the room briefly before going to pick up a small trash bin that’s sitting right outside the gear closet. Then he makes a show of spitting every last drop of Namjoon’s jizz right into the trash while looking Namjoon straight in the eye.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, takes a step toward Namjoon and wipes his hand on the the front of Namjoon’s shirt while giving him a scathing look. He takes a step back while tugging the hem of his oversized hoodie carefully down, looks a bit like he’s about to say something, but changes his mind. He turns on his heel and stomps out, leaving Namjoon dumbfounded on the floor, sweaty with his pants around his knees.