how we assume a role

by disillusioned (miscalculated)

Summary:

“I have to shower or we’re gonna be late,” Namjoon tried, kicking off his slacks while navigating around Jimin’s smaller form—but Jimin wasn’t going down easy, and he’d followed Namjoon to the mattress.

He was in the middle of depositing his bottoms on the bed when Jimin pressed a palm to his back and shoved Namjoon over, depositing him onto the bed, too. “I wanna finger you first,” Jimin said, patting underneath their bed for the lube. “Wine can wait.”

Namjoon is more than strong enough to fight Jimin off and insist on not being late. He’s done it once or twice, much to Jimin’s dismay. He was horny, though, and an eager Jimin was impossible to reorient when Namjoon was horny. Like some kind of a police dog, he was convinced that Jimin could smell it on him, arousal permeating the air as he panted and stuttered out excuses.

*

A bts fic drabble. Each chapter is a new pairing or dynamic.

Notes:

howdy,

 

this is a drabble i wrote for a prompt list on twitter. The prompt was, "This is wildly inappropriate. Let's do it." And the pairing requested was minjoon. So, I hope anyone reading this enjoys!

quick cw for: semi-public sex/public sex

Chapter 1: when we can't separate (namjoon/jimin)

They’re an hour into the outdoor wine tasting when they lose Hoseok by the DJ’s stage and Yoongi and Jungkook insist on staying in the line for a Chardonnay worth more than a month of rent. “They only have one bottle in stock,” Yoong had insisted when Jimin whined about the fifty people snaked around the perimeter of the tent. “No way in fuck am I missing this.” 

Admitting defeat, Jimin turns to Namjoon and whines, “Let’s go, hyung, please,” tugging at Namjoon’s sleeve and giving him those wide puppy eyes that have him succumb everytime. 

So Namjoon succumbs. And now he’s fanning himself with a pamphlet while Jimin sips on a plum wine and chats with the staff about its processing. Something Namjoon would normally pay attention to, if not for the stickiness on his skin and between his legs. He adjusts his sunglasses and clears his throat. 

The event is set in a park in the middle of July, sun beating down on them whenever they shuffle out from underneath the refuge of the tents. Music—mostly generic pop or instrumental—carries out across the field packed with guests, atmosphere thick with conversation and varying levels of intoxication. In all honesty, Namjoon should’ve taken more time to get ready back at his and Jimin’s apartment before they hopped on the train; he’d rushed home from work only to be intercepted by Jimin in their bedroom. 

“I have to shower or we’re gonna be late,” Namjoon tried, kicking off his slacks while navigating around Jimin’s smaller form—but Jimin wasn’t going down easy, and he’d followed Namjoon to the mattress. 

He was in the middle of depositing his bottoms on the bed when Jimin pressed a palm to his back and shoved Namjoon over, depositing him onto the bed, too. “I wanna finger you first,” Jimin said, patting underneath their bed for the lube. “Wine can wait.” 

Namjoon is more than strong enough to fight Jimin off and insist on not being late. He’s done it once or twice, much to Jimin’s dismay. He was horny, though, and an eager Jimin was impossible to reorient when Namjoon was horny. Like some kind of a police dog, he was convinced that Jimin could smell it on him, arousal permeating the air as he panted and stuttered out excuses. 

Long story made short, Namjoon didn’t get to shower. And his ass is still uncomfortably sticky with lube, a fact he can ignore if he stands completely still and focuses on Jimin’s full lips shaping words—that he could ignore if Jimin didn’t take any opportunity to palm at his ass. 

Someone will talk to Namjoon for five seconds too long (or they’ll maintain eye contact as Namjoon speaks to them) and Jimin will materialize right by his side and grab a tiny handful. Maybe give the occasional bedroom eyes at Namjoon, neck craning back to grin at him, and use his cutesy voice to ask, “Can we go to that tent next, hyung?” while rubbing little circles into Namjoon’s hip, waist, with his thumb. 

A tent near a thatch of trees is offering a limited edition green apple soju when Namjoon figures he’s drunk off of the heat, the alcohol, or both. Jimin’s insistent groping has subdued to pulsing squeezes between each asscheek, on his hip, dipping close to where Namjoon’s sporting a half-chub in his shorts. 

“I bet,” Jimin says, “no one will see us if we stand behind that tree.” He points, silver rings catching sunlight. 

Namjoon doesn’t bother to look; dark ideas lead to dark places. He maintains his gaze out at the couple in front of them. “That’s—cool,” he offers. The line shuffles forward. One step closer to shade. 

“It is,” Jimin continues. He stands and says nothing else for a few seconds, free hand hanging loosely from the pocket of his jeans. His white tee is billowy, tucked into his waistband. Sunlight plays beautifully in the golden of his hair. “I think—” 

“No thinking,” Namjoon says, “unless it’s about how good you think this green apple soju is gonna taste. The plum one was so weak, wasn’t it? I could barely taste—” 

“I think,” Jimin asserts, “I should fuck you behind that tree. I brought our travel bottle.” 

Thankfully Jimin isn’t an arousal-sniffing dog, because the twisting heat that throbs in his gut is immediate and strong, a shot of liquor. Fuck, he hope no one heard that. Jimin wasn’t exactly quiet, and even if his voice is soft, he commands attention regardless. 

“You brought the bottle,” Namjoon deadpans. “Jimin. We’re not fucking behind the tr—” 

“Imagine it: your shorts hanging off of your sexy thighs, the breeze between your legs,” Jimin squeezes at Namjoon, a grin twisting on his face when Namjoon’s breath stutters, “Being so close to people. It’d be easy to get caught.”  

They haven’t looked at one another the entire time. The line moves forward again, and they move forward with it. Namjoon loathes that he, in a moment of weakness, admitted to kinks to Jimin that he’d never told another partner before. It’s being weaponized against him. This is violent. This is— 

“Inappropriate,” Namjoon chastises weakly. “This is so—wildly inappropriate.” He’s a little bit more than half-hard now. Sweat snakes down his throat. 

Jimin giggles. More people move away from the front with their soju, leaving them as the third in line. “Yeah? And?” 

Namjoon glances across the field. He can see Yoongi and Jungkook still in the line for the Chardonnay. Hoseok—he turns his head towards the stage—Hoseok is talking to a group of young men, snapback low and a cup of wine in his hand. 

When Namjoon turns his attention back to Jimin, he finds him watching, waiting. 

“Jimin-ah.” 

Jimin quirks an eyebrow. 

Fuck. Fuck . He’s sweating bullets. He’s disgusting and sticky everywhere. Why does he sweat so fucking much? 

Namjoon dumps his pamphlet in a nearby trash can, walks around Jimin and out of the line. “Let’s do it.” 

Gleeful, victorious laughter follows him all the way to the trees. 

 

Chapter 2: a self-fulfilling prophecy (namjoon/yoongi)

Summary:

“I’m not mad at you,” Yoongi says, finally. His voice is careful, a soft golden that spans Seoul’s city. Colors burn bright against a one a.m. sky. “He isn’t, either.”

Not worried about that, Namjoon thinks. Aloud, he says, “Okay.”

He chances a glance. Yoongi is watching where they touch, fingertips to thin skin. The most they’ve touched all evening, because it’s obvious that Yoongi knows and has always known. Because he doesn’t want Jintae to know, too.

Notes:

a quick namgi about lost opportunities, old love that's not really old after all.

prompt title was, "One of these days, you'll have to stop lying to yourself."

“He left,” Yoongi says, settling on the barstool beside Namjoon. “Wanna talk about it?”  

The rooftop bar is empty, February way too cold to dine outdoors—and Namjoon is burning hot, hottest where Yoongi’s fingertips brush at his wrist. He fixes his gaze out at the skyline. “Not really.” 

It went as badly as he thought it would’ve. A self-fulfilling prophecy, maybe. Namjoon has ducked Jintae for a record-breaking year , finding work to keep himself busy whenever Yoongi mentioned group dinners, extended invitations to Jintae’s performances. The most Namjoon has seen of him are his Instagram photos, sometimes a glimpse of his beard or quiffed fringe when he’d come pick Yoongi up from the studio. Stubbornness has saved Namjoon a lot of unnecessary grief. 

Or he’s just postponed it. Let it stack up like debt well overdue, culminating and festering until there was nowhere else left to hide. Namjoon’s always been a pro at delaying punishment. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Yoongi says, finally. His voice is careful, a soft golden that spans Seoul’s city. Colors burn bright against a one a.m. sky. “He isn’t, either.” 

Not worried about that, Namjoon thinks. Aloud, he says, “Okay.” 

He chances a glance. Yoongi is watching where they touch, fingertips to thin skin. The most they’ve touched all evening, because it’s obvious that Yoongi knows and has always known. Because he doesn’t want Jintae to know, too. 

Namjoon thinks it’s too late for that. It was too late the second Yoongi told him, “I’m seeing someone,” and didn’t let Namjoon not ask any prompting questions before showing him everything. Rattling off about how they met, his family, his age and what he looks like, what he’s accomplished in his life as if Yoongi requires some kind of approval from Namjoon to date other people. Namjoon never asked a fucking thing. 

Dinner was awkward at best, absolutely horrible at worst. It took three glasses of wine to unravel, Hoseok and Seokjin averting their eyes every time he opened his disaster of a mouth and coughed up his heart. “He plays with his ears when he’s shy,” Namjoon had said once, when Jintae urged Yoongi to tell them about the set he played on his tour. 

“You were amazing up there,” Jintae had cooed, nudging Yoongi with an elbow. “They need to hear how you did. What was that one line?” 

All Yoongi could do was laugh quietly and tug at his earlobe, Hoseok giggling and pouring them more wine while they waited. “Take your time, I blocked off my entire night for this,” Seokjin quipped. Namjoon sat across the table from Yoongi and Jintate, crammed between Seokjin and Hoseok and drowning in so many words, so much regret. 

It had to go somewhere. Namjoon opened his mouth and let it all pour out. “He plays with his ears when he’s shy,” he’d said. 

Once was fine. Jintae looked at Namjoon and laughed, said, “Oh, yeah? I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” and Namjoon thought, how the fuck did you not know that after a year?  

The second time was when Jintae insisted on pouring wine for Yoongi despite their significant age gap. Maybe Jintae assumed Yoongi’s defiant, “No, no, it’s fine,” and handwave meant he was trying to uphold those rules (as an established couple, at that), but Namjoon—now three point five drinks in—knew better. 

“He doesn’t like that brand,” Namjoon extended a hand across the table and guided the bottle away from Yoongi’s empty glass. “Too sweet.” 

No laughter or attempts at a quip from Hoseok or Seokjin this time. They watched quietly as Yoongi and Jintae regarded Namjoon simultaneously, Yoongi’s expression trapped somewhere in-between emotion and Jintae contemplative. “We buy this sometimes,” Jintae’s voice was less complacent, more quiet. “He drinks it.” 

Jintae turned his eyes to Yoongi. A silent question. 

Yoongi’s ear flushed red where he had it twisted in his fingers. He stared hard at the bottle’s label when he said, “I’ll drink it if it’s there.” 

Namjoon should’ve stopped there. Three or four drinks be damned, he knew better. He understood that the mood was spoiling, that the stench thick in his nostrils came from the overdue debt that he’d been barfing all night. Everyone could smell it—even the waitress, whenever she came to take more drink orders or ask if they’re alright.

He had more wine and didn’t stop. 

“Wasn’t it basketball?” Jintae had asked later on, a response to Seokjin mentioning Yoongi’s first love. 

Namjoon swallowed the bite of roasted vegetables and said, “It’s piano,” before Yoongi could open his mouth. 

“We met as trainees,” Namjoon had prattled on about during another conversation—he doesn’t remember what it was about nor how they got there, just that he was staring into Yoongi’s eyes the entire time, trapped, “and both made a pact that if one of us wanted to quit, we’d both go. Four months later I told him I refused to dance on stage and he agreed, so—we quit. Together. Remember, hyung?” 

Hoseok’s laugh was stilted, creaky. Yoongi didn’t speak for two beats. Then, “I remember.” 

Namjoon was bold and weak at once. Barking and barking until it came to bite. Jintae grew reserved, letting his own debt climb, saying nothing and letting conversation take him for a ride. They’d somehow managed to reach the final half before Namjoon was telling Jintae, “Yoongi is actually more direct with his raps, but he told me once he wanted to try his hand at poetry and see how that blends into his music,” when Jintae’s back straightened, jaw clenched, and he’d let it go. 

Let out a, “Do you hate me, Namjoon-ssi?” that told Namjoon he wasn’t the champion he thought he’d been. 

He was barking in a corner of his own conception. Weak. 

It was instant silence. Namjoon had no idea what expression the rest were sporting because he couldn’t dare himself to look. He wasn’t a brave man. He was the type of man that clenched his own jaw, contemplated his next words, and still went the coward route.

“Yes,” Namjoon said. 

And he’d stood up and marched straight up the stairs and onto the bar’s roof. 

Twenty minutes later, Yoongi followed him up, sat beside him, and told him he wasn’t upset. But, he has to be. No one says, “One of these days, you have to stop lying to yourself,” after a not really and isn’t angry. 

February is so cold. Namjoon can’t feel his nose or cheeks. The only thing he registers is Yoongi’s skin to his, those biting words. “You had your chance,” Yoongi breathes, “and you didn’t take it. Was I supposed to wait for you forever?” 

“No.” 

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” 

Running. Always running. 

“Sabotage,” Namjoon says. 

“Sabotage,” Yoongi parrots. Hesitates. “Okay. Congrats. You’ve done it.” 

Namjoon doesn’t speak nor react when Yoongi stands up off of the barstool. Just keeps running, letting Yoongi walk away—again.

Chapter 3: when nobody is looking (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

He can’t—he can’t do this. Yoongi catches his bearings, swallowing and blinking hard up at Taehyung, says, “No,” in an unconvincing lilt. “He—my boyfriend will kill us.” Kissing is already too far to reel back (albeit a more disastrous section of Yoongi’s mind is certain Seokjin will forgive it), but naked touching. Skin on skin. That leads only to dark, irreversible places.

Yoongi can’t do this. Not to him.

But—“Just our shirts,” Taehyung pleads. A low, languid rumble. His eyes slit open, pooling into Yoongi’s pupils. “Please, hyung?”

Notes:

prompt title, "my boyfriend will kill us."

cw: infidelity

Yoongi allows hand-holding. He knows what Taehyung is like by now, that he needs touch, some form of physical affection to understand that he’s not hated. Yoongi has never been that type of person—requiring words or tentative fingers lacing through his—but he can appreciate that he and Taehyung don’t have to be the same. 

He’s generous, even. He accepts Taehyung’s soft little goodnight kiss, lips to Yoongi’s cheek as they lie there in the dark of Yoongi’s bedroom. Taehyung doesn’t move right away, just lingers against his skin as he whispers, “Thanks, hyung,” in his familiar, sleepy rasp. 

It’s sticky where they touch. Their palms, their arms, where Taehyung has a leg tossed over Yoongi’s thighs. Yoongi absolutely can’t sleep like this, but after years of cohabiting with Taehyung and Seokjin, he recognizes that all he has to do is wait for Taehyung to pass out to untangle himself. Sweat beads under Yoongi’s sleep tee, along his philtrum. “Yeah,” Yoongi says. 

Taehyung shifts back, but his nose and lips are close enough to Yoongi’s cheek that he can still feel each, steady breath, the warmth of Taehyung’s skin. The room is dark, quiet; Yoongi, eyes accustomed, watches Taehyung’s hair stir under the gentle spin of his ceiling fan. 

Yoongi almost doesn’t realize he’s been kissed on the cheek again until Taehyung dips forward and then back, and the smack of Taehyung’s lips against his face sounds off in the silence. Okay. He doesn’t say anything. Taehyung is like this, sometimes. Seokjin may be his mentor, but Yoongi was there to help cook for him and give him advice when nobody else was available—and he may not have known a single thing about the acting industry other than what Seokjin has told him throughout the years, Taehyung didn’t seem to mind. 

He just wanted somebody that’d look at him and see a man rather than a means of profit. Yoongi gave (gives) him that. He gives him this, too: lying pliant as Taehyung assaults him with slow, wet kisses, his fingers pulsing where they sit between Yoongi’s. Breathy hyungs that don’t achieve anything other than stirring Yoongi up low in his belly. 

Reminding him of odd evenings in the apartment, Seokjin off filming in some other city, the sun burning orange and casting the tiles and cherry wood cabinets in a hazy, new-dimensional fuzz. Taehyung’s hand to the small of his back as he slips by, their bodies hiding the touch from Seokjin’s constant presence—Seokjin’s mugs, and where Seokjin’s air fryer sits by the sink. Yoongi and Seokjin’s matching, handmade coffee cups they bought during an anniversary trip to Thailand.

Yoongi allows the hand-holding, because Taehyung has done so several times when Seokjin was sitting on the other side, cooing in that teasing inflection Yoongi hates. Taehyungie likes you! 

Yoongi allows cheek kisses, because Seokjin has witnessed Taehyung do so for the past year, encouraging the affection with his squeaky laughter and, you’re an honorary hyung to Taehyungie now, huh? 

The kid has always enjoyed affection. That’s what Yoongi calls him—the kid—even if he’s grown into his skin now. Even if he’s in his mid twenties and makes Yoongi’s belly stir like an orange sunset’s been lit aflame inside his gut. It’s safer, using labels. It erects walls that he can remain safely behind. 

Allegedly. Taehyung’s next kiss goes right to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. Yoongi’s breath is swallowed, skipped. He doesn’t react, doesn’t move. Taehyung’s lips clicking against his lip corner a second time is so much louder than the first. Maybe because Yoongi is expecting it this time. His inhale is audible, quivering. 

Finally, “ Taehyung-ah ,” he whispers. Taehyung does an absent little hum, sounding almost asleep. His leg across Yoongi’s thighs twitch, then, and Taehyung angles his head to kiss a little more boldly into Yoongi’s mouth, just the outer half.

Yoongi blinks in Taehyung’s direction. His eyes are closed. Lashes dark and long where they sweep along his cheekbone. Dark hair a wavy, sleep-mused mess, an off-brown color that his last web drama required he dye it. Yoongi is going to sweat to death. Die from dehydration.

“One kiss,” Taehyung mumbles. “Okay?”

“Huh?” Yoongi can’t feel his hand anymore. He thinks it’s melded into Taehyung’s from the heat and moisture. 

“Here.” Taehyung lifts his head and shoulders up and over Yoongi’s, presses right into Yoongi’s mouth with his own. Something slow and chaste, drowsy with sleep. “This.”

Taehyung gives another. Yoongi thinks you said one , doesn’t say it aloud. He uses his free hand to hold Taehyung back at his chest, useless because Taehyung is craning forward anyway, mouthing at Yoongi’s lips—and Yoongi isn’t really trying, anyway. He goes slack, breath still stuttering along as Taehyung does little experimental licks, prodding for more, deeper.

Then they’re kissing. Actual kissing, Yoongi’s mind supplies dreadfully. The slide of their wet lips, Taehyung’s tongue slipping over his. The clicking loud and startling. Yoongi is making a mistake. He can’t—

“Can we,” Taehyung pulls away (not far enough), “skin?”

“Huh?” Yoongi feels like a broken record. 

“I wanna touch skin. Take your shirt off?” 

He can’t—he can’t do this. Yoongi catches his bearings, swallowing and blinking hard up at Taehyung, says, “No,” in an unconvincing lilt. “He—my boyfriend will kill us.” Kissing is already too far to reel back (albeit a more disastrous section of Yoongi’s mind is certain Seokjin will forgive it), but naked touching. Skin on skin. That leads only to dark, irreversible places.

Yoongi can’t do this. Not to him. 

But—“Just our shirts,” Taehyung pleads. A low, languid rumble. His eyes slit open, pooling into Yoongi’s pupils. “Please, hyung?”

Yoongi thinks of repeating himself. If Taehyung will give up on the second try. Taehyung is not one to do that until Yoongi gets serious, though. Never has. He’s good at getting what he wants with persistence and round eyes gone rounder. 

Yoongi is no exception. 

So Taehyung goes to take off Yoongi’s tee from the hem, untangling their hands—and Yoongi, expression titled in opposing directions, allows it.

Chapter 4: when time passes (yoongi/jimin)

Summary:

“Your hands are monstrous,” Jimin is saying, legs tucked under him, bathrobe pulled tight around his narrow waist, “do they cover your entire dick? How big is your dick?”

Yoongi’s leaning up against the headboard of his hotel bed. His phone in one hand, white tee and boxers hanging off of him. His hair is dark and still a bit wet from his shower, and his free hand rests between his spread thighs, fingertips aimlessly brushing the skin at the inside of one leg.

He gives Jimin tight eyes. “You looked at my hands and automatically thought about me jerking off?”

Notes:

cw: solo masturbation + exhibitionism/voyeurism

They’re in a hotel room in Gwangju when Jimin sits at the foot of the bed and asks Yoongi how he masturbates. 

“Your hands are monstrous,” Jimin is saying, legs tucked under him, bathrobe pulled tight around his narrow waist, “do they cover your entire dick? How big is your dick?” 

Yoongi’s leaning up against the headboard of his hotel bed. His phone in one hand, white tee and boxers hanging off of him. His hair is dark and still a bit wet from his shower, and his free hand rests between his spread thighs, fingertips aimlessly brushing the skin at the inside of one leg. 

He gives Jimin tight eyes. “You looked at my hands and automatically thought about me jerking off?” 

“No,” Jimin says. He’d looked at the juxtaposition of a dressed-down Yoongi sitting in bed, soft legs spread, and thought about him jerking off. “Just… I ‘dunno where it came from. Curious, I guess.” Also a little tipsy. 

It’s supposed to be a weekend getaway. Some delayed celebration of Seokjin and Yoongi’s discharge from military service since everyone was too busy to do anything more than swing by their respective apartments with gift sets and weepy congratulations. It took months of meticulous planning to have everyone on the same page. 

And now they’re here, back in their own hotel rooms after a Saturday of trail-walking, sightseeing, and drinks. Jimin and Yoongi in their own room, flanked by Jungkook and Taehyung in one, Seokjin and Hoseok in the other. It’s Jimin that asked to be Yoongi’s roommate. Like the old days, Jimin had said, arm slung over Yoongi’s broad shoulders. Like university times. 

Jimin expects to be laughed out of Yoongi’s bed. For Yoongi to scoff and tell him to keep him out of any of his fantasies or thoughts from now on. He doesn’t expect Yoongi to say, deliberately slow, “You wanna see how?” 

“I,” Jimin starts and does not complete. 

Yoongi has that expression on his face that warns for deceit. If not that, danger. Lips tucked in to flash teeth, skin white and glimmering soft under the hotel lamp. His fingertips create broader strokes on his thigh. “Sometimes,” he starts, inflection tipping low, “I like to take my time. Tease myself.” 

That, at least, sounds authentic. Years ago—too many years ago, Jimin thinks—they’d gone to dinner to celebrate Jungkook’s twentieth. Yoongi had his hair dyed so blonde it turned white in bright lights, black tee tight enough to cup his biceps, and he’d turned and kissed Jimin right on the mouth. Because—Jimin couldn’t stop staring, and Yoongi kept teasing him, grumbly if you keep looking at me like that I’ll kiss you. Jimin giggled and called his bluff, intentionally tipping his head and widening his eyes to show Yoongi that he wasn’t afraid of the empty (and, frankly, appealing) threat. 

So Yoongi closed the gap and kissed him. Friends be damned, he took it slow, worked Jimin’s lips open with precision. Soft nips on the plush of his mouth, one hand squeezing the flesh right above Jimin’s knee. Kissed any and every coherency from Jimin’s mind. 

It’s the furthest they’ve gotten to anything that could be interpreted as sexual. The next closest is this—Yoongi losing his phone in the stiff hotel sheets, other hand still creating patterns on his own inner thigh. Legs spreading even farther, fingers working up under the leg of his boxers. “I pretend someone else is here, touching me. Or—they asked me to touch myself for them.” 

There’s a lot to drink in. The click and buzz of the hotel aircon; the rivulets of shower water that follows the path of Yoongi’s throat, dampening his shirt’s neckline. How he didn’t dry himself well enough, so there are random splotches in the cotton material, skin sticking at his belly and around one nipple. The room smells of soft detergent and the jasmine soap they used for their showers. 

And—it has to be because of the overlap of coincidences. The tender warmth of beer in Yoongi’s bloodstream plus a burst of confidence, as spurred on by Jimin’s sudden question. Otherwise, Jimin can’t conceptualize it, Yoongi’s palm coming up to rub dangerously close to the soft shape of his cock in his boxers. How he hasn’t even done anything overt yet and Jimin is feeling warm in his groin. 

“Is that what you’re asking?” Yoongi rasps. “For me to touch myself for you?” 

Jimin hesitates. Tracks Yoongi’s fingers tracing over his own, clothed cock. Then, “That’s what I’m asking, yeah.” 

Yoongi laughs. The quiet little hiccupy one that he does when he’s managed to fool Jimin. “Okay,” he licks his lips, lashes fluttering, “I can do that.” 

He starts slow. Just squeezing at the girth of his cock, pulsing. Slumps against the headboard and tips his head up a little, baring his damp throat. Jimin shifts where he sits at the foot of the bed, hugs his arms tighter around his middle. Tries to categorize it all, everything, shield it away from leering eyes: Yoongi’s breaths that read almost inaudible underneath the humming aircon. His chest sloping up and down, already affected by his palm pressing over his cock. 

Jimin watches. “You usually do it this way?” he asks. 

“If I have time,” Yoongi says on a single, tight breath. He isn’t looking at Jimin, eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling above Jimin’s mop of blonde hair. “Get a few fingers in myself, too.” Length half-hard, he manages to get a grip through the boxers, fist at the murky shape. “Fuck.” His thighs quiver.

“Must get so deep,” Jimin breathes. It’s almost meant for himself, a stream of consciousness topped so high that it pours out. “Long fingers.” 

Yoongi hums, tongue darting out. His shins, scattered with dark hair, shift on the sheets. “They do,” he tries. Fists his dick a little faster, but still a careful, syrupy rhythm. “Hits right where I need them.” 

That’s what he does for a while. Seconds or minutes.  Grabs at his cock until his erection is prominent in his boxers, thicker than it is long. Jimin approximates the ratio of dick to hand, determines that he can swallow most of it up with a half-stroke. 

“Ah,” Jimin says, fruitless. He shifts some more. His body vibrates with a ripple of heat. 

Yoongi’s next hum is impossibly deep, striking Jimin straight where it’s already burning. He just—he keeps squirming, Yoongi, legs dragging along the mattress, creasing the blanket and fitted sheet around them. Eyes never open for longer than a few seconds at a time, Yoongi seems to grow tired of the indirect touch of his palm and slides it up over the waistband. Rucks his sleepshirt up, exposing his soft belly, the trail of hair, and dips a few fingers into his navel on the way back down. 

Jimin isn’t sure if he can vocalize anymore. Still, “No one’s ever seen you do this?” 

Yoongi tilts his head against the headboard, lips falling open once he gets that hand under and around his weeping cock. “Not like,” he stutters, “this. When they’re already—they’re inside me.”

Jimin lets out a shaky exhale. “Wow.”  

He lifts up just enough to tuck the front of his boxers under his balls, and—Jimin can see now. Everything. The thatch of pubic hair, the bulging vein sticking through soft, wet skin. The pale, more intimate parts of Yoongi, usually hidden so well underneath drapes of clothes. 

It’s a mesmerizing cadence. How Yoongi twists and fucks into his fist. Jimin follows along, hopes that maybe if he stares long enough he can burn this view behind his retina. “Fu-fuck,” Yoongi groans, head lolling. His knuckles are a little hairy, like his shins, and there are green veins that bulge out and over the tendons on the top of his hand. “Fuck, Jimin-ah.” Almost as if he can’t help it, his hips rock up and off the mattress, then down again. 

He’s gotten wet by his own, prior teasing, slicking the way for each stroke. Regardless, Jimin knows it must be a tad dry. “Spit,” he mumbles. When Yoongi’s eyes flicker over to where Jimin’s sitting, Jimin repeats, louder, “Spit. Use some—spit in your hand.” 

Yoongi’s rhythm slows. He licks his lips again. “Right,” he says, voice pulled taut. He doesn’t look away from Jimin as Jimin focuses on where Yoongi’s cock sits, nestled up against his pelvis. “Okay.” Yoongi follows instructions, gathering up enough saliva to drip it into his palm. 

And he’s back to fucking his dick. Faster but still even, steady. Thighs twitching, his chest rocks along with every breath. 

Jimin is undeniably hard. Hard, and horny beyond his own conception of arousal. But instead of giving in to the whisper in his ear, he remains where he is, doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe. He pretends he’s separate from his own corporeal form, disembodied, like he’s a phone in Yoongi’s free hand as he tries to focus it on where he’s thumbing at his frenulum. His ears the speakers that catch the rustle of cotton on skin, the shlick of Yoongi’s wet hand working his wet dick. 

Yoongi panting and humming in a frequency that doesn’t sound any different than thunder. His cockhead peeks out on each downstroke, flushed a dark pink, glistening where he runs over his slit. A pretty hand on a pretty dick. 

“‘S good,” Yoongi slurs. His tips his head farther up, Adam’s apple sliding under thin skin. His lashes sweep low as his lids fall. “Mmh, fuck—see? See what you wanted to see? Jimin-ah?” 

Jimin tries to hum a sound of affirmation. It comes out as an airy moan.

Yoongi does his same, mocking laugh, but the hiccups are tilted wrong in pleasure. “Shit,” he sighs, hips rocking up into his quickening rhythm. The red on his cheeks have spread down to his chest, where the damp neckline dips between his clavicles. Jimin wants to lick the sweat off his skin. 

He wants to taste salt and lavender soap on his tongue, wants to see how much ground his own, much tinier hand could cover on Yoongi’s cock. “You look so good,” Jimin groans. “Hyung—wanna suck your cock.” 

Yoongi does a full body shiver, the wave rippling from his shoulders to where his feet kick at the blanket. His screws his eyes shut tight. “Jimin.” 

“One day,” Jmin continues, “tomorrow. Let me suck your cock. Wake you up with your dick in my mouth. Do you want that?” 

“Jimin, Ji—Jimin—” 

“Hyung,” Jimin reaches out to brush his thumb along the inside of his ankle, a barely there touch, and—that’s enough for Yoongi to freeze, rhythm breaking, and then spill all over his knuckles with a soft, breathless whine. 

Jimin watches in awe. Watches Yoongi continue to fist his pulsing cock until there’s nothing but weak dribbles leaking over his fingers. Until he’s shivering, overstimulated. And then he slumps against the headboard, eye still shut, and lets go of his cock. 

The aircon’s humming returns into earshot. Yoongi’s breaths are somewhat audible, chest heaving. He’s damp, hand filthy. 

Jimin leans over and presses his lips to his shin. “Beautiful,” Jimin mumbles against the hairs. 

Chapter 5: when it boils over (taehyung/jimin)

Summary:

The faux-angry, people can see your nipples in that; cover up, that Taehyung, frankly, found sexy. And he told him. Tells him. “Love it when you tell me what to do with that voice.”

“What voice?” Jimin asked, though he was smiling, approaching Taehyung like a predator to its prey.

Taehyung, fitting perfectly into his role, would back up just as slow. “That firm-like one. Like you own me.”

“You want me to? Own you?” Jimin slid a leg in-between Taehyung’s, curled a hand at Taehyung’s nape.
A nod. “Tell me,” he’d whispered to those plush, wet lips. “Jimin-ssi. Tell me what to do.”

Notes:

cw: (consensual) possessiveness, dom/sub undertones, toxic masculinity

a guy hits on taehyung at the bar. jimin doesn't like it.

Taehyung’s sole mission is to pick up and deliver the group drinks. Seokjin insists on lemon drop shots, something quick and sweet that could help push the night along (Jungkookie is too shy and sober to dance right now; we need to pull out the big guns!). And everyone is already a little tipsy from a quick drink or two at Taehyung and Jimin’s—but nowhere close enough to where they should be. Again, according to Seokjin. Jimin and Jungkook are on board, and Hoseok grabs Taehyung’s arm before he makes his journey across the bar to whisper to him, “Just get me another lager. I’m done with liquor for tonight.”

“Okay,” Taehyung says. “Be right back.”

So five lemon drop shots and a beer it is.

Taehyung ambles over to the bar to complete the mission. It’s an easy one: first, squeeze his way between the group of university students, then flag the bartender down, and then order the drinks. Three steps. Convent isn’t very busy on a Thursday night; there are dense groups of people, but they’re all huddled up either at their respective tables or spread out around the perimeter of the bar. Tonight isn’t a performance night, either, so the space in front of the stage is wide-open and accessible for anybody that doesn’t have (or want) a table—AKA, Taehyung and his friends.

So. He’s on step two when one of the young guys turns to give him a considering once-over. Taehyung sees him from his periphery but doesn’t say anything until he’s spoken to. And he is spoken to, faster than expected; usually they stare and wait for anyone to come up to Taehyung, labelling him as ‘taken’. Sometimes they don’t say anything at all and keep staring until Taehyung gets his drinks and walks away. Sometimes— “Your shirt is glowing,” the guy says, gaze lingering on the soft drape of Taehyung’s cream blouse.

He wonders, just for a moment, if the man is drunk. There are neon purple vibe lights that glow from underneath and behind the bar, catching anything light-colored and turning it purple, too. The guy has on white sneakers, and they’re glowing. Taehyung wants to tell him that, but he doesn’t want to be mean.

“I know,” Taehyung says with a tight smile. “It’s—” He waves a vague finger around, pointing up at the ambient lights. “Yeah.”

The guy leans up off of the bar. He’s maybe three centimeters taller than Taehyung. A little bulkier, too, but not by a lot. The dark angles of the bar catches on his five o’clock shadow, dips into the striations along his exposed forearms. There’s a splotch of a tattoo on one side of his neck that Taehyung can’t decipher without looking at him straight on. From the vantage point Taehyung allows, he doesn’t look a year over twenty-five.

“I like it,” Guy says. His voice is steady and loud over white noise of conversation and pop music. “Your shirt.”

Okay, so not drunk. Doesn’t sound it, at least. Taehyung momentarily forgets that he’s on step two of his three-step mission and follows Guy’s gaze down to where the first few buttons of his own blouse is undone. When you lean over your nipples show, Jimin told him earlier that night, fingers tipping into his shirt to catch on the first button. So don’t lean over. It was said in a theatrically angry voice, and Taehyung had laughed and tugged at Jimin’s earlobe. Cute, he’d called him.

Taehyung straightens his posture. “Thank you,” he says. He glances over to where the bartender is listening to a girl shout over at her.

“Park Sangyeon,” Guy says. He tilts his body so he’s fully facing Taehyung now, his chest a few centimeters away from Taehyung’s shoulder. “You?”

Again, he doesn’t want to be rude. He doesn’t want to give a name, but he also doesn’t want to be rude. “Kim Taehyung,” he says to where the bartender is standing. Too far. He waits for her gaze to scale over the sparse crowd to raise his hand and try to flag her down.

“Taehyung-ssi,” Sangyeon parrots. “Strong name. How old are you?”

Bartender Woman is successfully flagged by two university guys. Fuck. “Twenty-five,” Taehyung says.

“Oh. You can call me hyung, then, if you want.”

Way too over familiar. “Sangyeon-ssi is fine,” Taehyung tells him.

Sangyeon laughs. The tailend of it is swallowed up in a burst of noise from the group to the left of Taehyung. “You have a really deep voice,” Sangyeon says. “A lot deeper than I’d expect from someone that looks like you.”

He—doesn’t mean to take the bait. That’s his first mistake of many, probably. Taehyung should’ve told him he doesn’t want to talk, or tell him to fuck off, or silently shift over to a piece of the bar closest to the bartender. Something other than pivot to look at Sangyeon head-on and respond, bait caught by the fishing line, “Someone that looks like me?”

Sangyeon is smiling. Taehyung can see it now, the way the purple slices through his stress lines—the ones that crease at his eye corners and at the fold of his cheeks. Closer to thirty than twenty-five, somehow slotted in a group of students. Or alone, looking to go home with a university student.

“Beautiful,” Sangyeon replies, coolly. It’s almost indecipherable, but he shifts closer to Taehyung, and their fingers brush for just a moment before he leans towards the stool behind him again. “I’m sure you get that a lot, though. Do you? Taehyung-ssi? That you’re a beautiful boy?”

Taehyung’s words fail him. They’re trapped at the back of his throat, heavy even as he tries to swallow them down. Suddenly, he feels too exposed. Like Sangyeon’s eyes can peel the blouse and black slacks off of his skin. That instead of eyes they’re his fingers, the ones that brushed the pinky and ring finger of Taehyung’s, and he’s shoved them right under the buttons, popping them loose. He imagines it—Sangyeon’s heavy breath against the shell of his ear, thick with the poisonous stench of liquor, calling him a beautiful boy. Pretty and here alone, aren’t you?

He only realizes it’s partly true—the imagery of Sangyeon peeling him apart from his clothes—when real, too-warm hands come up to find his waist through the blouse.

“I wanna kiss you,” Sangyeon’s face and voice is a lot closer. “Can I?”

Taehyung jerks his head over to where his friends are—just in time for Jimin to finish storming over and shove his way in-between Taehyung and Sangyeon.

“Can you fuck off?” Jimin spits, straightening his posture and tilting his head up to click it angrily in Sangyeon’s face. A blind hand swings back to nudge Taehyung farther behind him, albeit his smaller, more narrow body does little to obscure Taehyung from view.

In all honesty, there’s nothing immediately intimidating about Jimin. He’s wearing a cheetah print blouse and tight jeans, his hair is a pale blonde that curls off of his forehead, and his makeup is light and pretty. He’s pretty. Silver rings adorned on short, almost chubby fingers, chelsea boots affording him two extra centimeters of height. Even angry and full of venom, he doesn’t look like the type of man that could fairly challenge someone of Sangyeon’s stature.

So it’s of no surprise that Sangyeon stares, expression almost as stunned as Taehyung’s, before it twists into a mix between amusement and annoyance. “Are you his master?”

“Are you?” Jimin’s retort is quick and much louder than his first rhetorical question. It draws some attention from the other people to their left and right. “He doesn’t want to fuck you, man, so fuck off!”

“He wasn’t complaining—”

“He was,” Jimin’s soprano twists into a growl, and he tips his head up further, eyes narrow and sharp as they stare unfalteringly into Sangyeon’s. “Are you fucking blind? He clearly didn’t want to talk to you.”

Finally, Taehyung gathers himself from the initial shock and gets a loose hand around Jimin’s wrist. “Jimin-ah,” he tries gentle, placating, “it’s okay, let me get the drinks an—”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Now Sangyeon is getting angry. Strong brows twitching, his own jaw tight. “Who the fuck are you?”

“His master, apparently,” Jimin shouts. “And master says to go fuck yoursself. He’s not gonna fuck you—”

Taehyung frantically glances around, and—people are officially looking. Staring. Several, even those not at the bar.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung takes on a more desperate quality. He tugs harder, but Jimin pries his wrist out of Taehyung’s grip without looking away from Sangyeon’s challenging leer. “Jimin-ah, please, stop, stop,” he twists a fist in the back of Jimin’s blouse instead.

“This isn’t what you wanna do,” Sangyeon warns. He shifts close to Jimin, head tipped down as Jimin tips up. Their foreheads so close that their fringes touch, Sangyeon repeats, “You don’t wanna fucking do this, man. I could kick your ass, no problem.”

Jimin is undeterred. Of course he’s fucking undeterred; Taehynug has never once seen him back down from a challenge. Namjoon dared him to backflip off a fence once, when they were drunk and drunk-stupid, and Jimin had scoffed and did it. They’d begged him not to, and he’d done it anyway. “I’ll kick yours if you don’t get the fuck away from him,” undeterred, reckless Park Jimin shouts. Right in Sangyeon’s face.

“Stop,” Taehyung can hear his own voice shake into a terrified quality. Not too different from that night Jimin stood precariously on top of that fence and told them he was going to ace the landing. And Taehyung couldn’t stop him from doing the backflip then—but he needs to stop him from getting into a bar fight tonight. “Stop, Jimin-ah, Jimin-ah, please, don’t—!”

Everything progresses in a blur. Purple ambience and the feral growl of two men high on testosterone and intoxication. Somewhere in-between Seokjin manhandling Taehyung away from the scene with two, strong arms around his waist and Namjoon powerhousing it into Sangyeon and Jimin, Taehyung remembers his and Jimin’s first few months of exclusivity.

He remembers the bleary one a.m. atmosphere of Jimin’s room, Jimin’s bed, and the way they sliced through the post-sex haze with their raw, unalduterated honesty. Taehyung tucked under Jimin’s arm, sticky cheek to sticky chest, skull vibrating as Jimin confessed, “I can get really possessive. About—things. People.”

Taehyung had already seen glimpses of it by then. Jimin nosing into Taehyung’s hair as he whispered, “Mine,” when Taehyung introduced himself to his friends as Jimin’s boyfriend. “All mine.”

The faux-angry, people can see your nipples in that; cover up, that Taehyung, frankly, found sexy. And he told him. Tells him. “Love it when you tell me what to do with that voice.”

“What voice?” Jimin asked, though he was smiling, approaching Taehyung like a predator to its prey.

Taehyung, fitting perfectly into his role, would back up just as slow. “That firm-like one. Like you own me.”

“You want me to? Own you?” Jimin slid a leg in-between Taehyung’s, curled a hand at Taehyung’s nape.

A nod. “Tell me,” he’d whispered to those plush, wet lips. “Jimin-ssi. Tell me what to do.”

Jimin’s smile shifted into something darker. A premonition. A promise. “You’re not wearing that shirt. Go change.”

And Taehyung listened. It was foreplay for the rest of their night, carrying them on their mutual high until they could return home and fuck the tension away.

Possessiveness isn’t always fun. It’s the first time it’s gotten this bad—Taehyung bawling because he’s tipsy and scared and can’t see what’s happening anymore. Because Seokjin won’t fucking let him go. Because there’s shouts and some women screaming; there’s Namjoon barking orders that’s swallowed up in the explosive sound of stools scraping, glasses being dropped.

Hoseok stays with Seokjin and Taehyung while Jungkook sprints off to help Namjoon extract Jimin from the chaos. Taehyung gives up on escaping Seokjin’s grasp and clings to him instead, sniffling, burying his nose in the crook of Seokjin’s neck. Several soothing palms rub at his back and waist, Hoseok’s voice just as soothing as he whispers it’s okay, he’ll be okay, against his cheekbone.

It turns out okay. As okay as it can be. The chaos stems mostly from everyone at the bar rushing to get away, hence dropped glasses, confused screaming, and the scrape of stools on the flooring. Seokjin, Taehyung, and Hoseok wait outside for security to escort Namjoon, Jungkook, and a wild, tight-jawed Jimin out.

They keep Taehyung separated from Jimin and Jimin separated from Sangyeon—who is still fuming—until the cops can come and decide that matters can be handled without pressing charges or anyone being arrested. (Namjoon is an effective communicator, sober or not). And aside from wild hair and his cheetah print blouse twisted wrong on his torso, Jimin is otherwise unscathed.

Unscathed and quiet, contemplative. He lets Namjoon scold him without saying a single word in return. Hoseok appears more disappointed than anything else, and Seokjin gets some jabs in-between Namjoon’s moments of silence. Jungkook watches on, expression undecipherable.

Taehyung hasn’t decided what to feel yet. He’s still discombobulated, it’s chilly outside, and he’s clinging to Seokjin’s sleeve.

They call their taxis in silence. Occasional quiet mutters for Namjoon and Hoseok to correspond sharing a ride to their apartment complex, for Seokjin and Jungkook to snag their own.

“You can stay with hyung tonight, if you want,” Seokjin says to Taehyung, quiet. “Jungkookie won’t mind.”

Taehyung glances over at where Jimin is slowly pacing on the sidewalk, running his fingers through his fringe a few times.

“It’s okay,” Taehyung says. “I’m okay.”

 

 

 

Jimin doesn’t speak until he and Taehyung are in their own taxi. He threads their fingers together first, then whispers, “Baby. I’m so sorry.”

Taehyung turns from the window to look at him. At his wide eyes and where he’s gnawed at his bottom lip, the skin a little red, a little raw. He hasn’t fixed his blouse yet.

Taehyung reaches out with his free hand and fixes it for him. “What is wrong with you?”

Jimin’s exhale is wet. “I know. I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t recognize you,” Taehyung says. “I have no idea who that person was.”

“I know—”

“I can take care of my fucking self,” he breathes. Jimin deflates. Then, “I’ve—I’ve never had a boyfriend get into a fight over me. Not because of me. That was fucking scary, Jimin-ah.”

“Baby,” Jimin’s words are wet now, too. “I love you. I’m sorry, okay? I know you can take care of yourself. I dont know—I won’t do it again. I won’t ever—”

Taehyung shoots forward and slots their lips together. Kisses soft, just enough for Jimin to register what’s happening, before he presses harder. “Sexy,” he mumbles. “I really fucking hate how sexy that was.”

Jimin stares at him. Tries to gauge the genuity of that statement as Taehyung stares back. Then, a shocked laugh stuttering free, he shoots forward and kisses Taehyung again.

 

 

 

They make it to the bedroom but not to the bed. Taehyung stands with his arms stretched out in front of him, palms pressed to the wall and body bent over, as Jimin fucks him from behind. Clothes still on, shoved away just enough for Jimin to finger and get his cock into Taehyung. They’re too frantic for anything else. Taehyung’s head hangs down between his shoulders, and he blinks blearily at the floor below him as he grunts, pants.

Each hard thrust jostles his body, cramming right against his prostate and making his dick pulse and leak strings of precome. “Baby,” he whines, voice rattling deep in his chest, “fuck me, fuck me, please—”

Jimin’s grip on his hips is punishing. He digs into as much of the flesh as he can, forcing Taehyung’s ass onto his dick with every rut forward. “Taehyung-ah—fuck, you’re tight, baby, so—tight—”

Taehyung’s brain redelivers the night. Sangyeon’s dark gaze, Jimin’s aggression. “Master,” he blurts. His fingernails grapple, futile, for purchase on their bedroom wall. “Master, master—”

“Fuck,” Jimin laughs, breathless and trapped in a groan. “You’re gonna drive me fucking crazy.”

“You own me? Tell me, ah, tell me you—ah—”

“Mine. No one can have you because you’re mine. Right?”

He’s already gonna come. They just started and Taehyung is going to blow his load all over the floor. “Yours,” he sobs, body shaking in it, “Won’t—won’t talk to anybody you don’t want me tuh-to talk to. Gonna wear what you tell me to—gonna do whatever you want—”

Jimin fucks deep into him, pelvis flush to Taehyung’s ass cheeks, and both of them moan in tandem. Rocking in his heat, fingers still twisting his skin until it burns red, hot, he tells him, “Won’t let you talk unless I tell you to talk. Just—just be a good boy and buy drinks. Yeah?”

“Jimin-ah.” Taehyung’s knees are wobbly. He doesn’t want to move from this position if Jimin doesn’t tell him to. Jimin’s cock is rubbing him just right and he’s gonna come. “I’ll be good,” he slurs. “Won’t talk to anyone. Promise, Jimin-ah, master, promise—”

The pace becomes punishing. It’s almost animalistic, their sounds, the loud slaps of their bodies colliding again and again. Taehyung has the forethought to beg, “Come in me, please come deep—inside—” right before any coherent thought escapes him and he comes on Jimin’s dick.

He comes with Jimin pounding hard inside of him, with Jimin’s name rubbing raw at his throat, and knows that someday soon, this is going to have to become a conversation with words and not their bodies.

Chapter 6: when we want to hide (and be seen) (namjoon + yoongi/jungkook)

Summary:

He knows what this looks like. Drinking in a Cheongdam bar that charges everyone a cover charge except him—except him and Namjoon—at a secluded, high top table with Jeon Jungkook under his arm and his business partner watching intently on the other side. A clutter of glasses, bourbon and scotch bottles, tiny bowls of peanuts and dry, overpriced vegetable appetizers. It’s not anybody’s fucking business, but he knows how it comes across. He and Namjoon made the executive decision to sign Jungkook to their music label two years ago. Two point five years ago he was in Jungkook’s DMs and Jungkook was in his Pyeonchang penthouse, naked and panting.

Notes:

cw: voyeurism

“Yoongi-yah,” Jungkook slides up next to him at the high-top bar table, a teetering glass of raspberry martini sloshing in his hand. Yoongi immediately slides a paper coaster over so Jungkook can deposit it without smearing condensation on the glossy cherry oak. “They said it was on the house. Isn’t that nice?”

Yoongi can feel Namjoon burning holes into his eye sockets from across the table when he curls an arm around Jungkook’s minuscule waist, tugging him close to his side. “Yeah? You look at them with those pretty eyes and told them to put it on my tab?”

Jungkook’s face is flushed sweetly, bottom lip red and wet from the raspberry. “Didn’t get the chance,” he says, almost shy. He pivots so they’re chest to chest, blinking down as Yoongi stares pointedly at his mouth. Chin tipping so their noses line up, he continues, softly, “they jus—just told me to take it.”

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, arm tightening to tug Jungkook impossibly closer. “Perks of being gorgeous.”

He knows what this looks like. Drinking in a Cheongdam bar that charges everyone a cover charge except him—except him and Namjoon—at a secluded, high top table with Jeon Jungkook under his arm and his business partner watching intently on the other side. A clutter of glasses, bourbon and scotch bottles, tiny bowls of peanuts and dry, overpriced vegetable appetizers. It’s not anybody’s fucking business, but he knows how it comes across. He and Namjoon made the executive decision to sign Jungkook to their music label two years ago. Two point five years ago he was in Jungkook’s DMs and Jungkook was in his Pyeonchang penthouse, naked and panting.

Jungkook is wearing a cropped, leather jacket and black jeans that look painted on, Yoongi is in a camel, Balmain trench coat, and Jungkook tips Yoongi’s head back by the hair on his nape to stick his tongue into his mouth. Yoongi, lashes fluttering, slackens his jaw so Jungkook can fit. He sticks his own tongue out and immediately they’re kissing filthily, open-mouthed, Jungkook doing those tiny, absent whines that drive Yoongi up the wall.

The bar is busy but dark, light fixtures dimmed, wood and burgundy furniture positioned throughout. Some kind of instrumental jazz carries throughout laughter and conversation. Their table is close to a corner, beside a liquor display. Namjoon stands with his own glass of bourbon, staring as Jungkook tilts his head and Yoongi gets two hands underneath Jungkook’s leather jacket, roaming.

“Pretty Jungkookie gets whatever he wants,” Yoongi says in-between, voice rattling deep with arousal, “is that right? Jungkook-ah?”

“Hyung—“

“I’m hyung now?” Yoongi tightens his grip on Jungkook’s waist, laughter rumbling in his chest, and laps over Jungkook’s lips, between them.

He can feel Namjoon watching. It’s not exactly new—he’d once sat on an adjacent couch at their resort on Jeju while Yoongi lied between Jungkook’s legs, swallowing his cock down into his throat. They had some critically-acclaimed film on that Yoongi couldn’t pay attention to, eyes drawn to where Jungkook’s thighs filled out his jeans.

Namjoon sat, quiet as their five-million won Masai giraffe sculpture, while Jungkook squirmed and whimpered, knuckles shoved between his teeth in a poor attempt to muffle his own sounds. And when he came into Yoongi’s mouth, Namjoon’d cleared his throat, stood up with his wine, and asked, “Want another glass?”

Now, Namjoon still says nothing. Yoongi ignores him, gropes one of Jungkook’s asscheeks as Jungkook whines into their kiss.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook says when he pulls back. Face so pink and wet, fucked out by a tiny bit of making out. Has to be Yoongi’s favorite part about him.

“Let’s call the car?” Namjoon asks. His voice sounds scratchy, dry.

Yoongi gives Jungkook a long, contemplative look. He’s so fucking pretty, dark fringe in his face, hair long enough to scrape over his shoulders. Pretty, talented boy.

“Let’s call th’car,” Yoongi agrees.

 

 

He was wrong. Fucking Jungkook is his favorite part about him—outside of his capabilities beyond his bedroom. The dichotomy of shyness with his visceral reactions to pleasure, as if the mewls and whines come out of him as their own corporeal form instead of sounds created by him. Eyes shaping from round to crescents as his brain tries to make sense of Yoongi’s fingers crooking inside of him, rubbing where he likes it best.

Yoongi doesn’t like to go too fast. He likes to take it slow, stretched thin thin thin to salvage every huff of breath, every time Jungkook’s thick thighs tremble around his waist.

He likes it slow. Missionary so he can categorize Jungkook’s expressions and file it away. Tuck it somewhere safe to return to when he’s feeling particularly horny and Jungkook is off on schedules.

Jungkook performs on stage and performs in bed. A performance that seems to be taken away from him, arousal molding him into someone new. Someone that he doesn’t seem to recognize. Yoongi is a mix between hyung and please in bed. He scrambles for purchase on Yoongi’s forearms when Yoongi rocks himself inside of him just right, maintaining that pressure on Jungkook’s prostate just to drive him wild, to see how his skeleton peels from his skin and breathes life of its own.

Hair damp and creating rivulets of obsidian on his temples, his jaw. A pretty shape so perfect on the backdrop of Yoongi’s off-white, silk sheets. Namjoon sits in the corner with an untouched book and his second glass of wine as Yoongi rocks and swivels inside of Jungkook’s heat.

“Prettiest I’ve ever seen,” Yoongi pants. Jungkook shapes him into an honest man. Jungkook’s honesty in bed feeds into Yoongi’s desire to please. To fill Jungkook with himself high enough that it topples out through Jungkook’s eyes. Adoration for him that’s reciprocated. “Jungkook. So pretty. Say it.”

“Pretty,” Jungkook’s voice is more of an exhale, shuddered out in a frequency so pleasant Yoongi wants it in a song. “‘M pretty.”

“That’s right. That’s right.” He rocks harder, jostling Jungkook’s body up the bed.

Fuck. Perfect, Yoongi wants to say. He doesn’t—but he wants to. Fucking Jungkook gives him the same world-rocking high that drinking does, has him talking nonstop, never wanting to shut up. Namjoon’s told him he’s getting too attached, once. That nothing good comes out of his clear bias for Jungkook, fighting to get him more sets and airtime anywhere producers will accept him.

So, he doesn’t call him perfect. Namjoon is watching, dead quiet and not touching himself but clearly hard; Jungkook is staring up into Yoongi’s eyes as if he’s the only person in the room. In this reality; and Yoongi understands that Jungkook stares at everyone this way—as if he were a little bit in love, a little bit enamored—but not everyone gets to see that glitter in his eyes as they fuck him.

“Hyung,” Jungkook tips his head up to whine, the long, wet line of his throat bared. Yoongi resists the urge to nip and kiss at it, because he needs pristine skin for the public, can’t even risk the makeup noonas seeing them. There are some things that must be kept to themselves. “Right—there—“

Yoongi keeps Jungkook to himself. Namjoon slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats as Jungkook’s moans take a more desperate quality, his hips angling to take Yoongi’s cock deeper, deeper, breaths starting and stopping in jolts.

He won’t see him for another month. He’s going on a mini-tour with his manger and team, and Yoongi and Namjoon, of course, have work to do at the company building. They won’t be seeing one another for another month, so—so Yoongi touches anywhere, everywhere. Thumbs at the mole beneath Jungkook’s lip (his favorite mole, always his favorite), gets his palms over Jungkook’s pecs, teases those pretty nipples.

Sweaty bodies sliding together, strong legs holding him at the small of his back. “Yeah?” Yoongi licks his lips. “Right there?” He rolls upwards, listens to Jungkook make the prettiest little cry.

“Yeah,” Jungkook pants, “yeah, hyung, there—“

“I got you,” Yoongi murmurs. He does what Jungkook wants, not thrusting but rocking, sliding, and is rewarded with those disembodied moans. “There you go.”

“Love your—cock,” Jungkook slurs. There’s a distant shit from Namjoon in the corner, but JK and Yoongi continue on, undeterred. “Fits inside me—good—ah, hyung—“

“Fits you?”

“Made for me,” Jungkook laughs a little, as if it’s an embarrassing revelation—but a revelation nonetheless.

Yoongi wants to kiss him. Never wants to stop kissing him, let the heat melt them into one person. YoongiandJungkook. “Made for me,” Yoongi repeats, slow, tacky. “Jungkook-ah.”

Namjoon is definitely touching himself now. Yoongi can hear the shlick shlick of the lube he must’ve used, can see the rhythmic movements in his periphery. And he’s had sex with Jungkook a few times without Namjoon present—but Namjoon likes to watch, Yoongi doesn’t mind being watched, and Jungkook seems to really love it. Even if he hardly looks over to where Namjoon is, he’s always loved a bit of an audience.

Makes me feel dirty, Jungkook shyly admitted once. Like… like you guys bought my services or. Something.

Yoongi wanted to insist that that wasn’t the dynamic they were trying for. But. If it’s something Jungkook’s into—and it seems it is—he’ll give that him.

“Gonna,” Jungkook starts, stops, “gonna come. I think—I think I’m coming—“

Yoongi focuses his attention on Jungkook’s prostate, finding that angle by sitting up and hoisting Jungkook’s legs over his hips. It’s not an easy position to maintain—Jungkook is muscular and Yoongi’s lower body strength is quite poor—but he ignores the burn to thrust, steady and relentless. Jungkook snatches the sheets to hold on for dear life, but with them being slippery and loose it’s Yoongi’s large hands that keep him on his cock.

“Want you to come,” Yoongi says, “c’mon. Lemme see you come.” Neither of them reach for Jungkook’s weeping dick. They’ve done it a few times before, made Jungkook come without touching him. It’s usually overwhelming for him, but he says it’s good. A type of intensity that building somewhere deep in his groin. Throbbing, pulsating. Yoongi reaches out to shove his wet fringe out of his eyes, his perfectly manicured brows.

They move as one. Namjoon is panting lightly, his own rhythm picking up. Yoongi is so focused on Jungkook’s pleasure that his own orgasm comes to him as a shock. One thrust he’s watching Jungkook’s cock pulse, off-white dribbles of come leaking from the slit—the next few thrusts he’s gasping himself, pouring into the condom.

“Yoongi—hyung, hyung, hy—“ Jungkook’s eyes go all glassy and faraway when he comes. He holds tight onto Yoongi’s forearms. Come pools in his navel, in the striations of his abs. Yoongi stares in a daze as his own body trembles, overwhelmed. Drowning.

He curls over, lays on top of Jungkook as Jungkook’s legs fall off of his hips and flop, useless.

Jungkook’s heavy breaths jostle his upper body. And with his ear to his chest, Yoongi can hear the jump to his heartbeat, still racing from the remnants of his orgasm.

Namjoon is padding across the room when they reorient, his sweats now up. He’s breathing a little hard, too. Yoongi and Namjoon meet eyes for a brief moment before Namjoon offers tight smile and a, “Gotta make a call.”

Then he’s slipping out and Yoongi is left with the pitter of Jungkook’s heart, strong arms around his waist.

“Shower?” Jungkook asks, voice soft and sleepy.

He’s going to miss. If for thirty days only, he’ll miss him.

“Let’s go.” Yoongi forces himself up and off.

Chapter 7: when we want more (taehyung/jimin)

Summary:

Jimin wants to peel skin from brittle bones.

Notes:

cw: (brief) hyung kink, purity kink, face-fucking, handjobs

Taehyung always looks at Jimin like it’s the first time all over again. Mouth hanging open, eyes wet. His body lax as Jimin gets a hand on his dick and strokes at him. Like no one’s ever touched his dick before, not until now, when Jimin’s short fingers wrapped around his girth, and he’s overwhelmed with how new it is. A fresh scab peeled away—raw, too open.

Jimin loves that expression more than he’s willing to admit. Though he’s admitted to a lot. In Jimin’s bed, lying side by side, Jimin gives Taehyung’s dick gentle squeezes and giggles, breathy, “So cute,” when Taehyung releases a tiny whimper, legs quivering. Like no one has ever touched him. Jimin’s hand under the front of his loose boxers, neither of them able to see how he works Taehyung’s length. Coaxing, gently pressing until he fills out, warm, in Jimin’s palm.

“Jimin-ah,” Taehyung’s voice is high and low at once, almost a rasp. Tilted in a question. His legs spread farther open, hips twitching as if he wants to rock up into Jimin’s slow pace but doesn’t know how. If that’s something people do, when they’re receiving a handjob. “Ah,” he sighs, eyes fluttering, mouth still hanging.

At 10 a.m., Taehyung looks like a dream. Fuzzy around the edges, outlined in the yellow of a young sun. His hair is dark and pin-straight, fringe hanging in his lashes. The crown and back of his head is frazzled from lying on his pillow. And Jimin has his laptop open between their bodies, a new episode of the romcom they’ve been watching on. They were too tired to catch up last night, so Taehyung made him promise they’d watch it first thing in the morning.

It’s almost twenty minutes into the episode when Jimin realizes he can’t fight himself anymore. Because Taehyung is always soft—but he’s especially unguarded in the morning. Smile and laugh fragile, a hatchling shaking out its premature wings. But if Taehyung in the morning is a fragile little bird, Taehyung in the morning—when another person has their hands on his body—is malleable enough to leak through Jimin’s fingers. Jimin wants to peel skin from brittle bones.

“Good?” Jimin asks. Not because he doesn’t already know the answer, but because he likes to hear Taehyung try to speak through his pleasure.

Taehyung’s, “Good,” is pinched. His fists twist the comforter into roses, and his hips shutter, restrained. “Jimi—” His eyebrows twist all wrong, eyes moving underneath the thin skin of his lids.

On screen, the female lead is arguing with someone—a coworker, Jimin thinks—and in his bed, Taehyung is panting and whimpering low in his throat. Open for Jimin to squeeze through, live inside of him.

“Pretty,” Jimin whispers, “talk to me.”

Taehyung’s grip pulses around the sheets. “Like it,” he whimpers, husky and lost and so achingly pure, “Y’—you make me feel good.”

Jimin slows his pace to reach over to his nightstand and pull out his travel bottle of lube. He’s been using his spit and Taehyung’s precome, but the drag is getting dry and he knows Taehyung likes it with a bit of slip. Taehyung’s lids are heavy as he watches him, plump bottom lip caught between his teeth. A mix of sensual and demure that makes Jimin want to break him into pieces. Into something bite-sized enough to swallow whole.

He squeezes a healthy dollop into his palm, says, “Take it off,” while tilting his head down.

Taehyung takes a few, stuttery breaths—always so affected by a little bit of touching—before he lifts his hips up and takes his boxers off.

“Gonna do this for you ‘n then you’re gonna do something for me, okay?” Jimin says. Taehyung is already nodding when he gets his hand back on him and pumps slow, firm.

A moan breaks through as if Taehyung can’t contain it, almost a sob. His eyebrows furrow and he nods, nods again, whispers, “Yeah, yeah, an—anything—”

“I wanna fuck your mouth,” Jimin whispers back. He catalogues Taehyung’s expression as he works his dick, twists at the head to feel Taehyung’s slender thighs tremble beneath his forearm.

“Okay,” Taehyung says, “okay, okay, I can—” He lifts his hands as if to touch, immediately lowers them when Jimin fixes him with a challenging stare.

Jimin giggles softly. “Cute.” And then he picks up the pace. Wrist flicking, long strokes that cover the entire long, narrow girth of Taehyung’s cock—and Taehyung collapses. This is what Jimin’s wanted: skin peeled away, precome and pleasure leaking between his fingers. Taehyung’s face is a little damp, sun catching on the sharp and gentle planes of his nose, jaw.

“Pretty,” Jimin repeats. Captivating. He doesn’t watch his own hand melt Taehyung into someone new; he watches Taehyung’s expressions flitter. From overwhelmed to almost pained, panting and murmuring under his heavy breaths. Approximations of words rolling around his mouth like marbles even as his jaw hangs open.

It makes Jimin feel—Jimin feels powerful. Taehyung makes him feel competent, capable of rendering somebody into their most basic components with nothing more than a twist of his arm. How can Taehyung be so raw? How can he let Jimin fold him?

He’s so focused he nearly misses Taehyung’s rasped hyung. It doesn’t make him falter, but his rhythm breaks a bit, a jolt on the upstroke that has Taehyung heave out a sob.

They’ve done it sometimes. Taehyung edged into this fuzzy, early morning space where he calls Jimin his hyung, where he’s so receptive to anything Jimin says or does that he’s left speechless. And Jimin can see that he’s teetering, wedged between two realities. Jimin eases him back.

“Hyung wants you to come,” Jimin says. Another wet downstroke and Taehyung’s body locks up, lashes scraping his cheekbone as he coils into himself. Jimin uses his free hand to ease him against the headboard by his chest. He wants to see everything. Everything—Taehyung whimpering deep in his throat, how his muscles leap, how his come leaks out with his sanity. (Captivating.) “So cute, Taehyung-ah. Never met someone as cute as you.”

Taehyung makes another cute sound, mouth tilting in a smile. “Liar,” he manages to pant.

“Really,” Jimin says. He eases off of Taehyung’s flagging dick, blindly wipes it on the comforter since he planned to wash them after this anyway. Taehyung is slumped against the headboard, eyes still closed as he catches his breath. “Did you know? Every time I touch you, you act like no one has ever touched you before. It’s adorable.”

Taehyung makes an airy laugh. “Feels like it.”

“All sweet and untouched little Taehyungie.”

More laughter. His skin is gleaming, wet. “‘M not.”

“I know,” Jimin says, “I’ve corrupted you.” He gives a light slap on Taehyung’s thigh and sits up. “Lemme fuck your face now.”

 

 

 

However innocent Taehyung may seem when Jimin has him, he’s downright pornographic at using his mouth to get him off. Jimin’s favorite position is with Taehyung on his back, head hanging off of the mattress, because if Jimin fucks in just right he can see the soft bulge of his cock peek out through Taehyung’s throat.

And that’s what he tries to do. Neither of them bothered to stop the auto-play, so their TV show is on some random episode, chattering about in the backdrop—but that comes secondary to the filthy sounds Taehyung makes, involuntary, when Jimin sinks in and breaches muscle. The position is a bit awkward because Jimin has to crouch a little, engaging his thigh muscles, and he has both hands wrapped under Taehyung’s jaw to keep him in place.

They know how this works by now. Jimin has free reign, stops only if Taehyung taps on his leg, and Taehyung has to keep his hands tucked under the small of his back. Phlegm leaks out with every pump of Jimin’s hips. Taehyung’s body instinctually fights the intrusion, jackhammering up, retching, and still Taehyung fights instinct to give himself to Jimin.

“Fuck, you’re,” Jimin moans, breaks. It’s embarrassing how hard he’s breathing, eyes focused on where his cock bulges rhythmically. But Taehyung’s mouth is hot, hot, hot, and the wet slide of his girth over Taehyung’s outstretched tongue has his orgasm climbing fast. “Perfect, you’re perfect, that’s—right—”

He pulls out on the next thrust to give Taehyung time to breathe. Strokes his filthy cock while rubbing the filth of phlegm and saliva away from Taehyung’s lash line. How can one man be so pretty, even now?

“Okay?” Jimin asks. He slows the rhythm of his own hand before he comes somewhere that isn’t in Taehyung, on him.

Taehyung nods. He keeps his hands where they’re supposed to be, keeps his eyes closed. “Ready.” And he opens his wet, red mouth.

This is the Taehyung behind his skin.

Jimin wordlessly feeds him his cock. Lets him feel the weight of him. Taehyung cradles his cock in the curve of his tongue, lets his jaw go slack, and waits.

“God, you’re pretty,” Jimin says. He’s awed. At a loss of words more meaningful than pretty.

He doesn’t say anything else. Jimin holds Taehyung’s neck under his jaw with both hands again, crouches to the right level, and returns to that punishing cadence. Taehyung retches, fights his body fighting the face-fuck, and then gives up. Jimin gives in.

“Wanna come on your face, Taehyung-ah,” Jimin groans. “All over your—filthy fucking face.”

Taehyung can’t answer, but his complacency is answer enough.

That’s all it takes. Jimin thrusts a few more times, feeling his orgasm crash over him, then tugs out, fucks his fist—and unravels.

Chapter 8: when we have options (taehyung/namjoon)

Summary:

His dreams often blend together. He doesn’t have them often, but when he’s wracked with—something, some weight, some emotion—they leak into his moments of rest. It’s been three days since Donghyuck offered him a show in Daegu, and it’s been two nights since that he’s thought of Taehyung without his own permission. A constant reminder that his body isn’t his alone.

Notes:

messaging/semi-texting, (brief) authority kink.

Kim Namjoon 

I’m gonna be in daegu tomorrow night 

[11:32 p.m.]

Kimtae

Really? 

Tomorrow? 

[11:39 p.m.]

 

Kim Namjoon 

Yeah. Whatre you gonna be up to? Open? 

[11:41 p.m.]

Kimtae 

Gotta work early the next morning. 

Youre performing 

?

[11:50 p.m.]

Kim Namjoon 

Yeah, in junggu. Egg, 1am. 

I can get you in if you wanna come out for a few hours.

[11:51 p.m.]

Kimtae 

Idk. i have to be up by 6am. 

You know im cranky if i dont get at least 5 hours keke 

[11:52 p.m.] 

 

Namjoon leans his head against the headboard of his bed, blinking slowly out into the murky dark of his room. There are at least five different projects he should be chipping away at tonight, but he’s had this restlessness eating him since Donghyuck first invited him to feature on his Daegu set. It’s all very last minute, as it often is with their line of work— hey, I need help at this place at this time and I’ll compensate you well. Hey, you need this publicity as much as I do; it’d be in your best interest to show your face with me (that has never been true) . And then, more desperate: Namjoon-nim, please —

He’d let Donghyuck prattle on and on until he tired himself out, already knowing the second he asked that he’d say yes and work on his only day off in months. There’s only one person worth going to Daegu for, only one person that gave him dark eyes as they slipped their shirt off their shoulders, bearing themselves for a taste. Only one. 

Kim Namjoon 

I keep having this dream from when we were both in itaewon 

At soap. Remember? 

[11:54 p.m.]

Kimtae 

Ive been there like ten times 

[11:54 p.m.]

Kim Namjoon

You only met me there once. I know you remember. 

[11:55 p.m.]

There’s a long moment of Namjoon staring, unblinking, at his phone until the screen dims. Then, when it brightens: 

Kimtae

Yeah. But what about it 

You saw me before i saw you 

[12:01 a.m.] 

Kim Namjoon 

My dream went a little different. 

But dreams are always a little different from reality keke. 

[12:02 a.m.]

Namjoon’s aircon clicks and whirrs to life. He tugs his blanket higher up on his legs, right underneath where his boxers begin, leaves one hand on his upper thigh while tapping at his phone with the other one. 

Kim Namjoon  

I was standing up at my booth when I saw you. There were way too many people but I could see you out in the crowd. And you were already looking at me. Your eyes are always really intense but you really had it out for me. Like you were shooting a laser right through my skull. 

[12:09 a.m.]

Your hair all in your face in that way that makes you look so sexy. And there’s blue lights against your skin, and you’re wearing that versace blouse. People passing by but everytime my vision is left unobscured, there’s you, staring. 

[12:15 a.m.]

Kimtae

I didnt have the blouse yet 

You gave it to me weeks after soap 

[12:19 a.m.]

 

Taehyung in soft golds and browns, expensive material accentuating the taper at his waist, the way his shoulders slope out, broad and yet slender. The first few buttons undone, a pervasive tease for any man that stumbles into his gravitational pull. And he’s standing there, swaying in a crowd, staring through his mess of waves and catching Namjoon, too. Men have burned down countries for less. Namjoon’s world burnt for Taehyung. 

 

Kim Namjoon

I know, baby 

But dream you had it on. 

And your hair was longer like it is now. You didn’t cut it yet, did you?

[12:20 a.m.]

Kimtae

No 

You like it 

[12:22 a.m.]

 

Not even a question, but—

Kim Namjoon 

I do

So much. 

[12:22 a.m.]

But you like it, too. Same way I did in real life, I got dream you into VIP. Took you back to my place and fucked you over the couch with my hands in your hair. 

[12:23 a.m.]

Kimtae

Ah 

Not just in my hair. 

Felt like you were gonna leave me bald 

[12:24 a.m.]

Kim Namjoon

Sorry 

kekeke

I don’t know my own strength 

[12:24 a.m.]

 

Kimtae

You do 

[12:25 a.m.]

 

Namjoon huffs a breathless laugh, fingertips brushing over where he’s chubbing up. 

 

Kim Namjoon

I do. Sometimes.

You should come out. Just a few hours. 

[12:26 a.m.]

Kimtae

You want me to come out so you can fuck me. 

[12:26 a.m.] 

Kim Namjoon 

Not only that. But of course I wanna fuck you 

You’re gorgeous taehyung-ah 

Who wouldnt want to fuck you?

[12:28 a.m.]

 

Kimtae

Don’t care about who else would 

Let me know when you land 

I’ll come by the hotel but im not going to egg 

[12:32 a.m.] 

 

Oh, cute. So, so cute. Namjoon remembers. How could he forget? 

Kim Namjoon 

I will. 

Pick up when I call you this time. 

[12:35 a.m.]

Kimtae

Yes, Kim Namjoon seonsaengnim. Won’t happen again. See you tomorrow 

[Ryan reclining sticker] 

[12:39 a.m.] 

 

Namjoon gives a Muzi thumbs up sticker before sitting his phone down on the nightstand and leaning back. 

His dreams often blend together. He doesn’t have them often, but when he’s wracked with—something, some weight, some emotion—they leak into his moments of rest. It’s been three days since Donghyuck offered him a show in Daegu, and it’s been two nights since that he’s thought of Taehyung without his own permission. A constant reminder that his body isn’t his alone. 

From the night of blue ambiance and Taehyung’s heavy eyes—light catching in the dark sweep of his lashes—to another night, on another day, when Taehyung stood before him like ripe meat ready to be ravished, Versace blouse sliding off his shoulders. Then, slicing through and getting into the flesh, Namjoon leaning over Taehyung’s folded body and kissing at the beauty mark at Taehyung’s waterline. Their skin pressed together wherever they left themselves raw, Taehyung’s hair sweeping across Namjoon’s hotel pillow the same way his lashes sweep across the landscape of his face. 

Namjoon came the hardest when Taehyung’s loose tongue slipped from hyung to Namjoon-ssi . Namjoon-ssi, Namjoon-ssi, said in a husk, wanton, as Namjoon rucked up into Taehyung and came. 

In reality, it’s no different. Namjoon wakes up with Taehyung’s voice in his ear, frantically tugging at his cock as he remembers. Real life into dreams translated into reality again. He’s had his fill in Incheon, in Seoul, in Daejeon— 

But there’s only one in Daegu.

Chapter 9: when we discover something new (taehyung/namjoon)

Summary:

namjoon moves into taehyung's family house/business for university.

Notes:

moved from twt to this drabble.

keywords: mutual masturbation, 'no, it was an accident, i swear-', hair pulling.

Namjoon has lived his entire life in an apartment complex. A three bed two bath in Ilsan with his younger sister and parents, his high school a few blocks away and hagwon a ten-minute bus ride. There are facts about his life that he’s tried not to take for granted, tried not to become complacent or—ignorant about. One, undeniably true: he’s gifted. Academically, financially, and otherwise. His father is a pathologist for NHIS Ilsan Hospital and his mother works in research management. Everything he’s ever wanted is at the tip of his fingers, as long as he goes to school and receives high marks.

That’s never been an issue.

But, Namjoon isn’t sure how it comes across, wanting to experience a different kind of life for university. If it’s entitled, or—or pretentious, somehow, to inquire about alternative living. Something humble, something that lies in stark contrast to the life his parents have built for him.

The opportunity rolls onto his lap once he learns that his suneung score is high enough to earn him an acceptance to his top choice’s medical program, SNU. And instead of going on the search for studio apartments or on-campus housing, Namjoon asks if he can live with a family friend. An old classmate of his mother’s that married into difficult, humble work, juggling raising three kids and helping her husband with the family business—a chicken shop. Fast Chimaek.

They live in Sillim, his mother had told him, wearily eyeing him over the pages of his book. Are you sure?

“It’s, like, 20 minutes from SNU,” Namjoon’d argued. “It’s fine. If I don’t like it, I can always move out.”

Thankfully, her friend has no problems with it. The more the merrier. And, finally, Namjoon is given the chance to live not in an apartment, but on the second story of a chicken shop, sleeping in blankets because they only have a tiny space heater and their floors aren’t heated; the smell of frying oil trapped in his nostrils as the kitchen sits right below his cramped living space; voices heard loud and clear through the walls because they’re thin and not insulated.

Honest living. Namjoon doesn’t say that, because he isn’t stupid—he can hear how insulting and, frankly, condescending it sounds—but he thinks it. Thinks it as he comes home from lectures to a bustling restaurant, slipping out of his day clothes and tugging on an apron. Helping the eldest son, Taehyung, bus tables, carry the bottles of corn syrup out of storage, wash the chicken breasts to rip them into smaller pieces for dakgangjeong.

“When they ask for a more mild sauce,” Taehyung tells him one day, “you have to just mix a separate bowl and add two parts soy sauce, one part gochujang.” He demonstrates for Namjoon, whose hands are busy soaking the chicken in vinegar in the deep sink. “I like it better that way, too.”

“Parts? Like—what kind of measurements? 10ml?”

Taehyung stares at him blankly. Behind him, Eunjin and Jeonggyu are frying on the stove space, simultaneously arguing over who did the most cooking tonight. “Uh,” he says. “Like this?” He demonstrates by turning the bottle of soy sauce over, pouring a healthy amount before setting it down. “Two parts.”

Unhelpful. But, “Gotcha,” Namjoon says, “thanks.”

Taehyung is—sweet. A little exuberant, sometimes eerily quiet, sometimes talkative. A mixed bag of a person that Namjoon, two months in, has yet to get a handle of. They share the same room in the extra storage space upstairs because there are only so many rooms, and Taehyung’s mother said that the grown men should sleep together.

And so they sleep together. Namjoon started on the floor, wrapped up in three different blankets donated to him by Taehyung because it’s cold as fuck at night even with the space heater humming along. A month in, Taehyung whined at him and said, “Ah, hyung, just—come up here. I know it’s cramped. Just, you’re shaking.”

“M not,” Namjoon said, shaking.

Taehyung shot him a hard look, dark hair already a messy wave around his face. “Up. Come, come.”

That’s how Namjoon went from sleeping on his own, quite spacious mattress to a twin-sized one with another, adult man. Namjoon has never enjoyed sleeping with another person. Call him, again, uppity, but it’s a personal preference of his.

But, Taehyung is a personal space heater, and when he clings to Namjoon it’s nice to have the extra warmth. So—much like this entire living arrangement, Namjoon tolerates it.

A schedule is born. Help Taehyung’s family prep for another workday by bringing whatever ingredients are needed out of storage, then go to lectures, study for a few hours at the campus library, then return to work the closing shift. They realize quick that Namjoon can barely mix corn syrup and rice wine together without knocking the entire thing onto the floor; he then takes on the task of the cash register and washing chicken during a rush.

Then, at nights, he’s wrapped up in three blankets and Taehyung’s body. He’s grown accustomed to that one. The fried oil smell? He hasn’t and maybe never will.

 

Namjoon’s life changes fast. Everything about it. From living in Ilsan in a three bedroom to above Fast Chimaek in a maybe-two-bedroom-if-you-try-hard-enough. From spending his weekends studying and reading his father’s medical books to spending them buying potato starch, gochujang, and brown sugar in bulk.

—From having a high school girlfriend that he met because they rode the same bus home and he picked her hair tie up for her one day (she was handing out advertisements in front of Olive Young and he knew an opportune moment when he saw one) to sharing a mattress and orgasms with another man in the middle of the night.

The shared orgasms, honestly, isn’t the most shocking turn of event. He—he just has an overactive libido. Too overactive for his own good. And in the comfort of his own room, he was able to jerk a quick one whenever he wanted. And truly whenever he wanted. But now he shares a bathroom with three other people, and he’s seldom if ever alone since Taehyung (everyone) works where he (they) lives, and he can’t masturbate when Taehyung is tucked so close to him, snoring away.

Of course, it’s Taehyung that breaches those waters first. “If you don’t wanna see this,” he’d said, reaching into the front of his boxers, “jus—just go sit in storage for a few minutes. I’ll be quick.”

Namjoon was paralyzed to the spot. He’d been horny for so long, fighting his natural instincts, trying not to jerk it in the library bathrooms like a fucking pervert—and here Taehyung is, so boldly stating that he wanted to jerk off and Namjoon had the option to watch or go.

He didn’t go. It should’ve been weird. Taehyung staring at him, philtrum wet from exertion, hand moving rhythmically under his boxers as Namjoon gaped. Gaped and watched. He saw it all: Taehyung’s face contorting, his brows tucking close, lips parted on silent moans. Not always silent.

After he came, it was systematic. He rolled out of bed, snatched some tissues from the box underneath the frame (Namjoon now knew what those were there for, if he didn’t already, and hopped back on, turning over to go to sleep. No questions asked.

So… normal that Namjoon hadn’t even tried to spark a conversation about it later. He accepted it, and they resumed their daily lives.

Until it happened again. The same, “If you don’t wanna see, storage,” before Taehyung whined into the blankets with Namjoon right beside him, book held loosely in one hand, and fucked into his fist. Namjoon watched the entire time. He’d never seen another man masturbate before—not in person. Not even in porn (he doesn’t watch solo masturbation clips of men).

A few days later and Taehyung said it again. Did it again.

Namjoon had to finally admit to himself that he was getting hard every time. Every single time. He never did anything about it—but it was happening, under those layers of blankets.

It became a new part of their routine. At least once or twice a week, Taehyung and Namjoon stared at one another as Taehyung got off.

The first time Namjoon can’t take it anymore—shoving his own hand beneath his shorts to wrap shaky fingers around his cock—Taehyung has advanced to humping a free pillow. More like rolls, hips undulating while Taehyung gasps and whines in his low timbre. Taehyung licks his lips and lets out a breathless giggle when Namjoon groans before he’s able to stop himself.

“Good, right?” Taehyung sighs, rhythm picking up.

Namjoon can only nod, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, book forgotten on the other side of him, hanging off of the narrow bed.

Neither last very long. Namjoon finds himself terrifyingly aroused by Taehyung’s desperate sounds, and—Namjoon has months of pent-up energy to release.

He releases it into his hands. Thick ropes, orgasm seemingly endless.

“Everyone is so fucking nosy,” Taehyung says when Namjoon resurfaces, “so I tell them I drooled on my pillow. Works every time, cos it’s kinda true.” He demonstrates by tugging the pillowcase off and chucking it over to the laundry pile. “Or—I get ahead of them and offer to wash.”

Namjoon isn’t sure what to say. Taehyung treats this like he does everything else: another day, another routine. Now with Namjoon in his living space, seeing such intimate parts of him.

“Smart,” he tries.

Things progress. Morning set-up to lectures to night shift to masturbating with Taehyung. Rinse and repeat. Elbows jostling as they make it work on the twin bed, Taehyung’s airy laughter that shouldn’t be so fucking sexy. Namjoon questioning his entire relationship history while also questioning nothing at all. In times of peril, people adapt.

Right?

Right. He’s adapting. That’s why, instead of porn via his VPN, he watches Taehyung. Touches himself while Taehyung touches himself, too. Faces centimeters apart when they’re both lying on their backs, Taehyung’s head facing Namjoon.

“I think—I like it,” Taehyung breathes, volume tilting too close to too loud.

Namjoon twists his fist at his cockhead, stutters a groan. Taehyung’s fringe is a little wet from his shower, hanging in his lashes. God, those long eyelashes. “Like what?”

“You. You watching me. You don’t even blink.” Taehyung’s voice breaks into a mix between a moan and a laugh.

This close, Namjoon can see everything. The light sheen on his skin where the street lamp touches, leaking in from the tiny window above the bed; the mole on his bottom lip, on his nose. Namjoon especially loves the one on his waterline. Pretty. Taehyung is beautiful.

Namjoon has seen and acknowledged handsome men before—but Taehyung registers differently, in his mess of a head.

“You’re shameless,” Namjoon says. He recognizes that it sounds like a diss, but it’s not. It’s so, so not. “Like you want me to watch.”

“I do.” Taehyung’s tongue dips out, wetting his mouth. “You look at me like you want to eat me.”

You do, too, Namjoon wants to say. “Pretty,” Namjoon says.

It’s cold, but the room is sticky, damp. Namjoon’s fucking his cock hard, stoking the flames of his rising orgasm; Taehyung’s eyes flick from where Namjoon is touching himself to his eyes and back again, speed of his fist slower, steadier.

“Gonna come?” Taehyung whispers. Such a sexy voice. Sexy when bridled with pleasure and when lecturing him on the appropriate portion sizes for yangnyeom.

Namjoon, short of words, nods instead.

“I like the noise you make when you come,” Taehyung tells him, chest heaving. The sound of his hand on his cock is wet, arousing. “High. Di—did you know? Your voice gets high?”

He didn’t. Now he does, though, and he bites his lip harder, only releasing when Taehyung giggles and says, “Don’t try to hide it. Wanna hear you come.”

“Fuck,” Namjoon groans. Taehyung’s lashes flutter, the dark sweep of them gorgeous on his cheekbones. Namjoon wants to see him come.

Taehyung wants to hear Namjoon come and Namjoon wants to hear him. Needs to.

So, for the first time since they’d begun this—new routine—Namjoon breaks the invisible boundary. He uses his free hand to reach over and brush Taehyung’s fringe from his face, freeing his eyes and forehead; and he fucks up into his hand faster, harder, enough to have the springboards whine softly underneath them.

“Hyung,” Taehyung gasps. His own pace has picked up, legs spreading wider, knee knocking into Namjoon’s thigh. “Hyung, ‘m—‘m—“

Namjoon doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t, but he does it, hand jerking up and taking a chunk of Taehyung’s hair with it, forcing Taehyung’s head up and subsequently forcing a cry from his chest.

Even through the impending doom of climax, Namjoon manages to let go and gasp, “I didn’t—I’m sorry I didn’t mean to—“

“Fine,” Taehyung heaves, “it’s fine, do it again, please—hyung, please—“

It takes a few seconds, brain whirring uselessly, before he obeys and snatches Taehyung’s hair again. And Taehyung’s cry is more controlled than the last, but Namjoon does get to hear it again.

He also gets to see Taehyung spill all over his fist, moments before Namjoon comes, too.

They’re so close, too, practically sharing the same breath as they try to regain control of their bodies. Namjoon’s fingers slip through the damp locks of Taehyung’s hair, then pulls away entirely.

It only sinks in a minute later, when Taehyung reaches over to grab his trusty napkins and hand it to Namjoon, that Namjoon helped Taehyung get off. Pulled his hair and listened to his cry, got off to it.

“G’night,” Taehyung says, flopping down onto his side. “I should be able to help open tomorrow, so sleep in, okay?”

Namjoon wonders if this is some kind of gift for his services. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

He listens to Taehyung’s exhales even out. Listens to the mess his heart is making behind his own ribcage.

Chapter 10: when we want to cope (taehyung/namjoon)

Summary:

namjoon enlists his friend/FWB taehyung to piss off his family for his birthday.

Notes:

moved from twt to ao3.

keywords: fake dating, birthday sex

additionally: blowjob/face-fucking, referenced homophobia.

Namjoon has accepted that he’s not as mature as he masquerades himself being. Instead, his immaturity has evolved, grown with him, adapts to its environment. Reshaped from hide all the umbrellas when the forecast calls for rain after an argument with your sister at 16 years old to ‘forget’ to remind your friend about the homework assignment after they embarrass you in front of the entire class at 20 years old to—

Bring your ‘boyfriend’ to the birthday dinner you told your family you didn’t want so that they’ll be disappointed in you and never throw a birthday dinner for you ever again.

It’s foolproof. That’s what he thinks when he tucks his hand into the back pocket of Taehyung’s jeans and tugs him closer to his side, beaming, chest inflating victoriously at the myriad of stunned expressions on his parents’ and sister’s faces.

They’d gone through the awkward greetings when Namjoon showed up with an unannounced Taehyung by his side. They accepted Taehyung’s gift of cookies and fruit, and Namjoon quietly watched as Taehyung complimented the table set-up, how good the meal smelled. When everyone stepped into the kitchen to help grab the final dishes, Namjoon set his plan into action; he took Taehyung by his wrist, gave him the eye, and then guided him to the threshold.

And then—

“Your,” his mother starts and does not finish.

Gyeongmin doesn’t look convinced, despite the perturbed twist to her mouth corners. She’ll be the steepest cliff to climb in this scheme.

But it’s not entirely a lie. Well—mostly it is. There’s a tiny fraction of truth to the declaration, the tiny truth being that he has, in fact, had his hand on Taehyung’s ass before (inside of it, too), and he has had his tongue in his mouth. Several befores. They’re friends, and they’ve all had flings. His parents are a bit conservative and don’t understand the dating scene, cannot comprehend the fact that Namjoon has had his tongue in many of his friends’ mouths.

He’s made out with Jimin at bars, a few drinks into the night; he’s had Hoseok’s hand on his dick, too, when they’d share a bed after a night out. Taehyung, though, he’s had the most, and Taehyung also happens to be the most willing to fool Namjoon’s parents, so—so Taehyung cheered, “I’m in,” after Namjoon promised him free dinner for a month, and thus the ploy was set in motion. If his parents want to disrespect him and ignore his wishes, then he’ll disrespect and ignore theirs, too.

“You never told us,” his mother continues when no one else says anything. “That…” —you’re dating. That he was coming. That you’re gay.

He feels Taehyung squirm beside him, socked toe pressing over his. “I wanted to surprise you. A—birthday gift for you, too. Since you did this for me,” Namjoon waves his free hand around, vague. Gyeongmin still does not look convinced.

The kitchen returns to silence. Every stress line in his father’s face deepens at once. The only thing that’d make this better is if the plate of fried sweet potatoes slips from his hands and onto the floor.

It doesn’t.

“Thank you for having me,” Taehyung peeps up, quiet and shy.

That seems to slice some of the tension off. His parents may be unreasonable, may be invasive and needy and prying, but the last thing they’d do is act rudely towards a house guest—uninvited or not.

Still, dinner progresses in awkward stop and gos. Whenever Taehyung speaks to Gyeongmin, conversation flows easy; she’s open to him, and it allows room for Namjoon or his parents to slide in with their own commentary. Where Taehyung is from, what his parents do, where he goes to school, what he plans to do once he graduates. They’re kind, but they’re not pleased. About any of it.

Good. Namjoon will accept the scolding at another date. He knows the routine by now: he’ll get a random phone call from his father asking him his weekly schedule, and then they’ll negotiate a time for him to come back and visit. Your mother has something she wants to tell you, he’ll say. And then he’ll get ripped into, he’ll let it simmer until he bursts and argues back, and there’ll be some length of time where they ignore one another until somebody reaches out. The last time took a month; Namjoon is sure this time it’ll take twice or thrice that.

Namjoon and Taehyung are there by eight p.m. and leave by nine-thirty. Things go faster when his mother is upset. She eats so fast Gyeongmin giggles and asks her to slow down as kindly as she can in front of a visitor (are you in a race with yourself? Everyone laughs uncomfortably).

“Come back soon,” she says when they’re toeing their shoes back on at the door. Her arms are crossed tightly across her chest, as if she can fold herself away if she does presses hard enough. “Namjoon-ah, next weekend. Okay?”

“I’ll see if I have to work,” Namjoon mumbles. His shoes already on, he watches as Taehyung tugs his own heel up from where it was squished down (Namjoon insisted on Teahyung showing up with his bare heels out and shoes squished for maximum rudeness, but Taehyung whined and said, “I don’t want them to absolutely hate me; we’re already doing enough to piss them off.”).

“Thank you for having me,” Taehyung says. He bows, then lifts his head to give her a smile.

Her returning smile is tight-lipped, like a crack in cement. “I’m glad to meet you. Take care of our Namjoonie; he’s helpless sometimes.”

“I will,” Taehyung laughs. Namjoon rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother to hide it.

Back at Namjoon’s apartment, Taehyung says, “That has to be,” while shoving the door closed behind him, “the worst dinner I’ve had in… forever. And that’s including the time I threw up in front of my boss and the entire team.”

“Sorry.” Namjoon kicks his oxfords off and steps up past the foyer. “I won’t bother you with this anymore. I just—“ He doesn’t know what he ‘just’. The plan is too unstable, balancing on toothpicks. He’s going to have to tell them that he isn’t actually dating Taehyung eventually—or that they broke up, after he’s through embarrassing them. If nothing else, this will get them off his back for a few months, and then he can re-approach the longterm consequences.

Right now, he’s exhausted and wants to sleep off another shitty birthday.

He’s on his way to his bedroom when two, slender arms slip around his middle and tug him back to a warm chest. Lips ghosting just above the collar of his button-down, Taehyung mutters, “Happy birthday, Namjoon hyung. I didn’t tell you yet.”

Namjoon musters a laugh. He presses his hand on top of one of Taehyung’s. “You told me this morning with the soup. And in the taxi. And at the dinner table. And n—“

“Okay,” Taehyung says, “I didn’t tell you tonight. I also didn’t tell you that you look really sexy in these pants. Your ass looks amazing.”

This time the laugh is more genuine. “Thank you.”

“And…” Taehyung’s voice dips into what Jimin had insisted he put on a Youtube channel—sexy KTH ASMR, Jimin had begged as a title. I can help you make up scenarios where you’re the listeners boyfriend or the ex that got away, or—as he slides a free palm down to Namjoon’s belt buckle. “I didn’t give you your present yet.”

Namjoon feels the hair on his arms tickle, standing to attention. Taehyung’s breath is hot. “This was my present, remember?”

He doesn’t know why he’s arguing. Taehyung’s intentions are clear, and Namjoon is never too tired to pass up sex with Taehyung.

“Shitty present,” Taehyung mutters. Coy fingers play with the belt prong, tugging it free from the hole. “You’re tense. Let your boyfriend of twelve hours relax you.”

“Three years. Three years and twenty-three days, because I graduated in F—“

“Don’t care about the fake timeline. I’m putting your dick in my mouth. Okay?”

That sounds good. Really fucking good. Namjoon licks at his chapped lip and sighs, relinquishing some of his weight for Taehyung to bare. “I’d love that. Boyfriend.”

Taehyung does his giggle, goofy and loose in a way his deft fingers are not. “Let’s go to your room; I wanna kneel on the rug. Floor hurts.”

“On your knees?” Namjoon turns his head to catch Taehyung’s side profile. Gorgeous, sensual Taehyung. No wonder his parents were as nice as they were. “You wanna get on your knees for me?”

Taehyung tugs his belt strap free from its buckle. “You look so much bigger from the floor,” he pants, somehow breathless. “I like that.”

Yeah. These are problems for a future Namjoon. Present Namjoon is going to receive a blowjob.

 

 

Taehyung likes when he’s rough, a little careless. And Namjoon can be careless about a lot of things in his life, but in bed it’s always intentional.

“Your shirt is gonna get messy,” Namjoon tells him even as he hooks a finger in Taehyung’s mouth and tugs it farther open at the corner. A glob of saliva already slips loose.

“’S fine,” Taehyung garbles. That’s what he thought Taehyung would say.

Namjoon has no idea how Taehyung can open his mouth so wide. He has to have jaw unhinging abilities, like a python, or—or a customizable toy or something. A mix between magic and the sheer level of his horniness. He’s not going to question it.

Taehyung has offered his mouth as a present and Namjoon would be a dumb ass to refuse or question something as insignificant as jaw unhinging. His cock, already full and heavy in his other hand, is pushed over Taehyung’s tongue and to the warm threshold of his throat with the tilt of Namjoon’s hips.

They both groan together. “Shit,” Namjoon huffs. He tugs Taehyung’s mouth father out.

Namjoon loves sucking Taehyung’s dick—he’s also big, thick, and while Namjoon’s mouth is nowhere as large as Taehyung’s, the struggle of fitting him in arouses Taehyung and Namjoon alike—but this is next best: getting to fuck Taehyung’s throat.

He unhooks his finger and fucks Taehyung’s throat. Taehyung, hands holding onto Namjoon’s thighs where his slacks are peeled down, his eyes wet and round as he watches Namjoon watch him. Namjoon keeps one, firm palm on the back of Taehyung’s head so he won’t run away from him, tells him as much—Don’t run from my dick, Taehyung-ah, c’mon—and every time he retches, tears spill down his cheeks and follow the rivulets of spit along his chin, his mouth corners.

Fuck, is it messy. Namjoon pulls off to give Taehyung a break, and Taehyung just… spits. Lets the phlegm drip onto his dress shirt, creating translucent splotches on his chest. His legs are spread where he has them kneeling, his own erection painfully obvious in the loose material of his slacks. Taehyung’s told him he likes the feeling of being used when he gives a blowjob, when his only priority is somebody else’s pleasure. Getting myself off is, like… the treat for a job well done.

They never frame their kinks with one another in mind. It’s usually foreplay, a long, drawn out form of foreplay where they reference old or current flames, turning one another on with their stories until they can go somewhere private and peel the clothes from each other’s bodies. Once, they groped at one another while Jimin giggled and watched.

If Namjoon’s parents knew the things he’s done. The thing he’s doing—

“Want you to come in me—after—“ Namjoon grunts, shoving himself back into Taehyung’s mouth and holding him still as Taehyung’s body involuntarily retches and jackhammers. “Just—kinda slip it in and come in me, fuh—fuck, I’m close, Taehyung—“

Taehyung is—a wet dream come true. Even as his retches and fights for his life around Namjoon’s dick, he’s a good boy and leans right back in for more. The promise of coming in Namjoon’s hole seems to spur him on even more, his enthusiasm bleeding through as he tightens his grip on Namjoon’s thighs and moves in time with Namjoon’s thrust.

Each time he breaches Taehyung’s throat is as good as the last. Maybe even better. Muscle clenching instinctually, hot salvia and phlegm pouring out and coating Namjoon’s thick girth. And he already has a few shaky videos of himself using Taehyung’s mouth for his own pleasure (all saved somewhere behind a password, because as carefree as Taehyung is about his own nudes, Namjoon doesn’t want to be the reason someone sees something they shouldn’t), but he wants to film this, too. Happy birthday to me, he’ll caption it.

That’s for another day. Tonight, he’s going to come. “Right on your messy face,” Namjoon gasps, still pumping, everything obscene and loud and wet. “Let me—lemme take a picture? Please?”

Taehyung manages to nod despite himself. Makes an affirmative noise in case Namjoon misunderstood that for a silent gag. Oh, fuck yeah.

“Thank you. Tha—thank you, Taehyung-ah, fuck, for everything, you’re—“ the best friend I’ve ever had.

The hottest, too.

A low, elongated groan is the best warning Taehyung gets (they know by now, have their individual sounds mapped out in their own heads, edges worn from use) before Namjoon pulls out and fists at his cockhead, spilling partially into Taehyung’s open mouth, partially over his face. Spurts over his nose and cheeks, over one, closed eye when Taehyung thinks fast, up and into his hairline. An absolute fucking mess.

Taehyung is gasping, hot and jaw hanging, as if he’d sprinted up a flight of stairs. Chest rising and falling, skin gleaming. Tear tracks catching the light of the bedroom ceiling lamp. Cock hard and begging for attention.

Every tense string in Namjoon’s body goes loose, warmth flushing over him like sea water. It drags the shitty day away with it.

“Picture?” Taehyung asks around the come when Namjoon stands and stares and not much else.

Right. “Right.” Namjoon lazily slaps his pockets for his phone, still breathing heavy himself. “Thank you.”

Taehyung hums, doesn’t move from his position.

Namjoon readies his camera, taking a short step back to get Taehyung’s erection in the shot, when Taehyung garbles, “Send it to me and Jiminie, okay?”

His thumb hovers over the camera button. Quirking an eyebrow at the Taehyung in the phone, he parrots, “Jimin?”

“Long story.”

Okay, sure. Whatever. “Okay. Stop talking for a second.” Taehyung goes quiet, and Namjoon takes a few shots. “Quick pose.” Taehyung makes a V and hovers it over his closed eye. More shots. “Okay. Thank you. Come in me now.”

Taehyung makes a wounded noise before swallowing the mess in his mouth and pushing, creaky, to his feet. “Bend over the bed,” he says.

Namjoon doesn’t mean to, but he thinks about his parents when Taehyung has him kneeling over the mattress. He creates grandiose fantasies inside of his head often, conjured imaginary conversations and debates that he always seems to win. The years have created him into someone more clever, just as immature.

Taehyung is whining, “Hyung,” as his cockhead presses at Namjoon’s hole, not yet breaching, and Namjoon imagines his parents seeing those photos. Imagines their shock and rage, that plate of sweet potatoes slipping from his father’s fingers and shattering into thousands of microscopic pieces. Namjoon imagines his own resolve shattering, too, and the brave, confident, clever him that only exists inside of his fantasies telling them that if they can’t bring themselves to respect him, he can’t respect them, either.

He imagines leaving Ilsan and never coming back. Fade to black, fantasy over. Rewind and replay for the next time they piss him off and he pisses them off in return.

But life doesn’t work that way. Namjoon doesn’t, either. His father will call sometime next week. And he’ll give him the spiel about his mother and ominous conversation. And Namjoon will quietly listen, everything back to factory settings.

And Namjoon—older, more clever, just as immature—will tell him, “Let me check my schedule.”

Chapter 11: when fantasy and reality intersect (namjoon/jungkook)

Summary:

“I’ve never,” Jungkook says to the open suitcase on his bed. He fumbles with the zipper to the underwear pocket. “Never done that. I didn’t say anything, because I—I don’t know what it feels like.”

Notes:

cw: innocence, virgin/purity kink, rimming/blowjob

 

Everything Namjoon knows about Jungkook is from second-hand conversation. Hoseok met him when Jungkook was busking in Hongdae over a year ago, and Hoseok—always prepared to take talent under his wing, always weak to adorable faces (he scrunches his nose when he’s shy, Hoseok had wailed over barbecue one night, sheer emotion tossing himself back onto his chair. What’s cuter than that?)—traded contact information with him.

How he became a semi-constant in Hoseok’s life, he’s not sure. Namjoon’s fuzzy on the details; people trail in and out of his, Yoongi’s, and Hoseok’s lives all the time. Just the nature of their industry, so he doesn’t waste the brainspace to commit friends-of-friends to memory anymore.

Ghostwriting is a full-time job. A twenty-four hour job, honestly. Namjoon tries to find lyrics in anything, from the mundane (the love hidden behind grabbing his friends’ favorite ramyeon from the GS25 on his way to Yoongi’s place) to the extraordinary (running into Tiger JK at a club he didn’t want to go to, having to process the realization that he, too, has skin and flesh layered over bones). Then, how to translate these experiences into something universal.

It’s all-consuming. And he has to accept that it’s time to take a break when he tries to think of a metaphor for relationships and eviscerating catfish as his girlfriend tells him she can’t go on like this anymore. (What does it mean to rip the fragile guts from an animal you never even liked? Is it better or worse to have loved them?) He thinks he leaves that conversation a shittier man.

That’s one reason of several why Hoseok insists they take a trip to Jeju. It’s perfect weather this time of year, Hoseok tells him as they scroll through airline prices. Not a lot of rain. Jungkookie said he’s never been.

“Jungkookie?” Namjoon parrots. Not maliciously, but confused.

“Yeah,” Hoseok glances up at him, a question in his eyes, “Can he come? All of us? You, Yoongi hyung, Jungkookie, and I? It’ll be fun, relaxing. He won’t disturb us or anything.”

That’s not the issue. Well—Jungkook coming in general isn’t an issue. They’re acquaintances, and Hoseok loves to talk about him, and Namjoon has had a few (brief) conversations with him over the past year, too. Mostly about music and Namjoon’s current projects.

Jungkook is handsome and a bit introverted—matches Yoongi’s energy well, who becomes more talkative with Jungkook to balance things out—and, yes, a very talented vocalist. Namjoon’s sparse Jungkook facts: he has an entire sleeve, he wears at least four piercings in each ear, he’s muscular. He’s from Busan and he went to SOPA. With Hoseok, he’s affectionate, sweet.

He knows Jungkook won’t disturb them. It’s fine. “Okay,” Namjoon says. In English, “Let’s do it.”

 

 

 

 

“I’ve never,” Jungkook says to the open suitcase on his bed. He fumbles with the zipper to the underwear pocket. “Never done that. I didn’t say anything, because I—I don’t know what it feels like.”

Namjoon looks over from where he’s sitting on his own bed and trying to unclip the bracelet on his wrist. Jungkook’s hair, long and ink-black, hangs damp with shower water, obscuring strips of his face.

And Namjoon knows—dreadfully, dreadfully knows—he’s not wearing anything under that satin-white robe.

He doesn’t know if it’s a mistake. Or—a series of mistakes. He doesn’t know if Hoseok will be upset, how much Hoseok even knows about Jungkook’s personal life—how much he himself should’ve or shouldn’t have shared—he just—

He doesn’t fucking know anything. He makes assumptions and draws conclusions from those assumptions, and maybe he gets too comfortable.

So, maybe things go to shit on the second night on Jeju island.

They spend dinner at Hoseok’s friend’s Seogwipo apartment drinking beer after slurping down naengmyeon. It’s more of a vacation home, empty most of the year, and everyone sits at the dining table to chat, balcony doors open, salt-heavy breeze skirting over their skin.

That’s where the conversation steers towards relationships (Namjoon’s, mostly), and sex, and where he and Hoseok make the next mistake.

Namjoon gets (too) comfortable and says, “I’ll miss the sex,” to which Hoseok sighs and responds, “Fuck. I know. I still miss Jiminie.” Then, giggling in that way that warns for too much information, he tells them, “No one eats me out like he used to.”

Yoongi scoffs and takes a swig of his beer. Jungkook keeps ripping at his takeout napkin, making a little pile next to his bowl. Namjoon says (the third mistake), “Arin told me that, too.”

“What? That no one eats her pussy as good as you?” Hoseok asks.

“Her ass.”

Hoseok giggles some more. “Really?”

“She liked it,” Namjoon insists. He absently twirls his beer can on the table, condensation smudging over his fingertips. “But, I think I liked it more.”

That’s all it took, maybe. Yoongi interjects, asking if they wanna see the movie he told them about the night prior; Jungkook and Hoseok both agree, and so they watch the movie.

Namjoon didn’t think any of it. He didn’t think about any of it after the moment passed.

But, now he’s in his and Jungkook’s shared room—Yoongi not-so-subtly stated he wanted to share with Hoseok—and Jungkook, fresh from his shower, hair long, silver hoops in both ears, wearing nothing but a fucking white-satin robe, suddenly peeps up with, “I didn’t say anything, because I—I don’t know what it feels like.”

The scariest part is that Namjoon automatically knows what he’s talking about, even so-many hours later.

“You don’t?” he asks.

Jungkook keeps fiddling. Namjoon watches water drip down onto his collarbone, translucent paint on clean skin. “No.”

Despite the aircon’s efforts, the room seems to rise in temperature. Namjoon could also be hallucinating.

“Only—only that?”

Jungkook hesitates. Then, he shakes his head. “Most of it?” he squeaks. “Blowjobs… blowjobs, too.”

Ah.

“Ah,” Namjoon says.

Okay.

He’s not mentally prepared for Jungkook to turn his head just then and look at him, but he does. And their gazes fall into orbit. And Namjoon prays the visceral excitement thrumming under his skin isn’t as obvious as it feels.

It’s a little shameful. Namjoon is a little—a lot—shameful. It was easier to tolerate when his fantasies began and ended with porn: virgin girl asks her brother’s best friend to fuck her; she asked me to teach her how to make love; university student gets his virgin hole fucked; I took this virgin slut’s first with her parents in the other room! Rinse and repeat times a thousand, all downloaded via VPN and tucked safely on his ‘for-leisure’ laptop. Fantasy.

Here stands the intersection of fantasy and reality: sweet-faced, sweet-eyed Jungkook admitting his inexperience while half naked, staring at Namjoon in an undeniable question.

It forces him to roll back some of the assumptions he’s made—about Jungkook, yes, but about himself, too. The prospect is making him hard. He’s staring at Hoseok’s probably-hoobae and imagining taking those firsts and his dick is getting hard.

His final mistake—

“Do you want hyung to show you?”

Jungkook’s round eyes go rounder, like he hadn’t expected the message to be received. He lets go of the zipper. The well of his clavicle is wet, streaks leading down to where his pecs are exposed in the robe’s vee. He says, “I wanna—know.”

“Now?”

“If—if you.” A pause. Jungkook’s voice comes out in a breath. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

They don’t really know one another, but the attraction has always been there. Loud, quiet, subtle, whatever.

Every road leads to this—Namjoon lying on his bed, Jungkook with his knees pressed into the mattress, straddling his face, moaning softly as Namjoon spreads his asscheeks apart and laps at his hole. He still has the robe on, but it’s open now, and he leans forward with his palms holding his upper body up by Namjoon’s hips.

He tastes—clean. Furled muscle a light brown, twitching under the attention of Namjoon’s insistent tongue. Jungkook’s ass is as lean as the rest of him, Namjoon giving each cheek an appreciative squeeze while he hums and works Jungkook open.

“Hye—Hyung,” Jungkook gasps, still quiet because the walls aren’t that insulated and one wrong move could alert the other two. He jerks forward, an aborted thrust, cock hard, hanging after only a few minutes of getting his ass eaten. “Ahh—ah—”

Namjoon slides his hands to hook them over Jungkook’s thick thighs and tugs him back. “Stay still,” he says, voice already rough, “tell me how it feels, okay? Tell me what your first time feels like.”

He’s a tiny bit tipsy and a whole bit horny, is his new rationale. And if he’s going to go all the way with this—taking someone’s first on Jeju island with his friends-slash-coworkers in the other room—he might as well sprint headfirst into his perversions. “C’mon,” he says, then gets back to work.

“Did-n’t expect it to,” Jungkook pants, “t’feel—so good—” Namjoon can feel strong muscle tensing where he has Jungkook pinned, Jungkook fighting himself to obey instructions. “Weird—s’weird and, ah-nn, feels good—”

Adorable. Jungkook has an entire sleeve and is essentially eighty-percent muscle and has somehow never had this before. How can a grown man be so fucking cute? Why does this make Namjoon so hard he’s afraid his dick is going to pop off and breathe life of its own?

Namjoon’s hips lift up off the bed to rut into nothing, seeking the same attention Jungkook’s poor, neglected cock is—but he ignores his own desires for now, instead doubles his efforts in working his tongue into Jungkook. He holds him open again, fingers broad and tight against Jungkook’s skin, and spits on his hole, makes it nice and messy before craning forward.

Jungkook’s gasp is louder when Namjoon fits the tip of his tongue in. His pelvis jolts some more, Namjoon’s tongue slipping out, and Namjoon gives a light slap on his ass that earns him another gasp. “Jungkook-ah,” he rasps.

“Sorry,” Jungkook says, sounding suspiciously like tears. “I didn’t—expect—”

“For it to feel good with a tongue up your ass?”

Jungkook groans, fucking up into nothing again.

“Lemme eat you out.” Namjoon huffs and watches in deep, twisting arousal as Jungkook’s hole clenches against his warm breath. He dips a thumb between his crack, rubs his saliva over the muscle. “Love how you taste.” He presses down harder, fingertip just sliding in. Because he can’t help himself, “This really your first?”

“Yes,” Jungkook breathes.

“Tell me.” Namjoon tries to ease his thumb a little deeper. Hole messy and lax, he manages. “Say—everything.” He needs Jungkook to talk. If he wants the whole experience, he needs Jungkook to use his words.

“It’s my first, hyung,” Jungkook tries. Namjoon never asked him not to, but he doesn’t touch his cock, firm biceps flexing under the effort to keep his body in place. He has his head ducked, and Namjoon can’t see his face at this angle, but he can see his damp hair hanging like a curtain. “No one’s ever—done this.”

Namjoon takes his thumb out, reaches under to fondle Jungkook’s balls. “Done what?”

“My,” Jungkook’s thighs twitch, “eaten me out.”

He laps over his hole again, no plan, no precision. The room fills with the slurps of Namjoon’s tongue and lips, sucking and nibbling and savoring this meal. Jungkook squirms, jolts, whines approximations of Namjoon’s name and please and oh, fuck in his airy voice. So sweet and sickeningly innocent, despite it.

“Gonna make me come,” Jungkook slurs. “I think I—feels like I’m gonna come, nm’joon hyung—ah—”

Namjoon pulls back and slaps Jungkook’s ass once more, this time softer. “Up, up, roll over.” Jungkook makes an adorable, confused ahn?, but blindly obeys and crawls off of Namjoon. “Right—here, yeah, on your back.”

He can see Jungkook’s face like this. The robe open, abdominal muscles tensing in every breath, deepening every striation when he exhales. His cheeks and nose are pink, mouth wet; Namjoon thumbs the mole underneath his lips that mirrors Namjoon’s own and coos.

“You never had a blowjob,” Namjoon breathes. Not a question.

Jungkook’s eyes, glistening in unshed tears, roll to the back of his head when he moans at the thought. “No,” he confirms, quiet.

Namjoon answers with crawling between Jungkook’s spread thighs, leaning forward to suck Jungkook’s dribbling cockhead between his lips. He pins Jungkook’s hips down before he can thrust up—but Jungkook is strong, still managing to push a bit farther over Namjoon’s tongue and into his mouth.

He takes it in stride, working the shaft with tight pulls. Jungkook slaps a hand over his own mouth and sobs into it, fighting, fighting not to fuck up with abandon. “Hyung,” he says, the clearest he’s sounded since they began, “I’m gonna come, I’m coming, wai-wait—”

Namjoon pops off and fists Jungkook’s cockhead, tight and hurried. It doesn’t take many more strokes after that for Jungkook to spill over Namjoon’s fingers, down his own shaft. Every muscle in his body coils tight, shifting powerfully under his skin, eyes screwed shut and whimpers muffled with his palm.

Enthralled and face smeared with spit and rock-hard, Namjoon watches Jungkook twitch and moan through his orgasm. Watches the ripple effects zip up his body, down his limbs. Watches his maybe-mistake writhe on his bedsheets, muttering nonsense, buzzing with the experience of giving his firsts to a friend of a friend.

The intersection of reality and fantasy and the sick perversion that drives the entire machine.

There are lyrics that can be made of that.

Chapter 12: when we desire. when we lust. (namjoon/taehyung)

Summary:

Both he and Taehyung want kids, so it makes sense, he concludes.

Notes:

cw: breeding kink.

Both he and Taehyung want kids, so it makes sense, he concludes. Taehyung can be shy when the attention is turned on him unprompted—Namjoon had gone by the Dior store four times before he gathered the courage to ask Taehyung for his KKT (Taehyung walked into the dressing room with the shoes Namjoon requested, in the size he needed, and Namjoon couldn’t help but blurt, Can I talk to you?

Taehyung stood there with the sneakers, eyes wider and rounder in shock, before Namjoon stammered to correct himself—I mean, like. Your ID? For Kakao? Is that okay?

It’s sleazy to ask somebody for their contact information while they’re on the job, Namjoon knows and knew that. He argued with himself that it was more sleazy and also stalker-y to wait for Taehyung to get off work, so. Sacrifices. It worked out, anyway.)—

But Taehyung when he knows what he wants and how to achieve it is absolutely shameless. Two years of dating well-familiarized Namjoon with this.

It’s why Namjoon knows he shouldn’t have had his world tipped over when he’s balls deep in Taehyung and Taehyung blurts, “Five kids,” like he’d had the air punted out of him. “I want—five—hyung, please—”

They’ve talked about that before, too. Of course. Namjoon told Taehyung he was fine with however many as long as he had one, healthy child, and Taehyung answered, with zero hesitation, “I want a big family. Four, maybe five kids. Two girls and two boys if I get four, at least two boys if I have five.”

“If you have five?” Namjoon laughed. They were sitting on the floor of Taehyung’s common room, watching a couple vlog their trip to an exhibition Namjoon couldn’t see because he had to work. “You can have kids, baby? Something you’re not telling me?”

“Maybe,” Taehyung said, and quirked a teasing eyebrow up at him. At the time, Namjoon just laughed it off, patted his bare thigh a few times, and then turned back to the television.

It’s all fantasy. It always has been. They can’t have kids—it’s not feasible both legally or… biologically—but they dream. And they desire.

And when Namjoon is giving Taehyung slow, deep strokes, they lust.

“Wanna have your kids,” Taehyung whimpers, brows drawn together in an almost wounded expression of pleasure. The tip of his nose tinted red, mouth wet. Namjoon doesn’t falter in shock, but he does reach a thumb to smooth the crease folding Taehyung’s eyebrows close. “Can you—? Please, pleaseplease—”

Namjoon’s good at roleplay by now. Good at matching enthusiasm, at least; Taehyung flicks on and off like a switch, sometimes, and Namjoon understands he needs it. The fantasy of pretending to be somebody else. Something else. He fucks in hard, jostling Taehyung up their bed, and Taehyung’s chest heaves in a pleasured cry.

“Please what?” Namjoon gasps. He feels disgusting with his own sweat, rivulets dripping down his sideburns, his temples. “Come in you?”

“Take the condom off,” Taehyung reaches up to rub the loose droplet that’s following along Namjoon’s jaw, then pops it in his own mouth. “Take it off ‘n—give me your kids—”

He doesn’t have to question it. They usually use condoms for the sake of the mess—and because come isn’t easy on either of their stomachs—but. Fuck it. Taehyung wants to get pregnant and Namjoon is so turned on by that that it fucking hurts.

Namjoon lifts out of Taehyung and scrambles to fling the condom off. Taehyung doesn’t have time to complain about the sudden emptiness before Namjoon hooks his arms around Taehyung’s thighs and drags him close. Then he’s sinking back into him, hot hot pressure giving way for Namjoon’s seeking dick, and they share a gasp.

Oh, so much fucking better. Namjoon grabs Taehyung by his hips, holds tight, and starts to fuck into him, desperate, rough.

“Ah—nn, hyung, yes,” Taehyung scrambles for Namjoon’s wrists, then grabs the bedsheets and twists them into roses, then returns to clawing at Namjoon’s skin. “I want—want, nn, the first two, then—then you can—”

Namjoon moans, too loud, too open. “Then me?” he pants. “Then you’ll give me kids?”

Their wet skin slapping together, sweat and lube somehow everywhere, is so disgusting it twists back into sexy. Namjoon loves it like this: filthy. Taehyung’s angelic face and filthy mouth telling him, “I-nn wanna fuck three kids into you—hyung—you’d be so—hot with a belly—”

“Belly full of our sons?”

“Yes—”

A god must be real. Has to be. “Let me—lemme make sure this catches first—then me, okay?”

It can’t be satisfying, the way Taehyung comes after another three strokes completely untouched. It can’t be—but it’s hot as fuck, Taehyung’s deep voice tipping up three octaves, the way his thighs twitch over Namjoon’s hips, the way his huge cock pulses with each dribble.

And Namjoon holds onto Taehyung’s hips for dear life—Come in me, come in my womb, come in m—imagines Taehyung’s swollen feet and fat belly and his imaginary womb growing their child and Taehyung cradling their toddler in his arms—and orgasms so hard there has to be god somewhere in the smudge of gold behind his lids.

Chapter 13: when we're patient (namjoon/yoongi/jimin)

Summary:

Namjoon knows his boyfriend has always found his best friend hot. Fuck, he himself has found his own best friend hot, as weird as it sounds to his own ears.

Notes:

cw: cuckolding, blonde yoonmin, established minjoon

Namjoon knows his boyfriend has always found his best friend hot. Fuck, he himself has found his own best friend hot, as weird as it sounds to his own ears. It’s not something either of them have spoken explicitly about, because there are boundaries to be maintained, and he and Jimin are cognizant of one another’s feelings. The first time Jimin met Yoongi over dinner, they were on the KTX back home when Jimin blurted, “You have friends that cook and look like that?”

He knew he probably should’ve taken offense to the subtle cooking jab, but he was tipsy and, yeah, Yoongi did look fucking hot that night. Sleeves rolled up, hair dark and hanging around his small face, he chopped vegetables expertly and refused to let either of them help him. My home, my kitchen; siddown and drink. Namjoon could parse that awed and horny expression on Jimin’s expression anywhere, as hard as he tried to control it.

Namjoon can be jealous, yes, and he projects that jealousy into silence and a pulsing jaw—but it didn’t trigger any jealousy in him. Instead, he felt a tad proud. Yes, that’s my best friend, and yes, he can cook and he cleans and he’s hot as fuck. Yes, I’ve also wanted to fuck him, even though those were feelings that watered down to dormancy after we became friends. Yes, we also almost kissed, once. He thinks. It was a late night and they were walking to Namjoon’s old apartment in Gangseo-gu and their mouths were so close when Namjoon folded down to give him a hug that he could feel Yoongi’s tiny breaths on his philtrum.

That’s the extent of that.

Regardless, Jimin scattered in a few more, Yoongi hyung is hot comments, and Namjoon always nods and answers, he is. He is. Sometimes when they meet up at a bar or the studio they’re renting, Jimin will give Yoongi an intentional once-over and say, “Hyung. You look good,” but in that sultry voice he does when he’s in Namjoon’s lap or palming at his clothed dick.

He and Jimin are three years in when Yoongi decides to dye his hair a yellow-blonde—he insists it’s not because of his breakup, that it’s been months since they separated, don’t look at me like that, Namjon-ah, but Namjoon remained skeptical—and it’s as if that’s all it takes for Jimin to decide enough’s enough.

They’re at Yoongi’s again, and Jimin sits next to Yoongi on the couch while Namjoon settles into a beanbag on the floor; when they first showed up and Blonde Yoongi materialized on the other side of the door, Jimin stood in shock, mouth hanging open, for a good few seconds before he gasped, “You hair! My hair!”

Yeah, Jimin is also blonde. He likes it, and Namjoon likes it, so he keeps his hair blonde as long as he can manage before his hair screams at him to relax.

Which means now Jimin and Yoongi are both blonde. And Namjoon has to pretend he’s not having a crisis when Yoongi laughs shyly at the foyer, tugging at his throat as he answers, “Wanted something new,” like he’s afraid they’ll tell him they hate it.

Can’t be far from the truth. Jimin and Namjoon are slipping their shoes off, and Jimin reaches out, tentatively, and strokes at Yoongi’s (blonde) fringe with his tiny fingers. “You,” he breathes, eyes shimmering, “I love it. Hyung.”

Yoongi hiccup-laughs some more, doesn’t respond. Namjoon thinks he vocalizes his agreement, but there’s a ringing in his ears that sounds more like alarms or the screeching of an ambulance than bells.

Namjoon puts on an R&B playlist Hoseok suggested to him, and they have chimaek in Yoongi’s common room. They drink apple soju until they’re all loose-limbed and laughing easy. They talk about people they haven’t seen in awhile and people they all know. Namjoon’s head feels two sizes too light when Jimin watches Yoongi talk for a long time before saying, completely and entirely unrelated, “You’re such a hot blonde.”

There’s a short pause, music filling the silence, before Yoongi places his glass onto the table in front of them and laughs, shoulders shaking. “Only when I’m blonde?”

“All the time,” Jimin insists, not catching the sarcasm, “but you like—this. If I were single, I’d make out with you.”

Yoongi’s laugh meets his shoulders. He doesn’t dare look Jimin into his face, but he tells the blank TV screen, “How do you know I would?”

Spitfire, Jimin answers, “Would you?”

Yoongi looks at Namjoon. Jimin watches Yoongi look at Namjoon, then jerks his attention to Namjoon, too.

The beanbag suddenly feels like quicksand under his too-light body.

Namjoon doesn’t know what they’re doing. What he’s doing.

Okay—that’s a lie. He’s tipsy but he’s not stupid. He can see the question in Yoongi’s eyes, the intent in Jimin’s. He can see their tongues down one another’s throats and his sweatpants aren’t very forgiving to hardening dicks when said hardening dicks are big.

He licks his dry lips with his dry tongue, reaches out for the bottle of soju. His voice surprisingly steady, almost authoritarian, he asks, “Would you?” as he pours himself another shot glass.

That’s answer enough. He’s not looking at them, but he can practically see the stunned silence. He closes his eyes as he backs it, liquor and apple wetting his gums.

When he opens his eyes, Jimin is lapping into Yoongi’s mouth, body twisted to face him, fingers carding through Yoongi’s hair. And Yoongi has his eyes closed and mouth open to let Jimin in, giving Namjoon a perfect view of how filthy it is for Jimin’s tongue to slide over Yoongi’s.

It’s honestly pathetic how fast Namjoon’s cock fills out halfway. Jimin moans high in his throat, and Namjoon groans deep in his chest, and Yoongi doesn’t make a noise even as Jimin grabs a fistful of hair at the back of Yoongi’s head. Jimin’s hoop earrings catching light under the ceiling lamp as it swings in his effort, his blouse dipped low to show off so much open skin, he and Yoongi make out like they’ve been making out for years. Almost practiced, leaning on desperate.

“Holy fuck,” Namjoon can’t help but sigh. His palm slides dangerously close to his growing erection before he forces it back. Jimin giggles into the kiss in response, lashes fluttering like he wants to look at Namjoon but doesn’t have the brainpower for it. Yoongi’s hands hover over Jimin’s lap, tentative, before he settles one on the crook of Jimin’s shoulder and the other on one thigh.

Namjoon has no idea how long they do that. From open-mouthed kissing to the soft slide and click of their mouths to Yoongi nibbling at Jimin’s full lips and Jimin whimpering. He doesn't know, but he sits there and watches, unblinking. And he doesn’t touch his own cock, but he imagines his boyfriend and his best friend touching one another’s cocks. He imagines what it’d look like for Jimin to ride Yoongi on the couch while Yoongi’s huge hand squeezes at the ass that Namjoon has always loved to squeeze—or Jimin shoving Yoongi onto all fours and fucking him while Yoongi grunts into the floor—or both of them kneeling while Namjoon stands, Jimin suckling on his cockhead while Yoongi laps at his shaft—or Namjoon trying to suck Yoongi’s cock upside down while Jimin fucks into him—or or or or—

Unfortunately—or fortunately, since Namjoon isn’t sure how much longer he can sit there and not jerk himself off over his sweatpants—Jimin eventually pulls back and lets go. Yoongi’s face is a light shade of pink and Jimin’s lips are wet and red when they separate. Equally gorgeous.

“Holy fuck,” Namjoon repeats.

“Thank you,” Jimin pants. To nobody, to both of them. “I—yeah—”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mumbles, leaning back onto the couch and remembering to be shy.

“I need to—” Namjoon struggles to his feet. “Um. Bathroom.”

“Or,” Jimin watches him try to shift from sitting to kneeling. “Or, we can…” He looks at Yoongi.

Yoongi blinks over at him, then Namjoon, then at the blank TV screen, then Jimin again. “Is that—I don’t think—”

“If you want to,” Namjoon blurts. “If you—if you both want to.”

Jimin and Yoongi stare at him like the same alarms in Namjoon’s head are going off inside of theirs, too.

This is probably rushed and an awful idea. They probably shouldn’t do this—at least, not now. Not tonight. Not before talking about it more. Namjoon hasn’t even sorted out his dormant feelings for Yoongi yet.

But.

But, more importantly: Namjoon’s hard.

So, “Okay,” Yoongi says. “Okay.” And Jimin gives Namjoon a look.

And Namjoon, horny and fucking stupid, says, “Okay,” too.

Chapter 14: when we're left insatiable (namjoon/jimin)

Summary:

The entire apartment is dark and quiet aside from the fluorescent light of the open fridge pouring out. Still, Jimin can clearly see the loud, almost-neon teal scrubs Namjoon has on, the white coat that scrapes down to behind his knees, the laminated ID card with Namjoon’s mugshot and Dr. Kim Namjoon, Hospitalist swinging around his neck. Then, his black-framed glasses, his hair, short and slicked back.

He glances up into Namjoon’s eyes to watch him make similar observations about Jimin—all the bare skin on display, the glint of his jeweled hoops, the vertical labret piercing pressed to his full bottom lip.

Namjoon carefully slides the leftover container of rice into the fridge. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” Jimin says. “I don’t live here.”

Notes:

ft. doctor namjoon, sneak-fucking, very-light-barely-there breathplay, and jimin's vertical labret lip piercing.

Jimin wakes up next to Seokjin with: a sticky mess smeared between his thighs, his black tank top twisted all wrong on his torso, one of his hoop earrings digging painfully into his cheekbone, the sheets stolen from him, and—to top it off—with a terrifyingly dry mouth. He’s lying prone, position awkward and arms stuck under his stomach because he hadn’t meant to even fall asleep; it was an impromptu hookup, arranged at the very last minute when Jimin was busy buying some bungeoppang from the street vendor near his apartment.

He’d assumed they weren’t going to fuck tonight since Seokjin is housing a friend for a week; that was proven false when Seokjin messaged him can you be here in the next hour?? And Jimin—bungeoppang in one hand, phone in the other, responded, ??? youre not busy being a host??

He’s here for work, Seokjin answered immediately. His shift is 12 hours and started 2 hours ago. I cooked. Come.

So, because Jimin was horny and hungry and Seokjin is a fantastic lay, Jimin took the train to Seokjin’s apartment. And as soon as Seokjin opened the door, Jimin smashed their mouths together. And Seokjin kissed him back. And they didn’t eat.

But they did fuck, pass out, and fuck again.

And then Jimin lazily tugged on a pair of Seokjin’s shorts despite insistence that he take a shower and fuck, Jimin-ah, don’t wear my clean clothes when your ass is filthy. At least wipe up the lube. Jimin whined back, Hyung, let me relax for a minute!—which turned into him passing out on Seokjin’s bed and waking up with a terrifyingly dry mouth in the middle of the night.

Jimin squints into the dark of Seokjin’s bedroom.

Fuck. The middle of the night!

He pushes himself up to a kneeling position, a little sore, a lot exhausted. Seokjin is curled up in the blankets so well that Jimin can’t see him, save for a flash of his bare toes. The room is cold as shit and Seokjin stole the blanket. Fucker.

It’s fine. He needs to leave, anyway, and he’s going to take Seokjin’s now-filthy shorts with him as retribution. They fit him better.

First: water.

He carefully steps off of the mattress and onto the floor, disturbing the mattress as little as possible. Seokjin doesn’t stir. He’s a pretty deep sleeper when he’s exhausted; he knows that through experience. Jimin’s worn him out on several different occasions.

That’s how Seokjin remains asleep while Jimin toes across the room.

That’s also how Jimin sneaks out of the room and towards the kitchen in his black tank top, his dark, mused hair, and Seokjin’s shorts tight around his ass.

That’s also how he runs into Kim Namjoon himself standing in the kitchen, mouth full of cold rice from the fridge, blinking at him through the dark like he got caught scratching his balls, or something.

Jimin freezes at the threshold.

The entire apartment is dark and quiet aside from the fluorescent light of the open fridge pouring out. Still, Jimin can clearly see the loud, almost-neon teal scrubs Namjoon has on, the white coat that scrapes down to behind his knees, the laminated ID card with Namjoon’s mugshot and Dr. Kim Namjoon, Hospitalist swinging around his neck. Then, his black-framed glasses, his hair, short and slicked back.

He glances up into Namjoon’s eyes to watch him make similar observations about Jimin—all the bare skin on display, the glint of his jeweled hoops, the vertical labret piercing pressed to his full bottom lip.

Namjoon carefully slides the leftover container of rice into the fridge. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” Jimin says. “I don’t live here.”

Neither of them do, but Namjoon is at least here for good reason; Jimin can’t say the same.

Namjoon swallows the bite of food still in his mouth, lets the fridge door slip from his fingers. Even once they’re shrouded in darkness, it’s not so pitch-black that they can’t see one another.

“Welcome back, seonsaengnim,” Jimin says. He doesn't say, I wasn’t supposed to be here when you came back. “How was work?”

“Hyung,” Namjoon corrects gently. Then, “Busy,” he sighs. His face twisting in opposing directions, Namjoon appears to be deciding how much to tell and how much to keep tucked away. “SNU’s hospital is a lot busier than mine in Ilsan. I don’t mind helping since, y’know—it’s important work. I just don’t like being on call since I’m responsible for admitting the ER patients.”

Jimin steps into the kitchen and reaches up towards the cup cabinet. “What’s wrong with admitting ER patients?”

“Stupid busywork,” Namjoon says immediately on a laugh, as if he expected Jimin to ask. “I understand it’s a part of managing their care, but I’d rather do something more active, y’know?” He laughs again, closer to a scoff. “Which I also understand is ironic for me, a hospitalist, to say, especially considering the ER is much more exciting than managing a patient’s COPD exacerbation and co-morbid heart failure, but I like following a patient’s management, and the fast-paced environment of a hospital versus an outpatient clinic gives me the same thrill without my having to sacrifice the love of patient-doctor relationships—”

He slows to a stop when he notices Jimin just standing there staring at him, empty cup in one hand.

“Fuck, sorry,” Namjoon groans. “It’s fucking four in the morning; I ‘dunno why I’m so talkative. Too much caffeine, maybe.” He takes Jimin’s cup from him and turns around to open the fridge again, reading his mind and grabbing the water filter. “Seokjin hyung is not gonna let me live it down if he hears I’m ranting about work I elected myself to do to his boyfriend.”

“Not,” Jimin enunciates, “my boyfriend. He’s—not.”

He watches the light pour over the tendons and veins on the top of Namjoon’s hand as water is poured into his cup. Namjoon falters for a moment before glancing over at Jimin. “Oh.” He doesn’t apologize again, but Jimin can see it in the soft crease between his eyebrows.

Fuck. Jimin wonders how long Namjoon thought he and Seokjin were dating. It’s not a big deal, really, but something—something plain as day—about Namjoon specifically assuming he was taken grates at him in a way two napkins being rubbed together doesn’t. He wonders, too, if Namjoon ever referred to Jimin as Seokjin’s boyfriend when he wasn’t present, and, if so, if Seokjin let it go unchallenged. That’s more annoying to imagine.

Either way, the air has now been cleared, and he can see Namjoon staring at his labret as he hands off the cup to him. Their fingers scrape over one another when it’s relinquished to Jimin’s tiny palms.

“Yeah,” Jimin says. Time to change the subject. He studies Namjoon’s scrubs and white coat again, cogs turning. And not that Jimin’s complaining—not at all, because, fuck, does Namjoon look ripe and ready to sink his teeth into wearing his entire uniform—but, “Don’t you usually change back into regular clothes in the locker rooms?”

“Mm,” Namjoon confirms. “But—I didn’t bother, because I have to be back in two hours.”

“Holy shit,” Jimin says. “You don’t get to sleep?”

He gulps down his water as Namjoon explains, “On call,” in a miserable tone, the worst he’s sounded since they ran into one another. “I work the regular shifts assigned to me, too, so it just all runs together.”

Jimin won’t pretend to understand the schedule of a doctor; he considers himself smart, but not healthcare-smart. Point is: they’re running Namjoon ragged.

“You work hard,” Jimin intones, soft. “Try to get some rest.”

He watches Namjoon watch him. Namjoon’s sharp jaw under dull, kitchen appliance lighting, the two-day stubble that Jimin sorrowfully admits he wants to feel on the insides of his thighs. Seokjin is tall and broad and handsome, but Namjoon—Namjoon is… tall and broad and those scrubs do little to conceal the tight cord of muscle in his legs, his forearms. Not that he’s comparing.

More incredible than broad, buff (doctor) Kim Namjoon: he can’t believe he spent the entire evening getting fucked and he’s already gearing up for more. He’s not stupid, though—he can see the appreciative stare Namjoon is giving the wet glitter of his lips, his own bare arms, his full thighs. As if Namjoon has given himself permission to look, now that it’s been made clear Jimin is nobody’s.

“Not tired,” Namjoon breathes. “Unfortunately.”

Jimin’s cup is empty now. He reaches over to set it onto the counter without looking away, cheeks already burning at the audacity of himself. “Unfortunately?”

“Would be nice to nap before another twelve hours, yeah.” Even as he says it, he leans back against the counter, watching Jimin glide closer, one foot after another.

Let’s tire you out, then. Jimin keeps that visceral thought to himself, because even he has some retained self-respect—but he conveys the message by toying with Namjoon’s ID card, leaning into his space. “It’s good to see you again.”

Namjoon’s palm comes to splay over Jimin’s exposed shoulder, two fingers hooking under the strap. “‘S been a few months, hasn’t it?”

At least three. The last time he was here it was Hoseok’s birthday, and Namjoon did what he always does with friends, playfully slapping Jimin’s ass when Jimin made a quip at his expense, grabbing onto his chest. He hadn’t given pause until Namjoon did, Jimin’s ass rippling under his swat in a way Hoseok’s doesn’t; Namjoon went stiff under Jimin’s palms, and so Jimin did, too.

It was a brief moment that passed within a second. The flame of panic that flickered on and off in Namjoon’s pupils. One of Hoseok’s coworkers drew their attention to another conversation, and Namjoon kept his hands to himself for the rest of the afternoon.

He probably still thought Jimin and Seokjin were seeing one another at the time. Unfair. Unfair! Jimin is rethinking everything now. He has to fix this.

“When are you gonna give up going back and forth and move here for good?” Jimin abandons the ID card to tug Namjoon’s hospital coat back, unveiling more of his scrub top.

Namjoon snorts. “When Seoul gives me something worth moving for.”

“Your friends aren’t worth moving for?”

“I have friends in Ilsan, too.”

“Stop being difficult,” Jimin whines, popping his bottom lip out. Namjoon stares at the piercing again. “Your friends here matter more.”

“Debatable.”

Jimin giggles. “Mean.”

Namjoon doesn’t say anything else. His fingertips trace over the muscle in Jimin’s shoulder, over to where the gentle scoop of his neck begins. Jimin thinks fuck it, and presses their fronts together, his cheek squished against Namjoon’s hard, muscled chest. It’s not the first nor will be the last time that he’ll cuddle up to Namjoon, but this time is certainly different, sending as clear a message as he can without words.

Touch me. Hold me. We weren’t supposed to be here at the same time, but we are, so we might as well do something about that. If you don’t care that I just snuck out of Seokjin’s room looking like I’d just withstood the fuck of my life, then I don’t, either. Just do something about it.

Namjoon’s other hand rubs over Jimin’s hip, fingers scraping bare skin before sliding over his shorts. “Seokjin hyung okay?” he asks under his breath.

“Sleeping like a rock.” Jimin mirrors his tone.

“Ah.”

The implication hangs over them.

Namjoon’s body is so warm in the frigid apartment, the material of his clothes brushing over the broad expanse of Jimin’s skin. Like a human space heater. Protective even down to the very core of him. Fuck. Jimin is beginning to feel deliriously horny.

“Hmm,” Namjoon hums. His palm rubs at the small of Jimin’s back now. “Jimin-ah.”

Jimin’s answering hum tips dangerously close to a moan. He holds onto the counter ledge with both hands, essentially caging Namjoon’s larger body in.

“Y’okay?”

Jimin shifts, and the mess under his clothes returns to the forefront of his mind. Ugh.

Before he can think better of it—“Wet.”

A pause. Then Namjoon blurts out a laugh. “What?”

Jimin’s face is on fire, hands starting to tremble. He doesn’t know why he’s admitting this, but, “We used too much lube,” he whispers into Namjoon’s left pec, “and I didn’t…” He doesn’t admit to more.

He doesn’t need to. Namjoon goes stiff under him, much like night of Hoseok’s birthday; though instead of the ripple of Jimin’s asscheeks, there’s the admission that while Namjoon was admitting patients and being swamped with busywork, Jimin had a mutual friends’ hands on his ass—Seokjin had his hands on his ass.

There’s a terrifying moment where Jimin’s sure Namjoon will ease him away and stutter out excuses to drive back to the hospital. That he’ll make it clear with his body language that he’s not interested in his friend’s sloppy seconds.

Namjoon tilts Jimin’s head up from underneath his chin. His glasses slide down the slope of his nose when he tilts his head to meet Jimin’s eyes. Quietly, “What are you telling me?”

Jimin can only stare and breathe and not much else.

Namjoon kisses him. The impact alone has Jimin moaning high in his throat. The thumb of one hand pressing to Jimin’s labret, tugging at his bottom lip, the other hand sliding down to palm at each ass cheek, Namjoon presses his tongue between Jimin’s teeth and into his mouth. He squeezes one cheek, hard, and Jimin makes the same, throaty moan.

“Shh,” Namjoon says against his mouth. “Gotta be quie—”

“Shut me up,” Jimin whispers, tugging on Namjoon’s white coat aimlessly, the quiver in his voice failing him. “C’mon.”

There’s no ‘shutting him up,’ unfortunately. It’s the opposite, he thinks in the sloppy mess of his consciousness, when Namjoon has him bent over the counter, shorts tugged to just under his ass, spreading him open for the smeared mess of lube and more lube to be seen. He hides his face in the fold of his elbows, so fucking embarrased, but so fucking horny, too, curving his back and sticking his ass out farther.

“God,” Namjoon groans from behind him. Jimin clenches his asshole, and Namjoon groans again, huge hands tightening. “Jimi—”

“Just,” Jimin pants. He’s already hard, god, this is embarrassing. He’s going to be fucking ashamed of himself in a few hours. “Put it in—I’m—I’m all open, seonsaengnim, ‘s oka—”

“Hyung,” Namjoon corrects as if it pains him to do so. He lets go of Jimin’s ass and straightens up. Jimin can’t see him, but he can feel the brush of his coat on the backs of his legs, can feel his larger body looming over him. “I’m big,” he warns. “I could hurt y—”

“Jin hyung is big. I’m already all open, s—so—” He doesn’t think he needs to extrapolate further.

Namjoon curses under his breath. “You and him really aren’t…?”

Jimin groans in a not-sexy way, burrowing into his forearms. “Hyung,” he says by way of warning. “No.”

That’s enough for Namjoon.

There’s rustling, shifting, and then Namjoon mutters, “Arch a bit more,” as he spreads Jimin open with one palm again. “There y’go, yeah…” It’s an inflection Jimin’s never heard from him before, serious and tinged with arousal. It’s fucking sexy, frankly, and Jimin isn’t prepared for Namjoon’s cockhead to press against his hole when it does, shocking a gasp out of him.

Namjoon shoves Jimin’s tank top up until it’s just over his pecs, slides that hand down over his lean back, over the back half of his nevermind tattoo before grabbing a hip to hold Jimin in place. “God, Jimin-ah,” he sounds out of breath already. “Look at you.”

Jimin knows what he looks like. He’s fucked in front of a mirror with several different partners, filmed some of them with exes. He knows, so he tucks the embarrassment away to return to on another date when Namjoon presses against him once more, harder, harder, until he slips into Jimin’s sore hole with a squelch.

It burns good. Namjoon is big, yeah, though he can’t really tell if he’s bigger or smaller than Seokjin; he only understands the burning slide of being fucked open for the x’th time that day, of that drowsy, zipping pressure against his overstimulated prostate as Namjoon continues to push forward, as he follows along when Jimin rolls up onto the balls of his feet and muffles his cry into his wrists.

Jimin’s vision goes dark, eyes rolling into his skull, mouth dropping open. “Oh, yeah,” he says, soprano tipping up several octaves. “Hy’ng.”

Namjoon breathes out, heavy, and gives a short moment of reprise before pushing forward again, sinking his long, thick length completely inside of Jimin. “Gotta be quiet,” Namjoon repeats, despite himself. “Can you?”

His thoughts are already spinning. There’s the pleasant pressure, his cock throbbing, his calves burning from standing up on his toes. Namjoon’s huge hand is warm on his skin, and knowing he’s got his tank top rucked up and too-tight shorts tugged down while Namjoon is still completely dressed—as a doctor, because he’s a fucking doctor—is driving him wild.

“Mm-hmm,” Jimin whines. “Please just... fuck me.”

They can only be so quiet once Namjoon starts to pound into him. His ass claps with every thrust, air and lube squelching in the apartment’s dark silence; Jimin muffles his sobs into his arms, and Namjoon keeps panting like he’s on a run, and if Seokjin is awake right now he’ll definitely be able to hear something happening, even if he doesn’t understand what.

Jimin can barely worry about that over each pang of pleasure from being dicked. It hurts in the best way, like a massage after an intense workout, how pleasure and pain curl deep in his gut. His hoop earrings swing into his jaw as he jostles with Namjoon’s thrusts, and Jimin challenges himself to slur, high and quiet, “Big fucking cock,” before shoving his forearm between his teeth.

“Told you,” Namjoon breathes. He doesn’t sound proud of it, though; it’s almost apologetic, distracted. “Y’okay?”

He mm-hmms.

“Did he,” Namjoon pushes, “he came in you?”

“Used a condom,” Jimin says, gasping, eyes still lost inside of his head. Oh, god, his cock is hard and dripping. He’s not going to be able to walk properly after tonight. Everyone’s gonna watch him limping and they’ll somehow know. “Everytime.”

“Shit. Everytime?”

“T-nng, today, everytime, ah, we’re t—”

Namjoon reaches out to curl a hand around his throat, pressing down. Jimin’s words lose him, his mouth hanging, tongue loose. “This okay? Jimin-ah?” comes to him in a fog.

“Yeah,” Jimin thinks he says. More than fine. Shut him up, make him take it, that’s fine, that’s fine.

Namjoon doesn’t press down tight. His palm is scorching hot against Jimin’s neck, firm as he ruts up into him at a quicker pace. The slap of his pelvis to Jimin’s asscheeks sounds louder now, and Jimin imagines Seokjin stirring awake, imagines him slipping out of the bedroom to find his friend and his hook-up-slash-also-friend fucking in his kitchen. He wonders what Seokjin would think, what he’d say, if he’d wait for Namjoon to leave to call Jimin desperate. My cock wasn’t enough for you?

“Fuck,” Jimin says, guttural. He’s drooling onto the counter, chin now tipped up because Namjoon’s using his throat as an anchor, forcing him to curve his back deeper, flexible as he is. And Namjoon’s got him on his toes, fucking him so good, big dick in his tight hole, perfect, perfect doctor dick, hands that are trained to heal pressing tight into his skin—Jimin’s thoughts are running off without him—and Namjoon laughs, tight, answers Jimin, you’re so—, as if Jimin said all of that aloud—and maybe he did, because he’s so, this is just so—

He blindly grabs at his cock, gives himself a few weak strokes, and that’s really all he needs to white-out and come, muscles locking up, sob trapped where Namjoon has his hands, thighs quivering when Namjoon screws in just right, Y’fuck me so right, Jimin thinks.

Namjoon grunts, probably says something—Jimin can’t hear with his eardrums rumbling—and he’s left to collapse on the counter when that fat, long dick slides out of him and those capable hands release his hip, his neck. Jimin’s shaking through the remnants of his orgasm when Namjoon gasps, cusses under his breath, and gives a soft warning before hot spurts of come paint the swell of Jimin’s ass.

 

 

 

“Leaving?”

Jimin glances up when Seokjin speaks from where he’s hidden under the covers. He’s fresh from the fastest shower of his human life, busy tugging his jeans up over his legs in Seokjin’s dark bedroom.

“I should’ve left hours ago,” Jimin says. “Namjoon hyung is asleep on the couch.”

“He didn’t wanna sleep in his room?”

“He’s still in scrubs, so I guess not.”

Seokjin makes an mmm and goes still. Then, on a sigh, “Alright. See you later.”

Jimin buttons his jeans, tugs his plaid shirt on. “Bye. Tell Namjoon hyung I said hello when he wakes up.”

“I’ll do that.”

Jimin grabs his phone from Seokjin’s nightstand, cracks open the door, and slips out into the hallway.

Chapter 15: when we only have one another (jimin/taehyung)

Summary:

Tonight, Jimin ambles into the room, leather pants clinging to the full slope of his thighs, fringe folded back from where he’d slipped his palm over it, and asks, “What—are you trying to seduce me?”

Notes:

Content warning: one (1) use of ‘pussy’ for genitalia, a bit of roleplay (‘hyung’ and ‘oppa’ used)

if you haven't read my taegi 'orange-vodka mix': vmin are best friends and dorm together at yonseiU. they sometimes makeout/grope one another. you dont need to read that taegi to understand this, but it does help understand their dynamics.

 

It’s one of those rare nights where Jimin and Taehyung return to their dormitories tipsy and empty-handed. Jimin’s prospective lay fell flat when her friends called and whisked her away to another bar, and Taehyung’s got cold feet once talk of relocating came up. It happens. It’s fine. That leaves Jimin and Taehyung licking their wounds, stumbling into their tiny foyer giggling and Jimin bemoaning, “Guess that means I took you home, Taehyung-ah.” 

“I’m a good time,” Taehyung teases back. He kicks off his loafers, grabs Jimin by the nape of his neck when he tries to enter their kitchenette with his boots still on. “Shoes off.” 

Jimin grumbles about being thirsty but obeys, and Taehyung makes a direct trip to their shared room, depositing himself on Jimin’s bed in his outdoor clothes. The mattress is unmade, cluttered with Jimin’s sleep clothes, rejected outfit choices, his rumpled comforter; Taehyung nestles his face into the sheets and takes a deep breath. Oh, so Jimin. Husky with light floral tones, a blend of masculine that eases Taehyung into a docile lump. Some nights, when Jimin is gone fucking whoever and Taehyung is left to his own devices, he likes to sleep in Jimin’s bed. It’s like free therapy, he’d told him. Cute little bear, Jimin would coo, pinching at his cheeks with his chubby fingers. 

Tonight, Jimin ambles into the room, leather pants clinging to the full slope of his thighs, fringe folded back from where he’d slipped his palm over it, and asks, “What—are you trying to seduce me?” 

Taehyung mumbles incoherently. His muscles feel too loose to muster a response. 

“Yeah? Taehyungie is seducing me tonight? I took you home?” Jimin giggles breathily, and the bed dips under his weight. Taehyung can’t see him where his face is burrowed, but he can feel him stroke at his back, gliding along the thin material of his blouse, so thin he can feel his warmth. “You’re her replacement?” He massages into the small of Taehyung’s back, fingers finding the little dips that flank his spine. 

Taehyung lets out a cross between a hum and a moan. He says, “Is this what you do with your hook-ups?” 

“What,” Jimin giggles some more, “Give them a massage? Sometimes. A breast or ass massage if they let m—” 

“No. Tease them.” 

Taehyung’s body tilts as Jimin crawls farther onto the bed, body warm and present beside him. “If they like that.” Jimin gives Taehyung’s ass a slap, letting it jiggle in his loose slacks, and then a squeeze. Taehyung huffs out a laugh, sleepy. “Do you? Tell Jiminie what you like, baby.” 

Jimin’s definitely horny tonight. Taehyung knows him by now, from that inflection in his tone—soft with a bit of rasp, a lot of breath in each word—to how his physical affection edges towards full-on groping. It’s always shaped into a joke, even if the way Jimin strokes leisurely over each of his asscheeks is not. 

They’re not each other’s types—but Taehyung is a little horny, too, and Taehyung knows how to play along. 

“I like whatever oppa likes,” Taehyung does his best approximation of a woman’s voice. The bar was too crowded and loud to hear what Jimin’s failed hook-up sounded like, but he can assume; she was sweet-faced and a few centimeters shorter than Jimin, her hair colored auburn. Jimin’s always liked them cute. 

“Yeah?” Jimin grabs another handful of Taehyung’s other asscheek. “What if oppa doesn’t want your pussy? What if he wants to fuck your ass?” 

Taehyung’s hips rut up into the mattress—just a twitch. “Whatever,” he repeats in a slur, abandoning the caricature immediately. 

“Desperate baby bear.” 

Jimin is waiting for him when Taehyung flops himself onto his back. Propped up on one elbow, shirt hanging low off his chest that Taehyung can see straight down it and to the waistband of Jimin’s jeans. The lights in their room are dim, and Jimin has a healthy sheen on his cheekbones, his fat lips. Jimin giggles at whatever he sees in Taehyung’s expression, still breathless. “Why’re you looking at me like that,” he whispers. 

“Like what,” Taehyung whispers back. 

Jimin doesn’t answer. He says, “Come keep me company,” before sliding up until he’s halfway over Taehyung, legs tangling in the sheets and around his abandoned blouses. He shoves Taehyung’s hair out from over his eyebrows, heavy-handed with it. “Keep me company,” he whines. Their nose tips rub together.

Taehyung’s chest quivers in a laugh. “You’re drunk.” 

Jimin plants a kiss to Taehyung’s mouth, so quick it’s as if it never happened. “Kiss me. I want a kiss.” 

He slips his tongue into Taehyung’s mouth. 

They’ve done this before. Taehyung understands the routine—blood viscous with too many tequila sunrises or not—and opens his mouth for Jimin to lap at him. It’s something about being Taehyung and Jimin being Jimin, he thinks, that drags the domineering streaks of Jimin out into the forefront when they’re fooling around. He doesn’t really bother with it outside of their trysts. 

(A distant thought informs him, tells him that it’s probably because in every other facet of their lives, Jimin’s already won.

This is the one stone left unturned—and Jimin touches him and pins him down with his arms and his eyes like he realizes this, too.) 

“Sweet,” Jimin says against his lips. “Y’taste sweet, Taey’ng-ah.” 

Taehyung’s ribs rattle with his next breath. Their pelvises fuse, and he can feel Jimin stirring under that tight leather. “Jimi—” 

“Call me hyung,” Jimin gasps. He rolls his hips down, expert, and they both pant into one another’s mouths. “Come here , call me hyung,” he shoves both hands under Taehyung’s supine body, grabbing two, tight palmfuls of his ass and tugging him up on his next pivot down. “Oh, T’yong—”

A moan rips from Taehyung’s throat, loud and without permission. He tries to blink his eyes open, but there’s cotton balls fuzzing in his vision, and his thoughts swirl around like wet dish towels. Defenses lowered, body limp beneath Jimin’s smaller form, he tips his chin up and heaves for air. “Hyung, ‘m—hard—” 

“I know,” Jimin laughs. He nips at Taehyung’s bottom lip, then dips down to nip where his jaw meets his throat, hips undulating, dick against Taehyung’s. The bedframe rocks and squeaks, a false interpretation of fucking, and Taehyung doesn’t think he can come like this—but it’s nice, so nice, a pleasant buzz of pleasure tingling at his toes and fingers. 

Jimin must know it’s futile, too. Still, he doesn’t make any moves to remove the layers between them, to touch Taehyung’s cock or for Taehyung to touch his. “I said to kiss me,” Jimin groans, “Kiss me, kiss me, kissmekissme—” 

Taehyung catches Jimin’s pouting lips. This time it’s hungry, Jimin growling and Taehyung growling back—deeper, rougher than anything Jimin’s soprano can manage—and runs his fingers up through Jimin’s blonde hair from the soft nape to soft crown. His other hand strokes down Jimin’s lean, muscled back, to his ass. What a soft, fat ass. He’s smacked it too many times to count (always playful, teasing), but seldom has he given it an appreciative rub, never has he taken his time with it. 

Jimin fucks up against him, undeterred, with almost one-minded focus. Taehyung feels for him; they’re not going to get their release this way. Pleasure muted, an echo that reverberates in Taehyung’s fuzzy head. The rhythmic movements are making him sleepier, honestly, holding onto the ledge of arousal by his fingertips. 

“I’d fuck you so hard, bear,” Jimin purrs before smashing forward for more, open-mouthed, loose-tongued kisses. Wet and smearing spit over Taehyung’s philtrum, his lips corners. “No one would give it to you as good as me.” 

“‘Du—ah—dunno about th’t, nn-ah,” Taehyung tries, hands going limp again from Jimin’s frantic rutting. Seeking a climax that won’t come. 

“Because you haven’t had me yet. You haven’t—had my cock—” 

Yet. “Yet?” Taehyung laughs on a moan. Fuck—things are slipping. His thoughts are sinking into the toilet, the fuzz is moving in. 

“Just say the word,” Jimin mutters right into his ear. “As soon as you ask, I’ll show you what you’ve been missing. Won’t want anyone else ever again.” 

Taehyung can’t process a quip for that. Jimin likes to talk, so he lets him. He lies there and moans and trembles, lets Jimin hump him until they’re both too exhausted to keep up with the charade. Then Jimin, defeated, lies his full weight onto Taehyung and kisses him instead. The warm, slow slide of their mouths, clicking under the hum of an aircon. Jimin’s scent wrapped around him, the taste of liquor still on his tongue. Taehyung slips under, warm, warm, protected. His hyung for the night. For the hour. 

“You’re so sweet,” Jimin mumbles once they’re through with that. He nuzzles his nose into Taehyung’s cheek, tucks his smile there. “Love you sweet like this.” 

“Th’drinks,” Taehyung says. He closes his eyes and lets his head swim. 

“No—you.” 

“Th’nk you.” 

“Sweet,” Jimin giggles.

They’re dirty and in their outdoor-clothes and haven’t brushed their teeth. They’re going to regret not going through their respective night routines in the morning. 

Taehyung thinks fuck it, wiggles into a more comfortable position under a now-quiet Jimin, and doesn’t fight sleep when it arrives.

Chapter 16: when we're too late (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

“You wanna go to Paris with me?”

“I want to be thought about. I want to be thought about and chosen. By you.”

Notes:

Something rated T, for once!

Taegi, OT7 appearance, fluffy, first kiss, pouty taehyung, Good Hyung yoongi.

 

 

“You don’t think I could motivate you?”

Yoongi falters at the threshold to the kitchen. Taehyung is giving him his back, careful fingers sifting through the different flavors of soju they have lined up on the counter. Laughter follows him from the common room.

He’s not sure how Taehyung knew it was him without looking, but—as unpredictable as Taehyung can be, Yoongi has had years to piece him together. “Motivate me how?” he asks.

It’s dark out, and the ambience in the airbnb is awful, honestly. Dull bulbs that haven’t been changed in months, dusty, cheap little wires buzzing against the glass. Small details that nobody bothered to consider while they deliberated over which to book. Namjoon and Yoongi wanted a terrace with a view; Jungkook never requested anything specific, never said much in the group chat at all; Jimin, Seokjin, and Hoseok just wanted their company.

Taehyung… Yoongi thought he knew. But then he’d gone quiet halfway into the night, and he stood up and walked away without a word, and Yoongi wasn’t sure why, but he knew he had to fix it, somehow.

“You said,” Taehyung turns his head to give Yoongi his profile, and now Yoongi can see the pout, vicious, sharp-edged, “Jiminie would motivate you. You don’t think I could?”

Yoongi thinks quick. Flips through the past few hours, everything that he’d said, that he didn’t. Finally, “Wait—about Paris?”

It was a stupid question posed amongst several other stupid questions. A what-would-you-rather game that Jimin initiated. Would you rather live to one-hundred and live the life you’re currently living or live to forty? Who would you rather switch bodies with? Would you rather wake up every morning to a spider (non-poisonous! Jungkook insisted when Hoseok shot him a look of absolute terror) on your face or feel like something is crawling on you every night?

Then, “Yoongi-hyung,” Hoseok had asked on his turn, “out of all of us, who would you rather go to Paris with? A full week in Paris, just you and them.”

Yoongi thought about it for a few seconds before he said, slow, “Jiminie… I think he’d motivate me to get out of our hotel room. Do stuff.”

This sparked the beginning of the tantrum, it seems.

“Taehyung-ah,” the Yoongi in the kitchen laugh-whines. “You’re mad about that?”

Taehyung’s eyes flicker in his direction. “Yes.”

Yoongi laughs some more, the quiet, hiccupy one that bubbles up in his throat. He approaches the counter next to Taehyung, claps his shoulder. “Come on. Don’t let that ruin your night. Taehyung-ah.”

“You answered so fast,” Taehyung insists, words stretched out into a whine of his own. He watches his own fingers twist the cherry soju around. “Did you even consider me?” His voice drops into a mumble, a rattle of voice and nothing else. “Hyung. I could motivate you.”

Yoongi grapples with several emotions at once. Surprise, the humor in Taehyung genuinely being upset about the answer to a silly hypothetical question that’ll never amount to much—a smudge of concern.

He shoves them away, asks, “You wanna go to Paris with me?”

“I want to be thought about.”

“I thought about you! I did!”

“And then chosen.” Taehyung looks directly into his careful eyes. “I want to be thought about and chosen. By you.”

Yoongi can feel air in his chest. It shifts his lungs up and out.

“I love Paris,” Taehyung tells him in a rush. Like if he doesn’t speak fast enough Yoongi will lose interest, will evaporate and float up to the buzzing light bulbs. “I love—I know so many things we could do. There are lyrics hidden in the city, and—and the countryside. I have a friend that could take us out there. You could write an entire album just from the view. I’d take you there. I could.”

He’s still not sure Taehyung understands that it’s a hypothetical. Or… or maybe it’s Yoongi that misunderstood. That always misunderstood, didn’t understand the moment he opened his mouth and shaped Jimin’s name instead of Taehyungie.

Or it could’ve been way back, way back when he met Kim Taehyung for the first time, and Taehyung—young, disastrous Taehyung—gave him such wide eyes and a slow, I love your music. Wide eyes and wide, defenseless chest. Yoongi was exclusively on SoundCloud at the time, but as he grew and migrated to larger platforms, so did his fanbase.

And he grew into the friends he has now. And he grew into his confidence in his lyricism, current writer’s block or not.

And Taehyung never grew a cage around that wide-open chest.

“I wouldn’t let you sit in the hotel room all day. You wouldn’t want to. I’d,” Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath, “make an itinerary so you wouldn’t have to plan anything. Everyday—I’d fill every hour with places to go. He’s not the only person that could do that for you.”

The air in Yoongi’s chest hurts. It travels into his throat. He breathes out. “I didn’t say he was.”

“Consider me more.”

Yoongi considers him. His overgrown fringe, his sweat-damp face that leaves a delicate glow to his tan. He’s tall and slender, and when Yoongi reaches out to squeeze his bicep (shy, placating), muscle tenses beneath his palm.

Multiple nearby voices—Jimin, Seokjin, Hoseok—clamber over one another in their excitement to speak first. I didn’t mean to do that! You can’t change it now! Seokjin belts out his signature wail of defeat. Yoongi and Taehyung don’t shift from where they’re standing and staring at one another.

“Okay,” Yoongi whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. Even awful ambience catches in the delicate curl of his lashes. Yoongi can see it. His eyes are saying, you never understood.

Yoongi lingers years behind.

“Hyung didn’t think the question through well enough. You’re right.” He rubs his palm down to his elbow, back up to Taehyung’s shoulder bend. Vulnerability rubs at him, too, scratches his throat raw when he asks, “Is it too late to choose you?” as soft as he can manage, trying to tuck it away from any leering ears.

Taehyung is immediate. “Almost.”

Yoongi snorts. “Almost means no.” He shifts closer, and Taehyung tilts so that they’re facing one another. “Thank you.”

He leans up, hesitates. Taehyung doesn’t move. He watches Yoongi, follows along the soft curve of his face and down to his lips, where they remain. Then Yoongi gives in, pushes up to his toes, and their nose tips touch—a tiny scrape to promise. To warn.

Yoongi follows through with his mouth.

Hyung! You didn’t finish! Most of it spilled on your shirt!

Jungkookie won, Namjoon-ah. There’s no wa—

He said almost, but that’s not true, is it? Yoongi is too late. His kiss is hesitant, fearful, but Taehyung reaches up and cradles Yoongi’s jaw like he’s been practicing, like he’d calculated this moment down to the buzzing wires, the dust that hangs in sticky, humid air—like he’s known and waited and all Yoongi needed to do was fucking follow through.

Taehyung’s dreamt of Paris. He finds his rightful place between Yoongi’s lips and kisses the fantasy into his skin. This is what Yoongi finally understands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17: when we cannot hide our desires (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

How sexy can abdominal exams be?

Very sexy. Extremely sexy. Yoongi, in his early thirties and his ink-black hair and his lips that he keeps licking, touching Taehyung’s (bare) belly, his (bare) skin. Their hottest lecturer that the girls fawn over on a bi-weekly basis, putting his strong, capable hands on Taehyung’s (bare) body.

Notes:

this was from a twitter thread i wrote a minute ago!

content warnings for this chapter:
> taegi
> student/teacher (yoongi is a doctor and a guest lecturer at taehyung's medical program)
> blowjobs

 

 

“Lie back, knees up,” Yoongi says, patting at Taehyung’s thighs until he follows instructions. Physical Examination lab has been over for a few hours now—the sun melting into a hazy blur over Gwanak-gu’s skyline, Taehyung’s classmates gone to study in the library or take a nap in their dormitories—and he’s the sole leftover, catching up on his missed lecture. 

Monday’s evening class went over the abdominal exam, and this week they had Dr. Min Yoongi, part-time lecturer for their medical program, come in to tie possible findings to a differential. All of which Taehyung missed, because he was deathly sick over the weekend and still wasn’t feeling well enough to come in. So now it’s a Wednesday at 8:00 p.m., Yoongi is here after a shift at his GI clinic, and Taehyung is trying to will his stirring boner away as Yoongi instructs him to lift up his scrub top and tuck his scrub bottoms to just under his hips. 

“You need to examine the entire abdomen,” Yoongi is saying, looking so fucking hot in his navy blue scrubs, Min Yoongi, MD Gastroenterologist stitched into the chest pocket. “Let’s say you get through the entire medical interview and when you go on to examine you see a scar in their right lower quadrant?” He punctuates the question with a quick palm over Taehyung’s belly. 

Such strong, capable hands. Big. Big and warm and they’re touching Taehyung’s bare skin, just over the stretchy waistline of his scrubs. How can you not get turned on? 

“Ap—appendix,” Taehyung tries. 

Yoongi gives him a raised brow. “Appendix?” 

“Appen—dectomy.” 

Pleased, Yoongi returns his gaze to Taehyung’s stomach. Bare stomach. Taehyung is lying back on the table, mat underneath him, they’re alone in the dark, quiet PT room, and Yoongi is touching his /bare stomach/. “Alright,” Yoongi says. “We begin with auscultation. Listen to the patient’s abdomen in all four quadrants with both the bell and the diaphragm of your stethoscope. Why do we do this? You already learned this in your lecture.” 

Taehyung is given some reprieve when Yoongi tucks one eartip in of his pink stethoscope and demonstrates by pressing the bell to Th’s upper left abdomen. Still, his brain is putty, mushy as he tries desperately to pound it into submission. “Sounds. Th’sounds—?” Taehyung says. 

Yoongi slides the diaphragm over to the upper right quadrant now. His lips are pursed like he’s really listening, like Taehyung is genuinely his patient and he needs to sort out the differential diagnosis. Dr. Min Yoongi, sexy and serious. Taehyung’s cock gives a pathetic little throb, and Taehyung clenches his jaw, digs his nails into his palm to get his body to /shut the fuck up and pay attention/. 

“I need you to be more specific.” 

“Diaphragm for high pitches,” Taehyung bites out. “Bell for—for low sounds.” 

“Right,” Yoongi listens to his bottom two quadrants, then switches to the bell and listens with it. “And what if you don’t hear any bowel sounds at all?” 

He can at least answer this one without too much brainpower. “Could be some kinda obstruction. Small or large bowel.” 

“Good boy.” Yoongi returns his stethoscope to hanging around his neck. The praise comes to Taehyung as a punch in the throat. Or the gut. 

The dick. A punch in the dick. One that strokes more than it punches. Taehyung is absolutely half-hard in his scrubs now. He thanks his metabolism for once that he’s skinny enough for the bottoms to give him some room for plausible deniability. If he can just counteract the pleasure and his filthy fucking mind with pain, he can get through this. He can. How sexy can abdominal exams be? 

Very sexy. Extremely sexy. Yoongi, in his early thirties and his ink-black hair and his lips that he keeps licking, touching Taehyung’s (bare) belly, his (bare) skin. Their hottest lecturer that the girls fawn over on a bi-weekly basis, putting his strong, capable hands on Taehyung’s (bare) body. 

Instructional time has never been so arousing. 

Yoongi mutters, “Sorry, my hands are cold,” in his (sexy) gruff voice, rubbing his palms together, and Taehyung stammers out a pathetic you’re fine. 

Then he’s putting his hands on Taehyung, rolling from the heel of his palm to his fingertips, firm and deep and almost ticklish. A few times in each quadrant, Yoongi is explaining, but all Taehyung hears is /your cock is getting harder your cock is getting harder your cock is—/ 

“If you’re not sure if the patient is serious about the intensity of their pain,” Yoongi says, “you can pretend you’re listening with your stethoscope and press in hard with your diaphragm. Old trick of mine, especially for kids,” he winks at Taehyung. 

Taehyung is pretty sure his face is scrunched up in pain and misery and humiliation. Yoongi’s hands aren’t cold at all, and when he slides them down to press into the skin just above his waistband, a stuttering breath rushes from Taehyung’s lips. 

He doesn’t want to risk a glance down to where he’s slowly tenting his pants. It’ll draw attention to it, and Yoongi will notice, too—if he hasn’t already. Taehyung is hard from an abdominal exam and Yoongi will see and report him for harassment. 

Maybe. Probably. They’ve had their moments, this semester, where Taehyung wondered if they were on their way to flirting, if not already. Lingering back-pats, lingering eyes—the one night Taehyung and a few of his classmates went out for drinks and saw Yoongi at a bar, drinking. 

Taehyung, drunk and an absolute dumb ass, had slid up to Yoongi after his friends wandered away and pressed a hand to Yoongi’s lower back as he asked, “Here alone?” in a theatrically sleazy voice. 

Yoongi laughed like he understood the joke, but said, “And if I am?” so genuinely Taehyung wasn’t sure how to respond at all. Still, he kept his hand there, low on his back. 

And now they’re here, Yoongi asking, “If the patient feels pain in their left lower quadrant, what’s on your mind?” 

Taehyung swallows hard. Swallows hard and his dick is hard. Nails into palms aren’t working anymore (if they ever were). 

“Diverticulitis,” Taehyung whimpers. 

Yoongi pauses. 

In hindsight, it’s hilarious. A record-scratch moment where Yoongi looks at Taehyung and Taehyung looks at Yoongi, both in varying degrees of shock. Taehyung’s inflection sounded way too sultry to pass off. Taehyung has dug his grave so far an apology or pretending it never happened won’t work. 

He tries anyway. Yoongi’s gaze glides down to where Taehyung’s cock is tenting his scrubs and Taehyung says, “Diverticulosis, too. If it spreads to your flanks, maybe pyeloneph—“ 

Yoongi is staring. Staring at his clothed dick and it only makes Taehyung’s cock pulse, leak a little dribble of precome that erases Taehyung’s resolve. 

“—I am so sorry,” Taehyung breathes. “I didn’t mean to—I know you’re just—fuck I’m not a pervert I swear, Yoongi-nim.” He slaps the heels of his palms into his eye sockets before humiliated tears can slip free. 

He’s going to get kicked out of the program. All that hard work down the drain. The sleepless nights and tears and tough exams and being the family’s pride. How is he going to tell his parents? His friends? Admit that he popped a boner during a harmless exam and his professor reported him to—

“It’s okay,” Yoongi says finally. His voice is distant, trapped somewhere in his thoughts. 

Taehyung doesn’t dare look. He’s terrified. “Ignore it,” he says. “Just ignore it, please, I’m—“ 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, now firm enough to shut Taehyung up. “You’re okay.” 

Immediate silence. 

Taehyung can hear his own heartbeat hammer in his ears. Yoongi is staring hard somewhere between Taehyung’s pelvis and cock, his hands hovering. Not touching. Because Taehyung is a freak weirdo that’s going to get reported and removed from the program. 

Taehyung is writing his future apology letter as Yoongi says, leaning on playful, “You normally get turned on by abdominal exams?” 

It’s such an unexpected (and, frankly, unprofessional) question from Yoongi that Taehyung gives an automatic wry laugh and answers, also automatic, “No.” 

Then there’s another pause for the implication to drown both of them alive. 

He can’t run this one back. “I didn’t,” he tries anyway. His sentence tapers off into an awkward cough. 

Yoongi looks at him. Looks at him without looking at him, Taehyung notices, Yoongi’s eyes gazing aimlessly. “So…” 

“Ignore it.” Taehyung doesn’t think he can get any redder. He’s going to combust into flames. He needs Yoongi to /move on/. 

Yoongi doesn’t move on. He says, “You sure?” 

Another wry laugh. Taehyung twists his head to look at Yoongi without lifting his head. “What’s the alternative here?” 

Another pointed stare. This time Yoongi is clearly look /at/ Taehyung and not through him. Taehyung genuinely considers if he’s been transported to the twilight zone via Yoongi’s strong, capable hands. Maybe he blinked too long once and fell through a portal, now in a dimension where a hot doctor is implying that there’s more that can be done about his erection other than ignoring it. 

Maybe he wasn’t imagining things. Maybe those long stares and slow smiles meant something. He thinks of /And if I am?/ and the road they could’ve taken that if Taehyung weren’t with friends. 

“Well,” Taehyung’s mouth is suddenly dry. “I’m taking suggestions.” 

Yoongi continues to stare. “Hm,” he hums. He maintains eye contact as his palms make contact with Taehyung’s lower belly again. He presses in, listens and watches as Taehyung’s mouth drops open, a soft gasp slipping free. He tries and fails to not squirm on the mat, hips rocking up in a tiny little twitch. 

They continue like that. Yoongi presses and squeezing at Taehyung’s belly, right above his pelvis, fingers brushing over his fuzzy happy trail. And Taehyung makes very gentle noises. His hips lift off the mat—barely. Briefly. His body subconsciously seeks friction more than the inside of his briefs and scrub bottoms. 

Seoul’s sunset is splaying its orange haze across the dark, empty room, Yoongi is kneading Taehyung’s skin, and Taehyung is trying not to come prematurely. A spurt of precome leaks out, staining through his briefs (not yet his scrubs, thankfully). “Yoongi-nim,” Taehyung whimpers. 

Yoongi’s lashes flutter. He wet his lips, wet them again. Taehyung has never been so turned on in his life. 

Fingertips play under the waistband, over his fuzz of pubic hair, and Taehyung whimpers again. “Please,” he breathes. His gasps are loud in the silence. Yoongi hasn’t said a word. “Please, seonsaengnim—seonsan—“ 

“Shh,” Yoongi tuts, soft. He presses low on Taehyung’s pelvis. Just one quick slide down and he’s at his cock. “Need you t’be quiet. Unless you wanna tell me what you’d do for someone that has diverticulitis.” 

He’s not sure how Yoongi expects him to string a coherent thought together right now. His dick has stolen every braincell and he feels like he’s gonna come any second now. 

Taehyung hums, whines some more until Yoongi shushes him again. “NPO,” he whispers. “Metronidazole, cip—cipro.” 

“Good boy.” 

“I,” Taehyung’s hips kick forward on a particularly hard rub, “wanna come—?” It still feels very wrong to say that aloud, to Yoongi, even as Yoongi is clearly doing this to get him off. They’ve long since passed any semblance of professionalism. “Let me,” he tries to shove a hand under his own waistband to give his cock a squeeze, but Yoongi slaps his hand away immediately. 

“C. diff,” Yoongi asks. “What do you do?” 

Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck. Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut tight, balls his hands back into fists. 

“Vancomycin.” 

Yoongi somehow has the audacity to give him a stern look. “Administered how, Taehyung-ssi.” 

If his brain was mushy before, it’s microscopic now. Just a puddle. “Oral,” Taehyung says. 

“Correct,” Yoongi says. He tugs hard at Taehyung’s waistband until Taehyung gets the hint and lifts just enough for him to get it down just under his balls. “Oral.” 

Yoongi promptly goes down on Taehyung. 

Taehyung makes the most unattractive noise of his life, he thinks. It’s a cross between a shocked gasp and a gargle, like he sucked a grape into his trachea. 

Yoongi quickly pins Taehyung’s hips down to the mat before he can choke him, sucking wetly. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t take any time to appreciate or enjoy it—he starts bobbing his head, sinking down, up, down farther, up, down even farther. 

Taehyung fights his hands from burying themselves in Yoongi’s head, only gasps and quivers as Yoongi sucks his soul out. 

“Ah—ah, seon—Yoongi ssaem—“ Taehyung moans. He lifts his head so he can watch in aroused awe as Yoongi closes his eyes and loses himself in sucking his cock, hollowing out at Taehyung’s cockhead before sinking impossibly low. 

He’s already gonna come. He was gonna come in his scrubs and now he may come in Yoongi’s mouth. Yoongi’s fringe swipes across his forehead as he works Taehyung’s cock, one hand wrapped around the base to twist and stroke behind his eager mouth. 

It sounds wet. Yoongi’s throat being breached when he sinks low enough, Yoongi sucking up his spit when he rises. Taehyung’s orgasm builds steadily in his groin, at the base of his spine. 

Toes curling, thigh muscles wavering, Taehyung warns, “Ssae—ssaem wait, please, already guh-gonna—“ 

Yoongi’s lashes flutter when he opens his eyes to look up at Taehyung. It’s so obscene Taehyung’s shoved that much closer to the precipice—lips wet, thin around him, the highpoint of his cheekbones a bit flushed. An image Taehyung never in his fucking life thought he’d have the opportunity to see beyond fantasy. 

Yoongi pops off with a wet gasp. Pants lightly, watching Taehyung’s face as he strokes hard and fast, paying attention to Taehyung cockhead. Foreskin sliding and retracting with the rhythm of his fist. 

“I’m, ah, I’m, ssaem,” Taehyung says, stops. Goes quiet, jaw slack. A smudge of stars blur in his vision when he comes. 

Yoongi brings his free hand up to catch as much as he can, a stray spurt slipping by and catching Taehyung’s belly. 

He’s not sure how long he lies there, out of commission, for. It takes him especially long to reorient, and when he gets the stubborn stars out of his pupils, he finds Yoongi tossing soiled napkins into the trash by the front podium. Other than the remaining flush on his cheekbones, he looks collected. Himself. 

They make eye contact. “Put your cock away,” Yoongi rasps. 

Taehyung jerks his attention to his softening cock. “O—oh.” He shakily makes himself decent. 

Long silence. Taehyung lies there stupidly and tracks Yoongi grabbing his stethoscope from the floor (when did it fall?), collecting his satchel bag, hooking it over his shoulders. He gives Taehyung a couple, cursory glances when he says, “I’ll show you how to percuss another time. When do you get out of classes on Friday?” 

Taehyung stares. Thinks hard. His brain is back to the mush, which is better than a puddle, but— “5:30.” 

Yoongi nods. Blinks a few times fast. Licking his lips, he says, “See you at 6:00. Put the mat back in the closet before you go.” 

Taehyung can barely make a confused, affirmative noise before Yoongi slips out of the room.

Chapter 18: when we reminisce (jungkook/yoongi)

Summary:

Jungkook leans a little too far to the left and quickly catches himself. His boots, a thick, black leather, almost act as weights, keeping him upright even as his head spins. Bottom lip pouting out with each word, Jungkook lisps, “It’s been three years since I last had good sex. Can you believe that?”

Notes:

another from my twitter thread.

content warnings:
> yoonkook where jungkook runs into his ex and reminisces.
> first times
> horny guilt yoongi^TM
> age difference

 

 

It’s 2AM and Jungkook’s had too much to drink. His fatal flaw is that he’s stubborn to a fault—and so when Jimin had insisted they take a cab back to his place and sleep off the night, Jungkook slipped out of the bar and started ambling, fruitlessly, along the road. 

When Jimin discovers he’s gone he’s going to be equal parts worried, equal parts pissed, but Jungkook is very tipsy leaning on drunk, and there’s another bar that’s open until 4AM, and he doesn’t want the night to end yet. He didn’t wear fishnets under his jeans just to go back to jimin’s place without at least a little stranger-groping. 

That’s how he runs into his ex. Of course. No bad deed goes unpunished, and Jungkook had been skirting by on his luck for weeks. 

He almost doesn’t recognize him at first. Yoongi’s wearing all black and has his head tipped down, the bill of his skull snapback obscuring half of his face. The 7-11’s lights are dull, but Jungkook recognizes those hands—fingers long and square and curled over his phone—anywhere. It’s been a few years and he still can’t forget those hands. 

2AM is more of an abstract concept rather than a moment in time. And Jongno is chilly at night, nipping at his too-hot cheeks, a steady reminder that he’s inhabiting this body, and this body wants him to walk up to his ex and tell him whatever comes to mind. 

Jungkook walks up and tells his ex whatever comes to mind. 

“I’m twenty-three now,” he says. His voice is way too loud for the side-street’s silence, and Yoongi startles, jerking his head up from where he had it hidden behind his phone. A steaming cup of convenience store ramen sits on the table in front of him. “I’ve had three birthdays since then.” 

Yoongi blinks five times straight, mouth hanging open, before he precariously straightens his posture and asks, “Jungkook-ah?” 

Jungkook leans a little too far to the left and quickly catches himself. His boots, a thick, black leather, almost act as weights, keeping him upright even as his head spins. Bottom lip pouting out with each word, Jungkook lisps, “It’s been three years since I last had good sex. Can you believe that?” 

Yoongi reminds him of a terrified alley cat, ready to leap up and sprint if Jungkook makes another move. If he weren’t so suddenly upset remembering how sexually frustrated he is, he’d laugh at that. But Yoongi’s face, terrified as it is, draws memories Jungkook allows himself to feel when he’s drunk and sad and vulnerable. 

There’s no leaping and sprinting. Not like he thought that’d happen, lethargic as Yoongi is. Instead, Yoongi sits at the 7-11 picnic table and doesn’t move a centimeter when Jungkook stumbles closer. His eyes are shadowed by his cap, but Jungkook can see him scraping over Jungkook’s outfit, where the first five buttons of his blouse are open, where the fishnets poke out through the holes of his jeans. The parts of his body that are now filled out, muscled, shimmering with sweat and body glitter. 

His voice sounds hoarse when he repeats, quieter, “Jungkook-ah?” 

Jungkook flops onto the seat across from Yoongi and sways. “We only lasted, like, eight months, but—you—maybe it’s because I didn’t know any better.” 

Twenty and floundering, coming to grips with the fact that he was far from home and now on his own.  

Yoongi was Jungkook’s first. First touch, first fuck, first boyfriend. And he’d kissed people before they dated, but never like the way Yoongi used to kiss him. Jungkook told him that he was twenty and a half—the half mattered, Jungkook would argue as they stuck to one another at the bar and their shoes stuck to the sticky tiles—and Yoongi was apprehensive, but how many times could you dodge the implication with your eyes and your trembling hands before your resolve toppled over?  

Jimin calls it tenacity when he’s in a good mood, stubbornness when he’s upset. Jungkook doesn’t care what it’s called, as long as he gets what he wants. Yoongi only kissed him that first night. His mouth tasted like liquor and ash, and they stood outside while Yoongi muttered, “There y’go, less tongue now, yeah,” in between kisses and Jungkook whined and pressed closer for more. 

At one point, he’d just let his mouth hang open so Yoongi could lick into it. 

Yoongi was twenty-seven and blatantly, hopelessly attracted to Jungkook, as hard as he tried to tell himself otherwise—even Jungkook could see that. He took Jungkook home, but they didn’t have sex. In the morning, Yoongi cooked him a quick breakfast and said, quietly, “You’re too young.” 

That didn’t stop them from seeing one another. 

“Ah,” Jungkook says, running his fingers back through his long hair. Dark strands cascade back into his face. “This makes me sound so pathetic.” He slits his eyes open to look at Shocked & Confused Yoongi. “I’ve had good sex. Really, really good sex. Don’t worry. You used to worry a lot,” he wags a finger at him, “but don’t.” 

Yoongi doesn’t speak. 

“It never compares, though. Even handjobs,” Jungkook laughs and looks off into the 7-11’s windows. The cashier is sitting on her phone behind the register, young and bleary-eyed. “No one knows… like. Understands my body, except you.” 

Before Jungkook asked Yoongi to date him, before they spent those eight months learning one another, they did lots of kissing, lots of touching. Yoongi would lie Jungkook back on his bed and wrap his large, sticky hand around his cock, stroking JK to incoherency. “Better this way?” Yoongi would rasp, focusing where it made JK’s thighs tremble and moans high.  

And JK was shy at first, only nodding or shaking his head while he shoved his knuckles in-between his teeth—but as Yoongi taught him, kept giving him gentle encouragements and kind eyes, he unfurled more and more. 

“Jungkook-ah,” Yoongi seems to be finding himself now, phone lowering onto the table, “you—“ 

“I know,” Jungkook breathes. “I was the—I know.” 

It doesn’t change the fact that Jungkook’s reality tilted during Yoongi, and now, after him, he doesn’t think he’ll ever achieve that same head-high again. Yoongi knew how to use those long, notched fingers, knew what to do to have JK’s mind fuzz into static. 

He used to milk Jungkook dry, letting each glob of precome drip into his mouth while he massaged inside. He used to fuck him the same way, an inside-massage, working his cock into JK’s tight hole and stroking his dick until he came. Only then did Yoongi let himself come, too. JK’s pleasure over his own, JK’s begging be damned. 

Teaching him how to fuck, how to move his hips and control his pace. Sometimes Yoongi never climaxed; he stroked along the planes of Jungkook’s chest, shoulders, letting Jungkook tremble and spill inside him. 

Then cleaned them up, cooked for them while JK passed out—always exhausted after sex—and climbed into bed with him after, whispering, “Eat before sleeping, Jungkook-ah, c’mon,” in sleepy laughter. 

But, love isn’t enough. Jungkook never understood what that meant until he knew he had to move on. There were obstacles they couldn’t get over: Yoongi always treated him like he was delicate, like he was too young and any wind could collapse him like straw. JK never felt like an equal, and as the months passed and Yoongi became twenty-eight to JK’s twenty, the space between them felt that much more daunting. 

“That doesn’t mean anyone else can fuck me the way you can,” Jungkook says, throat burning. “You were so—I ‘dunno, you just made me feel so good.” 

He’s figuring it out, now. As selfless as his past lovers were, Yoongi gave one-hundred percent of his attention, one-hundred percent of the time. The scales were terribly unbalanced, and it was another point of contention. Jungkook wanted to give as much as he took; Yoongi’s guilt, it felt, kept him from yielding. 

7-11 Yoongi blurs into black and neon colors as Jungkook fights to blink the tears away. “I promise I loved you,” he sniffles. “You were so good to me. I’m sorry.” 

Much like everything else during their eight months, Jungkook got what he wanted. He broke up with Yoongi, and Yoongi didn’t fight it. He bowed his head and nodded, and they cleaned up the dining table in silence. Jungkook wasn’t sure what he was more upset over: Yoongi not bothering to argue, or Yoongi accepting whatever scraps he’d been given. 

Either way, this was what he understood: they were never going to be equals. 

“I miss you,” Jungkook’s voice cracks open on a sob. He immediately ducks his head and wipes at his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m drunk.” 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything Jungkook doesn’t want him to. Yoongi doesn’t run or stand or speak more than three words at a time, because that’s not what Jungkook imagines he does. 

This Yoongi—the one Jungkook’s liquor-addled mind conjures up sitting at a 7-11 at 2AM—says, gently, carefully, as he always does, “It’s okay.”

 

 

Chapter 19: when our bodies tell (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

“You’re hard.”

That’s when Taehyung rips his eyes off of Yoongi’s foot and looks down at the crotch of his sweats, where his erection is obvious and prominent. Shit.

“It’s just,” Taehyung tries, “It’s just a natural reaction. Ignore it, please—?”

“Natural reaction,” Yoongi parrots on a scoff. “I don’t get hard massaging someone’s feet.”

Notes:

yoongi is trying to study when taehyung offers a foot massage.

from my twt. an 'orange-vodka mix' taegi spin-off (you don't need to read that fic to understand this).

content warning:
> taegi
> foot kink / foot job
> degradation/slut-shaming (taehyung likes it dw)

 

 

The compromise is that Taehyung can stick around if he doesn’t make a noise. No talking, no cuddling, no sex, no distractions. Just sit on Yoongi’s bed or in the chair next to Yoongi’s study desk and watch him study for the next how-many hours.

The compromise was not that Taehyung could massage Yoongi’s feet.

Yoongi’s sitting in his fancy office chair, Clinical Psychiatry textbook open and a tight grip on his mechanical pencil, the tip hanging over his sheets of scrap paper. He’s fresh from a shower and still emanates some heat, this clean linen scent. It’s one of the few times Taehyung has seen him wear shorts, waxed shins on display, and—he can’t really resist. Half an hour of obedient silence ticks by them, Taehyung aimlessly scrolling through his KKT chats, before he sets it face down and quietly tugs one of Yoongi’s legs up onto his lap.

“Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi mumbles by way of warning, eyes still glued to his textbook. His throat hoarse and tired. “What was the third rule?”

“You didn’t say no foot massages,” Taehyung whines. “Let me help you relax. You look tense.”

Yoongi scribbles something on his scrap paper three times in a row. “I’m tense because you’re trying to distract me.”

“I’m not.” Taehyung cups the foot in both hands, rubs his thumbs where the sole arches. “Look—just a massage. You had a long day of clinicals; your feet have to hurt.”

“This is a sex thing for you,” Yoongi says. And he finally looks up to meet Teahyung’s pleading eyes, his own hair still a little dark and damp and playing in his lashes. The sleepshirt he has on is three sizes too big for his frame, hanging off the long, broad slope of his shoulders. “This counts under the ‘no sex’ rule.”

“It’s not,” Taehyung can hear his own whine in his voice—but he’s learned by now that with a little persuasion and a lot more pouts Yoongi will give in. “No sex. I’ll be good.” He continues to knead his thumbs into Yoongi’s arch, and Yoongi doesn’t tug his leg away, so. A good sign. All good signs.

There’s a silent acquiescence in Yoongi turning his attention back to his textbook. Taehyung, biting back a victorious smile, doubles his efforts in rubbing the tense pull of muscle in Yoongi’s feet. Such nice feet. A little hairy at the knuckles, green-blue veins bulging out, weaving between tendons. His toes are long and skinny, knobbly.

Like his ankle. Bone cutting through thin, white skin. Taehyung gives a quick, appreciative rub over where his tibia and fibula join on the inside of Yoongi’s ankle, then cradles his heel between his legs (not near his crotch, less Yoongi reneges his privileges for the rest of the night) and runs his thumbs from the balls of his feet back down and up again.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. Yoongi letting out a small breath, relaxing into his chair. Taehyung watches him skim the charts, rewriting them in his own words to commit the medications and their side effects to memory. Taehyung understands approximately zero percent of what he’s seen. Not important, though. What’s important is massaging feet.

And he’s good at that. He’s got large hands himself, though his fingers are slender and his nail beds more rounded than Yoongi’s. He uses that to his advantage with working Yoongi’s muscles loose. “See?” he says, a little breathless. “It feels good, right?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond with anything other than a jolt of a nod. His eyes are stuck somewhere near the bottom of his page, pencil jostling in time with the twitch of his fingertips.

“Good. Next.” Taehyung reaches down to replace Yoongi’s right foot with his left, forcing Yoongi to swivel closer to Taehyung’s direction for the angle to work.

Taehyung does the same routine. Rub into the arch of his feet, making him twitch a bit from how it tickles, roll up to the balls, run fingers over his toes, move back down. He doesn’t want it to be over yet, though, so he goes slower with this one. Taehyung’s so focused on the curve of Yoongi’s hairy toes that he doesn’t realize he’s now being watched.

“Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi rasps.

“Mm?” Taehyung’s response is airy, strained.

Yoongi wiggles his toes. Taehyung stares, mouth hanging open.

“You’re hard.”

That’s when Taehyung rips his eyes off of Yoongi’s foot and looks down at the crotch of his sweats, where his erection is obvious and prominent. Shit.

“It’s just,” Taehyung tries, “It’s just a natural reaction. Ignore it, please—?”

“Natural reaction,” Yoongi parrots on a scoff. “I don’t get hard massaging someone’s feet.”

Taehyung isn’t sure what to say to that. He whimpers, a defeated noise, but doesn’t stop rubbing his thumbs across the thick, almost-rough sole. “’M sorry. Ignore me, ignore—“

“How can I ignore it? You said it’s not a sex thing and you’re hard. You broke the third rule.”

His inflection doesn’t sound mad, at least. It’s closer to an amused rumble that vibrates down to where Taehyung’s hands touch his skin.

“You lied,” Yoongi continues.

“I didn’t. I didn’t—I just wanted to—“

“—get off on my feet. I know. I can see that.” Yoongi slides out of Taehyung’s grip and presses the ball of his foot on Taehyung’s clothed cock, making him jump and groan. “I know what you wanted,” his tongue lisps, “You think you’re clever.”

“Hyung.”

“I’m trying to study,” and Yoongi presses harder, flattening his cock against the crease of his thigh, “I shouldn’t have let you stay the night. Horny bastard.”

His brain is already going fuzzy. It’s terrifyingly good, even subdued through his cotton sweats (he’s not wearing underwear, never does when he knows he’s gonna be with Yoongi), and he’s going to float away. Taehyung knows he looks pathetic, sitting there with his hands suspended uselessly where Yoongi’s foot once was, lids heavy and jaw slack. “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, also useless.

“You’re so hard from this?” It’s worse, Taehyung thinks, that Yoongi sounds flat, not intentionally mean but mean nonetheless, because he doesn’t sound super interested. Just resigned. Kinda humored, too. “Can’t believe such a pretty boy is a pervert. They say to suspect the beautiful ones, though.”

Taehyung lets it happen. Yoongi’s toes wiggling where the crown of his cockhead is, working him until he’s painfully hard and dripping. He bites back his moans and rocks up into Yoongi’s sole, not sure if he should toss caution to the wind and get himself out so he can feel Yoongi’s real skin instead. Fuck, does he want to.

“You came here to fuck me,” Yoongi insists, “tell me the truth.”

“I,” Taehyung’s voice catches on a groan, “I always—always wanna fuck you.”

“Always,” Yoongi digs harder, almost painful, and lightens up when Taehyung’s grunt tilts wrong. His laugh is hiccupy, silent. “Always wanna put your cock in me, or anybody that’ll let you? Someone is always messaging you. How many of them have you fucked?” He tips his head in the direction of Taehyung’s phone, where it sits face-down. “You hide the screen when you’re not on it.”

He—isn’t sure if this is a sex thing anymore. Not like he can think straight with Yoongi’s insistent rubbing, threatening an embarrassing leak through his pants. If he keeps this up, he really may come from this alone, and then Yoongi will without a doubt never let him live it down. “Please,” Taehyung’s throat clicks on a swallow. Finding Yoongi’s impassive stare through the blur of pleasure, he says, “You. Wanna fuck you.”

“A bit of a slut,” Yoongi says. “Yeah?” He props an elbow on top of his open textbook, makes a fist around his pencil and leans his cheek on it. His eyes are focused on Taehyung’s eyes, his mouth, though the swoop of his straight fringe obscure most of his pupils. “Do you think?”

The attention moves to where Taehyung’s cockhead is, as if Yoongi is trying to grasp the girth of it with his toes. His foot is so long it stretches the length of Taehyung, squishing lightly. “Yeah,” Taehyung breathes, hips pushing up for more, more, please give me more.

“‘Yeah’ what?”

“I’m a slut,” Taehyung is gonna fucking come. He’s allowed himself to do many pathetic things in his life for the sake of getting off—kneeling in the shower to lap at Yoongi’s toes has to be near the top—but this is going to champion it all. Yoongi isn’t even actually touching him. “‘M a slut, I wanna—wanna fuck you. I think about it all the time, I—“

Yoongi laughs again, still hiccupy but louder now. His shoulders jostle rhythmically. “I’m not letting you fuck me tonight. I have to study. I’ll let you get off like this and then you’re gonna leave me alone. Got it?”

Got it, got it, go— “Okay,” Taehyung moans. “Okay, yeah.” And then he grabs Yoongi’s ankle to hold him in place so he can fuck up against it. Desperate ruts that burn, but burns so fucking good. He’s going to regret this after he climaxes. He doesn’t care right now. If this is what Yoongi is going to give him, he’ll take it. He’ll take anything Yoongi gives him as long as it’s attached to his body. Hands, knees, armpits, cock, tongue—feet.

The power of his thrusts jostles Yoongi in his office chair. His silver hoops swinging, hair flopping around. It’s absolutely pathetic. But unlike the night Taehyung came all over Yoongi’s toes, Yoongi doesn’t look at him with disgust. He looks enthralled. Curious. The tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips in thought, and Taehyung imagines sliding his cock over it, plunging deep into his throat.

He imagines his own come dripping from Yoongi’s feet. The hair on his toes wet with it. Fuuuck.

Taehyung is panting for breath when he orgasms in his sweatpants like a desperate whore. Yoongi doesn’t say that, but he hears it in Yoongi’s next bout of laughter. He hears it when Yoongi—eerily quiet—watches Taehyung try to recuperate, sweats now stained and Taehyung’s temples damp.

He tries not to work himself back up imagining it when he eventually stands and asks, docile, “Can I borrow some pants?”

Chapter 20: when we let ourselves dream (namjoon/taehyung)

Summary:

“High marks means a job,” Namjoon’s voice is syrupy, like he’s speaking in a dream. “Job means I beat the other fuckers. Gonna get you a better place.” 

“Yeah?” he prompts, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He wonders, again, if Namjoon’s still asleep. 

“One bedroom closer to the city. I work, ‘n… you won’t have t’do that shitty fuckin… shitty jobs anymore. Can focus on your auditions. Want that?”

Notes:

vmon/taejoon. cw: dry-humping, impact play, roleplay(ish).

 

 

Taehyung is toeing his sneakers off in the minuscule space of their goshiwon foyer when Namjoon’s disoriented voice, rough like gravel beneath Taehyung’s soles, asks, “Taehyung-ah?” 

It gives him pause. The room is pitch-black—they’d sacrificed having a window for a tiny, private shower and toilet squeezed right up to the left of the door—and Taehyung can’t see well into the bed and office-desk space, but he can hallucinate where Namjoon is lying on his twin mattress, wrapped up in two comforters because the heat circulation is shit. Taehyung’s own twin bed is mashed up against Namjoon’s, because there just isn’t enough space to separate them; goshiwons aren’t meant for two people. The only way to use the little cubicle with the desk is to sit on Taehyung’s bed. Namjoon, the actual tenant, could be kicked out if they’re caught. 

It’s why they’ve had to come up with a plan and routine. Taehyung wears Namjoon’s downy trench coat when he’s out late, shielding his face. He’s tall and broad enough in the too-big coat that if the building owner happened to see him come in, he could still pass for Namjoon. The building is old and the doors still use keys, so they had Namjoon’s duplicated. Just in case, they try not to enter and leave at one time. 

Tonight, Taehyung had dance class until midnight, and then made a few chicken deliveries until four. It’s the only way he can afford vocal and dance lessons. The remainder of his money goes to food, if he’s too late to get free meals. And Namjoon attends HansungU, uses his loan money to pay for their board. 700,000 won for a private shower, no windows, and a pathetic excuse of a kitchenette to the right of the ‘bathroom’. 

At least they have a washing machine. At least Taehyung has a roof over his head. Without Namjoon, he doesn’t know where he’d be. Daegu hasn’t been an option in years, and Seoul was the only place he could think to go to chase any possibility of a career. But time is ticking, and if he doesn’t pass this year’s trainee auditions, he’s going to have to figure something else out. There’s three months to prepare. 

“Taehyung-ah,” Namjoon says again. “You’re back?” Gravelly. Not just sleep-talking then. 

Taehyung hangs Namjoon’s coat on the wall, murmurs, “I’m back.”

He hears the springboards creak as Namjoon shifts around. An exhausted sigh, then, “W’lcome back. Clothes in the bathroom.” 

“Thank you.” 

Taehyung undresses right in the foyer and immediately dumps his tee, socks, and sweatpants in the kitchenette washing machine. He does a quick, sleepy job in the little bathroom, scrubs himself clean with a wash cloth and Namjoon’s unscented body wash. He doesn’t do the best job with his hair, but it’s half past four; most tasks aren’t done well in the middle of the night. The clothes Namjoon left on their sink—an XL HansungU business admin tee and black briefs—are tugged on after Taehyung towels himself off. Then he brushes his teeth with his eyes closed and head tilted, already halfway to sleep, and navigates out to their beds in the dark.

He approximates by feel and whatever he can see through accustomed eyes. His shins knock into the mattresses, he sees the muddied outline of Namjoon’s body to his left, and he takes the open spot to his right. 

Namjoon gives another mindless, “Taehyung-ah.” He tosses some blanket for him, and Taehyung hums, takes what he’s given and drapes it over his own body. They’re warm from Namjoon’s body, gentle notes of bergamot, lemon, and detergent emanating; Taehyung shivers from scalp to flexed toes. The tight coil of his day—work to lessons back to work—unwinds and leaves him listless.  

“Hyung,” Taehyung slurs. “How was class?” From lying on his side, he can see tufts of dark hair curling up from the Pororo blanket, a flash of forearm. 

It’s a tight fit. Two big, tall grown men on twin mattresses means they’re inevitably in one another’s space. (It used to be an issue, back when they were barely-friends and Namjoon first offered Taehyung a place to stay, if he knew how to be discrete. It was a dire option that worked itself out. It was fucking risky, is what it was. Taehyung could only afford his own goshiwon and cup noodles, but he’d already been rejected by entertainment companies four times a year every year and knew he had to take lessons that he couldn’t afford if he wanted to pass even the first round. So cohabiting with a guy he’d known only through working as a busser in Hapjeong it was. These days, they’re—) 

Namjoon smacks his lips. “Good.” He turns his head, and now Taehyung can see that he’s lying on his back, can see his sleep-droopy eyes and soft gaze. “Two exams today. Got’a 97 and 99.” 

“Namjoon hyung.” Taehyung’s lips spread into a smile, viscous from exhaustion. “Wow,” he breathes. “Good job. You’re so smart.” 

“Not smart. Just study my ass off.” Taehyung doesn’t see Namjoon reach out across the invisible boundary, but he feels the prodding fingers, warm and scraping down his bicep, along his forearm and to his fingers. He threads them together, holds on. “Gotta make this work, baby.”

Baby. Taehyung tightens his fingers between Namjoon’s. “Make this work?” Taehyung asks instead. 

“High marks means a job,” Namjoon’s voice is syrupy, like he’s speaking in a dream. “Job means I beat the other fuckers. Gonna get you a better place.” 

“Yeah?” he prompts, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He wonders, again, if Namjoon’s still asleep. 

“One bedroom closer to the city. I work, ‘n… you won’t have t’do that shitty fuckin… shitty jobs anymore. Can focus on your auditions. Want that?”

Taehyung has never allowed himself to dream about that. Fantasies only lead to disappointment. And Namjoon has never explicitly talked about any of this before; Taehyung assumed that maybe Namjoon didn’t want to get lost in daydreams, too. Life is built on sacrifices, taking each step in the process day by day by hour. Sometimes by the minute. 

This is the best Taehyung can dream: they swallow these sacrifices together. Scrape by and let gravel crunch beneath their worn soles. Namjoon studying on campus ‘till late to remain at the top of the class; Taehyung training his body to flow and bend at will, to project his voice and enrapture casting directors. Settling on their foundation of give-and-take together. Letting Namjoon call him baby and Namjoon giving his fingers to wind together at half past four.

Taehyung’s voice is tight with tears. He says, “I want that.”

“You’re tenacious,” Namjoon keeps on. His thumb runs over Taehyung’s knuckles, sweeping gentle like a pendulum. “Gorgeous. Sweet. You’re gonna make it. Gonna make sure y’do.”

“Namjoon hyung.”

“Want that for you.”

“Namjoon hyung."

Namjoon finds Taehyung’s eyes. He looks more awake than he did a few moments ago. Cropped fringe smushed to his forehead, unguarded, handsome as the day he asked for Taehyung’s name and pressed a sure palm to the middle of his back. “One more year,” he whispers. “Graduate in one more year. I’ll give that to you.”

Taehyung pushes past the boundary and presses his mouth to Namjoon’s. His lips are warm and giving, soft as they flatten under the weight of Taehyung’s vigor. Then Namjoon untangles their hands and holds Taehyung’s jaw like he’d been waiting for him—for this—and slips his tongue between Taehyung’s teeth. 

The walls are not soundproof. At all. They can hear someone’s television to their left, and there’s a woman that seems to always have a space heater on to their right. Regardless, Taehyung can hear Namjoon huffing out through his nose, the smack of their lips, the springs groaning as Namjoon grabs Taehyung’s opposite hip and eases him over and on top of Namjoon’s supine body. 

Namjoon sleeps shirtless. His boxers are loose, low on his hips, and Taehyung adjusts his own pelvis so their soft cocks aren’t squished painfully. A strong arm comes to hook across Taehyung’s middle, the other hand still occupied with holding and brushing aimless fingers across Taehyung’s cheekbone. Warm, Taehyung thinks as they kiss themselves raw. He rubs his hands over Namjoon’s cropped sides, his shoulder, down the tense bicep pressed up against his waist and back. 

“Taehyung-ah.” The low, aroused lilt to the beckon drips warmth straight down into Taehyung’s groin. “Taehyung-ah. Fuck. C’mere.” Namjoon slides a palm down to squeeze Taehyung’s left asscheek, then his right. A quick slap punts a gasp from Taehyung’s lips, his hips jerking forward. “When you got work?”

“Vocal lessons,” Taehyung tries, “At eight.” He lifts up to take the tee off, but Namjoon grabs the hem and tugs it back down. “Class?” 

“Eight. Keep my shirt on. Like you in my clothes.” He slides his hand up the front, tracing over Taehyung’s soft stomach, up to squeeze a pec. Taehyung keeps his upper body up with both hands pressed into the mattresses by Namjoon’s head, tips his head up and sighs when his nipple gets tweaked, rolled between two fingers. “Want my cock? Or like this?” 

Taehyung blinks the exhaustion from his vision, gives a little experimental fuck up against Namjoon’s thighs. “Not t—tonight. Talk to me.” 

“If I could? If I had time to fuck your ass?” 

A groan, one too loud. Fuck their neighbors. “You got a—nn-ah job and, I passed.” Namjoon slides over to give his other nipple the same attention, index fingertip nudging it this way and that. Taehyung feels it in the throb of his cock. “You’re so sexy in a suit, hyung.” 

“I come home to you,” Namjoon says. “In my sexy suit.” His other hand reaches back around to palm at Taehyung’s ass, guiding him as he ruts and grinds down and shifts forward so their clothed groins press. They quiet their gasps behind their teeth. 

“Fuck in the,” Taehyung’s chest rattles when he moans, a raspy sound, “the kitchen. We—we need windows in the kitchen, hyung.” 

“So the world can see? See their favorite idol Kim Taehyung get fucked over the counter?” 

Taehyung’s words pinch on a crazed laugh. He stares up at their low, low ceiling, body rolling like he’d learned to do. To allure a crowd, make them want him, need him. “Fucked by Kim Namjoon daepyonim?” 

Namjoon starts to roll his own hips up to match Taehyung’s rhythm, fingers getting hasty, rough on Taehyung’s body where they’re hidden under his Hansung tee. “Make them wish they were fucking you in my place. Wish they could take care of you like I am.” 

“Fuh-ah. Yeah—You take such good care of me—“

“Give you the fucking world, you gorgeous thing. Prettiest—“

“Keep me, keep—“ His next gasp is earned from Namjoon slapping across both cheeks hard, and it’s loud enough that a neighbor knocks their wall. The woman. Hopefully she thinks Namjoon is wanking off and doesn’t go investigating. Fuck her. 

In reality, humping shouldn’t be doing much. Taehyung’s body is light and floating on mere hours of rest in the past week combined, and he didn’t think Namjoon would want to have sex after his own week of hell (exams)—but they’re here, and fantasy alone drags Taehyung out onto the precipice, the sting on his ass and fingers on his nipples and chest a catalyst to drive him closer to his orgasm. 

“Again,” Taehyung whines. He grabs Namjoon’s pecs and braces himself there. “Slap me again—!“

He gets two more, right on the same, fat spot of his left asscheek; he jostles up and down, blinks his damp fringe from his lashes, jaw loose from quiet moans. This is what works, eventually. Muffling their voices when they remember to, rolling their hips, dry-humping like teen boys in the middle of the night. 

Taehyung doesn’t like to let himself dream. He can go far with it, take these stories out over the horizon where they cannot be reached. Habits die hard, and that has undeniably been his toughest one to break. 

The years have broken it for him. Disappointment is the only reliable friend he has. 

That’s why—with his climax,—he evicts Idol Taehyung and CEO Namjoon. He does it before they can linger, before he lets his head fill with nonsense. Not again, he tells himself. 

Aloud, “Namjoon,” Taehyung cries out, shuddering as he comes in his briefs; and it’s the rumble behind his ears, the comedown from that head-high, that tells those daydreams goodbye. Goodbye. 

 

 

 

The soiled briefs also go in the washing machine. Namjoon rejects Taehyung’s handjob offer. “Was for you, baby, not me,” he mumbles before rolling onto his other side and getting comfortable. 

He’s asleep before Taehyung can figure out how to ask if he really believes in their pipe dreams. Taehyung lies under the blankets and stares at the cluttered cubicle desk, where their folded clothes couldn’t fit in the cubby overhead. 

Three months until Hybe auditions. One year until graduation. This is their sacrifice. 

Chapter 21: when we know what we want (taegi/taegijin)

Summary:

“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.”

*

Taehyung is in heat and only wants his Yoongi-hyung.

Notes:

Taehyung is in heat and only wants his Yoongi-hyung.

content warning:
> omegaverse, canonverse, background ot7
> omegas taegi
> exhibitionism (seokjin watches)

 

 

“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.”

 

 

 

Chapter 22: when we're lenient (yoonji/taehyung)

Summary:

Yoonji gives him a very weak elbow to his belly. She whines, “I paid for this fight. Behave.”

“You can still watch the fight with your tits in my mouth,” Taehyung whines back. Just the phantom weight of her on his tongue has his hips nudge forward. He lowers his voice into a murmur. “Can I? Suck your tits? A little?”

“Taehyung-ah.” It’s a lingering whine, barely audible over the commentators screeching, television jeers filling Taehyung’s living room.

*

Yoonji spends the night at Taehyung's and wants to watch the pay-per-view UFC fight—but Taehyung has other ideas.

Notes:

a long overdue taeji (yoonji/taehyung)!

 

content warning(s):
> cis man taehyung/trans woman min yoonji
> established relationship
> body worship/groping

 

 

 

Like some kind of heat seeker, Taehyung’s hips hop forward when Yoonji tilts hers back. Noona, he mumbles nonsensically. His body is curved around, back-to-chest, pelvis-to-ass, the two slotted together on the couch, Taehyung’s one arm going fuzzy under her middle while the other one lays draped on top. With the lights out, they’re submerged in the twinkling lights of Taehyung’s television, the PPV UFC fight Yoonji’s had marked in her phone calendar since it was first announced drawling on in front of them. It’s taken everything in Taehyung to not fall asleep in his boredom; he busies himself with taking sips of anything he can admire instead.

Yoonji’s been using his rosemary conditioner since she’s been staying with him, but every breathful is tinged with a scent that’s undeniably her: an easy, liquor’d fragrance carried in a cinnamon note, that’s confident—that asks for desire, to be desired—and it confidently urges Taehyung’s arousal. This could also be something of Taehyung’s hallucinations; she’d been nursing cinnamon whisky the night they met, her fingers broad, callous-rough but so gentle whenever she picked the glass up by the fingertips and lifted it to her mouth. Guitar, she’d told him, sitting up on the barstool and watching Taehyung turn her free hand palm-up so that he could rub his softness into the callouses. It’d burned like how liquor burns down into his throat; he had to tell her how beautiful they were, those guitar-rough hands.

Min Yoonji, she mumbled, her palm still in his palm. Min Yoonji, Taehyung repeated, taking a sip of each syllable and letting it fizz deep in his belly. Her hair spun in swirls of blonde and caramel, thick and hanging just below her ears. Taehyung remembered being urged closer and closer between her legs by her casual sensuality, the rooftop bar draped in twinkling lights and conversation, holding them in time and place; he could smell the cinnamon in her breath, could touch and feel her blouse and dark-wash jeans, how the high waist accentuated the long, slender lines of her legs. She spoke in a slur that transported him home.

Four hours later, Taehyung was led away by a plastered Jimin, a new KaTalk contact in his phone, the lingering note of cinnamon on his tongue.

A near-year later, Taehyung admires Yoonji’s hair—now black, still kept short and swept across her pointed ears—the amalgam of rosemary and liquor, how arousing it is to see her in his sleep tee, the small, soft mounds of her breasts peeking up through cotton. He twists the wrist of his trapped arm and cups the breast closest to it, giving a very careful squeeze. Yoonji’s hips do the tilt again, and Taehyung’s—heat seekers—hop forward in kind. Yoonji gives a low hum, a hand coming up to hold Taehyung’s. “Ge—gentle,” she murmurs.

Taehyung presses his face into her hair. “Tender?”

Yoonji’s affirming hum rattles his body too, trembles into his lungs. He lets it settle at his groin. “Can—Can I still?”

“Be gentle.”

“I will.”

She doesn’t stir, doesn’t say anything else. Taehyung understands that as his go.

Yoonji’d always had a chest to grope, but the past year has filled them out into almost-palmfuls; her hormone therapy meant fluctuating tenderness, some weight gain that filled her out nicely at her hips, thighs, lower belly, cheeks. There’s a sheen about her skin, too, velvety-soft whenever Taehyung runs his fingers over her forearms and bare middle; Taehyung once told her she shone like the flesh of a peeled, boiled egg.

Is that a compliment? She laughed in hiccups, rubbing at her bicep and blinking fast. Fresh from a shower, she undeniably gleamed.

To me it is. Taehyung shaped his words at the shell of her ear. His hands, always curious, slid under the loose legs of her basketball shorts. Looking at you makes me hungry.

A chorus of jeers blurt out from the television. A fighter has gone down in a pretzel of legs. “Guh-gentle,” Yoonji murmurs again, trembling. Taehyung has a fingertip rubbing over the clothed point of her nipple, the other four fingers cupping her. “Gettin’ rough again.”

“Sorry.”

Yoonji’s shoulders quiver. Laughter. “Bored?”

“Yeah.” They’re both laughing now. Taehyung burrows his nose into her scalp. “And you’re—hot.”

“Because you’re clinging. Can’t breathe.”

“No. Like,” Taehyung fiddles with her nipple again. “You’re sexy.”

Yoonji gives him a very weak elbow to his belly. She whines, “I paid for this fight. Behave.”

“You can still watch the fight with your tits in my mouth,” Taehyung whines back. Just the phantom weight of her on his tongue has his hips nudge forward. He lowers his voice into a murmur. “Can I? Suck your tits? A little?”

“Taehyung-ah.” It’s a lingering whine, barely audible over the commentators screeching, television jeers filling Taehyung’s living room.

“Mm?” His palm travels down. Down, down, creasing the tee into waves. It’s a languid journey, her body making minute gyrations back into his cock. Cute, so cute, he thinks. Yoonji’s warmth burns through and against his skin; her belly is pliable enough to give an appreciative little rub, a gentled pinch. He’s never been given the pleasure to fuck her with her shirt off—but he’s held onto her right here, thumbs digging down, grappling for that leverage to tug her back or down onto his dick until she’s crying out and trembling at the thighs.

It’s more about Yoonji’s natural temperament than anything else. A modesty that she explains with her pink-cheeked, writhing I’m shy, arms wrapped around herself in preservation. Circumstantial. Taehyung thinks it adds to her appeal, this ability to place her work in front of an audience of one-hundred-plus at mic-night, to present these sensitive inner workings of her psyche—juxstaposed with the Min Yoonji in Taehyung’s bed, shadowed and writhing and mumbling that cute drawl of I’m shy while holding the sheets over her chest.

Broad fingers pin his wrist once he gets to the hem of the tee, the waistband of her shorts. Taehyung blinks into her hair and waits.

“Baby,” Yoonji says.

“Wanna see,” Taehyung breathes. “Noona. Can I see your… see them?”

“Baby.”

“They feel cute. I’ll be gentle. Promise.” The grip slackens enough for him to tease his fingers at her belly, the soft, bare give of it. “I’ll suck gently, too.”

Yoonji rubs down his hair-prickled forearm, still slack. “You’re a distraction.” He can’t see her face from this angle, but he can imagine her mouth, open, lips gleaming from her nervous tongue. Her soft cheeks and the lights playing in the egg-white to her complexion. Gorgeous.

Taehyung returns, “You’re a distraction.” His breath stirs the back of her head; her belly leaps as he climbs up and up and up, over the dips and valleys of her ribs, to just underneath her right breast. He falters. “Kiss?”

Yoonji laughs quietly. “Taehyung-ah.”

“Baby kiss? Just a little bit.” He peeks over her head at the UFC fight. “Look—they’re not punching ‘n kicking each other right now. We have time to makeout.”

She’s soft on him. Taehyung’s learned this early—too early—when she’d let him pin her to the bartop while they flagged for drinks but would leer and snap whenever any other man so much as smoothed the material at her shoulder to pass by. When she’d given Taehyung her rough palm to trace within minutes of their conversation but gave Jimin a tight, toothless smile as Taehyung finally introduced them.

That softness translates into this: Yoonji immediately turning her chin over one shoulder and offering Taehyung her mouth. No complaints, no grumbling that she’s watching her money burn real-time while entertaining Taehyung’s horny groping. He nudges his tongue between her teeth and a palm over her breast, carefully squeezing below while Yoonji makes tiny gasps above, right into his mouth.

Relief floods into him. His cock pulses against the cleft of her asscheek; he can’t help but rock into her, her softness, within her, on her, the tenderness to her chest and the tenderness to her lips. As she slots their mouths together and lets him take what he wants, he can feel the excitement roughening his touch; he gentles his palms before she can ask.

The next round is about to begin. Taehyung hears as much, voices coming to him like they’re wading through fuzz. He gets both hands underneath the tee, slides it up and up by his forearms until it’s tucked under her armpits.

Yoonji pulls away to mumble something he can’t parse. Her face has pinkened, but she doesn’t cower away when Taehyung leans back into the couch and looks down at his work.

“Pretty.” Taehyung doesn’t mean to whine. He’s whining anyway. “Yoonji-noona. Why’re you so pretty?”

He takes it in, sips of cinnamon whisky that burns in his cock and not in his throat: the slopes of her breasts, the hardened points of her rosy-brown nipples. Areolas like two pen-smudges, tiny, rounded. Then there’s the dips of her ribs, her belly, a trail of hair growing back in from when she’d had it lasered off months ago. Against the television fluorescence, she’s almost translucent.

Yoonji doesn’t say anything, as she often does when he can’t help but compliment her. She blinks and licks her lips, hands suspended and unsure of what to do with them, fighting that instinctual desire to cover herself up again.

Before she can decide, “I can suck on them?” Taehyung asks. “Carefully?”

The next round begins with a ring. Yoonji and Taehyung watch one another. The cupid’s bow slope to her top lip, her dark hair haloed against his couch cushions, her soft cheeks.

“Carefully,” she repeats.

Taehyung nods, dips down. “Carefully.”

He doesn’t use his teeth. At all. It’s lips-and-tongue only, his body shifting so Yoonji is supine and he’s hovering over her by his elbows, their lower bodies pressed together. He flicks the blade of his tongue to her nipple and listens to her subdue her gasps, presses down harder with his body once she starts doing her squirming. Flick, suckle, Taehyung sucks at her until she can’t hide her moaning anymore; Yoonji grabs two fistfuls of Taehyung’s shirt at his shoulders, cries, “Taehyung-ah, Taehyun—Taehyung—” and Taehyung finds himself humping at her like he’s too-young again.

“Sensitive,” Taehyung pops off and murmurs. He blows at her wettened skin, revels in the way it makes her gasp and squirm some more. “Next time—next time I can fuck you… can I suck them, too? At the same time?”

Yoonji flusters. “Wha.”

“You’re sensitive here. I bet I can make you come faster like that.” He peeks up at her. “Think I could?”

“Could what?” she hiccups. “Su—suck them while you fuck me? Or make me come faster?”

“Both.”

“You’re…”

“Can I?”

Taehyung doesn’t falter, so Yoonji blinks away instead. She slides her tongue against her bottom lip. Blinks some more. Shudders, then sighs. “We—if you’re—gentle.”

“I will be. I am. Look.” Taehyung pops her neglected nipple into his mouth next, this time laving the flat of his tongue over it. Stroke after stroke, coaxing until they’re hard between his lips. Mmm, he moans, brows pinching together, hips doing their little fucks. He thinks he could come like this. His girlfriend’s breasts in his mouth, letting her raspy moans jostle his skull and bleed down into the base of his spine. He’s going to come like this, if he keeps it up.

But, he doesn’t want to distract her from the rest of the match. He’s done enough—Yoonji’s arousal is clear against his pelvis, and her fists at his shoulders keep pulsing, tightening and loosening and tightening, and she’s panting these desperate, Taehyung-baby-Taehyung’s that feed right back into the fuck of Taehyung’s cock—so he decides he’ll have to finish himself off tonight. Maybe, after the game is through, she’ll let him lay her down on his bed and fuck her properly.

Taehyung gives a final kiss to each breast, wet little smacks. “Thank you,” he whispers into her translucent skin, in the space between. Then he pushes up onto his knees, flanking one of her thighs, and gets a hand under his boxers and at his cock while the other reaches out to grab her left tit. His favorite tit. Something about that left tit makes Yoonji squirm a little harder.

He’s a master at multitasking. Could have to do with his ambidexterity; who knows. Whatever the reason, Taehyung uses it to pump his dick, to rub at her breast, to watch her expressions flutter through overwhelmed to pleasured to overstimulated-arousal. Her fringe slanted across her brows, the shirt tucked under her armpits, her ribs carving and melting away with unsteady breaths. Her tongue peeking out while she grapples at Taehyung’s forearms and slurs, “You’re gonna—you’re close?”

Taehyung whimpers. “Yeah,” he tries. He pumps his length faster, twisting at the crown and stuttering in his words and his hips. “Y’r just so—sexy, noona. So sexy. In my shirt… look so fucking good in m-nnah m’shirt.”

Yoonji burns pink down to her hollowed throat. Her eyes shift from his face to where he’s working his cock to his face again. She reaches out, falters. “Don’t want noona’s hand instead?”

“No, ‘s okay, I’m alre—” Taehyung’s voice breaks into a groan, jaw locking up. With a final stutter, he whistles out a sob and comes into his hand, into the insides of his boxers.

“Taehyung,” Yoonji coaxes. “Handsome boy came so fast. Just from touching noona? Mm?” He can feel her rubbing her callouses up and down his thigh, a gentle oscillation as he comes down, down, into her arms and against her bare breasts.

“Yeah,” Taehyung whimpers. “Love you.”

Yoonji cradles his head in one, large palm. Strokes gently through his hair. “Baby.”

“Love you.” He kisses at her chest. “Your turn. Say it back, please.”

“Okay,” Yoonji slows her hand and laughs. An engine comes to life beneath Taehyung’s ear. “Love you, too. Let me watch my game now.”

Alright. It’s going to be a long fight, so that’s his cue to sleep. First: wash the come off his hand and change his boxers. Then steal some extra cuddles from Yoonji while she’s still in her soft mood. Then benefit from her soft mood and nap in her arms.

Sacrifices.

 

Chapter 23: when we create our rituals (jimin/yoongi)

Summary:

Their routine has become a ritual. Jimin likes to think of it that way. Yoongi when he’s helping the members through their heats or ruts is kind but firm, a confident touch, guiding them along like he’s tolerating it for their sakes—for love. And Jimin when he’s in rut wants to feel protected and cared for, so it works out, works out seamlessly, Yoongi’s confident, assuring hand, his slur-mumbled, you’ve got it, Jimin-ah, knot hyung, okay? Wanna knot hyung? pressed to the shell of Jimin’s ear or said over Yoongi’s shoulder, when Jimin’s got Yoongi to kneel and present for him.

*

Yoongi makes his nests in the closet.

Notes:

Yoongi makes his nests in the closet.

content warning:
> omegaverse, canonverse, background ot7
> alphas jinminkook, omegas rapline+taehyung
> heat sex

> same universe as the omegas taegi/taegijin drabble in chapter 21 (when we know what we want).

 

 

 

It’s the middle of February now, which means three months have passed since November. Usually, this also means that Taehyung’s heat has just settled, that Yoongi’s isn’t due until another month—but Yoongi spent a few days in their Hannam-dong penthouse when Taehyung’s pheromones, frosting-thick, clung to the walls of every shared living space, stubborn even when Namjoon left the balcony doors open overnight. None of them fare well beneath the hull of Taehyung’s heats, but Yoongi has always struggled the worst. Taehyung’s drooling mouth, his wet, gasping Yoongi-hyung, help me, please, help, the slick that drips down his thighs and colors his clothes black-grey—Jimin’s seen Yoongi drawn to the depths of madness and back. In his most susceptible moments, some of that heat-insanity clings to Yoongi like Taehyung’s slim, leaden chest clings at his back.

Jimin hasn’t been to the penthouse in weeks; only Yoongi, Jungkook, Seokjin, and Taehyung have. They were meant to evacuate in time for Seokjin or Jungkook to tend to Taehyung’s needs. Then mid-February came too quickly to be avoided, Yoongi didn’t have the time to pack up and go home in-between schedules, and they were trapped with a needy, desperate omega for a week.

According to Seokjin, Taehyung’s heat tapered off over the weekend. Soon after, Yoongi went into hiding.

It’s a month too soon.

“Oh, hyung.”

Jimin’s been in the penthouse for all of thirty seconds before he—nose alert, body jerking into autopilot—sniffs him out.

Yoongi makes his nests in the closet. It’s the same routine whether he’s home alone or in Hannam-dong with everyone else; clambering around to scavenge for his nest, perpetually caught between sleep and arousal, face scrunched up in a frown-grimace. His cheeks fattened and dusted with a lacy, red-pink that threads across his nose bridge and tip like doilies. Yoongi’s hair is left smushed to his temples, tacky with sweat, cowlicks at the crown of his head, at his fringe. His heat manifests quite literally: skin glazed over, body warm to the touch. The potency of his heat-scent carries that same warmth, quietly lingering, while Taehyung’s matches his desperate cries for help. Yoongi-hyung, Yoongi-hyung, please—

Jimin tries not to compare. Yoongi and Taehyung both hail from the same city, sure, are both omegas, too; that’s the extent of that. It’s tough, though. Jimin’s a slave to his most primitive instincts. It’s what Namjoon says—more so than Seokjin or Jungkook—and even with his canines bared he stands helpless, letting his own hormones strap a collar at his throat and drag him into nonsensical thought. Alpha-nonsense, Hoseok would tease. That’s just how it is when you’re young. Whatever. Jimin knows when to let his hyung’s theories go unchallenged.

So Jimin’s always kept tabs. Jungkook and his propensity for pre-rut rough-housing; how Hoseok gets dizzy when there’s too many scents and sounds at once; how pliant Namjoon can get when he’s aroused (how wet, too); that sometimes Seokjin needs a knot and an alpha’s teeth at his nape to calm down from the worst of his rut-highs.

Then, heats with the Daegu omegas: Yoongi recedes into himself; Taehyung nearly crawls out from inside his own skeleton in search of comfort. Taehyung finds Yoongi; Yoongi finds solitude. Yoongi’s scent changes minutely, vague but rare enough that it’s impossible for Jimin to miss; Taehyung’s scent shouts and knocks about, plumes up in Jimin’s sinuses until a sneeze chases it away. Jimin’s always kept tabs on every member’s habits and routines—that’s more so about who he is rather than what he is—but when heats begin to cycle, and Yoongi’s scent climbs from unassuming to a pervasive linger over Jimin’s shoulder, he finds his instincts leading him by the nose once again. They don’t do that for Taehyung, Hoseok, Namjoon.

It’s mid-February—a whole month too soon—when he’s led to Yoongi’s closet.

Jimin repeats, “Oh, hyung.” This time, it’s breathless.

Yoongi’s pheromones are never loud. Still, in a smaller, enclosed space, it’s potent, jarring Jimin to attention the moment he cracks the door open to peek through. Light from Yoongi’s bedroom leaks in around Jimin’s slight figure while sweet leaks out, pouring over the nest of used clothes and washcloths. There’s one or two jumpers that look like Taehyung’s, a cream blouse that may be Jimin’s. Mostly it’s Yoongi’s things, bunched-up sweats and underclothes and sweaters strewn about, meticulous, until you can barely see the hardwood flooring.

Yoongi lies in its center. He has his knees drawn up, scowling softly, eyes squinted and hands nestled between his thighs. There are splotches in his white tee at his lower belly and near his pits; his sweat-damp t-zone glitters where the light touches.

Yoongi scowls harder, if possible, licks his mouth. “Bright,” he mumbles. “Jimin-ah. Close th’door.” He knew without having to look. Always so attuned to one another’s pheromones.

Cute. Jimin giggles softly. “Cute.” He steps in and closes the door.

Yoongi smacks his lips, shifts into the nest.

Their routine has become a ritual. Jimin likes to think of it that way. Yoongi when he’s helping the members through their heats or ruts is kind but firm, a confident touch, guiding them along like he’s tolerating it for their sakes—for love. And Jimin when he’s in rut wants to feel protected and cared for, so it works out, works out seamlessly, Yoongi’s confident, assuring hand, his slur-mumbled, you’ve got it, Jimin-ah, knot hyung, okay? Wanna knot hyung? pressed to the shell of Jimin’s ear or said over Yoongi’s shoulder, when Jimin’s got Yoongi to kneel and present for him.

That sort of unwavering attention softens Jimin up until Yoongi can knead him tight and tuck him close, tame.

But, this…

“Hey, baby.” Jimin drops to his knees, then his palms. Yoongi doesn’t stir, just keeps scowling like he’d been woken up from a nap, so Jimin crawls up and over the clothes. “Sleepy?”

Yoongi gives an eventual, weak mm, voice impossibly deeper with premature heat.

“Need alpha’s scent?”

Yoongi doesn’t mm this time. But he’s pliant, loose-limbed, and Jimin keeps crawling forward with his seeking nose nudging up along Yoongi’s bare shins—soft and smooth from laser treatments—gulping in mouthfuls of that sweet, canine-throbbing scent. Every breath throbs at his cock. He can feel the stretchier skin of his knot begin to tighten up with interest.

The closet air already feels humid. Pheromones practically bead on Jimin’s arms, seeping into open pores. Who knows how long Yoongi’s been holed up in here. “More sleepy or more horny?” Jimin murmurs. He’s at Yoongi’s wrist now, whatever he can reach from where they’re hidden between his thighs, and he tries to lap at the gland for a few seconds before giving up and peering at Yoongi’s frowning face. “Hyungnim.”

Yoongi smacks his lips again, squirms. “‘Dunno,” he sighs. “Jimin-ah.”

Jimin presses his forehead to Yoongi’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

“...Jimin-ah.”

Alright. Heat is really taking its toll. Jimin’s just going to have to decide.

“Taehyungie really got to you this time.” Jimin drags his nose and mouth along Yoongi’s broad shoulder bend and up under his jaw; it’s strongest here, that scent, aside from the slick that leaks out everytime Jimin so much as exhales. “Think you’ll still have yours next month?”

Yoongi responds with a shudder, then a gasp. Jimin kisses sweetly at him.

“I hope you do. Is that selfish?” He slides a sure palm under Yoongi’s tee, fits a few, chubby fingers under his boxers’ waistband. A plume of arousal escapes from beneath Yoongi’s clothes; his hands flop out from between his thighs. “I like you like this.” Yoongi’s breath catches with every word Jimin speaks into his throat. “You’re so cute… you’re always cute. But—this is cute. See?” His hand dips down onto Yoongi’s drenched groin at the same time Jimin’s teeth scrape over his scent gland, and it’s a full-body reaction from Yoongi, his hips jerking up, the loudest gasp yet bullied from his chest. Haa-ah.

Jimin leans back and peers up.

The red-pink doilies have melted into a curtain; the color trails to the highpoints of Yoongi’s cheekbones, down his throat, under the neckline of his tee. Then: his hair is one, big ink-smudge that cradles his face, haloed out on the sweatshirts beneath his heed. He has his eyes open now, too, dazed but determinedly fixated to Jimin’s, a stubbornness that only Jimin himself can match. Draped in the dark and their shared solitude, this view feels too intimate. Jimin almost remembers to feel a bit shy.

“Hi,” he says. Their faces are close enough that they could eat one another’s words.

Yoongi lifts an arm, drapes it lazily around Jimin’s neck. He licks at his parted lips. Licks them again. Once more. Then, huffed like a laugh, “It is selfish.”

Jimin pauses to watch him. The gleam of saliva on Yoongi’s bottom lip, his button nose tinged pink. Then, a viscous smile spreads across his own mouth. He whispers, “There you are.”

Admittedly, Jimin still isn’t sure if he believes in true mates like Taehyung (and Jungkook, as much as likes to pretend otherwise) does. It’s fantastical at best, tragic at worst. Simultaneously too good to be true—someone created in your image just out there, waiting for you to find them—and horrifying, the idea that millions to billions of people die without ever experiencing that one, true love. Who dictates that happy ending? How can something like that be determined? Karma? Probability?

Could Jimin win the lottery? Has he accumulated enough good karma to cash in? Those are the nonsense—alpha-nonsense?—thoughts Jimin arrives to when he’s kissing Yoongi’s eyelids closed. To taste the sweat and sweet on his skin, to drink it from his mouth. The dark, humid closet air that will stick to them for days, Yoongi’s heaving gasps as Jimin nudges inside that Jimin will hear in his sleep. Broad fingers scraping down between his shoulder blades, knees and slender thighs trapping him between them. Trembling, quivering hips trying and failing to match Jimin’s rhythm, exhausted. Yoongi’s drenched hole clings to the thick and fat of Jimin’s cock, Yoongi’s slick-ruined boxers hanging off one ankle from where Jimin slid them down. Jimin’s baking and turning stupid in Yoongi’s heat, and his nonsenical alpha thoughts bring him back: is this his true mate?

Yoongi makes his nests in the closet, but Jimin knows how to find him. There are subtleties in Yoongi’s scent no one else seems to be able to catch. Instincts that date to centuries before their birth. His mate.

Jimin-ah, Juh-Jimin-ahh, Yoongi’s voice is tilting up a few octaves. O-oh, ah—

He keeps it steady. An oscillating roll of his hips is all Yoongi needs to tremble and come once, then, mere minutes later, twice. Arousal sticks to their thighs, their groins; Jimin whimpers into Yoongi’s throat. “Knotting,” he’s drooling, unmistakably, but it’s already so wet everywhere that it doesn’t matter, “knotting, hyung—”

“Alpha.” It’s the most lucid Yoongi’s sounded since Jimin snuck in. His arm closes the angle at his elbow, dragging Jimin closer. “A. Alpha…” Jimin’s not the only one losing himself here.

When he knots, hips fucking deep to ensure his come catches in false procreation, they lie together and pant, chests jostling where they’re pressed together. Yoongi can’t fight that instinct to comfort, his fingers massaging into Jimin’s nape and shoulder-curve. Jimin feels that loose, tamed sensation prickle over him.

He whispers, “Good?” into Yoongi’s collarbone.

Yoongi rubs his cheek into the crown of Jimin’s head. Languid scenting. It says—Yes.

“Okay. Good.”

Pre-mature heat never lasts more than a knot or two. Yoongi should be back to himself once they’re up in the morning. For now, Jimin will enjoy the comedown in Yoongi’s nest, those fingertips ushering him to sleep. He’s nearly there, knot gradually deflating where it’s nudged far into Yoongi’s hole, when Yoongi kisses at his temples. “Had your fun?” He still doesn’t sound fully recovered, voice breathless, try as he might to tease.

“It’s not about having fun,” and Jimin sounds like he’s whining, try as he might to keep his voice leveled. “Mostly. I like helping you.”

“You like me too weak to fight back.”

“Hyung. C’mon. That sounds awful.”

Yoongi’s silent laughter trembles at his shoulders. “Jimin-ah. Hm? Don’t like that? Having your way with a—”

“Stop. Sleep.” He’s not going to let Yoongi’s insecurities about being vulnerable ruin this. Not gonna let him frame it into a joke to distance himself. It’s about finding balance. Leaving a trail so they can find one another when they need it.

“Alright, I’m done.” Yoongi slows his scenting. Then, softer, “Thanks.”

Jimin nudges up at his chin. “Always.”

He likes this. A routine now into a ritual, they won’t separate until morning.

 

 

 

Notes:

writing brain Bad^TM and needed to get through with Something.

Chapter 24: when we go from nothing to something (hyungsik/taehyung + seojoon)

Summary:

Something is making noise Like, mm-ah. Mm-ah. No—someone is making noise. Choked, stuttery gasps, a tease of voice leaking in before they restrain themselves and swallow it down. And the mattress is still rocking. Gently. As if trying not to wake anybody.

*

It's Wooga squad's final day in Geosang. Seojoon wakes up to Taehyung and Hyungsik cuddling.

Notes:

cw for this chapter:
> Set in Friendcation In the Soop
> Taehyung/Hyungsik + Seojoon
> Exhibitionism/voyeurism
> Taehyung/Hyungsik + Seojoon
> Cuddlefucking
> Implied OT5 Wooga Squad

 

 

Day returns Seojoon’s eyesight first. He’s got warmth on his face and a chill in his fingertips where they’re clasped loosely in front of him. There’s a subtle, rocking itch at the inside of his big toe, left foot colder than the right because their duvet slid off of it somewhere in the middle of the night.

It’s the transition of nothing to something that’s always disorienting, an onslaught of new information pouring into him before he can reach spatial awareness: he’s got the itch at his toe-inside because the mattress beneath him is shifting, and the shifting is rubbing the fitted sheet against his skin in a gentle rhythm. His face is warm and his hands are frosty because the windows’ got the sun coming in, Geosang’s winter close behind. It’s almost too hot at his middle, where the duvet has bunched up over his pyjama top. Morning came too soon.

Seojoon stirs, adjusting his body to lie properly on his side. Shifts his foot back where it’s safe. The mattress is still rocking.

Something is making noise Like, mm-ah. Mm-ah. No—someone is making noise. Choked, stuttery gasps, a tease of voice leaking in before they restrain themselves and swallow it down. And the mattress is still rocking. Gently. As if trying not to wake anybody.

There’s white and gingham when Seojoon blinks the sleep from his eyes to get a proper look. The white is—Seojoon adjusts his focus—their shared duvet—Wooshik, Hyungsik, Seonghwan, Taehyung, and his duvet, because, yes, they’d decided to sleep together for their final night in Geosang. Right. The gingham, then, is obviously—

Ahh—h. The noise slips into a falsetto that breaks apart just as soon as it arrives. The transition of nothing to something: all at once, Seojoon is watching Taehyung sink incisors into his own, ripened bottom lip, his eyebrows strong and frazzled where they shift close. The room is cold but his cheeks look warm, glistening with what can’t be sweat but must be; he’s rocking, his pyjama top unbuttoned haphazardly, twisted all wrong across his chest before it’s swallowed up by the duvet.

Hyungsik is spooning him from behind. No. Yes? Yes—that’s Hyungsik pressed close to Taehyung’s back, his open, panting mouth pressed tight to the space before Taehyung’s ear, gaze hazy where it tries to find Taehyung’s. Mmm, mmm—! Taehyung says.

It’s Hyungsik that’s doing the rocking. He’s rocking into Taehyung, who’s rocking into the empty space between himself and Seojoon, who’s gotten the aftershocks of it all, tickling at his toes until he stirs like a switch that’s gone from nothing to something. From this vantage point, Seojoon doesn’t see anybody else in bed with them. Wooshik and Seonghwan must have gone on the search for breakfast long before Hyungsik and Taehyung started their—rocking.

Neither of them seem to have noticed that Seojoon’s woken up. Taehyung’s got his lids shut tight, lips oscillating from snapped shut to wide open, jaw askant. He has his arms wrapped across his own front, his phone forgotten in the sheets. Hyungsik’s mouth jerks open on a louder grunt, and this time there’s no masking Taehyung’s whispered aah, hyung, plea—

Seojoon goes warm where the sun can’t reach.

Hyungsik is too close to Taehyung’s body to be giving him full strokes. He’s jackhammering his cock into him, speed over length, and not only does it reduce the amount of noise and motion they’re making—but it’s keeping Taehyung full with him, jabbing in deep, no mercy and no care.

He imagines Hyungsik’s hot breath punting out against Taehyung’s face. The grip he must have under the duvet, keeping Taehyung’s hips right where he wants them as he humps at him like a schoolkid. Like the only purpose is to get himself off, and Taehyung is going to have to withstand it until he does.

He says, “First thing in the morning?” Seojoon’s throat hasn’t woken up yet, words hoarse in his mouth. It’s enough to capture both Hyungsik and Taehyung’s attention at once, though; there’s instantly two sets of eyes considering him, momentarily surprised before they return to themselves.

Hyungsik’s rhythm stutters—then he’s back in full force, this time not caring how hard he shifts the mattresses since Seojoon is awake. “He kept,” Hyungsik gives a sharp gasp, breathes in just as sharp, “ass was on my crotch all night. Woke up—stiff.”

Taehyung’s laugh is low, coy. His lashes flutter across his cheekbones. “Didn’t mean t—to, ah—”

Not the only one waking up stiff. Seojoon wets his lips, asks, “You fucked him awake?”

“Groped me awake,” Taehyung gasps, turning his face into the pillow beneath his head.

“Gonna grope it if it’s on my crotch, jagi-yah. Gives me—the right.”

Seojoon isn’t sure if that’s how that works, but it seems to be working for Taehyung. “Creepy old man,” his laughter is gravel.

Giving an absent snort of his own, Hyungsik fishes one hand out from under the duvet to get a good fist in Taehyung’s hair, tugging his face away from the pillow and closer to his front. Taehyung’s responding yelp is louder than anything he’d made since Seojoon came to, echoing out towards the hall. Then Taehyung is just moaning aloud, without shame nor restraint, eyes fogged up, trying and failing to focus on the wall beyond Seojoon’s head.

“Don’t hide your face; you know Seojoon-hyung likes to see.” Taehyung whimpers and slurs an apology, fingers trembling as he unwraps his arms and reaches them out across the fitted sheet.

Hyungsik treats Taehyung to kisses at the curve of his jaw.

Now that he’s been caught up, Seojoon slows it down.

He does like to see. What kind of man wouldn’t want to see Taehyung’s face as he takes someone’s dick how they want to give it to him? He always looks like it’s his first one, that first good dicking where it starts to feel worth it but still carries that initial fear. Like: ah, this is what everyone raves about. Why all those songs are written. Taehyung stares out blissed, stunned, damp, round eyes seeking comfort that he earns only with his docility.

Taehyung moans and whimpers like a virgin but grinds back and begs like a whore. Of course Seojoon wants to see. That must be the pervert in him.

Taehyung’s fingers cross the empty space to claw out for Seojoon. “Hyung—hyung,” he keeps repeating, mindless.

Seojoon doesn’t meet his hand. He sinks his own beneath the duvet to grab at where his cock’s filled out in his pyjama pants. He asks, casual as he can muster, “Gonna come in him?”

“Too messy,” Hyungsik grits out. Seojoon can hear the slap where hips meet ass, wet with it. Isn’t it already too messy? “He’s. He’s gonna swallow it.”

“Yeah? Taehyung-ah,” Seojoon tightens his grip. Pleasure burns down to his flexing toes. “You’re gonna eat Hyungsikie’s cum for us? Not to make a mess?”

Taehyung’s respectful yes is several beats too late. His eyeballs keep rolling up behind his lids before he drags them back into semi-focus. Hyungsik’s gotten creative, slowing down and lifting the duvet to watch himself give Taehyung viscous, gut-deep strokes—then he goes quick, quicker, too fast for Taehyung’s mind to catch up to his shameless mouth. Hyung, hyuh-ah, yes, yes, yes… Keep him guessing.

Seojoon shimmies his body to slip his pyjamas down his hips and at his thighs, the waistband just below his balls. He’s gotten himself to full mast now, palm dry but effective as he massages at his dick, tugging lightly at his foreskin on an odd upstroke.

Should it be strange that he knows when Hyungsik’s near orgasm? Maybe not; they’ve had Taehyung several times over the years. Seojoon took him first, in a hotel room ten minutes away from their drama set, Kim Taehyung’s slim, winding twenty-one year old arms coiled tight around his shoulders in fear that Seojoon would see his o-face when he came. (No, no, don’t hide from me, Seojoon breathed into his hair. Then he’d taken him by the throat and pinned him to the bed.)

“Cute. Cute Taehyungie,” Seojoon slips into praise without forethought, captured, fighting remnants of sleep and rendered brainless from Taehyung’s eyes, those thick lashes drooping low with his tears. Under the sun, the chocolate lowlights in his hair come to life. “Feels that good?” A flutter. “Hear that? Hyungsik’s about to come. Hear that, sweetheart?”

Seojoon’s free hand reaches out to thumb at Taehyung’s bottom lip, tugging to flash teeth. He’s made up his mind to slip the pad up and over his tongue right before Hyungsik—gasping, shuddering—jerks his cock out of Taehyung, making him gasp, too—scrambling to get to his knees. He swings one over Taehyung’s shoulder, effectively straddling him, and has him lie flat on his back so he can fist his cockhead right at Taehyung’s mouth.

The change in position has the duvet fold back at Taehyung’s shins, and it unveils what Seojoon hasn’t seen until now: Taehyung’s fat, ruddy cock sitting heavy at his pelvis; his pyjama pants sitting beneath the curve of his asscheeks as if it’d been moved only enough to get at his hole; the scatter of hair leading from his navel and to his pubic hair. Lube glistening where it’s smeared between his inner thighs. The forgotten lube bottle lying at Hyungsik’s side of the bed.

“Ah, fuck,” Hyungsik’s scowling, his jaw loose, “yeah, jagi, that’s it, fuck, fuck.” Taehyung has his neck craned to pop the head of Hyungsik’s cock into his mouth, lips fuller around him, tonguing and suckling while Hyungsik fists the rest, hips making baby fucks into the heat. “Shit, shit, Taehyung-ah-ahh—”

Each dribble goes in properly. Taehyung closes his eyes, wet smeared at his cheeks, throat bobbing with ease. He swallows and swallows as Hyungsik wrings himself dry, jerking his cock past his orgasm and then some. “Good fuckin’ boy. Fuck.”

Distracted, Seojoon has his dick sitting idle in the curve of his palm. When Hyungsik slides his cockhead free, letting it rest on Taehyung’s chin as he gathers himself, Taehyung’s wet, pink lips part to try for air. He doesn’t try to cover his lower half, doesn’t try to come, too. He lies there and breathes, used and exhausted.

“I wanna wake up like this every day,” Hyungsik laughs, un-straddling Taehyung to drop into a heap at his side. “Wow.”

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth flicks up before it settles again. His chest rises and falls in steady motion.

Seojoon’s eyes follow along the long, slim lines of his body, stopping to admire the sheen at his thighs. What a way to finish their vacation. Wooshik and Seonghwan are going to hate themselves for getting up already.

Seojoon reaches out to scrape his fingers over Taehyung’s belly, his other hand still on his wanting dick. He murmurs, “Taehyung-ah. Love. Got energy for one more?”

Chapter 25: when we give in (namjoon/seokjin)

Summary:

There’s no way anyone knows Namjoon isn’t sleeping in his own room. Somehow, that’s what makes it all the more salacious.

Notes:

Set in the same universe as my namjin fic 'centimeter-increments' but you don't Have to read it to get the gist of this.

content warnings:
> gay namjoon/'straight' seokjin
> kinda-sorta secret relationship
> bed-sharing

 

 

 

 

Seokjin is perched at the foot of his room’s mattress—baby blue pyjama set donned and hands blotting his hair dry from shower water—while he watches Namjoon linger awkwardly by the door with one hand on the handle, prepared to scurry out if, at any moment, Seokjin changes his mind about allowing him in.

“Namjoon-ah. Hi,” Seokjin says, pleasant, like he hadn’t just seen Namjoon two hours ago, downstairs, drinking beer and watching movies with the rest. “What brings you to this side of the cabin?”

“Hey.” Namjoon pivots toward the door. Pivots back toward Seokjin. Stands there looking uncomfortable in his own body, uncertain fingers and uncertain eyes. He’s showered and dressed in sleep clothes—a white tee and basketball shorts—his dark hair streaked with white from Seokjin’s lamp’s hue. Insects create night-songs outside.

With renewed vigor, “Um,” Namjoon starts, alcohol pinching out the edges of his words. “Did you know that, uh. Those—the trees outside your window are kousa dogwoods?” An awkward hand swings vaguely past Seokjin, at the window panes to their left.

Seokjin hesitates. His towel stills in his fringe. He blinks over in that direction, then blinks back over to Namjoon. He says, “I didn’t.”

“Yeah. They’re—in the east they bear fruits. The kousa dogwoods. But, um—in the west they have a different, uh, species of dogwoods. Those don’t bear fruit.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Yangyang-gun has a variety. I’ll.. I can show you some others when we go on the trail tomorrow. There might be fruit.”

Huh. Tree facts from a tipsy, loose-lipped Kim Namjoon at two a.m. Seokjin will play along, if not to scare him away. “So what you’re saying is that we have the cooler, more efficient dogwoods.”

Namjoon laughs a bit harder than the quip warrants. “Yeah… you could say that.” He takes a considering pause, eyes unwilling to look anywhere else than at Seokjin. “I… they’re beautiful. The. The trees outside your window.”

Seokjin lays his towel on the spot beside him. He watches Namjoon watch him, room dark despite the sole lamp. “Oh. That’s—good. They’re not outside your own room’s window?”

“No.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“My window points at the birches.”

Seokjin would not be able to identify a birch tree if his life depended on it. “Okay.”

Namjoon doesn’t say anything else for five agonizing seconds. Seokjin tries not to shake out of his skin. His ears must be burning red by now.

Finally, “Jin-hyung,” Namjoon says.

Seokjin returns, “Namjoon-ah.”

Namjoon asks, “Can I share this room with you?”

 

 

 

 

There’s no way anyone knows Namjoon isn’t sleeping in his own room. Somehow, that’s what makes it all the more salacious. Yoongi and Jimin are down the hall and to the right of them; Jungkook and Mingyu are across from Yoongi and Jimin. Taehyung and Hoseok were the early birds, fast asleep before Gangwon even touched midnight. Seokjin and Namjoon were the two with their own rooms—single, lonely souls them—and Seokjin never has the chance to spend their first night of five alone, because Namjoon is with him now.

Namjoon had shed his shyness the moment Seokjin murmured a coy, sure—no pretenses, no jokes to lighten the darkness that bloomed in Namjoon’s eyes.

As they switch the lamp off and lay down, Namjoon scoops Seokjin into his arms, and Seokjin feels himself going malleable without permission, head tilted back for Namjoon to get at his tender, sensitive throat.

Is it a bit underhanded? Well… it’s not like Seokjin is hiding anything; Jimin and Yoongi just assumed that that one night Seokjin shared with Namjoon was a one-off. Namjoon gets to have sex with a ‘classic beauty’, Seokjin gets to quench his curiosity, and everyone gets to move on. A win-win no matter how you angle it.

There were subtle changes, though, Namjoon flicking on switches as the days ambled along. It was all sweet, polite-boy stuff: walking with Seokjin across Seokjin’s school campus, knuckles brushing with every other step, then giving him a shy smile and a have a good day at class, hyung, before rushing off to catch his bus; sending him songs that remind him of Seokjin or a memory of some sort; insisting on walking Seokjin to his car after group joolsari, Seokjin insisting that he doesn’t need to be walked to his car, but thank you, Gentleman-ssi.

(“I know you don’t,” Namjoon said, “but I want to.” It was dark out, barbecue and soju in their bellies, the couples pairing off to catch their taxis or the next train. Seokjin—the only one who had driven in his hatchback—stood and stared at the earnest glint to Namjoon’s eyes.

It was a short stare-off before Seokjin sputtered, “Okay, fine, be chivalrous and walk me,” and then began walking toward his parking spot, Namjoon easily falling into stride.)

(Seokjin’s back was to the driver’s seat door when Namjoon caught his face and brought him in for a kiss. Their mouths languidly slotting together, Seeokjin’s jaw lax for Namjoon to have his way.

Seokjin was 95% blush and 5% man when Namjoon mumbled, “See you later,” before he stepped back, stepped back again, and then went back the way they came.)

Tonight, all they do is kiss and sigh against one another’s lips. Namjoon and those bold palms roam Seokjin’s back, squeeze one asscheek and then the other, brush hair out from Seokjin’s face so that he may earn a better look.

Seokjin dozes off somewhere in between kiss ten and fifteen; he’s lost count by then, each melting into the other.

Dawn cracks open against the forest line—the cabin sleepy and still—when Seokjin’s consciousness, piecemeal, returns to him.

A clever mouth sucks color into his throat, and, “Shh,” Namjoon coos to Seokjin whimpering, “don’t wanna wake them up, sweetheart,” Seokjin’s body squirming and caught in Namjoon’s embrace.

Yangyang-gun is drenched cotton candy pink and blue; Seokjin’s skin bleeds into Namjoon’s, his pyjama top unbuttoned for exploration. Overwhelming and resolute, the heat from another man’s body boils him soft as they shed more and more clothes underneath the duvet. Namjoon is tough and unyielding where women are permissive: his biceps as they press Seokjin down, his chest to Seokjin’s chest, hard cock nudged at the crease of Seokjin’s hip. It’s the first time Seokjin has felt another man’s erection. It’s the first time he has tangible proof that another man desires him. A thrill trembles down Seokjin’s abdomen and deep into his belly.

“Namjoon-ah…” His tongue is thoughtless, quieting easily when Namjoon finds his lips with his own, cooing once more: Shhh. I’ve got you. Feel that? His voice is rough with sleep but gentle in intonation. His gentle hand slips what’s left of Seokjin’s bottoms and briefs off one ankle, tossing it wherever it wants to lie. ‘M gonna make you feel so good. Just gotta be quiet for me. Okay?

Arm between their bodies, an elbow propping Namjoon up, he gets his palm wet with a glob of saliva, then transfers this wet to Seokjin’s shaft, stroking him from half-mast to full within a near-minute. Seokjin’s head tilts up, mouth open and panting, his hips shoving up into Namjoon’s grip.

It’s one steady stroke after another, Namjoon mouthing up Seokjin’s offered throat, his breath hot and sturdy as if he’s servicing himself and not Seokjin. “This good for you?” he gasps, quiet, quiet, gravel-voiced, Seokjin equally terrified and aroused beyond expectation. “Hyung.”

“Good—” The final syllable shoots up an octave, Namjoon pumping steadily at his cockhead, filthy.

“Shit,” Namjoon groans. “Y’gotta be quiet if I’m gonna make you cum, sweetheart. Your gorgeous voice is—‘s gonna wake up the entire cabin.”

Seokjin is trying; he really is. Still, Namjoon’s grip tightens, and his rhythm doubles, and Seokjin cocks his hips up as Namjoon is on a downstroke—then Seokjin is halfway into a sobbing, trembling moan when Namjoon adjusts his posture to sit back on his knees where they flank Seokjin, freeing up his left hand to get a grip at Seokjin’s jaw, palm pressing down, firm, against Seokjin’s mouth. His sob is cut off like a song gone mute.

Namjoon repeats, “Shit,” gaze intent on Seokjin while Seokjin eyes shoot open to watch him. At this angle, Namjoon’s cropped hair hangs down, creating shadows across his forehead, eyes, chin. He’s bronze, naked, his own cock hanging heavy between his legs. Hard because he wants—because he desires Seokjin. “Shit, hyung, wish I could… if you wanted it, if you said yes, I’d give everything to you.”

Everything—

“I’d work you open until you could fit me. Make you cum twice before I’m through... keep going, make you cry…”

Seokjin already feels like he could cry, there’s a sting behind his eyes, Namjoon is going to make him cum now, he’s going to cum, Namjoon’s hands are big and slender, stubborn grip cracking Seokjin open until he’s bleeding cotton candy pink and blue—

Namjoon replaces his palm with his lips. It’s open-mouthed and greedy, their tongues and their rhythm; Namjoon greedily swallows Seokjin’s gasps and pleads—Namjoon-ah, ah, please, fu-hahh—his overheated body flattening Seokjin into the mattress.

A breeze sends the dogwoods tapping at his window panes, and Seokjin pours himself into Namjoon’s fist.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26: when you make me a better man (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

“You were this—this mysterious, super cool hyung back then,” Taehyung is saying on a laugh, “buying me meals and not looking in my eyes as you, like, shoved it in my hands and told me to take it.”

Notes:

AKA 'Yunki marry me' the drabble.

CW:
> rated T
> taegi
> established relationship
> fluff
> proposal

 

 

 

 

It’s Yoongi’s third peek out onto the hotel balcony, his mind and fingers restless since Taehyung prohibited him from bringing neither his laptop nor his headphones with him. (“No working on vacation, hyung,” Taehyung had materialized out of nowhere the second Yoongi thought to sneak his equipment into his suitcase, Taehyung snatching the stack from their bed and shoving it into the closet. “You can take a break for one week.”

“I can’t,” Yoongi hadn’t bothered to subdue the whine from his voice, lips stretched thin around each syllable. “I have ADHD; you know how I get when there’s nothing to d—”

“I’ll keep you busy.” With a peck to his mouth, Taehyung shuffled along, back to packing his own belongings, Jimin’s tinny laughter erupting from his phone as Taehyung returned to their conversation. Can you believe Yoongi-hyung? Trying to work in Paris of all places?

Sounds like Min Yoongi-hyungnim to me, Jimin chirped, nothing but mirth in his intonation. You’ve always had an interesting taste in men, teddy bear. He was lucky he and Yoongi were separated by a phone and the Han river.)

Across the ocean, Taehyung has been in the bathroom for well over an hour now and Yoongi is beginning to feel stir-crazy and hot in his black button-up. Taehyung insisted on ordering in for dinner tonight. Yoongi was more than agreeable to stay in their hotel room after so many days of touring and sweating his ass off along Parisian streets, except—and there was always an exception—the rule was that Yoongi still had to dress as if they were fine-dining. He’d complained for a few minutes before quickly losing steam to Taehyung’s pout; he hates to upset Taehyung on an average day, but Taehyung while on vacation is impossible to deny.

So Yoongi was going to sweat his ass off in his black button-up and matching slacks. He can already hear Namjoon teasing, that’s what love does to a man with an obnoxious grin plastered to his face. Whatever.

At least the view from their balcony is nice. Yoongi can appreciate the beauty of Haussmann architecture; he’d been excited when he saw where their hotel was located: in the heart of history, only a short, fifteen minute cab ride to the Marais district, their pre-Haussmann medieval architecture standing proud and intact. It’s one thing to read about in textbooks and on his phone and an entirely other thing to live it realtime, standing on narrow cobblestone streets and following along as the buildings stretch up and up as if they could and would touch the sky. There was a surreality to Paris’ beauty with Kim Taehyung at its foreground.

(Yoongi and Taehyung both had initially been more interested in exploring the hotel sheets with one another during their first two days—but Yoongi’s glad they decided to finally go outdoors and make the most of their trip.)

The bathroom door clicks open on Yoongi’s fifth cycle onto the balcony and off again, steam and sandalwood pouring out into the bedroom. “Yoongi-hyung.”

Yoongi turns away from the evening view. A new evening view emerges: Taehyung in a navy blue waistcoat, navy blue slacks. His fringe parted and tucked back off of his forehead like Yoongi has his own. A crisp, white blouse beneath the waistcoat, the arms folded up to his elbows. Sandalwood warmed with shower water, warmed with Taehyung’s smile.

“Hey,” Yoongi tries. “You’re…” He has always known Taehyung’s beauty; why, then, does Yoongi swallow his tongue every single time?

Taehyung approaches in a few strides, damned legs kilometers long. “You’re so pretty, hyung.” He fiddles with the collar of Yoongi’s blouse, almost shy, like this is date one all over again and not year three. “Thanks for—for dressing up for me.”

I’d set myself on fire for you. Yoongi doesn’t say that. “Yeah,” he says. “You look good. Is this a new suit?”

“Yes.” Taehyung brightens. “You noticed. You always notice those kinda things.”

Sometimes attentive to his own detriment. “I—try.”

“I know. Thanks, hyung.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to say anything else. He knows Taehyung’s expressions by now, has had them memorized well before their five-hundred days: when Taehyung dips low, Yoongi tips his own chin up, goes slack at the mouth for Taehyung to slot his in-between. They don’t separate until there’s a knock at the door.

 

 

 

“I thought that E-mart would give me, like, horrible flashbacks every time I pass by it,” Taehyung is saying to his plate, delicately slicing open his trout with fork and knife, “but it doesn’t! I really like passing by it now, actually. It makes me think about you.”

They have all the lights off in the hotel room. Instead of their lamps, Taehyung has candles burning on each flat surface including their roundtable, a single red rose at its center. The balcony doors remain open, conversations sneaking in from the street below, if they’re loud enough. Sweet jazz hums from Taehyung’s phone.

Yoongi has a mouthful of his own trout—he’d let Taehyung choose for him, fine with anything as long as they had wine to go with it—when he glances up at Taehyung and blinks.

“You were this—this mysterious, super cool hyung back then,” Taehyung is saying on a laugh, “buying me meals and not looking in my eyes as you, like, shoved it in my hands and told me to take it.”

Yoongi rewinds to his early twenties, starting from that first night he’d approached teenage Kim Taehyung.

They’ve… never spoken about this before. Not like this. Yoongi’s chewing slows.

Taehyung has been slicing his fish up for the past few minutes without taking a single bite. His wine glass sits untouched to his right. “You’re still cool now,” his eyes flicker up then back down at his work, “but you were cool in a heroic kinda way back then. This… like. This example of a kind, respectable man I never grew up seeing. Jiminie’s probably tired of hearing about it.”

“Hearing about…” Yoongi slows to a halt, searching for a new frame. “About your—?”

Taehyung tells him, “Everything about our third year. Basically being homeless and pretending I wasn’t so I could graduate. Lying even to him about why he never met my family or why I didn’t go to hagwon.” He stops to suck in air. His knife scrapes against the ceramic, a sharp noise between their silence. Yoongi watches Taehyung, posture stiff, and Taehyung watches his cutlery. An amber flame creates shadows along Taehyung’s face, in the flash of his eyes. “Sitting at the E-mart and getting my second meal of the day because a cool, heroic hyung would pass by every night and see me there, sitting and not eating.”

Okay, they’re talking about this. Any hunger immediately sinks down into the pit of Yoongi’s stomach. His grip slackens on the stem of his glass.

It isn’t that he’s forgotten; it’s that he tried to put those days behind them—not just to save himself from embarrassment or coming off as a self-important shithead but also for Taehyung’s sake. What would be the point otherwise?

Still, sitting here, finally addressing what he believed they agreed to not address, Yoongi’s not sure if that was the right choice.

“You probably didn’t think you were, like… doing something big for me, some stupid kid trying not to cry in front of a convenience store. You never cared about that shit. You were buying an extra meal tray for me to eat… because you’re not like that. You’ve never been.” Taehyung laughs again, this one not touching his eyes. “You’d even scold me if I tried to thank you for letting me wash my uniform at your home. Especially if I was crying. I cried so much that year.” He looks up then, catching Yoongi with his wet gaze. “Do you remember those nights? Was it as big a deal for you as it was for me?”

They hold tense eye contact from across the table. Yoongi lets a gentle saxophone solo answer in his place.

That’s subjective, isn’t it? Yoongi can’t quantify the depth his actions held for Taehyung; his own memories are his only control. And he was only doing what he wanted to do: feeding a high school student that couldn’t afford to feed himself; washing his uniform for him when the stains he’d noticed on a Monday were still there on a Wednesday; allowing him a place to sleep when he got Taehyung to admit that he’d been kicked out and had nowhere else to go but that E-mart. Paying for Taehyung’s winter uniform and the tuition for his final semester.

Saying yes but as long as you go to university, okay? when Taehyung gathered up the courage to ask Yoongi if he could stay.

Letting Taehyung stay and never letting him go.

Taking a vacation in Paris for a week because Taehyung wanted a break from work.

Yoongi breathes, “They were.”

Taehyung looks pleased with this answer. A slow breath fills his chest, his eyes fluttering shut. On the exhale, he rediscovers Yoongi’s gaze. “I’m never going to forget what you did for me. No matter what. But I don’t want you to think that I’m here today because I’m trying to pay you back for those days. I’m here because I love you. I’m a man that loves the man I know now. I love the man that made me want to be a better man,” he sets his cutlery down across his napkin, “I love your ambition, your kindness, your attention to detail,” he gradually stands up from his chair, “I love your love for your family, your love for your friends, the way you love with your actions and let me love with my words.”

Oh, fuck. Yoongi’s eyes are stinging with every blink. He mirrors Taehyung, setting his fork down and removing his grip on the wine glass stem, following along as Taehyung gets to his feet before promptly lowering down beside Yoongi’s chair, propped on one knee. “Taehyung-ah…” An unfamiliar anticipation thuds hard behind his sternum.

Yoongi can see the tremble in Taehyung’s hands now, watching as one reaches back behind him.

In contrast, Taehyung’s face is stern, voice steady. “I never thought I’d have a love like this. I never thought fairytales were real, even though I—I wanted them to be.”

Yoongi repeats, “Taehyung-ah…” words wetter, posture stuck.

“I thought I’d be dead by now. I never thought I’d live to twenty-six the day I realized my parents didn’t want me back. I never thought I’d…” Taehyung fades off, sucking in a breath before emotion can steal it from him. “—I’d ever ask this question. But—but I.” His hand comes back with a velvet, burgundy box in its palm. “I wanted to be the one to do this, hyung. For once, I wanted it to be me.”

He must be in the throes of an anxiety attack. He must be. His chest won’t move, lungs won’t fill. Yoongi can’t breathe. The image of Kim Taehyung kneeling by his chair—resolute and firm and the man Yoongi grew to love, born from the kid he knew to protect—doesn’t seem real. None of this feels real.

“Min Yoongi hyungnim,” Taehyung declares. This recaptures Yoongi’s attention, startling him from his reverie.

Taehyung flicks the box open. Yoongi doesn’t know what’s inside because he doesn’t bother to look.

Taehyung is looking back at him. Taehyung asks, “Will you marry me?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey.”

Taehyung jerks to attention, shocked out of almost-sleep. There’s a man standing across the plastic E-mart table from him, the same man he’s seen ambyling by to get to Sillim station over the past two weeks.

Except the trains aren’t in service at this time of night… and instead of his usual business-casual, he’s dressed in a black tracksuit, hair hanging over his eyes. Taehyung’s eyes wander. He has two convenience store meals in one, broad hand. Taehyung never noticed him enter the store.

Is he going to scold him for loitering in his school uniform? Is he going to interrogate him about what he’s doing here? Accuse him of stealing? Should he find a new place to sleep? But the E-mart ahjussi promised not to call the cops or send him away, and he may not find that sort of camaraderie at another sto—

“Take this.” The man sets both of the meal trays onto the table, gaze turned toward the store window front instead of ahead, at Taehyung. He nudges it closer to him. “Students should study with a full stomach.”

A cab hits its horn out in the street. A chorus of horns follow close behind.

“Ah.” Taehyung’s mouth opens on words he hasn’t found yet. Then, “Ah… ah—wai—” He reaches out uselessly as the man turns and begins walking away.

Taehyung sits and stares until he can no longer find him amongst the city lights.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 27: when we want them all to ourselves (jimin/yoongi)

Summary:

Yoongi lasts a good fifteen minutes ignoring any and all movement behind him before his final string of patience comes loose. He swivels in his chair, tone one, flat inflection when he asks, “What is wrong with you.”

Jimin has Yoongi’s sweatshirt in his hands. The sweatshirt he wears when he wants to pick up something quick at the convenience store—or when he forgot some ingredient he needed and wants to be in and out. A Yoongi Staple. It was sitting out in the living room, draped over the back of their couch. Now, the Yoongi Staple sweatshirt is in Jimin’s cherubic hands, Jimin rubbing it insistently into his scent glands like he’d done with Yoongi’s Other Staples: an XL Fear of God tee, an XXL Fear of God tee, a large Fear of God tee, a pair of three-year old black sweatpants, a jean jacket with a skull painted to the back, a plaid blouse with a skull painted to the back, and a pair of five-year old grey sweatpants.

Notes:

cw:
> yoonmin omegaverse (alpha jimin/omega yoongi)

> (toxic) possessiveness and bickering (the yoonmin way)

> "what the fuck is your problem?" (compliment) / "fucking freak" (affectionate)

> mentioned piss stuff/piss kink-adjacent

 

 

 

Yoongi lasts a good fifteen minutes ignoring any and all movement behind him before his final string of patience comes loose. He swivels in his chair, tone one, flat inflection when he asks, “What is wrong with you.”

Jimin has Yoongi’s sweatshirt in his hands. The sweatshirt he wears when he wants to pick up something quick at the convenience store—or when he forgot some ingredient he needed and wants to be in and out. A Yoongi Staple. It was sitting out in the living room, draped over the back of their couch. Now, the Yoongi Staple sweatshirt is in Jimin’s cherubic hands, Jimin rubbing it insistently into his scent glands like he’d done with Yoongi’s Other Staples: an XL Fear of God tee, an XXL Fear of God tee, a large Fear of God tee, a pair of three-year old black sweatpants, a jean jacket with a skull painted to the back, a plaid blouse with a skull painted to the back, and a pair of five-year old grey sweatpants.

If their open closet—open to Yoongi’s side, which has honestly meant less and less as the years have gone on of cohabitation—foreshadows anything, it’s that Jimin is nowhere near through scenting Yoongi’s Staples. Racks and racks of freshly-washed clothes sit out, ripe for Jimin to soak his pheromones into them.

Yoongi repeats, “What is wrong with you.”

His office desk and desktop are in their bedroom, facing the windows because Jimin complained that he wasn’t getting enough vitamin D with it set up on the adjacent wall. It’s almost midnight now so there’s no vitamin D to absorb, but Yoongi sits at his desk by the windows and tries not to lose himself in his gurgling anger. “Ji—”

“What is wrong with you,” Jimin snaps.

Jumped right over Rational and onto Petulant. Okay.

Yoongi slumps and watches Jimin drop the sweatshirt at the foot of the bed, replacing it with the plain white tee Yoongi wears to sleep. Dark eyebrows flattened out and muscle pulsing at the hinge of his jaw, he shoves the tee under his chin and rubs.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Yoongi says.

Jimin fires back, “Must be something wrong with you to be dating me then.” Rub, rub.

“D’you think this is gonna make me miss you? I’m not playing these games. If you’re gonna leave, just leave.”

“You’re gonna miss me regardless.” Jimin drops the shirt on the pile, yanks Yoongi’s boxers from his underwear drawer. “Tell Hobi hyung to stay out of this room.” Rub, rub.

Yoongi pauses. Watches Jimin frown and scent, frown and scent, his dark hair long and winding as it falls around his face—bedroom light pouring natural highlights into the black—his eyes fixed resolutely off towards the open closet door. His knitted sweater and dark-wash jeans, both fit to the leanness of him, rod-straight and firm from anger. It’s a long, tense moment of nothing before Yoongi sputters into a scoff-laugh, hiccuping sounds that jostle his shoulders.

“This is to ward him off?” He doesn’t tuck away the amused disbelief from his tone. “Hobi?”

“No.” Jimin rubs harder at the second pair of boxers. Kumamon ones from Yoongi’s twenty-fifth birthday.

“Alphas, then.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything to this. Bingo.

“This is what you’re gonna do anytime you wanna storm out now? Scent all my shit instead of talking about it?”

“Nope. Gonna ‘scent all your shit’ until I'm ready to talk about it.”

Foolish and juvenile as it is, a hidden curve in Yoongi does respect the honesty. He crosses his arms and keeps watching, huffs a breath out through his nose.

Still—he really shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. It’s a genuine contender for Most Petty Moments that they’ve had since they started dating, second only to the night Yoongi gave him the silent treatment for claiming he’d date Jungkook if he weren’t already with Yoongi (it was a sensitive night, alright, and Yoongi knows Jimin has a type in omegas, all of which encapsulate Jungkook with unnerving precision). (He apologized later, okay?)

“What if I just wash all my clothes as soon as you leave?”

“Then I’m breaking up with you.”

Yoongi sputters more hiccuped laughter, tightens his arms across his chest. “You’ll break up with me over that?”

“Why do you need to wash your mate’s scent off? Do you have something to hide? Me?” Jimin tosses the boxers over his shoulder, snatches another pair of sweatpants from the closet rack.

“Ji—”

“If you wanna hide me, then we should break up.”

“I don’t—”

“Okay,” Jimin finally addresses Yoongi, face taut, shadows harsh along the lines at his mouth, “you’re next.” He lets the sweatpants fall onto the floor this time, hips rocking as he steps confidently up between Yoongi’s spread thighs. “I’m scenting you now.”

“Jim—”

Jimin enunciates, “Give me your throat; I’m scenting you now.”

It’s not quite his alpha voice, but it isn’t too far off from it either. Yoongi’s body reacts in kind, flushing warmth born at his scalp trailing down towards his lower belly. Still, he maintains his intractable posture: arms crossed, expression amused and unyielding even as he tips his head to one side, gland bared. “You’re fucking insane.”

“What did I say?” Jimin gets a palm at Yoongi’s shoulder bend to balance himself. Leaning in, nose first, “You must be fucking insane to be dating me. I never pretended to be anyone different.”

Well—that’s true. Though, Yoongi hadn’t expected this malignancy to spread to friends, friends of friends, mates of friends of friends. There was a point in their timeline that Jimin could contain his… more unpleasant urges until Yoongi could calm him down privately, reassure him that, no, he isn’t interested in that alpha coworker that dropped by the studio to greet him, and, yes, Jimin is the only man he’s interested in now and for the foreseeable future. He can’t remember at what point that’s no longer been enough to assuage Jimin.

Yoongi breathes steadily out his mouth as Jimin’s nose-tip then lips stroke at his throat. And he can control his expression and his posture for however long he needs to to win an argument—but he can’t control his more basal desires, those instincts given to him from clan members well beyond his time. He’s perfuming. He’s wet.

So Jimin’s right. He must be insane to be dating him. He is insane to be dating him. It’s pathetic and shameful to admit; Yoongi’s always been drawn to the more obsessive alphas. Obsessive in their love and their desire, prepared to dismantle social laws and bare their teeth in public if that meant ‘winning’ the prize: Min Yoongi. It’s not even Yoongi’s conscious doing; he hadn’t met Jimin on those pretenses. He certainly had no way of knowing this was Park Jimin’s temperament, either.

The Jimin he’d met was sweet and deferential, attentive nearly to a fault.

Regardless, somewhere underneath it all, Yoongi’s subconscious must have caught on.

Jimin has had his drool, chin, nose, and soft cheeks and mouth over every centimeter of skin above Yoongi’s clavicles. Yoongi’s crossed arms have loosened from the head-high of pheromones, nearly delirious and struggling to keep his eyelids open. Thoughts pass through as if sifting through syrup. His mouth moves as if treading syrup, words viscous, “m’ht as well…. might as well piss on me, doing all this.”

“Should I?” Jimin’s voice softens in kind, all breath, wet as the space between Yoongi’s legs. He’s circled back to the gland at his pulse point. “Think that’d keep Hobi out of our apartment? I heard it takes a week of showers to wash piss-scent off.”

“‘Course you’d—know that.”

“‘Course you’d know that,” Jimin mocks. Leaning back to create eye contact, “And of course you’re aroused imagining me do that. Pissing on you. I’ll do it anytime; just ask, okay? Whenever you want, hyungnim.”

Yoongi’s beginning to leak through onto his office chair. Shit. Not the time. If this goes on any longer, it’s going to end with Yoongi trembling to climax on a knot—and he refuses to fuck when Jimin’s just going to storm out once he deflates anyway.

Yoongi pushes Jimin farther back with a hand to his chest. “I won’t let anyone in, so—go. If you don’t come back tomorrow, don’t come back at all.”

Jimin rises to standing. He sniffs indignantly. “I’ll come back when I want to come back.”

“You’ll come back to an empty apartment then.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He’s not sure who’s calling whose bluff anymore. Yoongi suppresses an eyeroll, twisting in his chair to give Jimin his back. “Goodnight. You’re distracting me.”

“Whatever.”

It’s difficult to discern what’s Jimin’s lingering scent or what’s fresh from Jimin’s skin, denoting him as still present—but eventually the front door jingles once, twice, then locks.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 28: when no one has to know (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

Taehyung asked, “D’you think I look sexy?” He gestured down, and Yoongi’s gaze followed. His blouse was practically translucent, neckline deep between his pecs. “I think you look sexy. You’re so hot, Min-gyosunim.”

He couldn’t hear Yoongi’s laugh, but he could see the tremble of his shoulders, the pink of his gums. “Taehyung-ah… you’re drunk.”

“I’m not.” He kept their faces close, voice conspiratorial. “I see the way you look at me… You think I’m sexy, too. I can tell. You can have me if you want me.”

Notes:

taegi quickie where taehyung is a student in dr. min yoongi's organic chemistry class.

cw:
> student/teacher moral ambiguity
> age difference (20-22 vs. 36)

 

 

 

 

“Gyosunim,” Taehyung approaches the podium at ground level, some classmates making their way out into the hall, some classmates meandering in the beginnings of a line behind him, “I wanted to ask you ab—”

“Taehyung-ssi. 95 isn’t a high enough score for you?” Dr. Min Yoongi slides his answer sheet back into its respective folder, fingers intent on making the stack neat. “Despite making the highest score amongst your peers?” He peeks up now, right over the rounded frames of his glasses. “Bromine is highly selective. Under ultraviolet light, it’ll replace the tertiary hydrogen; chloride is non-selective. Easy mistakes will cost you.”

“Will cost me five points?” Taehyung folds his arms across his blouse. “I understand two or three, but that’s a little mean, Min gyosu—”

“That mistake cost you the entire reaction,” Yoongi unplugs his USB drive from the lecture hall’s computer, “if it were a resonance structure with the bromine placed incorrectly, I would’ve docked two or three points, but it wasn’t. There were no possible resonance structures for that cyclic alkane. Better luck next exam.”

It’s as clear a dismissal as any, Yoongi’s tight smile and rapid blinking. Before Taehyung can complain any longer, Yoongi gives a bored, “You obviously know when my office hours are, so harass me more there,” before peering over Taehyung’s shoulder to address the next student.

 

 

 

The moment Taehyung slips into Yoongi’s office through the open sliver: “Is university a fashion show for you?”

Taehyung falters. Yoongi hasn’t looked up yet, busy stacking worn textbooks on one side of his cluttered desk. His office is homely and perhaps too lived-in, towers of folders, binders, and textbooks creating a city at their feet, a chalkboard—still riddled with halfway-erased reactions clearly drawn by Yoongi, all rough and mis-shapen octagons—installed to one wall, a bookshelf stuffed to overcapacity on the other wall. There are empty mugs surrounding his desktop. As always, the room smells like dust and black coffee.

Taehyung’s smile is a flash in a pan. “Why can’t I be a diligent student and look good doing it?”

Yoongi gives him a quick, deadpan look, then turns to his desktop screen. “Not so diligent if you missed something as simple as a hyperselective bromine reaction under ultraviolet light.”

“Gyosuniiim,” Taehyung lengthens each syllable into a whine, bottom lip pushed out, “simple mistakes should come with simple points docked off. Less than five, preferably. Yes?”

Yoongi clicks his mouse, fluorescent lights flashing against his lenses. “No.”

“So mean.”

“I’m consistent.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Yoongi doesn’t offer anything else to refute. Taehyung shuts the office door behind himself.

Honestly, it’s not anything more gaudy than he’s worn in his previous two years of university: wide-legged pants that cling to the contours of his hips and ass, a blouse with its first four buttons undone. Through trial and error and a little deductive reasoning, Taehyung arrived to the realization that Min-gyosunim holds a preference for pieces that exaggerate his waist-hip ratio; it’s in the prolonged stares, a gaze that nips at Taehyung from scalp to toe, sudden but blatant enough that it could be found if it’s looked for. Taehyung is always looking. He’s never left wanting.

“Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi says as a warning, then, “Taehyung-ah,” as a whine when Taehyung props himself up on the closest edge of his desk, ass knocking back a stack of textbooks to make room. This finally earns Taehyung eye contact, Yoongi jerking back in his office chair to glare up at him and reprimand. “You’re really disrespectful, you know that? Sitting on your gyosuni—”

“Yoongi-yah.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, Yoongi’s mouth ajar. Taehyung crosses one leg over the other, leaning forward to close in the space Yoongi created between them. Volume dipping low, “I like your haircut, hyung. Your bangs frame your face nicely. Makes you look prettier.” He watches as Yoongi’s gaze wanders down, Taehyung’s blouse hanging off his shoulders now that he’s learning over, allowing a direct view of his chest down to where his top is tucked into his pants.

It’s a few seconds that stretches on until Yoongi regains his composure, posture straightening. He clears his throat softly and repeats, “Disrespectful kid. Get off my desk before someone comes in here and sees you.” He doesn’t need to say, you didn’t lock the door when you came in. “And don’t call me ‘hyung’ on campus. Watch what you say.”

“Yes, Min-gyosunim.” Taehyung hops off his desk. “I’ll call you hyung in be—”

“Goodbye, Taehyung. I’m not changing your 95; you outscored Jimin-ssi this exam, so I don’t know why you’re stressed over this.”

“Because he outscored me the past two exams! I need a wider lead than a 95 versus his 93—”

“Go back over your foundations so you don’t make a mistake like that again.” One last lingering stare before Yoongi returns to his desktop, another clear dismissal. If it wasn’t made clear with that, “Have a good evening, Taehyung-ssi. I hope you’re studying tonight; we covered a lot of material today.”

Mean. Fine! Taehyung will accept defeat this time; Jimin is waiting for him in their booked study room, anyway, and he has to rub his higher score in before they begin mandatory silent time. “Yes,” he says, respectful grammar slipping back into his speech. He gives a bow of his head and shoulders. “Thank you for your time. Please go get dinner before you lock yourself up in here. Goodnight.”

“Pick up the mess you knocked over before y—”

Taehyung is out into the hall in record time, whispering a quick, “He’s all yours,” to a vaguely-familiar classmate lingering just outside before making a run for it.

 

 

 

Dr. Min Yoongi was the lecturer for his first year introductory chemistry class; back then, Taehyung had merely been enamored and quietly overwhelmed by Yoongi’s familiar satoori, his knowledge that seemed to have no conclusion, his handsome face. He’d earned Yoongi’s attention by maintaining the highest test scores in class first—then, Taehyung committed himself to asking questions after lectures, attending every office hour to go over his mistakes, to inquire about Yoongi’s academic history prior to becoming a professor.

He’d chosen Yoongi for his second year chemistry lecture in autumn; this fed into more imploring questions, inquiring (arguing) about points he’d missed, sometimes coming to his office hours just to gloat about a perfect-100 exam score. It’d been Taehyung that erased an unwritten boundary. Those frigid evenings that Yoongi left his office right after his hours, Taehyung always there the latest. Taehyung gripping Yoongi’s shoulder or bicep while going on about anything that came to mind—more often than not, it was centered around shared experiences, like life in Daegu, their parents, Taehyung’s future goals of working in medicinal research. Bodies close enough to sway into one another as they crossed campus toward the staff parking garage.

Standing alone by Yoongi’s SUV, sometimes—sometimes—Yoongi would blink in Taehyung’s direction and say, “Are you going home or staying in the library? Hyung will drive you.” Hyung.

“Hyung,” Taehyung would say, thrilled, warmth in his cheeks and in his belly. “Drive me home, please.”

Sometimes… sometimes Yoongi’s palm would stroke the curve of Taehyung’s waist just so before retreating altogether.

Then, in late December—winter turning even sweat into frost—he ran across Yoongi while celebrating his birthday with friends. The bar was crowded, Taehyung crammed between two stools, intoxicated, clothes scarce but body hot from alcohol, Yoongi propped on a seat and nursing a glass of bourbon. His friends had dispersed somewhere; he didn’t know. Taehyung just remembers stroking the small of Yoongi’s back as he expressed delight at seeing him there.

Yoongi was in an emerald-green sweater and dark jeans, dressed like Taehyung had never seen before. He’d watched Taehyung with an amused smirk, glass hanging from his fingertips as Taehyung shouted, “Hyung! It’s my birthday! Say happy birthday!”

“Happy birthday,” Yoongi said. “Are you here alone?”

“Thank you.” Taehyung leaned into him as a burst of noise and conversation blanketed them from their left. “No. M’friends are here.” He paused to appraise Yoongi’s eyes and lips. “Gyosunim. Hyung. I want a birthday gift.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows lifted, but his expression remained amused, almost impartial. “I don’t have anything. I didn’t know it was your birthday. You want hyung to buy you a drink?”

“No,” Taehyung swayed until his nose nudged into Yoongi’s cheek. “I want a kiss.”

Yoongi watched him with his mouth open.

Taehyung asked, “D’you think I look sexy?” He gestured down, and Yoongi’s gaze followed. His blouse was practically translucent, neckline deep between his pecs. “I think you look sexy. You’re so hot, Min-gyosunim.”

He couldn’t hear Yoongi’s laugh, but he could see the tremble of his shoulders, the pink of his gums. “Taehyung-ah… you’re drunk.”

“I’m not.” He kept their faces close, voice conspiratorial. “I see the way you look at me… You think I’m sexy, too. I can tell. You can have me if you want me.”

Frustratingly, Yoongi’s expression didn’t shift. He kept his same, lax posture, still visibly unaffected. He said, “You’re twenty-two. Do you know how old I am?”

It was a rhetorical question, considering they’d known one another for two semesters at that point. However, “Thirty-six. Does that matter?”

“It’d matter to you when you’re my age.”

“Did that stop you from finding me sexy? You wanna undress me? I don’t live far from here… but you already know that, don’t you.”

The cracks were beginning to show. Yoongi’s face blanking out. His fingertips frozen where they dangle the glass of bourbon. His eyes dragged down from Taehyung’s mouth to neckline to chest, his lashes fanning out at this angle. He said, “You’re shameless when you’re drunk,” words all baritone.

“Not drunk. But I’m shameless when I’m sober, too.” His palm stroked farther down to the top of Yoongi’s ass before returning to settle at his back. He pushed his bottom lip out. “Stop ignoring me.”

Back to hiccuped laughter. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

“You’re avoiding the questions.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to answer.”

“You have to. Answer. You find me sexy: yes or no.”

This time Yoongi didn’t come back with a spitfire quip. He licked his mouth and blinked off in the direction of the nearest bartender. He said, slowly, “Thoughts and actions are different.”

“I didn’t ask for an action.”

“Yes. I do.”

Taehyung’s chest swooped. “Yeah? When you first saw me?”

Yoongi kept blinking. Finally, he tipped the lip of his glass between his lips. Taehyung watched closely as his throat bobbed on a swallow. Yoongi set his glass down, chest rising and falling in a quiet sigh. “You were twenty.”

“Thoughts and actions are different.”

“I did.”

Another swoop, this time lower into his belly. “I thought you were sexy when I first saw you, too. I’ve fantasized about a lot of things.” He craned until his nose and mouth were pressed to Yoongi’s ear. Quieter, but still loud enough to be understood, “Your cock in my throat… you ripping my clothes off me in your office… choking and slapping me with those hands… fucking you over the podium… No one has to know a thing—”

Yoongi turned his head and pressed their mouths together. His lips and tongue were still cold from iced bourbon. Body and mind reacting instantly, Taehyung sighed happily into the kiss, grinning as he pressed into Yoongi while Yoongi pressed into him. It was a brief and sensual sweep of tongue and lips before Yoongi retracted and leaned away. Taehyung lingered.

“Birthday kiss,” Yoongi said. He slid his glass closer to the bar and stood up. “Have a good night.”

 

 

 

Things carried on in a stop and go. Palm to the curve of a waist, heated kisses in Yoongi’s SUV—even walking Taehyung to his officetel and entertaining more kissing, a hand down his slacks, a brief moment in time where life was forgotten. Not all fantasies come to fruition; the office and the lecture halls were off limits. Yoongi didn’t and doesn’t seem particularly willing to go more than their mouths and their hands, despite the constant temptation and Taehyung’s sober shamelessness.

They kiss for the first time in late December. Final grades are completed by early February—Taehyung, again, at the top of his class—and when March arrives, the spring semester follows close behind. Taehyung enrolls in Dr. Min Yoongi’s organic chemistry lecture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 29: when puppies do what puppies do (taehyung/yoongi)

Summary:

Executed too quickly to retaliate, Yoongi’s free hand is lifted from its resting spot and promptly placed somewhere warm and unmistakably human. Then, Yoongi is looking up from his computer screen just in time to—

“Hyung, feel.” His hand is adjusted. “Feel here. No, like,” now Taehyung maneuvers Yoongi’s fingers so that they’re pressed right over the miniature slope of his flexed bicep, “there. That.”

Yoongi complies as if on autopilot, bewildered into silence. “That?” he parrots.

“Yes,” Taehyung says.

Notes:

cw for this chapter:

> M, taegi omegaverse
> omega yoongi raising alpha pups vminkook
> age difference + inherent power difference (yoongi 35 & taehyung 20)
> internalized ageism mention, wolf instincts, courting ('n preening)

 

 

 

Executed too quickly to retaliate, Yoongi’s free hand is lifted from its resting spot and promptly placed somewhere warm and unmistakably human. Then, Yoongi is looking up from his computer screen just in time to—

“Hyung, feel.” His hand is adjusted. “Feel here. No, like,” now Taehyung maneuvers Yoongi’s fingers so that they’re pressed right over the miniature slope of his flexed bicep, “there. That.”

Yoongi complies as if on autopilot, bewildered into silence. “That?” he parrots.

“Yes,” Taehyung says.

Yes what? Yoongi recognizes—once his brain resets, then realigns itself with materiality—that it’s Taehyung’s bare arm he’s being made to grope. Just an arm. Taehyung appears very intent and anticipatory that Yoongi will discover something more than a warm, bare arm, though, so Yoongi tries to crack the code without asking.

Skin. Cool. Some hair. Awesome. Enough muscle to cover bone. Okay. Yoongi is drawing a blank, but Taehyung is still overtly and shamelessly tensing underneath Yoongi’s touch, trying to give more than can currently be offered; Yoongi tries not to admit his confusion below that intent, long-lashed stare.

A laugh escapes him—several hiccuped ones. “Taehyung-ah…”

“D’you feel it?”

“Fee—”

“It’s bulkier. It is. I can bench press 70 kilos, easy.”

Yoongi’s hiccups crescendo. Bulkier relative to what? He flexes his fingers a few more times. This is a sharp deviation from the agony of editing proposals; his wheels are still spinning helplessly. “Bench press… with Jungkookie?”

“Sometimes. But, like,” if Taehyung tenses up anymore, his bicep is going to rupture, “I’m stronger now. Feel higher up. Yes. It’s—right there. There’s a difference.”

As Yoongi acquiesces—his hand navigating up towards Taehyung’s shoulder—neurons are beginning to converge. Jimin and Jungkook are home, too, neither trapped by deadlines nor working remotely. They don’t have their team leads demanding updates every hour on the hour as assurance that they’re still rotting away in front of their desktop… but Taehyung isn’t asking Jimin, and he isn’t asking Jungkook. It’s Yoongi’s fingers that are there, detained, carving dimples into Taehyung’s skin.

Yoongi was only vaguely aware that Taehyung’s been weight-lifting. There have been slots of time where he was stepping out of his room or standing over the stove when Taehyung was in the foyer, draped in what suspiciously appeared to be Jungkook’s muscle tees. Taehyung would muster an I’ll be back, hyung, and Yoongi would blink, mm, and avert his eyes. That’s the limit of Yoongi’s curiosity.

The first excuse is that he’s busy and, consequently, whatever room left in his working memory has been leased to work, cooking, household errands… raising three alpha pups into upstanding, to-be pack leaders so that no one can ever use their absent parents against them. That alone involved stages: the kids had to get through high school; they had to never want for anything; their bellies had to stay full; their hagwon fees had to be paid, too. Yoongi couldn’t—and can’t—afford to pay attention to their every interest on top of everything else.

His second excuse is that Taehyung has his phases of fixations, emboldened to become the next Park Soogeun one week, all but packed to disappear to Lombardy’s Crema the next. Puppies and their fickle, impressionable minds.

His current excuse: Yoongi isn’t even supposed to be bothered when he’s on the clock at home or on-site—that was a rule he’d established when he took the puppies in years ago—and yet Taehyung is here, adamant, demanding for Yoongi’s appraisal.

Yoongi’s gaze roams up.

It isn’t as if Taehyung’s a puppy to follow the rules without pushing at the boundaries first—adamant to exploit any fractures—in contrast to Jimin or Jungkook. Yoongi hasn’t had much problem with those two. It’s this that’s unique to Taehyung, though: the preening, the insistent touching, disregarding certain commands with a callowness that leaves Yoongi—at times—unable to scold him. Taehyung is… he is as bold as he is docile, as cute as he is handsome, with his eyes round and watching Yoongi, the sleeves of his sleep shirt rolled up for Yoongi to better see and appraise his body. Newly-grown, newly-scented like bloom, an entry without sanction.

“Are you supposed to feel different?” Yoongi can’t conceal the levity in his voice. He’s laughing, he hasn’t stopped laughing, it’s shaking his chest and shoulders. “Am I looking for muscle?”

“Not looking,” Taehyung asserts, “it’s there. Please don’t lie.”

Lie? Yoongi’s laughter has become vocal. He should be irked. He relents, “Taehyung-ah… wah. Good job. Strong alpha.”

Taehyung’s expression is still too stern to decide if Yoongi’s sufficiently placated him, but he is perfuming while Yoongi gropes, so that’s as positive a sign as he’ll get. “Strong-er,” Taehyung corrects.

“Stronger.” Yoongi squeezes his triceps. Taehyung’s throat revs in an eyeblink of a purr. “Strong-er alpha.”

“I’m close to beating Jungkookie in Ssirerum. I almost won last weekend. Really.”

No shot in hell. “Yeah? Jungkookie wasn’t letting you think you were winning?”

“No.” Taehyung’s forehead creases in his frown. “I’ve gotten better and I almost won.”

“Wah. Strong alpha.”

“I’m going to keep practicing and challenge him again in a month. You should come watch. Okay?”

If he wanted to watch alpha puppies wrestle, he’d walk out in the common room whenever Jimin and Jungkook are on round forty-five of PUBG.

“If I’m not busy,” Yoongi says.

Taehyung kneels closer to where Yoongi is seated to now let him massage his fingers into Taehyung’s upper-back muscle. Taehyung explains to him, “Alphas are getting married in their early twenties these days.” Interesting topic pivot. “You saw, right?”

Yoongi’s fingers pause at Taehyung’s shoulder-bend. He blinks three times. “Saw… marriage statistics?”

“Sorta. I mean the, uh… the incentives. If, like. If I—hypothetically—mate with an omega and we have a litter… we could get lots of government benefits. They’d pay for my tuition. Help secure me a job. Pay me bonuses, too.”

There’s a tense pause. Yoongi frowns. Chides, “Don’t you dare mate and pup some omega for government assistance.”

“What?” Taehyung flusters, the first crack in his serious-stern disposition since he barged into Yoongi’s office. “No? No—I’d—that’s not what I was saying.” Now he’s pouting. Pouting. “I’m… I’m stronger and I’ll keep getting stronger.” Then, like an afterthought that’s never been an afterthought, “I can protect my—my mate. And our… family. Generally.”

“Family.” Yoongi’s grip slackens, his mind piecing those converging hypotheses to theory. “Your family.”

“Future. My—our—my mate. Our future family.” Taehyung hasn’t stopped inspecting him. “Mine... I mean.”

This must all be the hypothetical, then, down even to the intention in those stupidly long-lashed, too-round eyes. It’s also—in an unusually Kim Taehyung way—endearing.

Yoongi is no expert in Alpha Growth and Development, but this has to be some sort of compulsory rite of passage as Taehyung matures into adulthood. Right? Laying out ‘hypotheticals’ of child-rearing and protection to an omega; Taehyung’s response to Yoongi admiring his alleged muscle hypertrophy, young cloying alpha scent in the air; his selection of the sole omega in the home (the sole omega he’s been exposed to the most) to compliment and admire him. It’s no coincidence that Taehyung would rather break a house rule and risk being scolded for attention than seek out the two more convenient choices. This means… Taehyung’s hindbrain has alerted him to a potential mate.

This would often end up with Yoongi’s fist knocking someone’s teeth out. He doesn’t need protection, he doesn’t need a mate, and, ultimately, he isn’t a sentient womb. Tonight, though, Yoongi can’t help but tremble and hiccup. Surprised, endeared, admittedly and a-bit-shamefully flattered. It’s impossible to be mad at his puppies. This is an alpha that’s just been taken out of the oven; he used to share Yoongi’s nests for comfort.

Yoongi asks, “You’re gonna protect me and our future puppy with these muscles?”

Taehyung gawks. Yoongi can practically feel the heat from those baking cheeks. “I didn’t say—not, like, literally you—”

“Really? Not me? I’m not included in your hypothetical omega-mate fantasy?”

Instant silence. All at once, Taehyung seems to recognize the conundrum he’s placed himself in. Yoongi is keeled over in laughter now, his hand slipping from Taehyung’s shoulder.

They both ignore his blinking email tab.

“Hyung—” Taehyung sounds dumbfounded.

Yoongi can’t help himself. “What? I’m an unmated omega and you have to get into school; should we mate? My heat is in two weeks.” He sucks in a breath of air, finishes with, “Let’s get you a free-ride, yeah?”

“You’re,” Taehyung’s eyes are glistening with tears, “you’re not funny! Stop teasing me! Hyung!”

“Do we—do we get any—get any sanhujoriwon discounts?”

“Hyung!”

Yoongi’s in tears for an entirely different reason. His stomach is cramping up. He can’t breathe.

Taehyung stands there—hands balled into fists—and grovels, frowns, allows it for a few seconds before biting out, “We would, actually… 2.5 mill for 3 weeks instead of 5. You’d be able to recover comfortably after every pup. Hyung. Stop laughing, please. It hurts.”

“Are you trying to sell me on this?”

“I’m not trying t—” Taehyung stops to breathe and reel back his emotion; Yoongi has tried and failed two times already. Shoulders squaring out, expression falling, Taehyung restarts. “Me working out is not just about protection. It’s—it’s one part, but it matters to you.”

This catches Yoongi’s attention enough to slow his laughter. He unfurls, peeks up. “To me.”

“You like muscles,” Taehyung says. It’s assertive enough to grab the remainder of Yoongi’s attention. “I see the way you grope at Namjoonie hyung whenever he comes by. It matters to you. I could,” he rewinds again, “I will… I’ll lead our future pack and make sure you can live comfortably. Really.”

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t soften. He says, voice tailored as if speaking to a pup who’d only just popped a knot (and he is; he can’t forget that even if he tried), “Taehyung-ah. I don’t need to be led or given a comfortable life by anyone other than myself.”

“I never said you needed that. I said I wanted to give that to you.”

He must have given up on the hypothetical omega-mate pretense; Taehyung’s scent—overwhelmed with passion—is permeating every pore on his body. And albeit he’d been teasing, Yoongi can feel his face going hot. His eyes blink off towards his computer screen. (The unread emails blink back.)

Yoongi wanted to raise emotionally and morally-firm pack leaders. That’s been a given since the day he’d taken them in, built their nests until they felt safe enough to venture beyond it. What he didn’t want was for them to interpret this as some unsaid clause, dictating that they must mate and provide for an omega—not if they didn’t want that for themselves, and not if their omega partner didn’t want that either. Shit, Yoongi doesn’t even know if any of them want an omega partner.

Well. Yoongi blinks back up to Taehyung watching him. Except for one.

Taehyung seems to read his mind. He says, “I’m serious, hyung.”

“Enjoy your youth,” Yoongi says.

“I will. I can enjoy my youth with you.”

The hypotheticals are definitely gone.

Yoongi’s ribcage flattens in a quiet sigh. How is he going to break this to him? It’s not like he can talk wisdom into puppies with their grandiose, feel-good ideas and general optimism for life, the world’s hardships yet to decimate them. If Taehyung wants to imagine a future where his job isn’t soul-sucking and he earns “bonus pay” for quadruple the work and then he gets to come home to his happy omega—to Yoongi—and their five-hundred puppies, so be it. He’ll learn in a short two years that his dreams are just that, and Yoongi will be forgotten for an omega much closer to his own age and he’ll no longer pine for a haggard, wrung-out dish cloth of a man—

Instantaneously, Yoongi goes from sitting to standing without ever having to use his legs. He blinks once, three times, finds himself (almost; Taehyung definitely just hit a growth spurt) at eye level with Taehyung, the bicep of Yoongi’s left arm locked in Taehyung’s grip. It’d happened so suddenly that Yoongi’s brain has yet to adjust his proprioception—but his awful, stupid, defiant body responds without his brain’s knowledge nor consent, scent spiking… the seat of his boxers a bit wet.

Awful and stupid. Taehyung opens his mouth to speak and Yoongi blurts, “You think strength impresses me? That this is what it takes for me to have your kids?”

Taehyung switches course immediately. “Yes.”

Yoongi scoffs. One mouth corner twitches upwards. “Taehyung-ah. Are you mentally trapped at twelve years old? Twenty is still too old to believe that.”

“Not trapped,” Taehyung relinquishes Yoongi’s arm to him. Standing face to face now, Taehyung lowers his voice. “Just in love.”

The atmosphere seems to take a pause with them. Taehyung hasn’t broken eye contact yet.

He’ll forget this. He will. Or—he’ll look back on it as an embarrassing, puerile moment from his near-childhood. There’s no reality in which a twenty year-old means this and will follow through. Twenty is nearly too old to believe that an omega past his prime—that was his guardian for eight years of his life—will have his kids and carry his mating bite, and thirty-five is absolutely too old to allow a miniscule, insignificant, dormant and nearly-gone glint of hope to resurface. This is a puppy doing what puppies do: crushing on their authority figures. Believing in dreams too large to carry.

Yoongi swallows hard. His eyes are stinging and he can’t blink fast enough to chase it away. “Stop.”

“Stop loving you?” Taehyung’s smile cracks through. “I don’t think that’s possible. Like, not right away... it’s not like turning on or off a lightswitch, hyung.”

“Stop.” His tone is a cross between incredulity and mirth now, he can’t stop blinking or else something bad will happen, Taehyung is a too-handsome painting of colors and abstract, LED lights, his young cloying alpha scent is in the air, Taehyung isn’t allowed in his office room when he’s working—

“I’ll prove it. I’m gonna prove it. Okay? Get ready for the best courting gift you’ve ever had. You’ll see.”

“I’m not traditional. Courting gifts doesn't make a difference.”

“That’s okay,” Taehyung retorts, “I am. I like some traditions, and you like gifts.”

“Who said I like gifts?”

“I see how happy you get when someone gives you something. You like some traditions.”

Yoongi titters. Argument lost before it even started. “Okay, stop watching me; it’s creepy.”

Yoongi can only listen to himself carry a conversation as if his insides aren’t burning with flares and alarm lights. Taehyung’s voice is beginning to sound like it’s been born at the end of an empty tunnel; he barely registers his hand, palm up, being cradled in both of Taehyung’s, even as he looks down to watch it happen. He can hear his own breathing in his skull, and Taehyung is speaking to him.

“I’m sorry for breaking the rules, but… I wanted to say that. And show you I’m stronger. But mostly tell you about the courting gift. So just wait a little bit longer, okay?” Those long-lashed, too-large eyes…

He’ll forget this. He’ll forget this, so return to dormancy. Don’t waste the rest of whatever’s left on a puppy.

“Okay.” Yoongi watches himself slip his hand out of Taehyung’s. “I’ll wait.” He doesn’t look up. “Get out before I make you take over Jiminie’s chores for the next two weeks.”

The final excuse is that Taehyung will forget this one day.

“Okay!” Taehyung stumbles in the direction of the door. He bows once, then again—lower. Deferential. What is this, the Joseon dynasty? “I’ll go. Thank you, Yoongi-hyung.”

Two years and it’ll be a memory. “Yeah,” Yoongi replies, quietly.

Taehyung slips out the door, and Yoongi returns to his office chair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

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thank you for reading!