UNIVERSE / BTS.

90: so you're a tough guy / namgi

SO YOU'RE A
TOUGH GUY

WORD COUNT 3.1k
OVERVIEW namjoon's a punk, yoongi's a rich boy
PLAYLIST bad guy / billie eilish, tough guy / cyberbully mom club, feels like summer / childish gambino.
NOTES honestly im not fucking sure what the heck this is??? so y'all can just.... take it.... last oneshot yall

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     IN THE SUMMER OF '97, min yoongi finds himself sat beneath a peach tree, smoking a cigarette with a notebook in his lap, handwriting barely legible to anyone else's eyes. his parents' private property is large, probably around the size of half a football field, and little rich boy knows all the hideaways, to get away from mommy and daddy's prying eyes.

the tree showers him with dappled sunlight, breaking through the leaves and pouring down upon his milky skin. the heat is hazy, air filled with heavy pollen and the smell of soil. sweat pools in the crevices of yoongi's bones, dripping down his forehead and his back, but he doesn't mind, his eyes staring unfocused into the air. his scribbled poetry is abandoned, his mind dancing with careless thoughts.

he can see the road from here, the tree close to the borders of the property but far away enough that his parents can't see him smoking. stubbing out the cigarette, yoongi keeps his eyes on the hunt for a sleek black harley davidson, squinting through his heart shaped glasses for the bike and its delectable owner, usually clad in his rhinestone studded jacket and sinfully tight blue jeans, yoongi's very own patrick swayze in dirty dancing ( and maybe yoongi's baby, the sweet shy flustered darling under the enthrallment of the bad boy dancer—yeah, that sounds about right ).

the sweet taste of wild strawberries lingers on the pink tongue that darts out to wet his lips, and yoongi wonders momentarily, stupidly, whether he should go back to the house and steal his sister's flavored chapstick, strawberry shortcake tinged in #73 valentine's pink, whether he should run it over his lips only for namjoon to lick it off—why does he think these things, as if lover boy gives a shit what his lips taste like? oh, but yoongi's a romantic, a poor besotted cupid boy.

he hums a song by the cure, his fingers running through the soft grass underneath his body, and he pushes himself up to his feet, his eyes catching on a plump, ripe peach dangling just above his reach. yoongi stands on the tips of his battered white converse, fingers stretching, jumping to catch it. his fingers wrap around the supple flesh, and he grins, pulling the juicy fruit from the tree's grasp.

peaches in summer are his favourite fruits. the nectar dribbles down his lips and chin and it's sticky and golden and bursting with flavour on his tongue, the gorgeously sweet and soft flesh exploding between his pearly whites. fuck strawberry shortcake chapstick, yoongi thinks, this is a much better thing for namjoon to taste.

his walkman and headphones have been abandoned on the grass for around half an hour, but he now snatches them up with his sticky fingers, fumbling with the tape to rewind it to the first song, i want love, elton john flooding his mind with a kind of tender emotion he rarely felt.

yoongi's life has been coveted, caged up within the lavish walls of his parents' mansion, kept away from normal kids. private school, charity galas, velvet suits and expensive food, kids with trust funds that would pay for a normal child's college, champagne in crystalline glasses and silk bedsheets—at seventeen, yoongi's grown tired of the bourgeoisie lifestyle. he knows he's privileged, knows people would fight over the fortunes his life houses, but he doesn't want it. he hasn't earned this, hasn't done anything to merit this fortune; he was simply born into lavishness and luxury, forced into a life where he doesn't belong. thus, the rebellion most teenagers enjoy ensued.