“jimin,” yoongi tries to delicately slide out of jimin’s koala grasp wrapped around his body. “do you mind? it’s really hot.”

and really, it is.

sweltering.

humid.

sticky.

gross.

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it’s not that yoongi has anything against being woken up to the body tingling sensation of having his dick blown so early in the morning.

quite the opposite, actually. he’s a young, normally functioning male with a healthy appetite for sex. so really, he has no issues with having his cock sucked as means of a wake up call.

it definitely beats having hobeom hyung as an alarm clock, slapping every inch of yoongi’s skin until his entire body is red and thrumming.

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“baby,” jimin calls from across the table, staring down with rapt attention at his half eaten sandwich as if contemplating the deepest, most existential life questions in the world.

“mm, yeah,” yoongi murmurs, attention still focused on the composition he was supposed to have finished last night. but thanks to a certain boyfriend, he’d been thoroughly distracted from that task.

“what do you think came first? the egg? or the egg salad sandwich?”

“baby, please,” yoongi glances up briefly from his notebook to shoot jimin a pleading look. “not right now. this project is worth forty percent of my grade, and it’s due next period.”

only thirty-five more minutes left.

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even before jongin could stand on his own two feet, his mother had always said he had a talent with his hands.

child prodigy, she’d say.

“you’ll be a great pianist someday,” she would tell him, and anyone else who would listen. “just like your father.”

just like your father.

those are some pretty big shoes to fill.

especially if your father happens to be a world renown pianist who receives invitations from the queen of england to perform concerts at her private parties.

and has won countless awards, all proudly showcased in the room beside the front hall, covereing every inch of shelf and cabinet space from ceiling to floor.

so even at this very young age, jongin had learned the pressures of expectations, the stresses of upholding to the family name and carry on the legacy built up by his father, and his father’s father before him.

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yoongi would be lying if he said that it didn’t affect him at all how jimin had been prancing about all of thailand with an unnecessarily excess amount of skin showing. the little brat doesn’t seem to understand the concept of dress code etiquette and how to properly utilize clothing.

clothes are meant to cover, not use as means to enhance pretty clavicles and defined shoulder muscles.

clothes are meant to…

what was that again?

oh look, jimin is in the pool with no shirt on at all.

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a shudder tingles down through jimin’s spine as the heavy weight of someone’s burning gaze pierces through the back of his skull.

and even at this distance, through the thick fog of cloying cigar smoke clinging to the air and the passing heads obscuring his vision, jimin can see the wealth clearly rolling off of this man in waves.

everything from the perfectly tailored suit, unquestionably of foreign origins, all straight edges and crisp lines, to the proud, genteel stance in the tilt of his chin, a kind of poise only inherent to those born into money, this stranger currently boring lasers into jimin’s soul just screams riches and fortune.

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