Chapter Text
“Hyung—help.” Taehyung’s been drooling into Yoongi’s nape for the past hour, speaking slow, muffled words through his panting breaths.
Yoongi blinks helplessly at Seokjin, who is currently sprawled out on their common room sofa, shoving apple slices into his mouth with one hand while the other idly scrolls through his phone. Missing not-so-subtle cues. “Hyung,” Yoongi tries with his voice instead.
“Don’t look at me,” Seokjin says to his screen. His thumb flicks along it in a lazy rhythm. “He wants you, not me.” The television flickers through an action sequence, whatever Marvel movie Seokjin decided to put on pouring out over their bodies.
Taehyung pants, “Help me. Help me, please. Yoongi-hyung.” He has his arms coiled tight around Yoongi’s middle, his front pressed immovably to Yoongi’s back, curled over him and mouthing hot and wet into Yoongi’s skin where young hairs grow at the base of his neck. His natural scent is a little sweet—a tangy blend that almost feels sinewy between Yoongi’s teeth—while his scent right on the bend of his heat is richer, and it makes Yoongi’s tongue feel numb, prickly, his canines throbbing like he’d been chewing ice.
Their shared Hannam-dong penthouse suffers through… rearrangements everytime Taehyung is cycling. Unlike Yoongi, who hides away for a few days in wounded-cat fashion (and is promptly sniffed out by an eager, overactive Jimin), Taehyung needs to be near the pack during his heat. So, naturally, that means his nest has to be where there’s the most traffic: right in the middle of the common space, short-legged table shoved against a far wall, his and Yoongi’s blankets, dirty clothes, used towels and washcloths placed meticulously into a warm, fluffed oval. Naturally, that also means that his and Yoongi’s scents weave into one, thick, rich swirls layered on top of each other that Jimin once said reminds him of dark chocolate cupcakes topped with dark chocolate frosting. Sweet enough to make your canines throb.
“This kid has been having heats three times a year every year for the past six years and he still begs me to help him,” Yoongi hears his words slurring out into the whine he only does when he’s drunk on his own heat pheromones—or trying to be cute for his industry hyungs. “Why didn’t you remind me to go home before it hit.”
“Because he begs and whines for you whenever you do,” Seokjin retorts. His voice is muffled around a bite of honeydew apple, juice glistening on his lips. “I can’t take another cycle of him humping his pillows and going Yoongi-hyung, Yoongi-hyung, Yoongi, help, Yoongi-hyung, help me, Yoongi-hyu—”
“Alright,” Yoongi says. “I get it.”
It’s customary for Yoongi to help the pack omegas through their first heat. He’s the eldest one—the one that’s been an omega the longest, too—so when Namjoon and Hoseok presented, he’d guided them through their first, and then let them tend to themselves for every future one. That’s how that works. Once is more than enough for any omega to find their routine; survival instincts, Yoongi thinks.
Taehyung presented right after Hoseok. The theory is Hoseok’s pheromones set alight the dormant glands within Taehyung, considering they’d been with one another in the cramped, poorly-circulated dorm bathrooms when it happened. Hoseok, still anxious and uncertain of the rearrangement of his Person into Omega Person when he hadn’t yet deciphered Person, immediately handed Taehyung off to Yoongi, then Yoongi took over, allegedly, for that first cycle. It’d gone the same as it’s going now: Yoongi-hyung, help me, help me, please, said in rasps and wet, drooly whimpers, and Yoongi let that sinewy bite burst between his teeth and drip down his throat.
Omegas carry a specific allure to them that even Yoongi cannot avoid. A gumiho with limbs that seem to stretch several kilometres long, their natural, easy sensuality beckoning Yoongi forward. There was now-omega Kim Taehyung—damp between his legs, desperation tugging his eyes open wide, calling out for Yoongi as if he were being eviscerated alive and Yoongi’s omega dick, mouth and fingers were the only things that could save him. Yoongi had crawled into his nest and given him what he wanted. Taehyung still wants. Maybe it’s Yoongi that’s the gumiho.
Yoongi wants to be mad. Taehyung sits firmly in his blind spot, though, so the anger is left to ricochete inwards. Or—out towards the useless alpha lazing about on the sofa when there’s a crisis happening mere centimeters away.
“Okay, handsome,” Yoongi’s biting tone has leveled out under Taehyung’s warmth and scent. His drool is smeared on Yoongi’s nape, body heavy where it lies over Yoongi’s back. “Let’s get in your nest, okay? Can your hyung take you to the nest?”
Taehyung whimpers his affirmation, husk vibrating out from his chest and between the divots of Yoongi’s spine. “Made it for us,” he mumbles. “Put your towel in it. And your socks.”
“I see that,” Yoongi says. Every gulp of air invites more Taehyung Smell. He has no idea how Seokjin is just handling this, eating his stupid apple; Yoongi falls intoxicated every time. “Let’s get in.”
They manage to get in with Taehyung refusing to let go. Seokjin’s gaze flickers from his phone to the television to the nest as if it were another Thursday afternoon. “Lemme know if you need a knot,” he drawls. “A fleshy, human one and not from the dildo collection.”
Yoongi makes a quiet oof when Taehyung flattens onto his back, nose and mouth still firmly latched to his nape. “How helpful. We’d be desolate without your knot. Thank you, alpha.”
“I’ll remember that sarcasm next time you’re in heat. Omega.”
“That’s fine,” Yoongi says into a faceful of his own, gently-used towel, “Jiminie’s knot is bigger.”
“His cock isn’t.”
“I’ll remember to tell him that next time you’re in rut and begging for ‘your Jiminie’ to quote-unquote, make you his bit—”
“Alright,” Seokjin guffaws. “Hear you loud and clear. I’ll stop talking now. Take care of your dongsaeng.”
Yoongi’s dongsaeng burrows his nose into the crease of Yoongi’s armpit—where fat, skin, and muscle folds over one another—and makes weak laps at the gland hidden underneath. Yoongi can feel Taehyung’s cock pressed at the scoops flanking his spine, his boxers already sticky with slick. “Please,” Taehyung sniffles. “Help me.” Each word is a puff of his moist breath into Yoongi’s pit.
Yoongi straightens his arm out and lets Taehyung get his tongue on the sparse scatter of hair. Taehyung’s scent is causing a positive feedback cycle of Yoongi’s scent, which feeds back into Taehyung releasing thicker plumes of desire. Sweet perspiration leaks out into Taehyung’s mouth, and his hips gyrate mindlessly into Yoongi’s spine and the crease of his ass. His sweats are ruined. Taehyung always gets overwhelmingly wet with the taste of Yoongi across the insides of his cheeks, in the dents of his molars.
Yoongi can empathize.
“Okay,” he coaxes, “alright, y’got it, c’mon. Come for me, Taehyung-ah.” The gyrations press Yoongi down harder into the nest, rubbing his own throbbing dick into the cotton fleece of his sweatpants. Taehyung creates a husked whistling noise right up into the curve of Yoongi’s armpit. Yoongi’s tongue lays flat out on his bottom lip, eyes absently fixed on the pigmy legs of the sofa. “Close?”
Taehyung heaves for air, making no indication that he’d heard, but before Yoongi can press for an answer, Taehyung cries, “No, nuh—help me, help me, I can’t—”
Yoongi pushes up—hard—depositing Taehyung beside him. He rolls Taehyung back onto his front; Taehyung goes easily, cheek now in the towel and a stray sock, lashes fluttering as he fights to focus on the forearm Yoongi has propped up by his shoulder. Taehyung whimpers “Inside?” and pivots his hips up, knees drawing closer. A weak interpretation of presenting.
Sexy as much as it is adorable, a six-year omega acting like he’d only just begun leaking.
Yoongi wordlessly slides a hand under the waistband of Taehyung’s boxers, hooks three fingers right inside of him, the sound of it filthy enough to draw Seokjin’s attention again. Taehyung’s jaw goes loose at its hinges, every sound from his throat cut like a song tapped off. “Hyu—” A tremble climbs up to his arms, hair visibly going taut, before he jerks forward and comes. Wet seeps through the front of his boxers.
The apartment undeniably tattles on Taehyung’s arousal. His pheromones have to be seeping into the walls at this point; Taehyung has always loved a knotted dildo, Yoongi’s cock—but there’s something to Yoongi’s fingers—similar in size to Taehyung’s, yet square and broad and filling him up so deep—that has Taehyung trapped in delirium. Yoongi lets Taehyung enjoy the lingering waves of his climax before pistoning his first three fingers into his hole, fighting against the clench of him to bring him towards another orgasm.
“Shit,” Seokjin says. His calm is finally unraveling.
Taehyung pants, “Hyu—ah, hyung—ah—please—ple—”
“Still begging?” Yoongi huffs, suddenly out of breath. “I’m helping. Is this not enough?”
“‘S enough, ‘s—thank you, thank,” Taehyung shudders, edges of his sentence chipping off into a groan, “th’nk you, hyungnim.”
Seokjin sputters into laughter, low huffs much unlike the squeaking he does when he’s trying to tease. He’s definitely feeling it. Yoongi’s arousal is beginning to seep through his sweats, smeared between his thighs as he watches Taehyung quiver and present himself for Yoongi’s touch. “Feeling respectful, Taehyung-ah?” Seokjin drawls.
Mm, Taehyung whimpers, disoriented. He’s doing the open-mouthed panting, hole rhythmically flexing as his body prepares him for more. For a knot he won’t get—because Yoongi’s fingers are enough. Right? Yoongi recognizes he’s said this aloud when Taehyung manages one more, whimpery mm. Thank you, hyungnim.
Seokjin says, “Shit,” again. Quieter.
Yoongi pumps Taehyung loose. Three fingers grinding into his tender spots, slick and air squelching out around Yoongi’s wide-knuckled fingers. “Want Seokjin-hyung’s knot?” Yoongi asks, anticipating one answer only. “I can smell him from here. He wants to shove his knot so deep inside you, give you a pup. Want that?”
“No,” Taehyung pleads. “Want you. Wanna be—be your omega—”
Yoongi rubs incessantly where his fingers are hooked, movements hidden under the back of Taehyung’s drenched boxers. Taehyung kicks a foot out, claws at the nest. “You’re so needy. Gonna do this every heat? Steal my clothes for your nest? Drive everyone crazy screaming my name?”
“Yeah,” Taehyung somehow manages to laugh. His lashes flutter, mouth corners ticking up for a flash. Brat.
“Annoying.” Yoongi presses his own trembling legs closer together. Fuck, he’s a mess. He doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of the attention—the undying devotion, is what it is—of a pretty omega in heat.
Yoongi doesn’t stop until Taehyung comes twice more, until his knees give out and he’s lying flat on his belly. Tired, lids heavy, every tight draw of muscle unstringing loose. Yoongi tugs his fingers out with a squelch and immediately shoves them into his own mouth; he and Seokjin let out a simultaneous moan. Rich. He drags them far back enough to trigger a light gag reflex. Nearly bites his fingers off under the instinct to chew on that sinewy, Aroused Taehyung taste.
“That never stops being hot,” Seokjin says.
Yoongi sucks his fingers clean. Then, popping them out, “It’d be hotter if you helped.”
“He didn’t want me. You asked him yourself.”
They both consider Taehyung. Already halfway asleep. His cheek is squished on the (Yoongi’s) towel, lips puffed out, hair twirls of dark chocolate as it lies along his jawline. He’s going to start begging as soon as he wakes; Yoongi knows this routine so well he could recite it in his sleep.
Yoongi turns to address Seokjin now, eyes immediately flickering down to where Seokjin’s cock has shaped out nicely in his sweats. Seokjin watches him in return. His phone lies face first on his chest.
“Well.” Yoongi pushes up to his feet, shivery, horny beyond conception. Until Taehyung wakes up or Namjoon returns in-between Taehyung’s resting, an alpha will have to do. “Make yourself useful and help me, then.”