Work Text:
yoongi doesn’t even know what he’s working on when the studio door slams open, and the old instinct to jump and switch tabs to an empty naver search knocks around in his brain before hitting the brick wall of fatigue and dying. he can’t even turn his head, because if he moves the brittle calm he wears will crack.
“hyung!” jimin, demanding, busan accent lining his anger like the leather jacket he stole from hobi.
“what, jimin,” says yoongi, too tired for gentleness.
footsteps, and then claws hook into the padded arm of his chair and tear at the worn cushioning as yoongi’s turned to face his dongsaeng. jimin’s face is coldly neutral, his tail lashing behind him. “did you snap at tae?”
did he? time blurs all the lines of days weeks months together. “probably.”
this is evidently the wrong answer. the bitterness in jimin’s scent spikes, and park jimin has always had a temper but the intent behind it here jolts yoongi. “don’t you even care, hyung? he’s upset, i had to talk to him forever until he told me. why would you fucking do that?”
stupid question. because he’s tired, because none of the tracks he’s working on are cooperating, because his stupid shoulder is aching again and they don’t have time for another cortisone shot for another week because of schedules. “i don’t know, park jimin, he was probably being annoying. i’ll apologize to him later, alright? now can you leave, i have shit to do.”
he tries to turn the chair back towards the monitors, but then jimin hisses, close and angry and unsheathed. yoongi flinches, jolting his bad shoulder, and lets out a hiss of his own. jimin’s ears flick back, and for half a heartbeat yoongi thinks he might swipe, but then he pauses, eyes narrowing in thought, and somehow that’s worse.
“did you do your physical therapy today?”
yoongi stares past him at one of their posters, one that namjoon had put up with his stupid long limbs, but he gets about three seconds of that before jimin gets in his face, and yoongi has to drop his gaze or make eye contact.
“i did yesterday, you saw me.”
“that was tuesday.”
it was. yoongi remembers enough about time to know that. “whatever, i’ll do it at home.”
“no, you won’t.” this close, yoongi can see the texture of jimin’s skin, a faint freckle here, acne scars there, the shine of the emergency exit sign on his spit-slick lower lip. “you’re not gonna, and you’re gonna hurt, and be in a shitty mood, and take it out on us.”
it’s only that he’d be proving park jimin right that keeps yoongi from slashing out. “fine, i’m a dick. anything else, or can i go back to doing my job?”
“no. you need to do your physical therapy, hyung. please.”
it’s the drop in jimin’s voice, something in his tone opening up, inviting yoongi in, asking him to come in, to listen to jimin even though they both know his stubbornness can outlast park jimin’s goodwill, that finally drags yoongi’s eyes back to his. his pupils are blown from the lack of light in the room, and something deep in the pit of yoongi’s shitty broken body churns up, reaching for a moment to meet him.
“alright,” says yoongi, and jimin’s shoulders drop and his feathery tail sways up to curl sweetly at the tip. he steps back so that yoongi can stand up, but still in his space enough that when yoongi stands sideways to his desk, one arm propping himself up while the other dangles freely, he can still feel the heat from his body. yoongi looks straight down and begins gentle pendulum swings, but jimin stays. yoongi rolls his eyes - he said he’ll do it, he’s gonna fuckin’ do it - but doesn’t tell him to get out. if park jimin wants to stand there and stare at yoongi as he does his stupid old man exercises instead of scraping out a few more minutes of sleep, then that’s his choice.
yoongi moves on to a crossover arm stretch, and - okay, yeah, he needs to be doing this more. it pulls at the nail stress-driven into his shoulder, and every second of the stretch pulls it out millimeter by millimeter.
a soft touch, more warmth than actual pressure from fingertips, over his shoulder. “it’s here, hyung?”
yoongi grunts in affirmation, and jimin splays his hand flat over it. it must be something about being tiny, yoongi thinks as the heat of his palm bleeds down into the muscle. that and being supernova-dense with muscle. obviously there has to be another variable, since yoongi’s giant hands are always cold. more surface area to lose heat maybe, like how desert foxes have giant ears -
“ holy shit fuck shit christ - “
the pressure immediately leaves, and yoongi inhales raggedly as the muscle in his shoulder pulses. “sorry, hyung, that was too much - “
“no, no, it was good, come back,” yoongi babbles.
jimin hesitates, and yoongi begins to make peace with the fact that he hit the tipping point of being too weird even for jimin, but then the pressure returns, releasing the muscle hot and cold. yoongi tries and fails not to shudder. after a while, jimin starts up a kneading motion, and the relief is so sweet yoongi almost moans.
“are you falling asleep, hyung?”
yoongi’s eyes snap open. “nah.” he straightens up, jimin’s hand falling from his shoulder.
“don’t laugh,” he warns, then crouches down to the floor with a grunt. god, it’s nasty with crumbs and dust and other things yoongi won’t think about, but if he’s gonna do his stupid stretches then he’s gonna do them, so shrugs off his hoodie to rest his face on and lies flat on his stomach. it feels ridiculous, especially with jimin still (still! go home, park jimin) standing over his prone body, but if he wants yoongi to do his physical therapy then that’s what he’s gonna get. besides, he’s a dancer, he sees weirder shit than this all the time. yoongi has no reason to feel self-conscious, even if his ears are flat against his head and his tail can’t decide if it wants to lift straight up or tuck between his legs.
he takes a breath, and slowly draws his shoulder blades together. immediately the nail punches back in, although dulled now. yoongi forces them back, then half-relaxes like the physio told him to, breathing heavily through his nose. after a few seconds, he relaxes, then starts up again.
“you’re tensing your neck,” jimin murmurs, and none of his joints crack as he crouches down, smooth and functional , and yoongi has a half second to think up a retort before park jimin’s hand is on his neck.
“ fuck - “
“don’t. tense.”
jimin’s fingers pinch and roll the muscle or tendons or whatever is doing the wrong thing at the base of his skull, and just like that snips the threads of tension holding yoongi together. a mortifying noise escapes from his throat, and jimin doesn’t even reprimand him for stopping the exercise. just pauses, finger-deep in yoongi’s muscle and instinct, then continues, massaging too deep into his scruff for yoongi to even protest.
“that’s it, hyung,” jimin encourages, like they’re stretching in practice and yoongi isn’t melted into the gross floor with creeping heat licking in his belly, “see how it’s relaxed? doesn’t it feel better? you bend your head forward a lot, so there’s tension there too…”
yoongi refuses to give jimin the satisfaction of telling him that he’s right, but he definitely knows already from the way yoongi hasn’t thrown him off yet, even limp and with his back to him, jimin’s hands in his scruff like yoongi’s a kitten that needs to be disciplined -
the heat swoops lower, and yoongi freezes, because - there is no way he’s getting hard on their disgusting studio floor. doesn’t his stupid body have better things to do? that blood could be going to his shoulder instead, doing its job and healing his crunched up bones, or even going back into his brain so he can think straight again through the radio static fuzzing through his neurons.
“hyung. you’re tensing again.” sharp points punctuate into his skin, and a moment later the weight of a cannonball-dense dongsaeng plops onto his ass, pressing his groin harder into the floor. a retort jumps to his tongue, but a heartbeat later jimin pinches his neck with one hand and kneads over his shoulder with the other, and it dies before yoongi even knew what it would be.
jimin digs his fingers (claws sheathed again, for now) into the spooled tension tucked away for safekeeping in the hidden, neglected corners of yoongi’s body, unwinding and reweaving like yoongi is easy , like the heat in his belly hasn’t licked out to consume every cell to his fingertips.
yoongi becomes aware that jimin is purring in the same moment he realizes how hard he’s breathing, shaky and humid against his sweatshirt. he can barely hear himself, though, over the sound of jimin’s satisfaction. it’s impossible to miss, how his purr seems to come from his whole body, vibrating down into yoongi and melting him further into pliancy for jimin to do whatever he wants with.
“does it feel nice, hyung?”
stupid question. yoongi tells him so, lips slurring against the fabric of his sweatshirt, and gets a sharper press in return.
“obviously,” yoongi gives him, because he can play the stubborn asshole as long as he wants, but that will always fall short of the need to give jimin whatever he wants. “it’s helping a lot.”
that’s the answer jimin is looking for, because his purr volume spikes, and then it’s right next to yoongi’s ear, and then warm wet smoothes over it, and yoongi can’t suppress it anymore. his own purr crawls up his throat as jimin grooms him, quiet and creaky with disuse but sliding under jimin’s neatly as a harmony. jimin takes it as the encouragement it is, grooming one ear and then the other. pleased.
yoongi is fully hard now, his dick an uncomfortable bulge between his thigh and the floor, but it’s harder to care with jimin’s tongue laving over him. he moves to the back of yoongi’s neck, soothing where he was kneading and clawing earlier, and the throbbing remnants of pain in yoongi’s shoulder is a distant thing now, a pulsing star on a warm night.
when jimin lets up, yoongi’s eyes have long since slipped shut. his skin tingles where jimin had been massaging, so much that he doesn’t protest when jimin sits up.
“hobi-hyung is calling me,” jimin murmurs. yoongi hears the vibration of his phone now that he’s stopped purring. “i gotta go.”
“then go,” yoongi mumbles, but there’s no edge to it with his mouth full of drool. ugh.
he still gets a nip to his ear for it. “you’re gonna come home tonight, hyung.”
yoongi swallows. gets his hands under him to push up a little, wondering at how much easier the movement became. “i will. i’ll talk to tae, promise.” he looks up at jimin, looks him in the eye. “thanks.”
jimin’s eyes curve into sweet crescent moons, and he brushes himself happily against yoongi’s chest. then he leaves as easily as he came, tail high and curled at the tip. yoongi doesn’t stay long either, just enough to throw in a new top-line on the track he’d been staring at uselessly for days. he vacuums the floor, too, until his body has settled back into itself. when he flicks off the light, the studio is a bit cleaner, the marrow in his bones a bit thicker.