it had started off as a joke. well. probably.
crack!smut. basically. written as a request on tumblr for the prompt v gets a sugar daddy. i know it cuts off really awkwardly lmao sorry. a part two seems possible in the future.
It had started off as a joke.
“I am a poor, lonely, broke college student, who cannot afford to feed himself on a daily basis,” Taehyung had declared, rather despondently, over his third meal of instant noodles and fifty-cent packet milk that same week, sitting cross-legged on the floor in his and Jimin’s shared room.
Jimin had laughed at him, nearly snorting a strand of noodle up his nose. “Go find yourself a sugar daddy then,” he’d said teasingly, “or a sugar mommy, if you’re into that. What do they call those? Cougars, right? Go hang around rich people places. Maybe you’ll strike some gold.”
He hadn’t actually been serious.
“I wasn’t actually being serious!” says Jimin, eyes wide, staring at the plain cream-coloured business card Taehyung held up casually between the tips of two fingers. “I didn’t actually mean go out and find a sugar daddy—oh my god.” He snatches the card and scans it. “Jesus Christ—Taehyung, this is the CEO of some company, how the fuck—”
“I spilt his coffee onto his shirt,” says Taehyung simply. “It had been a nice shirt. I offered to lick the coffee off. He gave me his card.”
Jimin flaps his arms around uselessly, making loud, unnecessary sounds.
Taehyung wonders if Jimin is mocking his efforts. It had been a very hot coffee, and it had been a very painful experience, judging by the number of expletives that had been uttered per second, on impact.
“But how,” splutters Jimin again, and Taehyung hushes him. Story time.
It had played out a little something like this.
To be fair, Taehyung isn’t doing this on purpose. Hanging out near rich people places. It’s just that he’d missed his bus, having been thoroughly distracted by the cute Corgi puppy that had been flopping around in the window of the pet store near the bus stop, and he really hadn’t felt like waiting around aimlessly for the next one to arrive.
So, Taehyung had simply walked up one block, to the area where people tote around expensive bags and wear expensive sunglasses and strut around past expensive shops where one piece of clothing could cost Taehyung’s entire measly college fund.
Taehyung stands around for a few minutes, before deciding it’s hopeless, and that he should never consider anything that Jimin says to be advice at all, joke or not. How would he even do this in the first place? Go up to the first person he sees, tap them on the shoulder, and say, ‘hey, I’m broke, got any money to spare? I can repay you in sexual favours three times a week.’
(“Please don’t tell me you actually said that,” pleads Jimin.
“Uh,” says Taehyung.)
Not a very smart idea, he surmises eventually.
He’s turning to leave, when he bumps into someone, and there’s a loud cry of, “Jesus fucking hell,” followed by a few more expletives Taehyung doesn’t think should be blessed unto anyone’s ears, and a splash that almost sounds like a sizzle against the sun-scorched pavement.
“Oops,” says Taehyung, and then his mind catches up with his mouth, “fuck, shit, I’m really sorry, shit, shit, shit, I’m so sorry—”
“I have a meeting in an hour,” says the man, whom Taehyung had just walked into. His face is scrunched up into a disgruntled expression as he wipes at the front of his shirt with his tie, to no avail. “Watch where you’re going, kid.”
“Sorry,” says Taehyung, “I could offer to lick it off, if that makes you feel any better.”
The man pauses, and glances at him from behind shades that are too big for his face. Probably one of those pretentious as fuck, hipster old men. And he chuckles. Not even laughs—he chuckles. What a grandpa. “Thanks, but you’re a bit too young for me. Even if you do look my type.”
And in that moment, Taehyung swears, they were infinite.
(And no, Taehyung hasn’t been stealing Hoseok’s novels from his bookshelf when he isn’t looking. Nope. Not at all. Nobody is allowed to tell him—about the novels he is not stealing.
And no, Taehyung isn’t abusing famous quotes from novels he isn’t stealing for situations that aren’t even relevant.
“I’m going to tell him,” says Jimin, interrupting Taehyung’s story, and Taehyung pauses to reach over and strangle Jimin before their neighbours can call the campus police.)
“Well, that depends on what you consider young in the first place.” Taehyung watches the man blink at him. “Hi. I’m Kim Taehyung. I am a poor, lonely, broke college student who cannot afford to feed himself on a daily basis.”
“Hello, Kim Taehyung,” says the man slowly, “is this going where I think this is going?”
“If you mean whether I’m propositioning you, then yes, I probably am,” says Taehyung, and he smiles cheerfully. “Can you feed me on a daily basis? I can repay you in sexual favours three times a week.”
The man nearly chokes, glancing around. “We’re in public.”
“Sorry,” says Taehyung. He’s not actually sorry, in case anyone was wondering. “I’m just desperate and constantly hungry. I’m literally always hungry. All the time. I can’t live on a single bowl of ramyun every single day. It’d be an utter tragedy. Also, you’re probably really hot without the sunglasses.”
“What do you mean without the sunglasses,” says the man indignantly, but his cheeks tinge a pretty red. He probably doesn’t tan often, judging by how pale he is. Actual sugar daddy. Ba-dum-tss. Get it? Because sugar is white—and this guy... is really... pale—haha, it’s totally funny. Taehyung is so funny.
(“You’re really not,” says Jimin.)
But he digresses. Dude’s probably going to burn if they stand under the sun any longer.
Taehyung should hurry this transaction along. “So, what do you say? This is probably really weird, and well, I don’t know, maybe you get this every week, or once a year, or maybe this is the first time someone is asking you to be their sugar daddy, but hey, you know, you only live once and all that shit, so—”
“Here. Just. Take it.” Taehyung glances up, and the man is holding out his business card, looking suitably flustered. Taehyung takes it with wonder in his eyes. It had actually worked. “Call me, I guess. Christ, this is crazy. I’m going to regret this.”
“Probably,” says Taehyung, and the man just snorts. “Goodbye, stranger.”
“Goodbye, Kim Taehyung,” he says, and he walks off, muttering to himself, and still bemoaning his shirt, and his meeting that he is now late to.
Taehyung walks back to the bus-stop, smiling to himself. He manages to scare three children and an old lady on the way back home, with the sheer force of his grin.
And it’s at that point in the story where he bursts through the door, and sings, “I found a sugar daddy,” and Jimin shrieks at him, and Taehyung shushes him and sits him down for story time, and once upon a time it went like this, and—
“Okay, okay!” Jimin covers Taehyung’s mouth with his hand. “Geez, I get it, I get it.” He stares at the card again, now lying on the floor. It seems to stare up at them, looming, teeming. The number scrawled across the bottom of the card seems to glare at Taehyung, much like the man whom it had belonged to. “Are you gonna call?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking you.”
“But it’s your sugar daddy.”
“It was your idea in the first place.”
“But you were the one who went out to find one.”
“It had been an accident.”
There’s a pause.
“So, should I?”
Jimin shoves Taehyung’s phone into Taehyung’s face, and picks up the card to press it against his cheek. “Just fucking call!”
“Okay,” says Taehyung, face smushed against the phone and the card. “I’ll call.”
And he does. He sits on the edge of his bed and chews on the edge of the name card as the phone goes through several rounds of dial tones, before someone finally picks up. “Hello?” The voice is gravelly, scratchy, and low. Something in Taehyung’s gut stirs a little. “Who is this?”
“Min Yoongi?” asks Taehyung, shifting his phone over to his other ear, “this is Kim Taehyung. Hello, again.”
“Oh. Hello, Taehyung.” There’s a soft rustle in the background. It sounds like bedsheets. Taehyung wonders if he’d been sleeping. It’s only ten at night. Actual grandpa status confirmed. “I didn’t think you’d actually call.”
“I am known for my tremendous courage and intrepid personality,” says Taehyung, “I took an online quiz. I’m probably a Gryffindor. Also, I’m still poor, and broke. Those two sound like the same thing, but I’m just using them to emphasise how poor and broke I am. I’m really poor. And broke.”
“Of course,” comes the voice wearily, from the other end, “of course. So, uhm. How do we go about doing this, again?”
Taehyung beams at his phone, and shoots a thumbs-up at Jimin, who has been watching Taehyung converse on the phone with a horrified expression on his face. What? Taehyung always speaks like this. Jimin shouldn’t even be surprised anymore. They’ve known each other for years, now.
“I didn’t really think about it either,” admits Taehyung, “but hey, I guess I could just come over and do whatever you want me to do in exchange for three meals a day. I’ve been told that I have a very nice mouth. It would probably look very nice on some parts of your body too, I think.”
There’s a spluttering sound from two places—the other end of the phone, and Jimin, who looks like he’s contemplating throwing himself out the window, or leaving the room entirely. He chooses the latter, thankfully, muttering something about going to visit Hoseok where things are much safer. Good for him. Taehyung doesn’t think the cleaners would have appreciated option one.
“I just realised I don’t actually know how old you are,” comes Min Yoongi’s voice, after they’ve talked a bit about time and place, “please don’t tell me you’re in highschool.”
“I’m not,” says Taehyung, flopping back onto his bed. “I’m in college. I’m nineteen.”
“Oh. That’s... not too bad.” Taehyung can hear a quietly exhaled, ‘fucking hell, that’s young,’ on the other end. “I’m thirty-three.”
“Woah,” says Taehyung, and he makes a surprised noise. “I thought you were at least fifty.”
Yoongi chokes on his words again. He seems to do that a lot. Or maybe it’s just Taehyung. He tends to have that effect on people. That’s why nobody ever offers to take him out for lunch. You know, life-threatening situations, and all that jazz.
“Okay, okay,” says Yoongi, eventually, “I’ll see you, then.”
“Okay,” says Taehyung, “oh, yeah, one more thing. Should I call you daddy or something, or is just Yoongi fine? You know, because of the title. Or is sugar daddy more appropriate? Sugar Daddy Yoongi, first letters capitalised.”
“Oh my god,” says Yoongi, “no, stick to hyung, hyung is perfectly fine.”
“Okay, daddy,” says Taehyung, and Yoongi makes a strangled noise. “I’m just kidding. Bye, Yoongi. See you on Sunday.”
He chucks his phone aside, and wonders about the ramifications of what he’s just done.
He can’t really think of any. Psh, what ramifications? Things like these only turn out good on all sides. Totally. He guesses. It’s not like he would know from previous experience, anyway.
Yoongi has a rather modest place, for a rich, old man.
“Nice,” says Taehyung, on walking into the condo. Yoongi is probably loaded, could probably buy a bungalow with all of that CEO money of his, but he’s probably made a good choice in estate, considering how the value of the area will skyrocket within the next four years. Taehyung doesn’t major in economics for nothing. He’s actually a pretty smart guy, contrary to what Jimin likes to tell everyone.
The whole toilet and peanut butter incident will still and forevermore fall solely on Jimin’s shoulders. Taehyung will accept none of the blame for it.
(“We have you on tape,” says Hoseok.
“Innocent until proven guilty!” says Taehyung, stuffing his fingers into his ears. “Being caught on camera does not prove me guilty!”
“I study law for a reason,” says Hoseok dryly.
“Can’t hear you, not sorry,” says Taehyung. )
Yoongi seems pleased. “Right? Everyone always says it’s too simple. I say, spend on the things that really matter.”
“Like what?” asks Taehyung.
“Music,” says Yoongi, and Taehyung’s interest is immediately piqued. “And before you go off spouting anymore of your middle-aged-man theories, I do not listen to only seventies and eighties music.”
“I probably have better taste than you do.” Yoongi scrunches up his nose. Taehyung thinks it’s immeasurably adorable. “You and your generation’s Justin Bieber and Super Junior and EXO and IU—”
“And how do you know those names?” says Taehyung casually.
Yoongi pauses. “Touche.”
A few moments of awkward introductions to the house pass, before Taehyung asks, “So, we gonna get down to business, or what?”
Yoongi chokes. “Yeah. I guess. If you. Want.”
“Oh,” says Taehyung, “I definitely want.”
“Well, then,” says Yoongi, taking a stride forward, “I guess you could start by kissing me, then.”
And that’s exactly what Taehyung’s here for. Well. In a sense. He’s here for the sex and the money, he supposes. Doesn't really matter which he gets in what order.
Taehyung takes the remainder of the steps between them immediately, slides his arms around Yoongi’s neck, and kisses him, mouth hot and wet and seeking. Yoongi kisses back, fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of Taehyung’s neck, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. Taehyung has to admit, Yoongi knows how to kiss. God, does he know how.
It’s the leisurely licks into Taehyung’s mouth, the barest use of teeth and the soft sounds that come from the back of his throat, that make Taehyung’s spine tingle and his palms ache for more. He kisses back eagerly when Yoongi deepens the kiss, tugging him backwards, stumbling them both against the sofa in the living room.
Taehyung presses Yoongi against the couch cushions, sucks Yoongi’s lower lip into his mouth, and rolls his hips up against Yoongi’s. “You’re really hot,” exhales Taehyung, “I really like your mouth.”
“Thanks,” says Yoongi nonchalantly, despite the way his breath is coming out in quick pants, “you’re doing pretty well yourself, there.”
Taehyung reattaches their mouths together, kissing more fervently even as his hips seek the friction they’ve been missing for some time now, induced by the way Yoongi keeps pulling away to kiss down his jaw, his neck, the base of his throat. Good, quick, delicious friction. Taehyung likes this very much.
“So,” says Taehyung, in between breaths and kisses and little hiccupy groans, “can I suck you off, now?”
“Fuck,” says Yoongi, eyes half-lidded, “right now? Really?”
“No, in five years time.” Taehyung snorts, and sits back on Yoongi’s thighs to pull at the buckle of his belt, to unbutton his jeans, to pull down the zipper with a satisfying sound. “But in all honestly, I don’t think boners last that long.”
Taehyung slides to his knees, and Yoongi immediately chokes out a groan, because where Taehyung lacks in finesse he makes up for in enthusiasm, and god, does he have a lot of it. Everyone always complains that he’s too enthusiastic. Everyone except the people he sleeps with.
Yoongi’s cock is hot and heavy against his tongue, and Taehyung likes this, like the power he has with every lick and every little suck and every little tease of his lips against the head of Yoongi’s cock. Yoongi is making all these nice sounds, fingers slipping into Taehyung’s hair to curl tight, and Taehyung decides he likes those too.
Blowjobs are fun, thinks Taehyung, watching Yoongi’s face from beneath his eyelashes. There’s always this element of control on both ends, and Taehyung will utilise all of it to the fullest. He takes Yoongi in as deep as he can, cheeks hollowing, tongue still curling around the cock in his mouth, and Yoongi’s head rolls back against the cushions, exhaling sharply.
His reactions are great. Taehyung likes Yoongi’s reactions. Taehyung likes the way Yoongi responds to him sucking his cock, by twisting his fingers harder into Taehyung’s hair, by making these little sounds that echo through the empty room. Taehyung likes the way Yoongi looks flushed already, pale skin marked with a smothering of red. He can’t wait to see how he looks when they actually get to the good stuff.
“Close,” breathes Yoongi, and Taehyung just keeps his mouth on Yoongi’s cock, glancing up to meet Yoongi’s eyes, and Yoongi mutters, “fucking hell, are you going to—”
Taehyung does something with his tongue that makes Yoongi choke back whatever he’d been just about to say, and Yoongi comes in Taehyung’s mouth, fingers curled so hard into Taehyung’s hair that Taehyung almost comes in his own pants, because hell, if there’s one thing that Taehyung loves, it’s the pain that comes with someone tugging on his hair, it’s the way it implies that he’s theirs, it’s the way his head is forced into being pulled up, and he loves it.
“Jesus,” says Yoongi, catching his breath, “you were right. About you having a good mouth.”
“I know,” says Taehyung, voice hoarse and raw, but the grin on his face is easy. “I don’t make empty promises.”
“Good, then,” says Yoongi. “Because I’m looking forward to seeing what else that mouth can do.”
“Lots of things,” says Taehyung immediately, “talk, sing, eat, give head, tie cherry knots, whistle—”
“No, not—” Yoongi sighs. “Never mind. Let’s just. Carry on.”
“Okay,” says Taehyung, and he smiles cheerfully. So far, so good. This is turning out to be a mastermind of a plan. Even as Yoongi is tugging him back up to kiss him again, Taehyung wonders if this will continue to work out as well as he thinks it will.
It should. Probably. He did some research. Made a graph. Asked Jimin to check it over. Jimin said it would probably work out. According to the numbers. Jimin’s good at math. Sometimes.