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What was that Seokjin walked in on?
Chest heaving, he leans against the bedroom door, trying hard to remember the outline of Yoongi’s face in the dark, the way his tongue peeked out of his mouth, teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Seokjin had seen the man take countless selcas before, but this? One hand hooked in the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, exposing his hip, head tilted as he smirked at the camera? This was not a selca for fans. This was something else.
It was all an accident, and one that Seokjin felt no regret for whatsoever, except for the slow build of desire it seemed to ignite in his gut. As he poked around the rental house, he opened each door, inspecting the various rooms. He found Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung jumping on the furniture, scrambling up one of the bunkbeds, shrieking with laughter. In another room, Hoseok and Namjoon were huddled over a computer, playing back a few beats and chattering about some lyrics.
The last room—the last cursed room—was the bathroom, and exactly what Seokjin hoped to find. Only he didn’t find an empty room, he found Yoongi. Like that. With his phone. Taking a picture.
Frozen, Seokjin blinked, unable to fully register the image. They’d caught each other plenty of times in plenty of scenarios: cheesy selcas, questionable grooming sessions, hell, even jerking off. But for some reason this moment froze Seokjin in his tracks.
Maybe it was all the time spent together, their energy building with nowhere to go now that the tour was on an indefinite pause. They filmed some promos, traveled a bit domestically, but their usual outlets to burn off energy were gone. Even the usual horniness in the dorm seemed a bit tamer than usual; maybe it was too much time together, not enough longing and aching built up since they could find whomever they wanted whenever they wanted.
None of these are thoughts that ran through Seokjin’s head. His mind was wiped entirely blank, etched now only with the image of Yoongi angling his face, tilting his phone to capture the screen-lit curve of his jaw, his finger hooked into the waistband of his pants.
“Hey,” Yoongi grunted, looking at Seokjin’s reflection in the mirror. “Hyung, can you please close the door? Just need a sec.” His eyes flicked back to the screen as he resumed his position.
And Seokjin just stood there, unable to move, unable to register the polite, nonchalant words of Yoongi asking him to fuck off as he took his thirsty pictures.
Now, back in his room—another cursed room, the one he would share with Yoongi tonight—Seokjin’s breaths are ragged and shallow. He tries to recall any of Yoongi’s last hook-ups. Who does he still talk to? Seokjin wonders. Where is that picture going?
An unhelpful thought: I want that picture.
Another unhelpful thought: I want Yoongi.
How long had it been since they last fooled around? The past couple of years feels like a blur of travel and jet lag, various hair colors and award shows, promotions and comebacks. Nearly all of the guys had hooked up in some combination or another. When it’s dark and they’re exhausted, who can say what body they reached for? For Seokjin, though, Yoongi has always been the one.
He hates that he’s so affected by stumbling in on Yoongi, hates that his body’s immediate response is to ignite—from his ears to his gut. But Yoongi’s always had that effect on him. They understand each other, always have. That sort of intimacy can’t be faked, can’t be captured with mindless sex.
As Yoongi grew older, more comfortable in his skin, he grew more attractive, sexy. Even he knew that. Why else would he take those pictures? He knew what he was doing every time he posted one for fans. Who knows what kind of pictures he’d take in private? Seokjin scoffs at himself. Who knows? Seokjin knows. He used to get those pictures.
Sighing at his pathetic state of longing, Seokjin palms at his crotch, annoyed that he’s already half-hard, embarrassed that Yoongi could probably guess too and really tease him about it later. He sits on the edge of one of the beds and slips his hand into his pants. He could relieve himself, push those feelings out and just go to sleep. That’s what he tells himself when he starts jerking himself off, feeling the precum spread along his length. He’s chasing after sleep, he tells himself, not after the image of Yoongi in the bathroom slipping his hand down his own pants.
“Hyung?”
Seokjin’s eyes snap open, and he hurries to his feet, starts to protest, but the door is already open, and Yoongi is stepping in with a knowing smile on his face.
“Yoongi,” he shrieks. Clearing his throat, he asks, “what’s up?”
“What are you up to?” He closes the door behind him.
“Oh. You know.” Seokjin waves his hand around the room. “Definitely not doing anything important.”
“Uh huh,” Yoongi says, unconvinced.
“What were you doing in the bathroom?” Seokjin counters, trying hard to will away his boner. Yoongi’s intense way of studying him does not help.
“I dunno,” Yoongi answers sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Don’t you ever just take a picture because you look good? Like, for yourself?”
And, well, that is not the answer Seokjin expected, and somehow it’s worse because now he has this huge, unwieldy thing to consider: make a move? Touch Yoongi like they used to ages ago? It would be so easy to pull him closer, to suck softly on his neck in the way he likes, to tilt his chin and kiss along the sharp line of his jaw.
Instead, Seokjin stands there, a little dumbfounded, too horny for his own good. “S-so, the picture wasn’t for anyone in particular,” he stammers, confirming this information more for himself than anything.
“Besides,” Yoongi says, clearing his throat. “What does it matter to you? Why did you just stand there, weirdo?” There’s no edge to his words. In fact, he sounds as unsure as Seokjin does.
“You know why,” Seokjin answers quickly. This he’s sure of.
Yoongi hums, nodding. “And what were you doing in here just now?”
“Nothing,” Seokjin lies, painfully aware that his ears are still bright red, that his sweatpants are still tented.
“This wouldn’t have to do with my picture?” Yoongi nods toward Seokjin’s crotch, the corner of his lips pulling up into a smirk.
“Absolutely not,” Seokjin lies again. Yoongi grins now—wide and wolfish—and steps closer.
“Oh, that’s too bad, because if it was…” he trails off, gives a little shrug. It’s the aloof act he used to pull when they were younger, the kind of cool demeanor that made Seokjin pounce on him in their dorm room, frantic to kiss his stupid smirk away. They’ve cooled off since then, settling into lazy make-out sessions on the rare occasion, not really pushing for much else. They’ve had other outlets. Other people.
Seokjin swallows the lump in his throat, looks down at Yoongi. There’s barely an inch between them, but Yoongi always hunches a bit, seems smaller with bare feet and a bare face. He lifts his chin, meets Seokjin’s gaze. “If it was—”
Yoongi steps closer and kisses Seokjin hard, his lips warm and slick, kissing greedily as he tugs on the pocket of Seokjin’s hoodie, dragging him closer. Seokjin remembers these kisses—the hurried, hungry kisses that come with small pockets of time that hardly last without interruption. It’s fevered and delicious, and Seokjin kisses him back, wanting to press every ounce of I miss you onto Yoongi’s mouth.
“Yoon,” Seokjin sighs, shivering when their lips part. “We don’t have to, I mean you don’t have to, I didn’t mean to walk in.”
“But you hesitated,” Yoongi answers. He looks just as wild and breathless as Seokjin feels: messy hair, glassy eyes, lips tender and pink. “Did you like what you saw?”
“You know I did.” Seokjin can’t help himself, can’t stop the slow drag of his thumb across Yoongi’s bottom lip. “I always do.” He lifts Yoongi’s chin, opens his mouth to say something to explain the distance between them the past few years, but instead, he kisses him—slowly, deliberately, like every tilt of their faces toward one another will fill in the blanks.
Yoongi huffs, kissing Seokjin back and pressing his tongue into his mouth, hands clinging to his sweatshirt like he doesn’t want to let this moment escape. He pulls away, looking dazed, too far gone from just a kiss. “Hyung, I’ve missed you.” He tugs at the zipper on Seokjin’s sweatshirt, looks up expectantly as he pulls it down. With every notch of the zipper’s teeth, Seokjin feels like something inside him is coiling tighter, tension building with nowhere to go.
“God, I want you,” Seokjin murmurs, leaning in to kiss Yoongi’s neck, to inhale the scent of his clean skin. “Can we—”
“—yeah,” Yoongi interrupts, nodding quickly. “Yeah.” He smiles shyly, chewing his bottom lip, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “I may have already, uh, you know, before you walked in.”
“Naughty.” Seokjin grins, crowding Yoongi against the wall, one hand fumbling to check the lock on the door. “This feels like the good old days.”
Nodding, Yoongi grins and starts pulling off his sweatshirt. “Yeah, yeah it does.”
Seokjin pulls off his hoodie and peels away his t-shirt, tossing it aside. It’s been awhile since he’s seen Yoongi like this—breathless and hungry, and good God, has he always been this broad? “Muscle kitten,” Seokjin teases, smoothing his palm along Yoongi’s chest.
“Don’t worry,” he laughs, slipping off his pants and boxers and kicking them away, “I don’t weigh much more. You can probably still lift me. Right?”
“Fuck,” Seokjin groans. “Yeah,” he nods, scrambling to take off his own pants and briefs, “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Then come here,” Yoongi says, grabbing his wrist and yanking him forward. He groans when Seokjin presses his knee between his thighs, eyes fluttering closed when Seokjin leans in to kiss him hard.
It’s all at once familiar and new—the lines of Yoongi’s body still so clear in Seokjin’s memory, but he’s filled out more in the shoulders, his eyes more dazzling without all the heavy eyeliner, hair soft and fluffy when it used to be crunchy with gel and hairspray. He’s more responsive now, Seokjin realizes, as he lets himself huff and mewl at Seokjin’s tongue along his collarbones, one hand palming at his bare cock. When they were younger, they still felt shy to show how much they enjoyed touching each other, felt too weird to ask or take what they wanted to feel good.
But now? Yoongi guides their kisses, lets his hands wander to squeeze at the firm muscle of Seokjin’s ass. It’s exhilarating to feel him like this once again, to know it’s the two of them like old times, tucked away in a bedroom, touching and tasting, trying hard to be quiet. The thrill of it all.
Biting at Seokjin’s bottom lip, Yoongi pulls back for a moment, breath shaky. “Shall we?”
“Ever the gentleman,” Seokjin teases, delighted to hear Yoongi laugh in response. He crouches as Yoongi hooks one leg around his waist. “Okay, hang on,” he grunts, leaning back as he grabs Yoongi’s other leg.
Hooking his ankles together, Yoongi clings tighter to Seokjin’s neck, dips his head to suck at his shoulder, pulling away before a bruise can form. “Did your shoulders get wider? Jesus.”
“Maybe,” Seokjin says, shrugging. He leans in, kissing Yoongi slowly, letting their tongues glide past one another as he steps toward the wall, pressing Yoongi gently against it. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi answers, guiding one of Seokjin’s hands to his ass. “Hyung, please.”
Carefully, Seokjin dips a finger between his cheeks, gasps when he touches the warm wetness of Yoongi’s hole. “You must have made a mess in there, Yoongi, fuck. What kind of pictures were you taking?”
He laughs and it’s throaty and wild, unhinged. “The pictures were the warm up, then I started fingering myself and then—” he gasps when Seokjin’s finger slips inside without warning.
“—did you think of me?” Seokjin asks, teeth grazing the shell of Yoongi’s ear.
“Yeah,” he pants, “I did, hyung.”
The easy slide of Seokjin’s finger in and out of Yoongi has him feeling overheated, something stoked deep in his gut. He presses a second finger at Yoongi’s rim, enters when Yoongi sighs and relaxes at his touch. “What did you think about?” he asks, trying hard to concentrate on Yoongi’s words, anything to keep him in this moment, to stretch this as long as he can, anything to make this last.
“The look on your face,” Yoongi grits out, leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes are shut, eyebrows knit in concentration as he gasps with each thrust of Seokjin’s fingers. “Didn’t think you thought of me like that anymore.”
All at once, Seokjin wants to repent and apologize and fuck Yoongi until he’s whimpering and spent, prove to him he never stopped thinking of him like that. Not once. Even when Yoongi was sleeping with Namjoon, cuddling with Jungkook. Not once did Seokjin stop thinking of Yoongi in that way. Never felt jealous, either, just wanted Yoongi to feel good no matter who he was with.
Those words are nowhere near the front of his mind, not yet ready to come out, so instead he sighs and fucks his fingers in and out of Yoongi as their mouths press together in a sloppy kiss.
“You feel so good,” Seokjin murmurs, relishing the feeling of Yoongi’s tight heat clenching around his fingers. “Another?”
“Don’t have much time.” Yoongi groans as Seokjin slips his fingers out. “Wanna feel you, hyung.” He licks at the sweat beading down Seokjin’s neck. Leaning back, he relaxes his hips, shivering when he feels the tip of Seokjin’s cock graze his rim.
When Yoongi slides down on Seokjin’s cock, it knocks the wind out of him. Yoongi bottoms out, shifts his hips a bit and sighs. It’s been so long since they’d had each other like this, too long since Seokjin felt the warm stretch of Yoongi, felt the slide of his cock in and out of him. It feels good to fuck into him, to know every pretty sound coming out of Yoongi’s mouth is because of him.
Yoongi drops his head against Seokjin’s shoulder, his body feeling pliant and warm, skin glistening with sweat. He licks at Seokjin’s skin, his teeth grazing the curve of skin between his neck and shoulder. Seokjin sinks his nails into Yoongi’s shoulders, presses him down so he can have more leverage to drive into him over and over. The angle feels so goddamn good, just challenging enough to help him stave off his orgasm, draw the moment out so he can keep bouncing Yoongi on his cock, keep pulling the gasps and whines out of him.
“So good, hyung,” Yoongi manages to say. His voice is gravelly, yet soft, sounding like he does when he wakes up in the morning. He leans in, kissing Seokjin, and it’s a mess of tongues and hot, wet mouths, haphazardly pressing together.
The doorknob rattles, and there’s a commotion outside the door, the obvious sound of giggles and hushed whispers. Seokjin doesn’t even care that they know what’s happening on their side of the wall, doesn’t care that he thrusts a bit harder, punching out a shattered whine from Yoongi.
“Hyung,” he whispers, fingernails gripping the back of Seokjin’s head, “I’m so close.”
“Yeah?” Seokjin bounces Yoongi a bit harder, his back dragging against the smooth wall. Bracing his knees, Seokjin crouches, fucking hard into Yoongi, jutting his hips faster and faster, marveling at the way Yoongi bites back his cries, eyes rolling back in his head. “You missed hyung, didn’t you?” He means for it to sound a little dirty, but it comes out more like a plea. Did you miss me? Miss the way we felt together? Think about me the way I thought of you? He slows his thrusts, pressing deep into Yoongi now, angling him until he feels Yoongi’s body tense, ankles drawing him closer.
“Yeah,” Yoongi pants, nodding and swallowing hard, forcing his eyes open. “Missed you, hyung,” he says, and it’s so earnest and out in the open, Seokjin feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Yoongi must see them too because his face softens, his hands loosen their grip on his hair, and they slide to cup his face. “Missed you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lick along Seokjin’s bottom lip, kiss him languidly and affectionately, like years ago when they’d make out in their dorm room all quiet and shy, sharing their hopes about the future.
They hold the kiss, sharing one shaky, hesitant breath between them, their muscles spasming and jerking with exhaustion. Yoongi reaches between them, grips his cock and pumps slowly, gasping when Seokjin’s hand wraps around his fingers. They thrust and rock back and forth until Yoongi is babbling and spilling into their hands, Seokjin letting out a gasp as he comes right after.
Feeling weak, Seokjin clings to Yoongi and walks them slowly back to the bed, leaning over to lay Yoongi on the bed and pull out. Faint outlines of fingertips speckle his milky thighs, evidence of where Seokjin gripped him. On the bed like this, fucked out and exhausted, Yoongi looks shimmery and delicate, cheeks flushed, hair mussed.
Crawling beside him, Seokjin leans over, brushes the hair off his forehead. “Is this okay? Can I kiss you?”
Nodding, Yoongi turns to face him. “Yeah. Kiss me.”
They lean into one another and press their lips together, kissing carefully like they don’t want to spook the other. This is new territory. They both seem to realize it. But there's something else there, something familiar and fond, the same unspoken understanding that’s always threaded them together.