Archive of Our Own

It starts—as most bad decisions do—with bottles of hard liquor, Seokjin’s stupid brain, and his even-stupider mouth.

Yoongi doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. Seokjin has always had the tendency to come up with stupid ideas and then bluster all the way through them, coming up with arguments and talking points so quickly and so aggressively until he’s got half the group swayed, nodding and agreeing and sometimes laughing at him. It’s a facet of his personality that they’re all used to, Yoongi most especially—he’s probably got the most advanced Seokjin-bullshit detection meter out of everyone in their group, and is often the only one in on the joke, helping to pile on more and more layers of bullshit until they’ve got a wobbly tower of lies between them.

But today, one of Seokjin’s statements catches Yoongi off-guard because it’s just so fucking ridiculous, even for him. 

The setting, though, is absolutely normal: both of them in the dorms alone, hanging out. They’re in Yoongi’s room, because Seokjin has some rather strict rules for his room, things such as no outside clothes on the bed and no food and drinks on the bed, both of which Yoongi is marginally less bothered by. There’s a movie playing on the laptop in front of them, some bright, colorful animation they’re both barely watching as they pass a soju bottle back and forth—probably their fourth one of the evening. Seokjin is flushed red all the way down to his neck. Yoongi knows he’s in a similar state. 

“Maybe the girl will turn into a pig,” Seokjin muses, which is probably not his first ridiculous statement of the evening, but the first one Yoongi takes note of. It’s ridiculous, because Yoongi is pretty sure the movie they’re watching is some sort of tragic love story—a boy falling in love with a girl with a terminal pancreatic illness of some sort. Pigs aren’t anywhere in the picture.

Still, he says, “Or maybe even a dragon,” if only to be polite and to let Seokjin know that his statement hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. Besides, Yoongi’s drunk enough to pile onto the ridiculousness with even more ridiculousness, which is a thing they do. Normally.

In hindsight, it may have been a mistake. Step one of getting swept up by Seokjin’s bullshit, or something.

Seokjin hums. “A dragon would be nice,” he says, far too seriously for the level of drunk they both are. “She could fly away and never die.”

“Do you think her pancreatic illness would be cured if she turned into a dragon?”

“I don’t see why not,” Seokjin replies confidently. “Dragons are immortal, aren’t they?”

Yoongi has never seen any literature to even suggest that dragons are immortal. “Depends on what kind,” he says. “I think they’re immortal, but I think the Korean dragons live a hundred years longer than the Chinese ones.”

“Agreed,” Seokjin says. “And the European dragons live the shortest. They’re immortal minus two hundred years.”

“Immortal minus two hundred years is what number, hyung?”

Seokjin scoffs. “Do I look like I understand math, Yoongi?”

Fair point. Yoongi makes grabby hands for the soju bottle that Seokjin’s gripping loosely in his hand, and takes one long sip when Seokjin passes it to him. “And the boy?” He asks, passing it back to Seokjin. “She turns into a dragon and just leaves him behind?”

Seokjin makes a thoughtful noise, pressing his lips to the same spot Yoongi’s were just moments prior. “He can remain a boy,” he decides. “He can ride on her back and she can take him places.”

“Sounds a little degrading,” Yoongi says.

Seokjin’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Or feminist, maybe, depending which way you look at it.”

“Feminist how so?”

A pause. “He rides and she does all the work.”

And there it is, the second ridiculous statement of the evening that Yoongi takes note of. Yoongi blinks at him, a little taken aback. “If Namjoon heard you, he’d probably go on a rant about how this is not what we’re about, hyung!”

Seokjin nudges his leg with his knee. “Which is why he isn’t here,” he says. Another nudge. “Which is why it’s just you and me.” A last nudge, this one a little harder than the others, and then his leg stills, pressed against Yoongi’s. “Which is why he wasn’t invited.”

“There were invitations?” Yoongi asks. He reaches for the soju again; Seokjin looks at him with a cocked eyebrow, holding it up just out of Yoongi’s reach. Yoongi rolls his eyes, pushing himself up on Seokjin’s bare leg to reach for it, managing to snatch it out of his grip with a triumphant flourish. “I don’t think I received mine in the mail.”

Seokjin waves a hand. “You were invited by default,” he says airily. “Because I needed a bed to lie on while drinking.”

“You have a bed.” Yoongi says, taking another swig. “You even have your own room. You just have stupid rules about your bed.”

“Forgive me if I like my bed clean,” Seokjin says, rolling his eyes. He reaches for the soju, and as revenge, Yoongi holds it just out of his reach. Seokjin, then, proceeds to do the exact same thing as Yoongi did, which is to push himself up on Yoongi’s leg, his hand large and warm against Yoongi’s thigh, and to snatch it out of Yoongi’s hold with a satisfied noise.

The soju bottle disappears from Yoongi’s hand. Seokjin’s hand on his leg, however, stays. 

And perhaps, this is Yoongi’s second mistake, the one he’ll look back on in a few days and think, I shouldn’t have done that. Because Seokjin’s hand on his leg feels warm and nice; because Yoongi is drunk and far more tactile than he normally is; because Seokjin and Yoongi are two members of the biggest musical group in the whole world and by extension, have had no time for any more personal things such as flirting, dating, kissing, fucking, or even just getting off.

So when Seokjin’s hand on his thigh lingers, Yoongi doesn’t push it off. 

“You can keep it clean, you know,” Yoongi says. There’s a strange buzzing underneath his skin, one that seems to emanate from his and Seokjin’s point of contact. “Just don’t spill anything on it and you’ll be fine.”

Seokjin makes a noise. “No,” he says, not even giving Yoongi room to argue. His mouth is red as he takes a sip from the bottle.

“Fine,” Yoongi says. “Who else was given an invitation to this exclusive party?”

Seokjin grins at him. “The bottles of soju, of course,” he says. His hand on Yoongi’s leg slides up a miniscule amount. Barely enough for it to be noticeable. “They all got their name printed on a list.”

“There was a list?”

“Yeah, the receipt from the store.”

“Ah.” The buzzing under his skin is spreading deeper, making its way down past muscles and arteries and veins and nerve endings. As if in response, Yoongi’s heart beats a little quicker, pumping blood to all the parts of his body that need it—to his brain for continuous rational thought; to his liver, for continuous filtering of the alcohol he’s consumed this evening; to his limbs, for continuous movement, and to his cock, for.

For what, Yoongi doesn’t know. 

It’s not weird. It’s not weird at all. Yoongi’s lived with these six boys for a good portion of his life. They’d been so young when they were formed, and the first few years were all a mess of puberty, full of awkward situations and surprise boners. Most of them hadn’t yet been mature enough to resist the horniness that clouded their hormone-addled minds; Yoongi thinks he’s caught at least five of the members jerking off in the shower despite the fact that they’d put clear rules specifying the contrary into place. Random, drunk, sexually-frustrated boners are probably the least incriminating out of everything they’ve seen each other do.

And so when Seokjin’s eyes catch on the way Yoongi’s cock is half-hard in his boxers, it’s not weird at all. And when Seokjin’s hand on Yoongi’s leg flexes a little, that’s not weird either. 

But then Seokjin opens his mouth—his big, stupid, red mouth—and makes his third, most ridiculous statement of the day, and it becomes. Well, not weird, per se, just. Different.

“Do you need help with that?”

It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous. It’s the absolute worst thing Seokjin could ever say in this situation, in an environment where it’s universally known that random boners are sometimes just random boners and thus shouldn’t be acknowledged. But then again, Seokjin is ridiculous and unpredictable most days.

The problem, however, is that Yoongi has got enough alcohol in his veins to be just as ridiculous and unpredictable.

“I don’t know,” he says airily. “Do you think you can help with that?”

“Maybe,” Seokjin replies. His hand moves again, higher up Yoongi’s thigh, more noticeable now. “Looks like it might hurt.”

It doesn’t. Not yet, at least. “Not really,” Yoongi says. “It’ll go away soon.” He’s perfected the art of suppressing his boners, after all; a skill borne from international renown and a ridiculously heavy workload. 

That statement makes Seokjin look up and meet Yoongi’s eye. “Well,” he says. “It doesn’t have to.”

It’s not really a secret among the seven of them—in the years they’ve been in the group, the discussion of romantic and sexual preferences has definitely happened more than once. Yoongi is bisexual and everyone in the group knows it; Seokjin, although less open about these things, has admitted that he thinks he is, too. It had been cool when he’d told them; Yoongi had given him a high five and had added that fact to his list of things Jin-hyung and I have in common and that had been that.

Or so he’d thought.

Seokjin’s hand creeps higher on Yoongi’s thigh, the tips of his fingers already underneath the cloth of Yoongi’s boxers, his fingers brushing against his groin. Yoongi feels himself swallow, arousal creeping up his spine, swirling in his stomach. 

“What are you doing?” He asks.

The hand pauses in its movement. “Helping you,” Seokjin replies.

“Why?”

Seokjin withdraws his hand. Yoongi's hips want to buck up a little to chase the feeling, but he clenches his core, making sure he stays seated. He’s not that desperate for it. 

“`Cause you look like you need help,” Seokjin answers simply. This time, his movements are slow, deliberate, giving Yoongi plenty of time to react—he reaches out, hand settling itself on Yoongi’s lower stomach, right above his cock. “`Cause you’re my dongsaeng, and I’m your hyung.”

“You’re only three months older than me,” Yoongi points out.

“You’re my dongsaeng,” Seokjin repeats, “and I’m your hyung.”

Yoongi huffs. “Okay, hyung,” he emphasizes, drawing out the word longer than he normally would. “And what about it?”

Seokjin’s hand makes its way under Yoongi’s shirt, his fingers dipping past the waistband of his boxers, carding through the hair he finds there. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I just don’t like seeing my dongsaengs struggle.”

“I’m not struggling, though.”

Seokjin gives him a side eye. “Are you sure?” He asks. “Yoongi, tell me—when was the last time you got off?”

Yoongi blinks, taken aback by the question. “I...I don’t—” he stammers out. He tries to remember, comes up blank.

The thing about being a member of an internationally famous group is that the days tend to bleed together, studio sessions and recording sessions and dance practices and interviews and photoshoots blurring into one giant fog in his brain.

Seokjin takes his spluttering for an answer. “That’s what I thought,” he says easily. His hand inches down a little lower.

Yoongi bites his lip, feeling hot all over. Seokjin’s hand is—well, his hand is in a place where it normally shouldn’t be, but then Yoongi finds himself starting to ache for it, already wishing it was much lower. His cock has gone from half-mast to fully hard, its head peeking through the top of his boxers, making its presence known.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says again. His voice is smooth like silk, like when he’s singing their songs, and for some reason it sends shivers up Yoongi’s spine. “I can help you. Let me help you.”

An interesting fact about Seokjin and Yoongi, about Yoongi and Seokjin, is that although they are hyung and dongsaeng, they treat each other almost like equals, like partners-in-crime. Oftentimes, Seokjin will bluff and Yoongi will back him up, or Yoongi will lie bold-faced and Seokjin will lie to cover for him. They have a good push-and-pull relationship, tease as much as they get teased, support each other, make each other laugh, ensuring that even in the hierarchical society they live in, they keep standing on the same, even ground.

So if Seokjin says three increasingly ridiculous things, Yoongi will keep it fair and make three increasingly ridiculous mistakes.

“O...okay.” 

It comes out more air than voice, and at first, he thinks Seokjin doesn’t hear him, because his hand doesn’t move for another few moments. But then suddenly the waistband of his boxers is being pushed down, all the way to his thighs, his cock springing free from the restricting material, and then Seokjin’s hand is wrapping around the length of it, and it’s—

The sound Yoongi makes is far too loud and far too obscene. 

“Be quiet,” Seokjin says mildly, pulling his hand away. “They might hear.”

Yoongi lets out a breath. “There’s no one else in the dorm but us,” he says. 

“We still have neighbors.”

“Barely.”

“Barely,” Seokjin agrees easily. He shifts all of a sudden; Yoongi doesn’t know how he does it, but somehow he manages to get Yoongi situated in between his legs, his chest pressed to Yoongi’s back. Like this, Yoongi can’t see Seokjin’s expression—can only feel his alcohol-warm skin seeping through the thin material of his shirt, can feel his hands, one pushing Yoongi’s shirt up, one of them moving lower and lower, can feel Seokjin’s breath on his nape and can feel his own cock pressed against Yoongi’s lower back, a little more than half-hard.

Yoongi blinks. “Hyung,” he says. “You’re—”

Seokjin sighs. “I’m reactive, Yoongi,” he says. His right hand is incredibly close to where Yoongi wants it to be. “You know this.”

“You’re—” Yoongi’s words fade into a choked-off, strangled noise the instant Seokjin thumbs at the head. He’s started to leak pre-come; he can see a little droplet of it right next to Seokjin’s thumb.

This is weird. This is very weird.

“It’s not weird,” Seokjin says, because sometimes they’re just on the same wavelength like that. “You’re overthinking.”

Yoongi stares, unseeing, at the movie still playing on the laptop in front of them, the plot of the last fifteen minutes lost on him. “It’s not weird?”

“Only if you make it to be.” Seokjin’s hand starts pumping up and down, building a slow, basic rhythm that genuinely should not feel as good as it does. “It’s just lending a helping hand.”

“A helping hand.”

“Yoongi,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi shuts up immediately. There’s a soft sensation on his nape; it takes Yoongi a moment to realize that they’re Seokjin’s lips. “Like I said, I don’t like seeing my dongsaengs struggle.”

Seokjin squeezes Yoongi’s balls a little, fondling them, and Yoongi feels himself shiver, unable to resist closing his eyes and dropping his head back onto Seokjin’s shoulder. “How nice of you,” he still manages to get out. “The best hyung.”

“Aren’t I?” Seokjin’s voice has taken on that confident tone, the same one he uses when they’re promoting, but for some reason, it does things to Yoongi now, makes his arousal coil tighter in his belly, like a spring waiting to release. “I take care of all of you.”

Yoongi moans when Seokjin twists his hand on the upstroke, fucking up into Seokjin’s fist. “You don’t have to take care of me,” he pants. The drag of Seokjin’s hand isn’t wet enough to be painless, but fuck if Yoongi doesn’t like the way it stings a little. 

“I have to take care of you most of all,” Seokjin says. His breath is warm on the side of Yoongi’s neck. “You tend to neglect things.”

“Like?” Yoongi’s close now, so close that he can almost taste his orgasm on the back of his tongue. He hadn’t really expected to last long; he hasn’t jerked off in a long time, any boners he’d gotten over the last few months not really being ones he’d wanted to do anything about. To add to that, fucking his own hand has become a little tiresome and boring, and he hasn’t really had the time for more extensive experimentation or foreplay.

Seokjin’s hand on his cock is the most action he’s had in months. Is the best action he’s had in months. 

Seokjin hums. “Like eating,” he says. His lips are on Yoongi’s neck again, making fireworks creep up his spine—how Seokjin knows the exact spot there that makes Yoongi fall apart is a mystery, but Yoongi hardly has the brainspace left to try and figure it out. “Not sleeping, you do enough of that as it is. Although you don’t seem to do it at the proper times. ”

Yoongi arches up, fucking faster into Seokjin’s fist. “Right,” he pants out, unable to say anything else. 

“You work a lot,” Seokjin continues. He thumbs at the slit, making Yoongi moan. “A workaholic. And—” he grips Yoongi’s cock a little tighter, and Yoongi sees stars, “—you don’t get yourself off enough.”

Yoongi comes. His moan is loud, and he’s shaking a bit as he rides it out, spunk spilling all over his clothes and his groin and Seokjin’s fist and a little bit on the bed sheets. He can feel his chest heaving with his breaths, can feel his skin sticky with sweat, can feel Seokjin pressing small kisses to his neck as he jerks him through it. 

Yoongi wants to be embarrassed. He wants to be mortified at how clearly he hasn’t let himself have this, at how much he’s bottled up and ignored all his sexual frustration that he ends up coming this quickly. But the thing is, he isn’t.

It’s just Seokjin, after all. It’s just Jin-hyung.

When Yoongi comes back to himself, his breathing slowing down again, Seokjin is cleaning him up with some tissues he’s probably stolen off of the nightstand. His movements are quick, clinical, but gentle. 

His cock, however, is still raging hard pressed against Yoongi’s lower back.

Yoongi clears his throat. “Hyung,” he says tentatively, wincing when his voice comes out a little rough. “You’re still—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Seokjin interrupts with a quiet laugh, the way he always does when he’s deflecting. He drops the tissues somewhere on the floor, because he’s disrespectful about cleanliness unless it’s his own room. “It’s fine.”

“But—” 

Seokjin sighs. “It’s fine,” he repeats, with a little more emphasis. “Really. Don’t worry about it. Just watch the movie.”

There’s absolutely no point in watching the movie now. Yoongi does so anyway, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. Seokjin stays right behind Yoongi all the way until the movie finishes, his chin hooked over Yoongi’s shoulder, his legs bracketing Yoongi’s, his still-hard cock pressing against Yoongi’s back.

Yoongi decidedly doesn’t worry about it.

. . .

That’s a lie. Yoongi worries about it. 

He worries about it so much that it ends up occupying most, if not all of his daily thoughts. He worries about it when he’s in the studio producing beats; he worries about it when he’s in the middle of an interview for their new single. He worries about it in A&R meetings or in dance practices or in Run BTS! shootings or in whatever mortifying photoshoot they have to do on that day. He worries about it even right before he goes to bed, his mind stuck on a loop of Jin-hyung jerked me off in this bed and Jin-hyung was still hard when he left the room and Jin-hyung has a massive, massive dick. The last one is a fact that Yoongi had already known—their little group isn’t exactly known for keeping their clothes on—but he feels like he hadn’t really known it, like he hadn’t taken the time to sit down and process this piece of information, understand all its depths and implications.

But basically: Yoongi worries. A lot. Enough that he decides to do something about it.

It’s easy enough to get Seokjin alone—their rooms are right next to each other, and all Yoongi has to do is walk right behind Seokjin, push him into the room and force himself into it too before closing the door. The other members don’t really pay them any mind; he thinks he hears Namjoon make a little confused noise, but aside from that, they all retire to their own rooms, tired from the day’s dance practice.

Yoongi waits until he hears the last door close before he speaks. “Jin-hyung.”

Seokjin looks exhausted. Their practice had run long, and the choreography they’re learning is difficult. Yoongi knows that Seokjin is often the one that takes it hardest during practice, and the evidence is there in the way Seokjin’s hair is drenched with sweat and in the way every breath he takes looks like it makes his muscles ache a bit more.

Even still, he stays standing, resolutely obeying his own no outside clothes on the bed rule. “What, Yoongi?” His arms are crossed, and his expression is unimpressed.

Yoongi leans back against the door. “You look tired.”

Seokjin scoffs. “We’re all tired,” he says. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I know.”

“We’re also not roommates anymore,” Seokjin points out. “In case you’ve somehow forgotten. Your room is to the left of mine.”

“I know,” Yoongi says again. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just here because I—” he stops short.

Seokjin blinks at him expectantly. “You what?”

Yoongi wracks his brain, tries to come up with a tactful way to say what he wants. “I want to take care of you,” is what he eventually comes up with, which. Is the exact same thing Seokjin told him that night in his room.

Seokjin seems to know this too, because he’s sighing. “You don’t take care of me,” he says. “I’m the hyung. I take care of you.”

Yoongi shakes his head because no, that’s wrong. “You’re not that much older than me,” he points out. 

“I was born in `92,” Seokjin replies, offended.

“In December,” Yoongi shoots back. “I was born in March. Like I said, it’s barely anything.”

Seokjin sighs again. “What do you want, Yoongi?” He says, clearly exasperated. “Just spit it out.”

Yoongi opens his mouth, pauses. Stops to think for a moment, an idea occurring to him out of the blue.

It’s just Jin-hyung, he tells himself as he pushes himself off the door, crossing the two-step distance between them. Seokjin regards him with wary, albeit curious eyes, his arms still crossed. Defensive.

Just one of your members, he thinks, as he comes to a stop before Seokjin. He meets Seokjin’s eyes, before he sinks onto his knees, slowly, deliberately, until he’s eyelevel with Seokjin’s cock.

It’s just Jin-hyung.

“I want to help you too,” Yoongi repeats, because it’s important that Seokjin knows this, important he knows that it isn’t just him taking care of everyone; that Yoongi is also here and present and willing. “Let me.”

Yoongi can hear Seokjin’s shaky inhale. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi moves forward to nuzzle against Seokjin’s clothed cock, feeling the outline of it against his cheek, the soft material of his sweatpants against his nose. “As the second eldest,” he says, “I should be allowed to take care of people too.”

“Of everyone else, not me,” Seokjin points out. Yoongi knows him well enough to hear his resolve breaking on every word.

“No, of you too,” Yoongi argues. He sits back on his haunches, tilts his head up to meet Seokjin’s eye. “Seokjin-hyung,” he says. 

“Hm?” Seokjin’s started to flush, ears and neck all red. 

“On the bed or against the wall?”

“That’s—”

“Pick one.” Yoongi doesn’t know where he’s mustered up this courage, this authority—thinks that maybe it’s coming from somewhere deep within him, a place he hadn’t known existed. “Bed or wall?”

Seokjin licks his lips, takes a moment to pause in thought. His eyes meet Yoongi’s, challenging. “No outside clothes on the bed,” he says.

Yoongi smirks at him. “Go stand by the wall, then.”

Seokjin still looks like he’s about to protest, to stand his ground and use his power as the de-facto eldest of BTS, but then an expression flickers over his face and he’s walking backwards, until his back is supported by the wall. His cock, Yoongi is pleased to see, has started to stir, showing against the outline of his sweats.

Yoongi gets up, crosses the distance between them, then sinks back onto his knees. “First of all,” he tells Seokjin’s clothed cock. “I want you to know that you can take care of me.”

“I know that,” Seokjin replies. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes, reaching up to grip at the waistband of Seokjin’s pants, tugging it down and exposing his briefs. “But you shouldn’t be surprised when I want to return the favor.”

“Yoongi, I’m the hyung—” and the rest of his words are lost when Yoongi leans forward to mouth at his cock through the material of his briefs. 

He’s big, Yoongi can’t help but think as he dampens the material with his saliva, tracing the outline of his cock with his tongue. It’s really kind of dumb how that piece of information he’s known for almost ten years now feels like a marvel to him, a eureka! thought that he’s having a little trouble wrapping his head around.

From above him, Seokjin makes a quiet, choked off noise that seems to emanate from his gut. His cock grows exponentially harder beneath Yoongi’s mouth. 

Yoongi pulls away a little. “The other members are in the dorm,” he says, a little cheekily. 

Seokjin gives him a long-suffering look. “I know.”

“You want me to stop?” Yoongi asks. He thinks he knows the answer anyway, can see it written in Seokjin’s flush and his glazed eyes, in his red, red mouth, but he waits.

“No,” Seokjin answers. He pauses. “You’re gonna suck me off?”

Yoongi blinks at him. “I guess.”

“You’re good at that?”

What in the world? “Well,” Yoongi says. “I’ve never been told I was bad at it.”

“Yeah?” Seokjin asks. He’s smiling a little now, his cheeks pinched up in a way that makes him look more cute than anything. “By whom? Thought you hadn’t gotten off in months.”

Yoongi glares at him. “I have given blow jobs before,” he says. “If you wanted to know. Back when we weren’t too busy. Now stop snarking and let me do it, hyung.”

“Alright, alright,” Seokjin relents, but the tone of his voice tells Yoongi it’s not over. Not yet, anyway. 

Yoongi reaches up, pushing Seokjin’s briefs down, and immediately his cock springs free right before Yoongi’s eyes. Seokjin’s got what is probably close to a perfect cock—large and thick and beautiful just like the rest of him, and it’s a shame that it took Yoongi this long to have his fun with it. 

He mouths at the head, tonguing at the slit, the taste a little salty and a little bitter. Once he’s done teasing, he hollows his cheeks, takes Seokjin in excruciatingly slowly, inch by inch.

Above him, Seokjin groans, low and guttural, and the sound goes straight to Yoongi’s own, slowly-stirring cock.

“Fuck,” Seokjin says, the word sounding like it’s been pulled from deep within him. 

As it should. Yoongi is phenomenal at giving head, thank you very much. His brags about tongue technology aren’t all smoke.

“Fuck,” Seokjin says again, this time with a little more emphasis. “Yoongi, you’re—”

Yoongi pulls off. “Yeah?” He asks innocently.

Seokjin gives him a look. “Fuck, just—” one of his hands—right hand, Yoongi’s brain helpfully supplies—settles on the back of his head, big and warm and a little heavy. The hand guides Yoongi’s head forward, until Seokjin’s cock is right in front of Yoongi’s mouth once more.

And Yoongi has never really been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he takes it. All of it. Until the tip of Seokjin’s cock hits the back of his throat and just a bit further, until his eyes start to water and he chokes a little. And even then, he doesn’t pull away; he just sits there, breathing through it, getting his throat muscles to relax.

Seokjin’s head thuds loudly against the wall. “Fuck,” he says for the fourth time, voice filled with awe and wonder and arousal. His hand is still on the back of Yoongi’s head, a large, heavy pressure just keeping him in place. “You—you just.”

Yeah, yeah, Yoongi knows. He pulls off until he’s only got the tip in his mouth, swirls his tongue around the sensitive head before diving back in, feeling it hit the back of his throat again. His own cock  is fully hard now in his sweats; Yoongi presses his palm against it and mentally tells it to wait.

Yoongi starts up a rhythm like that, sucks Seokjin off the best way he knows how, relishing in Seokjin’s guttural groans, choked off noises, and quiet swear words. He’s obviously trying to keep it down to be respectful to the rest of their members—who are probably not getting the blow job of their lives right now—but Yoongi does his best to make it difficult. At one point, he presses a finger underneath Seokjin’s balls, right on his taint, and Seokjin gasps and freezes up so much that Yoongi half-expects him to come right then and there.

It’s nice like this, Yoongi thinks. Not too intimate. Sure, Seokjin’s cock is in his mouth, but that’s really all there is to it. Yoongi doesn’t see his face, doesn’t see his expression; can only see the pale skin of Seokjin’s stomach and can only hear the little noises he makes. It’s not—this isn’t supposed to be anything, after all, just. Seokjin had seemed very into it that day in Yoongi’s room but didn’t get his due, and now Yoongi is paying back the favor and taking care of him. 

It’s just Jin-hyung. 

Yoongi had intended to swallow—in his opinion, a good blowjob includes of a little swallowing—but then Seokjin’s grip tightens in Yoongi’s hair and he’s pulling Yoongi off just as he comes, his come squirting onto the floor and all over his cock. A streak of it hits Yoongi’s cheek as well, and Yoongi doesn’t even think, just collects it with his thumb before popping it into his mouth.

And then it’s silence, nothing but the ragged sound of Seokjin’s breathing as he comes down. Yoongi scoots back a bit, and immediately, Seokjin sinks down onto the space he’d vacated.

“That was,” Seokjin begins, his chest heaving. His eyes flit all over Yoongi’s face, down his neck, then even further down, to where Yoongi’s own cock is still hard. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi presses on his cock with a palm, as if to hide it from Seokjin. “Yeah?”

Seokjin’s eyes narrow. “You’re still hard.”

He is, but Yoongi doesn’t think it’s all that important. “It’s nothing,” he tells Seokjin. “I’ll deal with it later.”

One of Seokjin’s hands is raised, as if he’s about to reach out. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi ignores him, pushing himself onto his feet. “Do you want to use the bathroom first, or can I?” He says. He moves quickly, tucking his still hard cock against the waistband of his sweats, so it doesn’t protrude. “I wanted to shower before I go to bed.”

Seokjin still looks like he’s about to protest, but something must occur to him, because his expression changes into one a little less challenging, a little more resigned. “I think I should go first,” he says.

Yoongi nods. “That’s what I thought.”

Seokjin nods right back, getting to his feet. Yoongi watches, a little amused, as he shucks off his sweatpants and uses them to wipe off the quickly-drying spunk, before dropping them into his hamper and going to grab his towel and pajamas. When he’s gathered his shower materials, he stops in front of Yoongi again, giving him a once-over, clearly about to say something.

“See you,” is what he eventually settles on, and then he disappears into the ensuite. Yoongi shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips, before going to his own room to collect his things and wait for his turn in the bathroom.

. . .

And that was the end of that. 

Or well, that should’ve been the end of that.

But the thing that Yoongi failed to consider is the fact that Seokjin is ridiculous and competitive and stubborn and insistent, and if he’s being honest, Yoongi isn’t that much better.

The next time it happens, Seokjin pulls him into the single person bathroom at their office, sneaks a hand down his pants and jerks him off right there, ten meters away from Bang PD-nim and Mr. Son Sung-deuk and the rest of the members.

Yoongi, at least, has the decency and the grace (and maybe the shame) to not engage in lewd acts at the office, so he waits a few days, until they’re back at the dorm and the rest of the members are asleep, then sneaks into Seokjin’s room and ruts against him until Seokjin comes in his pajama pants like a teenager.

And Seokjin somehow manages to take personal offense to that, because the next day he’s in Yoongi’s room, pinning him down the bed as he sucks Yoongi off, so excruciatingly slow that by the time he comes, he can’t even remember his own name.

…Which is absolute torture, so the next time Yoongi pushes Seokjin into his bed, outside clothes and all, and jerks him off, so slow and teasing that it makes Seokjin yell, which in turn makes Namjoon knock on the door and ask if everything is alright.

. . .

It’s not a thing. It’s most definitely not a thing. It is one hundred percent, most definitely not a thing.

It’s just…equality, you know? All in the name of fairness. Yoongi takes what Seokjin gives and vice versa. Seokjin takes care of Yoongi, and Yoongi takes care of Seokjin. Seokjin gives Yoongi mind-blowing orgasms, Yoongi gives Seokjin mind-blowing orgasms. It’s an act of service, in the same vein as cooking for the others during their vacations or offering to drive on trips so the other members can sleep in the back or paying for the meals of the younger ones. Just another way to express their love and appreciation for each other.

. . .

Two weeks after all this starts, BTS begins the process of making a new album.

Yoongi’s excited—putting together an album has always been one of his favorite parts of the job. To him, all the other things are an extra—the photoshoots and the marketing and the choreography simply garnish to the main dish, which is the music. Yoongi loves music, loves writing and producing and pouring all his deepest thoughts and feelings into a beat. Loves that his words can resonate with fans around the world. Loves that he can hear their fans sing his words back to him, no matter how basic their level of Korean is. It makes him feel as if he’s made an impact on the world.

Most of the boys seem excited too—Namjoon, who shares a similar level of love for music as Yoongi does, looks calm, but underneath that calm exterior Yoongi knows Namjoon’s brain is already working, buzzing with snippets of melodies and lyrics he’ll turn into something spectacular. The maknaes, as well, seem determined—all three of them wear the same purposeful expression on their faces, their eyes serious as they make plans to write. Even Hoseok starts typing notes on his phone right after the meeting, a habit he has when he’s got a thread of an idea that he wants to do more research on.

The only one who seems indifferent about the whole thing is Seokjin.

“Are you excited about the album, hyung?” Yoongi asks him, when they’re both in the car on the way back to the dorms. Seokjin, aside from having been his roommate, has always been the one he’s shared a car with—for how loud he can be with the others, he’s really good at being the exact type of quiet that Yoongi really likes, and no amount of exchanged orgasms has changed that about him.

Seokjin lets out a quiet breath that doubles as a laugh. “Of course I am, Yoongi,” he says lightly. His eyes are closed, and he’s leaning back against the headrest. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Yoongi cocks his head. “You don’t seem like you are, though.”

“Being excited takes energy,” Seokjin replies. “I’m just lazy.”

When Yoongi had first met Seokjin as a trainee, he’d been a little bit amazed—not only because he was incredibly handsome (admittedly, that had played a part), but also because he’d always been so smiley and happy. A little zany in a different way than Taehyung was; whereas Taehyung was all unique perspectives and different points of views, Seokjin was more ‘random actions that have no logical reason’. There had been moments where Yoongi simply couldn’t understand why Seokjin spontaneously did things, a contrast to Yoongi who had a slight tendency to over-analyze. But after almost ten years of being in the same group, of working together and living together and simply existing together, Yoongi thinks he sort of gets it now.

Seokjin’s tendency for randomness and spontaneity stems from his own desire to protect his inner thoughts and insecurities.

“Really, hyung,” Yoongi says.

“I’m quietly excited.”

“Really.”

That makes Seokjin huff, opening an eye to peek at Yoongi. “Really,” he mimics Yoongi’s tone of voice. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Yoongi. Not all of us can be genius music producers with a hundred writing credits under our belt.”

Yoongi shrugs, feeling his lips twitch up at the indirect compliment. “I guess.”

“Indeed.” Seokjin closes his eyes again, taking a quiet breath as he does so. Yoongi keeps silent, patiently waiting for him to speak.

Finally, Seokjin does. “Writing music’s hard,” he says, and he sounds almost put-upon. “I don’t know how you and Namjoon do it.”

“You’ve done it before,” Yoongi points out. Seokjin may not have the same amount of writing credits as him and Namjoon or Hoseok but he does have them, the beautiful solo songs on their album and on their SoundCloud account proof of that. “You can do it again.”

“I can,” Seokjin says, fully opening his eyes this time and turning to face Yoongi. He’s pouting now, his lips pursed in a way that makes them look even plumper than they normally do. “Doesn’t mean it won’t be difficult.”

“Aw,” Yoongi says. “You need me to help you out?”

Seokjin gives him a look. “Or, you could just give me one of your songs.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “We’ve talked about this,” he says, long-suffering. “Write the majority of your mixtape and you can get a song.”

“Can’t my mixtape be a produced by SUGA project?” Seokjin wheedles.

“No.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips are curving up in a smile. “You’re merciless,” he says. A pause. “Then the offer of help is still on the table?”

“Hasn’t been revoked in the last thirty seconds.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “Alright,” he says simply. “Help me, Yoongi.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow right back at him. “Just come to me with a melody anytime you need a second opinion, hyung.”

Seokjin lets out a quiet laugh. “Like I said,” he says, closing his eyes once more. “Merciless.”

Merciless, Yoongi thinks, may be a fitting adjective—later, when the rest of the members are in their rooms, Yoongi sneaks into Seokjin’s room, presses his palm to Seokjin’s plump lips as he edges him, brings him close before pulling him back. By the time Seokjin comes, he’s unable to form a coherent word that isn’t Yoongi, and he seems so close to passing out for thirty seconds post-orgasm that Yoongi is nearly convinced he’s accidentally killed him.

. . .

As revenge, Seokjin sneaks into his room the next evening, fingers him to within an inch of his life. Yoongi doesn’t think he’s ever been touched like this, edged again and again with Seokjin’s hand on his cock and his long fingers pressed against his prostate. 

“It’s what you get,” Seokjin murmurs lowly into Yoongi’s ear, as waves of pleasure engulf him, come spurting all over Seokjin’s hand. “You’re fucking merciless, Min Yoongi.”

. . .

They get a three-day holiday in between all their work. Most of the other boys go to spend time with their family—they’d all started working at a young age, and any downtime they get is often used to make up for all the days they’ve been away. Yoongi stays in the dorm, and Jimin stays with him, both of them unwilling to make the trip down to Daegu and Busan respectively.

When Yoongi is with Jimin, they often end up drinking. Drinking with Jimin is always fun—after Yoongi, he’s got the highest alcohol tolerance in the group, and that, coupled with his understated wit, ensures that Yoongi is always somehow laughing.

“No, but seriously, hyung,” Jimin is saying, relaying a particularly funny story which involves him and Namjoon somehow falling over the same thing at the same time. “All our limbs flailed around like something out of a slapstick comedy. Taehyung and Jungkook couldn’t breathe from laughing.”

“I still wonder how you are so graceful on stage, but so clumsy in everything else,” Yoongi tells him, amused. 

Jimin screws his face into a particularly adorable expression, holding up a peace sign next to his face. “All part of my charm.”

“Your charm?” Yoongi asks, amused. “The charm you were asking our fans to validate when you posted that wonderful selca?”

That makes Jimin drop his head, laughing a little in embarrassment. “One day,” he threatens. “One day you will all forget that selca even existed.”

Yoongi opens his mouth, about to tell Jimin that they’ll never forget that selca—that Taehyung and Jungkook would rather wallpaper their walls with it then delete it from their memories—when Yoongi’s phone pings with a new text. He frowns at it, curious; it’s currently half past three in the morning, and Yoongi doesn’t know who else would be awake at this time.

Turns out, Seokjin is.

myg, is all his text reads. Typical Seokjin.

ksj, Yoongi texts back. 

wayda, Seokjin sends back in the next three seconds, which isn’t even a word. Yoongi stares at it, baffled.

He must stare for a little too long because Jimin is clearing his throat. “Who is it?” When Yoongi looks at him, his brows are furrowed.

“Jin-hyung,” Yoongi replies. He shows Jimin the screen of his phone. “What does wayda mean?”

Jimin blinks at it, looking just as confused as Yoongi feels. “It’s not a word.”

“Right? That’s what I thought.” Yoongi exits the KakaoTalk app, intent on leaving Seokjin on read. And he would’ve, he really would’ve, except Seokjin texts again, his message flashing as a banner at the top of Yoongi’s screen.

you’re not answering my question, it reads.

Apparently wayda is a question. In what world, Yoongi has no idea.

is it a question in an alien language? He sends.

the aliens wish.

“Still Jin-hyung?” Jimin asks.

“Yeah,” Yoongi replies, his eyes glued to the screen. “Apparently, he’s asking me a question. I have no idea what that question is.”

Jimin snorts. “Typical Jin-hyung.” He stretches a little, getting up from the couch. “Hyung, I think maybe I’ll head to bed,” he says. Yoongi hears the sound of him yawning. “I’m all sleepy all of a sudden, I don’t know.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Yoongi says. He looks up from the screen long enough to shoot Jimin a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jimin.”

“Tell hyung I said hi.”

“Will do.”

Jimin leaves after that, bringing the empty bottles of soju and their glasses with him. He’s helpful like that, and without having to clean up, Yoongi can focus on the more confusing, more pressing matters at hand. 

jimin says hi, he sends to Seokjin.

The reply is instantaneous. will jimin answer my question? 

what is your question even, Yoongi sends back, bewildered.

do i really need to spell it out for you?

Honestly, Seokjin really is so dumb sometimes. yeah if you’re aiming to have a conversation.

This time, the reply takes a little longer. what!!! are!!! you!!! doing!!! awake!!! Seokjin sends.

Aggressive much. why are you yelling?

because i don’t think i’m going to get an answer in this lifetime.

He sounds frustrated. Yoongi has never really been one to overthink people’s choice of words or their punctuation use but he thinks a little analysis is warranted now. Seokjin is awake at three in the morning in his family home in Gwacheon and he’s texting Yoongi, someone he doesn’t usually text. This is probably the longest exchange of text messages they’ve had in the last few months. Or years, even.

He’s just about to formulate a reply, about to tell Seokjin that asking shitty questions guarantees only shitty answers when Seokjin’s next message comes through.

And oh. Yoongi now sees why he’s yelling. Sees why he’s even awake and texting at three in the morning while in his family home in Gwacheon. 

He’s sent a selca. But Yoongi pings it for what it really is: a thirst trap.

To be fair, it doesn’t look like a typical thirst trap—Seokjin, although confident in many physical aspects of himself, has always been a little more demure when it comes to the more sensual things. He’s confident in how handsome he is, but he doesn’t really enjoy showing skin, oftentimes getting a bit flustered when their stage outfits reveal just a touch more than he’d prefer. Which is why this move is surprising for him.

He’s got his idol expression on; the same one he wears when he posts selcas on Twitter and Weverse for their fans. But unlike those ones, this one is notable because he’s shirtless in it, the photo capturing his bare shoulders and the tops of his collarbones and maybe a little bit of his pecs.

It’s a little cute. For Seokjin, it’s probably shameless.

oh my god you’re thirst-trapping me, Yoongi texts back, because he’s incapable of not saying what he’s thinking, sometimes. He pauses, sends a follow-up text. how cute. 

Seokjin sends him a cute laughing emoji, which looks stupidly out of place in their conversation. you got a better one? he sends.

Yoongi, in fact, does; unlike Seokjin, he’s always been a little more daring. He’s got a few rather pretty selcas saved in his phone gallery, from way back when he used to go and satisfy his sexual frustration via those hook-up and dating apps. He scrolls through his album of them now, carefully looking for one to send—a nice one, but not too nice. 

Finally, he settles on one he deems just nice enough. It’s a picture of him with his shirt rucked up a little and his boxers pushed down just a touch. In terms of sexuality, it’s not much: a bit of skin, a bit of pubic hair leading downwards. But it’s oozing with sensuality, if he says so himself, the lighting and the angle and the placement of the elements done just so that it gets the imagination going. His face isn’t in the picture, but it doesn’t need to be—Yoongi knows Seokjin would recognize his hands.

And, as Yoongi had expected, Seokjin reacts.

fuck, his first message reads.

really yoongi, his second one reads.

how dare you show me up, his third one reads.

And his last one, the one that makes Yoongi smile, makes him stand from the couch and make his way to his room, his hand slipping into his pants: merciless.

(Yoongi gets another photo from Seokjin about thirty minutes later, while he’s still catching his breath from his orgasm. Again, it’s nothing that would be considered risqué, unless your standards are Seokjin’s standards. 

But it’s okay. He’s trying. He’s working within his boundaries. Yoongi can appreciate that. 

thanks, the photo is captioned, and it’s one of his body. He’s fully clothed in this one, wearing a light orange shirt and a light blue pair of pajama pants with some sheep on them. Nothing too sensual, except for the big wet patch on the lower part of his shirt.

As always, Yoongi tries to work with Seokjin on equal ground. you’re welcome, he says, attaching his own photo—his naked torso, his soft cock in his hand, his own come drying on his stomach.

fuck, Seokjin sends again.)

. . .

The thing about Seokjin that Yoongi finds amusing and sort of intriguing is that despite being one of the most physically shy people in their group, he’s absolutely mind-blowing at sex. Or fooling around. Or whatever it is they’re doing.

Yoongi has no idea where or when he learned it, or even with whom. Seokjin is good at keeping things to himself, only allowing people to perceive what he wants them to perceive. They’ve been in the group for ten years, and Seokjin’s never once mentioned a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or a romantic partner or love interest of any kind. He’d been the only one Yoongi had never caught jerking off in the bathroom. Is the only one. Sort of. Yoongi had almost thought that he wasn’t interested in sex.

But it turns out he is. He really, really is. 

They don’t let the others know—Yoongi thinks it would be too much of a hassle, too many questions to field and too much dramatics to bear; and Seokjin seems to agree—and it’s still not a thing, but. It’s surprisingly regular, for something that isn’t a thing. They’re in each other’s beds at least once a week and if they’re not in each other’s beds, they’re getting each other off in the bathrooms, quick and dirty, like something out of a porno. Seokjin, somehow, just seems to know exactly how Yoongi likes it—rough and teasing and distracting—and it always makes Yoongi come back for more.

They also don’t really talk about their arrangement outside of the sex, which is something that Yoongi really appreciates. He doesn’t know what he’d say if Seokjin would sit him down and asked, so, what exactly are we doing? Probably scoff. Lie a lot. Maybe get a little angry and embarrassed and swear and maybe walk out of the room and perhaps even leave the group.

But as it is, Seokjin seems to be on the same page, seems to be just as content with not acknowledging it as Yoongi is, which makes it not awkward at all.

That’s another thing—the awkwardness. Or lack thereof: Yoongi thinks it should be at least a tiny bit awkward, fooling around with your group member-slash-hyung-slash-best friend, but it’s surprisingly…natural. Easy. It’s just Seokjin, after all; just Jin-hyung who’s sometimes dumb and flaily and loud, whose laugh sounds like a windshield wiper and who has the tendency to turn bright red when flustered or embarrassed. Jin-hyung, who plays MapleStory for hours on his computer, who makes stupid acrostic poems about everything; who used to talk and sing to Odeng and Eomuk in an annoying baby voice, back when he still had them and they were still sharing a room.

It’s just Jin-hyung. Jin-hyung, who Yoongi’s known for years. 

It’s all fine.

. . .

Preparing for comeback season is hard. There’s always so much work involved, from writing and producing songs to learning new choreography to album jacket photoshoots and A&R meetings. Add to that the things always on their regular schedule—Run BTS! shooting, Vlive livestreams, practicing old choreography so they don’t forget, gym sessions, some English lessons—and Yoongi barely has any time to breathe, much less think.

Admittedly, he enjoys it. If he’s still for too long, he tends to overthink, and when he overthinks, sometimes he goes to dark places with environments that stay with him for a long time, things that make it hard to get out of bed. If he’s busy, he’s only got music and work running through his mind, and the focus of it grounds him, gives him a reason to keep going.

Seokjin, strangely enough, also helps with that. His sudden, regular, and yet consistent presence in Yoongi’s bed seems to anchor him somehow, distracts him from all those thoughts with his unpredictability and his insistence to help Yoongi out. Seokjin says it’s because he’s the hyung and he loves helping out his dongsaengs, Yoongi privately thinks he’s just horny and Yoongi’s the best lay he’s had in years. Even so, Yoongi doesn’t stop him, because it turns out he’s stupidly horny too and Seokjin’s presence just always has the ability to put him at ease. 

They’re in the middle of taking a break from dance practice, all seven of them sweaty, panting and tired. Their title song has been decided—an old one that Namjoon had worked on and had shelved as it didn’t fit their previous concepts. It’s forty percent dark, thirty percent sensual, thirty percent moody, and a hundred percent amazing. Yoongi loves it.

It also has one of the hardest choreographies they’ve had to learn so far.

Yoongi will be the first to admit that dancing isn’t one of his favorite things to do. He wasn’t really born to dance the way Hoseok and Jimin were, nor does he pick it up as quickly as Jungkook or Taehyung. It’s fun, yeah, and it’s fine, and he’ll do it for the sake of their group, but given a list of things to do, it’s not exactly his first choice.

Seokjin, he knows, feels quite the same way about it. For some reason, Seokjin has gotten it into his head that he isn’t as skilled a dancer as the rest of them, and as such has to keep practicing and working hard to stay at the same level. It’s bullshit, of course—their choreography has never been easy, and the fact that Seokjin’s been able to keep up for ten years is a testament to his hard work, dedication, and dancing skill. He’s always been a good dancer, just like how he’s always been a good singer and a good performer; things that he’s quietly insecure about. 

But emotions aren’t usually rational and no matter how many times someone is told that they’re good, sometimes they don’t fully accept the compliment, don’t fully believe it, so Seokjin gets frustrated. A lot.

Yoongi can tell he’s frustrated now—can read it in the way his face is blank and the way he barely seems to respond when Jungkook and Jimin try to engage him. His smiles, when they do show up, seem forced, and even when he thinks no one is paying attention, his arms make minute movements, almost as if he’s forcing himself to commit the choreography to muscle memory.

Something about it tugs at Yoongi’s heartstrings. Something about it makes Yoongi a little reckless.

He waits; it takes a while, but eventually Seokjin senses that he’s being watched, takes a few moments to look around his surroundings before his gaze falls on Yoongi. Yoongi raises an eyebrow at him, before getting to his feet and making his way to the single person bathroom at the end of the hall.

It occurs to Yoongi, just as he’s closing the door behind him, that it’s quite possible that Seokjin didn’t understand him. That he’d simply left Seokjin confused, staring at the space Yoongi had vacated and wondering what the fuck he was on. That he’d shrug and go back to practicing quietly, go back to watching the others play around or go back to staring into space.

But he needn’t have worried. There's a knock on the door—three sharp raps—then Seokjin is slipping inside, all large and broad shouldered and immediately taking up half the space.

Seokjin cocks an eyebrow at him. “Hi,” he says, leaning back against the door.

“Hello,” Yoongi replies. “Why are you here?”

There’s an amused quirk to Seokjin’s lips. “I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me.”

If he’s being honest, Yoongi doesn’t know either—just that Seokjin looked a little tired and frustrated and disappointed at himself, which Yoongi privately thinks are things Seokjin shouldn’t be, ever. Seokjin is a wonderful dancer, a wonderful singer. A great performer, and a valuable addition to their group, good looks aside.

“You look tired,” Yoongi chooses to say. “Want me to make you feel better?”

That gets a laugh out of Seokjin. “What, here in the bathroom?”

“Let’s not pretend it never happened before.”

“I thought you told me I was shameless for it,” Seokjin says, still amused.

“Hyung, Bang PD-nim was literally ten meters away from us.”

“And so?” Seokjin asks. “Didn’t that make it all the more exciting?”

Despite himself, Yoongi feels the beginnings of a smile on his face, and he shakes his head, does his best to hide it. “Yes or no?” He asks, trying to bring them back to the topic at hand.

“Dance practice resumes in ten minutes,” Seokjin points out.

“I can be quick if you can be quick.”

Seokjin laughs again, his incredulous one, the one that comes out when he thinks someone is being particularly stupid or ridiculous in front of him. He pushes himself off the door, crosses the distance between them, caging Yoongi against the wall with a hand to the side of his head.

“You and I both know,” he says, his face unbearably close to Yoongi’s, “that you’re incapable of being quick, even if your life depended on it.”

In all the times they’ve done this, they’ve never kissed—it’s just not them, not the dynamic they have, not the sort of relationship they have. It’s too intimate; it’s true that kissing elevates the experience but it makes everything all the more vulnerable, all the more emotional. It’s gross. Seokjin’s cock in Yoongi’s mouth is less emotional. Yoongi would rather have that.

But today, Seokjin’s face is unbearably close to his; today, Yoongi hears his own breath hitch as Seokjin’s lips brush against his ear, against his jaw. If Yoongi moved his head a little to the right, their lips would brush.

He holds still. It’s just Jin-hyung, he thinks. There’s no point to it.

“I can be,” he insists, and his quiet voice is loud in the sudden tension of the room.

“Yeah? And what was all that edging, then?” Seokjin asks. His lips are soft against Yoongi’s jaw, his chin just a touch stubbly. It sends shivers down Yoongi’s spine. “Just for fun?”

“Sex is supposed to be fun,” Yoongi points out. “If you were doing it for anything else, I’m sorry to say this, then you’ve been doing it wrong.”

Seokjin lets out an exhale, his breath warm against Yoongi’s neck. “Always a smart mouth,” he says a little fondly. 

“You like my mouth.” Yoongi lets himself touch, sneaks two hands up under Seokjin’s shirt, still a little damp from their practice. His skin is a little tacky from the sweat, but Yoongi finds that he loves the feeling of it.

“Hm,” Seokjin replies. His mouth moves lower, pressing against that goddamn spot on Yoongi’s neck. “Debatable.”

Yoongi tilts his head, giving him a little more access. “Go ask someone outside to suck you off, then,” he says, as he unconsciously pulls Seokjin closer. His cock is already hard, has slowly been waking up since Seokjin had slipped into the bathroom and taken up all of the space and all of Yoongi’s air.

“You think they’d do it?” One of Seokjin’s legs slips between his, pinning him further to the wall; like this, Yoongi can feel that Seokjin’s just as hard as he is, cock heavy and warm even through his sweats. 

“They might.”

Seokjin bites lightly at Yoongi’s neck, the only sign that he’s a little insulted by Yoongi’s words. “Okay, good,” he says. “I don’t like it when my bed partners are smart mouths.”

“And I don’t like it when my bed partners are assholes, but sometimes concessions must be made.”

Seokjin pulls away, abruptly. His eyes are dark with arousal, and he’s making that face, the one he gets when he’s helplessly turned on. Yoongi meets his eye, doesn’t know what his own expression is telling Seokjin, but it makes Seokjin open his mouth.

A knock interrupts them.

“Jin-hyung?” It’s Jungkook, his voice innocently curious through the door. He seems to have been the one who’d gotten stuck with the task of looking for the errant members. “Are you in here?”

Seokjin keeps looking at Yoongi. Yoongi pinches him on the lower back to get him to say something. 

“Yeah,” Seokjin eventually replies, voice mostly steady. “What’s up?”

“We’re starting practice again in a bit!”

Right. Dance practice. The words wash over Yoongi like a bucket of ice cold water, and it makes Seokjin drop his head, resting his forehead against Yoongi’s shoulder, his breath blowing warm against Yoongi’s collarbone. Yoongi pinches him again, reminding him to speak.

“Stop pinching me,” Seokjin hisses at him, before clearing his throat. “Hyung’ll be right there, Jungkook!” 

“Okay!” Jungkook replies happily, before walking away; Yoongi can hear his footsteps fading and his voice singing the words Where is Min SUGA-hyung on repeat, set to the tune of their new title track.

Yoongi doesn’t speak until Jungkook’s voice has fully faded. “We should go back,” he says.

Seokjin takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. He moves efficiently, quickly takes a step back and reaches into his pants to tuck his cock against the waistband of his boxers. Yoongi does the same with his—it’s uncomfortable, but necessary.

When they’re both somewhat presentable, Seokjin looks at Yoongi, his expression unreadable. “Later,” he tells Yoongi, right before he slips out of the bathroom, and Yoongi doesn’t know if that’s a farewell or a promise.

. . .

Turns out it’s a promise. A really, really, good promise. One that involves their first mutual orgasm, one that involves both sucking dick and getting his dick sucked. One that also involves Seokjin wrapping his long limbs around him after, like a particularly clingy octopus, refusing to let Yoongi leave the bed. Post-coital Seokjin can be a pain, sometimes. 

That night, Yoongi falls asleep next to Seokjin for the first time since they shared a room.

. . .

“Hyung, I have a question,” Yoongi says. They’re both still naked, their skin still sticky with sweat from their previous activities. Today, Seokjin had pressed up behind him, rubbed his slicked-up cock between Yoongi’s ass as he jerked Yoongi off. Yoongi had enjoyed it much more than he’d thought he would.

He thinks that maybe Seokjin won’t respond, already lost in dreamland. Seokjin, Yoongi has learned, has the tendency to fall asleep right after orgasming. Usually, Yoongi takes this time to leave, to get up and off the bed and sneak back into his room. But right now it’s difficult to muster up the strength to; Seokjin runs warm, like a particularly nice space heater, and Yoongi’s bed has always been a little too cold for his liking. 

But then Seokjin makes a quiet, quizzical noise, something that sounds like a cross between a hum and a snuffle. Yoongi takes it as his cue to go on. “Where did you learn...all this?”

“All what?” Seokjin asks, his voice sleepy.

“All the...bed stuff.”

A pause. “You mean the sex,” Seokjin replies, amused. “Just say the sex, Yoongi. Why are you suddenly being shy now?”

Yoongi huffs. “I’m not being shy,” he says, even as he feels a flush creep up the back of his neck. “It’s just. Never mind. Just answer the question, hyung.”

For a moment, Yoongi thinks Seokjin might press, tease him a little, but Seokjin just hums again, his eyes still closed. “I had a boyfriend,” he tells Yoongi quietly. 

Oh. That’s news to him. “When?”

“In university.”

“While in the band?”

“I went to university while I was in the band, so I don’t know, Yoongi, you tell me.” Seokjin stretches lazily, yawning a little.

Yoongi feels his brow furrow. “How come we never met him before?” 

“‘Cause we broke up.”

“Obviously before the break up, dumbass.”

That makes Seokjin laugh. “And there he is,” he says. “I was starting to worry that the orgasm made you soft.” He doesn’t really give Yoongi time to respond to that statement. “I don’t know. I guess the timing just never worked out.”

“You never told anyone though,” Yoongi points out.

“Who would I tell?” Seokjin shoots back. “And why?”

Yoongi glares at him, but the action is definitely lost on Seokjin, who still has his eyes closed. “Oh, I don’t know, your members maybe?” He says dryly. “And maybe because it was an important relationship to you, and as your friends, we care about you?”

“You care about me?” Seokjin teases. “Aw, Yoongi.”

“Hyung.”

His tone makes Seokjin sigh, clearly a bit put upon. “It wasn’t anything personal,” he says. “We were just busy and the topic never came up.”

“Still, you could’ve mentioned,” Yoongi replies, feeling a little hurt. He’d always thought they were all close, had always been pretty close—the fact that Seokjin had been hiding this piece of information from him, from all of them, doesn’t really sit well with him. 

“When?” Seokjin shoots back. “During our dance practices? During studio recordings? Maybe right after our first music show win? Just a hey, congrats guys! By the way, I have a boyfriend, something like that?”

That makes Yoongi huff, crossing his arms. “You know what,” he says. “Never mind.”

“That’s what I thought.”

A silence settles over them. Seokjin’s breathing slows, then evens out once more. Yoongi wants to do the same, but it’s just—

“Why’d you break up?” he asks, unable to help himself.

A pause, then another sigh. “Let me sleep,” Seokjin whines. He shifts, then suddenly Yoongi finds himself wrapped in Seokjin’s arms, his face tucked into Seokjin’s bare chest. “Because BTS won a BBMA and we got too busy,” he says, and Yoongi hears the words through the rumbling of his chest. “Now go to sleep, Yoongi, before I kick you out of the bed.”

And Yoongi has a lot more questions he wants to ask, things such as what’s his name and what does he look like and are you guys still friends, but Seokjin’s body is warm and comforting against his, and Yoongi admittedly really doesn’t want to get kicked out of the bed.

So he goes to sleep.

. . .

It’s always a nice feeling when one of the songs you’ve worked on gets selected for the new album. With the amount of times Yoongi’s songs get selected for their album, you’d think he’s gotten used to the feeling; instead, it still always makes him feel lighter than air.

There’s two in the new album from him; Hoseok has one and Namjoon has three. Jungkook has one as well, and the rest of the tracks are from either their in-house producers or the freelance producers they work with. Yoongi doesn’t mind having outsider contributions; he’d heard the tracks when he’d visited Slow Rabbit in the studio, and he’d had to admit that they were really good. Perfect for the concept they planned to go with.

And now, it’s the lyrics writing part. 

To be fair, they don’t have that much to write—Yoongi’s songs have most of the lyrics done, only the rap parts where Hoseok and Namjoon would jump in left, and so do Namjoon’s. But Hoseok’s got only half a chorus done on his, and Jungkook’s song is still all instrumental, plus the English lyrics from the other songs that they have to change into Korean.

So, they write. 

Seokjin, specifically, starts writing. A lot.

Yoongi catches him taking notes in the middle of dance practice, during lunch, and even backstage at one of their photoshoots, lying down on the sofa in a very specific way to ensure his styled hair doesn’t get messed up, his head off the couch, the rest of his body stretched out on it. He’s very determined about it too, in the way he’s determined about everything else they do—Yoongi would never say it to his face, but Seokjin has got a single-minded focus when he starts something. For all his joking bravado and general playfulness, he’s incredibly serious when he wants to make sure he gets something right.

Yoongi’s been witness to it many times over the years they’ve been working together, so he doesn’t understand why, now, he seems to be processing it all differently. He finds himself watching Seokjin more, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s parsing something out, or the way he bites on his lower lip when he’s not quite pleased with what he’s come up with. All sights Yoongi has seen before. All sights that Yoongi can’t seem to stop watching anyway.

So when Seokjin asks if he can use Yoongi’s studio to test out some melodies, Yoongi agrees after only minimal begging.

“You’re awfully determined about this,” Yoongi says lightly, when Seokjin makes a frustrated noise and trashes his latest audio track. They’ve been alone at the studio for almost four hours now, with Seokjin growing increasingly frustrated. His melodies are nice—Yoongi had liked that last one in particular—but Seokjin doesn’t seem satisfied.

Seokjin doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Haha, Yoongi, very funny,” he says, as he begins the process of creating a new audio track.

“I wasn’t making a joke.”

“Right.”

Seokjin presses a few buttons on the MIDI board, laying out the same chords he’s been working on for the past hour. Yoongi’s head is starting to hurt hearing it, honestly.

“Piece of advice,” he says instead of telling Seokjin that. “You shouldn’t trash all your audio tracks. You might find it again later and like it.”

Seokjin makes a dismissive noise. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Yoongi, thank you,” he says irritably, pressing on the keyboard with much more force than necessary.

If keeps at it like this, he’s going to break Yoongi’s very expensive music equipment. Yoongi clears his throat. “Hyung.”

A long press on the middle C. “Hm?”

“Jin-hyung.”

A slight banging on the F. “What is it, Yoongi?”

“Seokjin-hyung.”

It’s Yoongi’s use of his full name that makes Seokjin pause, his hand still hovering over the MIDI keyboard. Finally, he peeks at Yoongi over his shoulder. “What?”

Yoongi sighs. “You’re going to break my equipment.”

Seokjin’s shoulders slump, and he runs a hand down his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles, turning back to the software. 

If asked, Yoongi wouldn’t be able to say what comes over him at that moment, doesn’t know what possesses him to stand up and cross the distance between them and spin Seokjin’s chair around until they’re facing each other.

“Hey,” he says, his voice coming out quiet. Seokjin blinks up at him, leaning back against the headrest, his mouth still set in a frustrated line. “Let’s go to the dorms.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “I want to finish this.”

“You’re frustrated and tired and about to break my equipment,” Yoongi points out. “Even if you stay, you won’t be able to finish shit today.”

“But—”

“Seokjin-hyung.” And now, Yoongi knows he isn’t asking, his voice coming out with a hint of steel. He bends over a little, setting his hands deliberately on Seokjin’s thighs, his thumbs brushing against his hip bones. It’s a bit of an awkward position, but Yoongi thinks it manages to convey what he wants. “You need help.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds like you’re about to drag me to our psychologist,” Seokjin says. 

Yoongi feels his mouth twitch, but he keeps his eyes trained on his hands. “You need my help,” he corrects.

“See, none of this would’ve happened if you’d just given me a song.”

“I’ll give you a song if you come home with me right now.”

A pause, and then slowly, Seokjin’s hands settle on top of Yoongi’s. “Is that a promise?” He asks quietly.

Yoongi thinks about it for a moment. “No,” he tells his hands. “But if you come home with me right now, I’ll finger you until you see stars.”

Seokjin sighs, loud and dramatic. “I guess an orgasm is the next best thing after a song,” he says. He pats at Yoongi’s hands, a clear signal for him to let go, and Yoongi straightens up, his back protesting his previous position a little. “I still want a song, though.”

“Like I’ve told you so many times, write most of your mixtape and I’ll give you one.”

Seokjin stands from the chair, stretching. “How can I write when you’re literally kicking me out of the studio?” He complains. 

“You’ve been writing,” Yoongi points out. He tangles their fingers together, tugs him away from the chair so he doesn’t drop back down on it again. Seokjin stumbles from the force but manages to catch himself. 

“And what do I have to show for it?” He asks a little sadly. “A half-written melody.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “For what it’s worth,” he says, squeezing Seokjin’s hand before dropping it, “I really liked that last one.”

That makes Seokjin meet his eye, a little surprised. “It’s good enough?”

Yoongi makes a noise. “It’s not good enough,” he replies. “It’s great.”

A small smile blooms on Seokjin’s face. “Yeah?” He asks. He looks behind him, back at the equipment and the software still open. “It’s lost forever now, I guess.”

Yoongi makes another noise, marching over to the computer. It takes a bit of time, and quite a few buttons, but he manages to recover it—Seokjin’s melody, sitting on the audio track like it’s always been there. “There,” he says, saving the project. “I’ll help you work on it tomorrow, even. Let’s just go home now.”

When he turns back around, he finds Seokjin watching him. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but his voice comes out light, filled with mirth. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around,” he says.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he retorts, bodily pushing Seokjin out of the door and locking the studio behind him. 

. . .

Seokjin finishes his melody. Yoongi helps him write the lyrics. Both his melody and their lyrics get chosen by their producers. To celebrate, Seokjin gives Yoongi a blowjob.

Life is good.

. . .

Life is decidedly not good. 

Being the producer on two songs means he actually has to work on them to get the finished product, arrange all the instruments and record the members’ voices and do all the audio mixing himself. It’s not usually an exhausting process, but as the album nears completion, their schedule gets busier—photoshoots, content filmings, rehearsals for their first few performances—and when Yoongi gets to the studio, he’s already so tired. 

“You sure it’s fine, hyung?” Jungkook asks, his eyes wide with concern. He and Seokjin are the ones scheduled to record with him today, and Jungkook, who is first,had brought Yoongi lamb skewers, bless him. He can be an angel when he wants to be. “I can do it again.”

Yoongi hums, moving the playhead back a little to listen to the adlib. It’s...nice. He thinks. He isn’t really sure how he feels about it yet—maybe he’ll ask Namjoon for a second opinion tomorrow. “I think it’s okay for today, Jungkook. You can go.”

“Are you sure?” Jungkook asks, squinting at Yoongi’s face suspiciously.

His expression makes Yoongi bark out a laugh. “Incredibly. If I need something else I’ll just text you.”

Jungkook looks at him for a few more moments, before nodding. “Alright,” he says happily. “Bye then, hyung!”

“Close the door when you leave, please,” Yoongi calls. Jungkook gives him a thumbs up, and a few moments later the door is clicking shut behind him. 

Yoongi lets out a breath, slumps down in his seat and closes his eyes. He’s got a migraine budding somewhere at the back of his ear, and he can’t wait to finish recording so he can go back to the dorms and sleep for sixteen hours straight. They’ve got a free day tomorrow, after all; Yoongi’s intending on not getting out of bed unless absolutely necessary. 

Just as he thinks that, there’s a knock on the door. Yoongi sighs, rolling himself to the door to let Seokjin in, who greets him with the happiest, most annoying smile known to man.

“Yoongi!” He trills. 

Yoongi points him to the direction of the recording booth. “Go.”

“It’s really nice to see you too,” Seokjin snarks back, annoying smile not even wavering, but he makes his way to the booth obediently. 

Seokjin finishes recording his part relatively quickly, singing it exactly the way Yoongi wants him to. It comes out great, but there’s something about it he isn’t quite sure about, and he keeps pulling the playhead back, playing the same part over and over.

“Should I do it again?” Seokjin asks, sitting on the couch as Yoongi keeps listening to the track. 

“No,” Yoongi replies immediately. He rewinds the song, listens to it again. “Maybe.” He rewinds it again. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Seokjin sounds surprised.

“Shut up,” Yoongi snaps, irritable. “I’m trying to think.”

Yoongi doesn’t see Seokjin’s reaction to his words, but he knows it must’ve rubbed him the wrong way, because that’s the only explanation as to why, five seconds later, Seokjin is dragging him all the way back toward the sofa by his chair. Yoongi keeps his eyes glued to his computer, even as he’s retreating farther and farther away from it.

His vision spins, and then Seokjin’s face comes into view. He’s got an eyebrow raised, his jaw clenched and he looks stupidly, unbearably cocky. He’s back on the couch again, his hands loosely gripping both armrests of Yoongi’s chair. “What did you say?” 

Seokjin’s an easy-going person. He laughs easily, laughs loudly, laughs a lot. Most days, he seems younger than Yoongi, younger than half of them, even. He clearly knows that as BTS’ eldest, he’s got some sort of power over them—if he really wanted to, he could stomp his foot, order them around, and because of society’s hierarchical idea of respect, the rest of them would have no choice but to follow. 

He could do that. But he doesn’t. Not unless, Yoongi thinks, he needs to.

“Min Yoongi.” Seokjin’s voice comes out authoritative, almost like an order. It’s ridiculous how it makes fireworks creep up Yoongi’s spine, arousal rearing its head. “What did you say to me?”

“It’s not even that bad,” Yoongi mumbles, feeling sufficiently chastised. “I’ve said worse things before.”

Seokjin clucks his tongue. “This isn’t about before, this is about now.”

“What’s the difference?” Yoongi can’t help but challenge. 

It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say—Seokjin’s expression gets momentarily dark, and the next thing Yoongi knows, he’s on Seokjin’s lap, straddling him, Seokjin’s hands gripping the back of his thighs tightly, as if preventing him from pulling away.

“The difference, Yoongi,” Seokjin says deliberately, almost as if he’s scolding a child, “is that you seem to have forgotten to take care of yourself yet again and you’re taking it out on me.”

It’s just Jin-hyung, Yoongi tells himself, as he tentatively places a hand on Seokjin’s shoulders, feeling the muscles underneath his shirt. His cock has started to react, both to their position and to Seokjin's voice. Just Jin-hyung.

“Hyung,” Yoongi says, mustering up all his self-restraint. “I have work to do.”

Seokjin’s grip on him tightens. “You’ve done too much work as it is.”

“I need to finish this before tomorrow.”

“In this state?” Seokjin asks skeptically, “You won’t finish shit, Yoongi.”

And of course Seokjin would use his own words against him. Yoongi rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to protest. “But—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because Seokjin kisses him to shut him up.

It’s not a nice kiss. Their teeth clack together and Seokjin all but shoves his tongue into Yoongi’s mouth and it's all a little painful. It’s hard and sloppy and rough and terrible and by God does Yoongi absolutely melt into it, moaning a little at the sure, strong way Seokjin kisses him.

Seokjin pulls away after barely a moment. Yoongi blinks at him, feeling a little bit like an owl. He must look ridiculously dumbfounded, because something about his expression makes the corner of Seokjin’s lips curl up. “If I’d known this would shut you up,” he says, “I would’ve done it sooner.”

“You kissed me,” is all Yoongi can say, because his brain isn’t really functioning properly.

Seokjin juts his chin out, like a stubborn child. “I’d do it again if I need to,” he says. 

“No,” Yoongi replies. “You don’t need to.” But he leans down and Seokjin meets him halfway, their mouths meeting in the middle, their tongues brushing against each other in a way that makes Yoongi’s vision spin.

Somehow, Seokjin ends up hovering above him, smirking a little and looking absolutely, unbearably gorgeous. Yoongi’s cock seems to think so too, judging by the way it’s pressing against Seokjin’s thigh, chasing friction.

“It amuses me that you’re always so excited to see me,” Seokjin says easily, as if his own cock isn’t hard against Yoongi’s stomach right now. “You were really deprived for a while there, weren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Yoongi snarks, pulling Seokjin by the back of the head to kiss him again, bite at his lower lip. God, lips like his shouldn’t even be allowed. Yoongi makes a personal reminder to file a complaint to whoever is up there making the people. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Seokjin pulls away abruptly—Yoongi whines about the loss of contact for all of five seconds until the world tilts and he’s landing on his stomach. He tries to turn back around but Seokjin keeps him like that, his body a long, warm line pressed against Yoongi’s back. 

Yoongi pillows his head on his arms. “What are you doing?”

Seokjin kisses his neck, sucks a faint mark onto that one spot on Yoongi’s neck. “Helping you out,” he answers simply. He presses a kiss to one of the knobs of Yoongi’s spine, lips tantalising even through the material of Yoongi’s shirt. “Helping you relax.” Another kiss, lower this time. “Making you feel good.”

He’s saying such stupid things again. Yoongi opens his mouth, about to argue back the way he usually does, when Seokjin’s kisses get even lower, culminating in a long one pressed into his lower back, right above his ass.

And it hits Yoongi, just what Seokjin is intending to do.

He inhales so quickly that he almost chokes, pushing himself up just a bit so he can look at Seokjin incredulously. “Hyung,” he says. “Are you…?”

Seokjin’s eyes are glued to Yoongi’s lower back, to the sliver of skin peeking out from between his clothes. “Do you want me to?” He asks.

No, Yoongi wants to say, wants to roll off the couch and all the way to the other end of the studio, away from Seokjin and his sinful tongue and his wicked lips and the way he’s just so fucking unpredictable. But he can’t. He just can’t. His cock actively protests against the thought, already so fucking hard at just the implication, already trying to find relief against the leather of the sofa, already anticipating Seokjin’s mouth in places it’s never been before. 

And no matter how logical Yoongi tries to be, no matter how many reasons he tries to come up with as to why eating someone out is far too intimate for the not-thing they have, at his core, Yoongi is a man with carnal desires and Seokjin is a man who seems to know exactly how to fulfill them.

“Lock the door,” he says.

Seokjin rolls his eyes, but he dutifully leans away for a moment to make sure the door is locked securely. And then he’s back, pulling Yoongi’s pants and boxers down in one go, and Yoongi shivers as the cold air of the studio hits his already-warm skin.

Yoongi’s heart is hammering in his chest, arousal thrumming through his veins. Seokjin moves slowly, painfully slowly, his breath ghosting against the skin of Yoongi’s lower back, against his cheeks.

And then carefully, so carefully, Yoongi feels himself being spread open, a finger brushing against the tight muscle, the tip of it dipping in.

“Fuck,” Yoongi breathes out, helplessly turned on. This is—it’s still barely anything at this point, but Yoongi wants. He wants it so bad. “Fuck, hyung.”

Seokjin’s laugh is low, rumbly. “Already falling apart, Yoongi?”

Yoongi presses his forehead against his arms. “You just move so slowly, all the damn time.”

“Thought you liked that?”

Yoongi focuses on his breathing. In, out. In, out. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want it to be faster sometimes.”

He’s lying. Seokjin always manages to go at the perfect pace, always manages to keep up with Yoongi, knows how to give Yoongi exactly what he needs at exactly the right moment.

He’s lying, and Seokjin knows it too. Has witnessed Yoongi whine and moan and fall apart beneath his hands countless times to know so.

Seokjin’s warm breath moves lower and lower, until Yoongi can feel it against his hole. “You stink, Yoongi,” he jokes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Did you expect it to smell like flowers?”

“Even my poop smells like jasmine,” Seokjin raps randomly, and then suddenly his mouth is on Yoongi’s hole, his tongue licking a broad stripe against the sensitive muscle, and it’s.

Only Seokjin would be able to use the word poop right before eating someone out. And only Yoongi would find it endearingly hot. 

Pleasure floods all of Yoongi’s synapses as Seokjin eats him out, grazes his teeth against the muscle in a way that’s deliciously rough, deliciously painful. Seokjin’s tongue is—well, Yoongi had previously held no strong opinions about Seokjin’s tongue, but he thinks he might have to change that. Seokjin’s tongue is sinful, and he licks and coaxes open Yoongi’s hole with the same vigor he has when doing one of those EatJin lives.

Seokjin chuckles lowly, and the vibrations of it go straight to Yoongi’s cock. “Thank God the studio is soundproof,” he says. “You’re so fucking loud.”

Yoongi hadn’t even realized he’d been whining. Fuck. He licks his lips, rutting against the leather of the sofa, chasing the friction, the pleasure. “Hyung,” he says helplessly. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Seokjin says, sounding almost fond. “I’ll take care of you, baby, don’t worry.”

Baby. The word should not be as hot as it is. That word should one hundred percent not be as hot as it is. It’s just Seokjin, his hyung, his member, calling him baby in a voice as deep as the fucking Pacific ocean. It should not be as hot as it is.

Yoongi thinks it’s the hottest thing ever.

“Yeah?” Seokjin says, a touch smug. Yoongi hadn’t even realized he’d said that out loud. Then his tongue is back on his hole, the tip of it pushing past the tight muscle for just a moment before it’s gone again. “You like being called baby?”

Fuck. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut, bites at his forearm to stop himself from babbling. “Fuck, hyung,” he gasps. “You’re so—”

“So, what?” There’s a finger again; this time Seokjin pushes it a little deeper before pulling it out. He’s teasing. He’s fucking teasing. “So, what, Yoongi?”

“So fucking unpredictable,” Yoongi gets out through gritted teeth. His senses are overloaded, confused; his hips are stuttering, torn between rutting himself to oblivion and pushing back against Seokjin’s wicked tongue. “God. ”

“Hm,” Seokjin says. His tongue brushes against Yoongi’s hole once more, a tiny kitten lick that’s in direct contrast to the broad swipes he’d been giving Yoongi. “Only one who can fuck you this well, though. Baby.”

“Only one,” Yoongi agrees, far too gone to argue. “The only fucking one. You’re—fuck—you’re so fucking hot, hyung. I can’t—”

Seokjin pulls away, moving upwards; he presses his body against Yoongi’s back, and in this position, his cock presses against Yoongi’s bare ass, his pants a little rough on Yoongi’s skin. “Yeah?” He asks, grinding down on Yoongi, biting lightly at the mark he left on his neck. “You think so?”

“Always think so,” Yoongi says. He sounds stupid, he knows, saying all sorts of nonsense all because of Seokjin’s lips on his neck and his cock against his ass. What can he say, he’s never claimed to have a lot of self-restraint. “You’re so—when you’re not around, I think of your mouth on me.”

“Yeah?” Seokjin sucks another mark on his neck, before crawling down the length of the sofa. “Keep going, baby.”

“All the time,” Yoongi says, moaning as he feels himself being spread open again, feels Seokjin’s soft lips back on his hole. “All the fucking time. It drives me insane.”

Yoongi’s so close now, so close to coming from just Seokjin’s mouth and the friction on his cock. He starts thrusting down harder, more erratically, and it should make it more difficult for Seokjin, but he manages to keep up like a champ, still eating Yoongi out so well. 

He’s insane. He’s amazing. 

Seokjin grazes his hole with his teeth, a tiny, quick bite, and Yoongi feels himself seize up. “Fuck,” he moans. There are tears in his eyes, he thinks. “Hyung, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead, baby,” Seokjin says, and then he—

He pushes two fingers deep into Yoongi without warning, aided by nothing but his own spit, and it feels so fucking good that Yoongi thinks he blacks out, clenching around them and coming into his pants and onto the sofa like some sexually-frustrated teenager. He comes and he just fucking keeps coming and when he’s done he’s shaking a little, his muscles jittery from the force of his orgasm.

From behind him, he is vaguely aware of Seokjin pulling his fingers out and pressing a soft kiss on Yoongi’s ass, right above his hole. “There,” he says, and he sounds a touch proud. “All taken care of.”

It takes a few more moments for Yoongi’s senses to return to him. “Fuck, I ruined the sofa.”

That makes Seokjin laugh. “You’re worried about the sofa?” He asks.

Yoongi pushes himself up with shaky arms, frowning down at the mess he’s made. They’ve made, because this was as much Seokjin’s fault as it was his. “It was an expensive sofa.”

“Just have it cleaned.”

Yoongi’s pants are all disgusting and he decides the best thing to do is to push himself onto Seokjin’s lap, straddle him right on top of his still-hard cock so he can share the disgustingness. Seokjin’s cock twitches at the action; Yoongi reaches for it but Seokjin stops him with a hand on his wrist. 

“In the dorms,” he says. “Let’s go home, Yoongi.”

Logically, Yoongi knows he should protest—he can’t just leave when there’s still a song he needs to finish—but Seokjin’s cock is still hard and nice under his ass, and Seokjin’s hoodie is soft to the touch, and Yoongi really just has no more thoughts in his head except for getting Seokjin naked and sucking Seokjin’s dick. 

“Fine,” he says, pushing himself off of the couch. He winces when the wet spot on his pants brushes against his skin, reaching for the tissues and wet wipes he keeps on the shelf. “Let’s go.”

. . .

When the album gets finished, they all go out for shabu-shabu. It’s a mess for several reasons: one, because they are seven, famished boys sat around the table getting ready to eat; two, because Seokjin won’t stop arguing with him about the meat, in favor of dumping everything in at the same time and ignoring Yoongi’s logical arguments that it would end up hard and overcooked; and three, because Yoongi can’t seem to stop himself from reaching out to Seokjin under the table, trailing his hands up the inside of his leg and tracing the seams of his jeans with a finger.

And it’s not that Yoongi wants to get caught by the other members. It’s just that there’s something about the idea of teasing Seokjin in a place where he can’t respond, watching him try to naturally interact with the others when Yoongi just knows that Seokjin is thinking of him. Of Yoongi’s hand on his cock, and of the way they’ll both fall apart later, when they’re finally alone.

Seokjin masks it well. He keeps up with conversation easily, laughs with Jimin and Jungkook, teases Taehyung, all while Yoongi lightly rubs at his cock through his jeans. But later, at the dorms, he’s relentless, pulls Yoongi into the shower and kisses him desperately, presses a palm against Yoongi’s mouth to stifle the moans he makes when Seokjin jerks them both off roughly.

“You’re terrible, baby,” Seokjin says lowly into his ear, and Yoongi whines, the sound muffled by Seokjin’s palm. He’s so close to coming, can taste his orgasm on the tip of his tongue, the spring in his stomach coiling tighter and tighter from Seokjin’s movements and Seokjin’s words and Seokjin, just Seokjin. “Fuck, Yoongi, you were made to drive me crazy. There’s not a single day I don’t want to fuck you.”

Yoongi thinks, as he comes, that he might relate to that sentiment.

. . .

There are days he doesn’t get to, though. It happens. Their schedules are booked and busy and a little demanding, and sometimes they’re a bit too tired to do anything but kiss. Sometimes they start pulling each other’s clothes off only to both lose steam and almost nod off to sleep. Today is one of those days.

“I’ll go,” Seokjin says sleepily. His shirt is discarded somewhere on Yoongi’s floor, and he’s pressing soft, lazy kisses onto Yoongi’s lips. They’d started with the intention of something more, but now it’s just…this. Yoongi doesn’t know what this is.

What he does know, however, is that Seokjin is all sleep-warm skin and soft touches, that his kisses are the best thing this side of the universe, and that he smells good—clean and familiar. It makes the last bit of whatever tension Yoongi has in his muscles melt away.

“No, hyung,” Yoongi protests in between kisses, pulling Seokjin closer. “Stay.”

“We’re clearly not doing anything tonight, though,” Seokjin says.

“We can do stuff in the morning,” Yoongi says. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Besides, you feel nice like this. And you’re sleepy too.”

“My room is two steps away from us.”

“Getting there involves getting out of bed. You really want to do that now?” Yoongi knows he’s started to pout—it’s not something he does seriously, usually, but Seokjin just has the power to bring it out of him, sometimes.

Seokjin’s eyes flick to different points of his face. “I can, if you want me to.”

“I literally don’t want you to,” Yoongi deadpans.

A smile blooms on Seokjin’s face at that declaration. “You’re sweet,” he says. He gives Yoongi another kiss—this time, right by his collarbone. Yoongi thinks it feels a little bit like a butterfly. “One last chance to send me away.”

“Hyung,” Yoongi says, exasperated. “Stay.”

“Ah,” Seokjin says, all gleeful. His eyes start fluttering shut immediately, and he yawns, burying his face into Yoongi’s hair. “A decisive man. I hope you know that by doing this I’m never going to leave your bed. Ever.”

Yoongi blinks at the ceiling, feeling the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Okay,” he says unbothered, pulling Seokjin closer to him. He closes his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”

He finds that he sleeps better with Seokjin next to him, after all.

. . .

“Uh,” Hoseok begins, a week later. He’s got a cup of coffee in his hands, and he’s blinking at Yoongi pointedly, probably taking in Yoongi’s bedhead and rumpled clothes and the way his eyes are still half-closed. “Did you...sleep in Seokjin-hyung’s room last night?”

Of course he’d be the one to catch Yoongi. Of fucking course.

Yoongi looks back at the door he’d just shut behind him. It’s decidedly not his bedroom door. “Yeah,” he says. No point in lying.

Hoseok takes a sip of his coffee. “...Why?”

Because Seokjin had been a little moody last night—something about getting bad news about the restaurant he and his brother started. He hadn’t really spoken much when Yoongi had tried to talk to him, had barely responded to any of Yoongi’s jokes, and Yoongi decided that Seokjin needed to be held and cuddled and kissed a little, at least until that furrow between his brow disappeared.

Yoongi shakes his head, unwilling to say all that. He takes the two steps needed to get to his own room, his heart twinging a little when he catches sight of how empty it is. “He needed my help with something.”

. . .

The first time they fuck—like, you know, of the dick-in-ass-variety—they’re both drunk. 

Well, they all are, actually—one of the perks of living and working with your best friends is that sometimes, said best friends decide that they want to get wasted, and bring home bottles of alcohol for everyone to share. So they spend hours drinking and talking, exchanging stupid stories and stupid quips, and when it’s time to head to bed, Yoongi follows Seokjin into his room, throws himself onto Seokjin’s bed like it’s his.

“You better not be in outside clothes,” Seokjin warns as he goes to get changed.

Yoongi pauses, then starts stripping. “There,” he says, when he’s completely naked. “No more clothes.”

Seokjin just sighs when he comes back, crawling into the space beside Yoongi. “I’m not fucking you tonight,” he says. He’s wearing his RJ pajamas, and they’re nice and soft. “I’m tired.”

Yoongi immediately curls around him, pressing his face into Seokjin’s neck. “Didn’t ask you to,” he says. 

Seokjin’s skin is always so smooth, and he always manages to smell so good, and so Yoongi can’t be blamed when he starts nuzzling it, pressing kisses under his jaw, down his neck. Seokjin, despite saying he was tired, responds to the action—Yoongi can hear his breath hitch when Yoongi bites down.

“Yoongi,” he says, his voice weak. “I’m tired.”

Yoongi hums. “Never said you weren’t.”

“But you’re acting like I’m not.”

Yoongi presses his smile into Seokjin’s collarbone. “I’m not doing anything,” he points out.

They’d all more or less consumed the same amount of alcohol tonight, but Seokjin’s alcohol tolerance has always been significantly lower than Yoongi’s. He’s already gotten to the sleepy, drunk and tired part of the evening, while Yoongi is still thrumming with energy, the alcohol buzzing beneath his skin, making him feel reckless.

Seokjin doesn’t speak for a good few moments. Yoongi uses this time to sneak a hand into his shirt, brush his thumb against his nipple.

Seokjin shivers. “Yoongi.”

“What?” 

“I’m tired,” he says for the third time today. Like Yoongi hadn’t heard him the first two times. Yoongi opens his mouth to tell him that, but Seokjin beats him to it. “If we’re doing this I refuse to do any work.” 

God, he didn’t have to play hard-to-get. Yoongi feels himself grinning excitedly, pushing himself onto his forearm so he can press a filthy kiss on Seokjin’s lips. “Will you at least open your mouth so you can suck my dick after I suck yours?”

Seokjin’s sigh is one part resigned, two parts fond. “Fine, minimal work.”

Seokjin, Yoongi discovers, as he pushes himself down so he’s eyelevel with Seokjin’s crotch, has already started to get hard. Yoongi divests him of his shirt and pants quickly, his mouth already watering at the thought of putting Seokjin’s cock in his mouth.

One of Seokjin’s hands wraps around the shaft of it. “It’s a little shy,” he jokes when Yoongi looks up at him questioningly.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, trying to stop his lips from twitching upwards, and slaps his hand away.

Sucking Seokjin’s dick has quickly become one of Yoongi’s favorite things to do. It’s just so hard not to enjoy it, when Seokjin has a gorgeous cock that fits perfectly in his mouth, when Seokjin makes little noises that tell Yoongi he’s doing a good job, doing it exactly the way he wants him to. Added to that, Yoongi quite likes the feeling of Seokjin’s hands on his head, the pressure heavy and guiding him and helping him make Seokjin feel good.

“God, baby, you’re so good at this,” Seokjin says in one breath, moaning quietly as Yoongi laves his tongue over the sensitive head. “So fucking good.”

Yoongi pulls off, ducks down to graze his teeth over the sensitive spot between Seokjin’s balls. Seokjin arches off the bed, groaning.

“You drive me insane, you know that?” The alcohol combined with the arousal makes Seokjin talkative, Yoongi has learned, more so than he usually is. When he’s drunk, his brain-to-mouth filter usually disappears—which is exactly the reason all this happened—and he just speaks his mind, says whatever he thinks. “You’re merciless and you drive me so fucking insane. I think about you and your mouth on me all the time.”

Seokjin’s words go straight to Yoongi’s cock, and he has to palm himself to tell it to calm down.

“Think about you all hours of the day, baby,” Seokjin continues, words falling from his lips like an avalanche. “God, you’re so beautiful when you’re naked, have I ever told you that? So fucking gorgeous when you’re all naked and flushed.”

Well fuck. What else is he meant to do about that statement except moan around Seokjin’s cock and make sure to give him his best blowjob yet?

“Your skin and your neck and the way you just turn pink all over.” Seokjin keeps talking. Yoongi’s cock twitches where it’s pressed against his palm, and he wraps a hand around it, jerks himself off slowly. “And your ass, good God, your ass, baby. I could just eat you up.”

Yoongi’s hand on himself gets quicker.

“Wonder how you would look if I was inside you,” Seokjin says, his breathing heavy. His grip on Yoongi’s hair is getting tighter. “How pink you would be. How you would spread open for me. The noises you make, Jesus. I want to fuck you so hard that you scream.”

And—fuck, that’s. That’s definitely a...a thought, right there.

Yoongi pulls off Seokjin, presses his forehead against Seokjin’s hipbone. He takes a deep breath, wills himself to stop touching himself, to let go of his cock. 

“Baby?” Seokjin’s a little confused; but the pet name in his slightly wrecked voice makes Yoongi shiver, delicious sparks travelling down to the base of his spine. “Is something wrong? Why’d you stop?”

Yoongi shakes his head, taking a moment to let himself breathe; waiting until his voice feels steady, level. “Do it.”

“What?”

Yoongi takes another breath. “Fuck me.”

The words hang in the air between them, settling in the quiet of the room. Yoongi takes a chance, lifts his head to look at Seokjin, who’s blinking back at him, his face flushed. 

“What?” Seokjin says again. 

Yoongi holds his gaze. “Fuck me, hyung.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol that’s making him this restless, this reckless. Suddenly, it’s all he can think about, it’s all he clearly, overwhelmingly wants—Seokjin’s cock stretching him open, the friction against his walls. 

It’s been a long time since Yoongi’s been fucked. He knows he’d be tight. Knows, as well, that Seokjin wouldn’t hurt him, that he’d take his time opening him up until he’s stretched enough to take Seokjin.

God, he really wants Seokjin to fuck him.

Seokjin doesn’t look away, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He wants it too; Yoongi knows him well enough to read the expression on his face. 

“I don’t want to do any work,” is what Seokjin says, because he’s unpredictable like that. It’s obvious to Yoongi what it is though—one last barrier, a subtle offer for Yoongi to change his mind, to go back to having Seokjin’s cock in his mouth and forget the whole conversation even happened. Fucking is an intimate thing, after all. Much more intimate than all the fooling around they’ve been doing so far, in Yoongi’s opinion. 

But Yoongi wants it so, so badly. “You won’t have to,” he tells Seokjin. “I’ll do it.”

Seokjin’s tongue darts out again, almost as if it’s an unconscious action. Then he nods once, sharply. “Get up here,” he says.

Seokjin has condoms stored in his nightstand—for what, Yoongi doesn’t know, doesn’t want to think about.  Really doesn’t want to think about Seokjin fucking someone else when he’s right here about to fuck Yoongi, when he’s turned on and ready because of Yoongi. 

Seokjin is a warm, heavy weight as he flips them over, spreading Yoongi’s legs and pushing his knees up to his chest. He warms the lube between his fingers, and the sight is mesmerizing to Yoongi. Seokjin’s fingered him before, but never like this, never as a precursor to something else. 

“Hey,” Seokjin says. There’s something vulnerable in his face. “One last chance to back out.”

The fact that he even offers just strengthens Yoongi’s resolve. “This wouldn’t be my first time, hyung, just—” and the rest of Yoongi’s sentence is lost in Seokjin’s mouth as Seokjin kisses him, rough and hard and so thorough that it makes Yoongi’s head spin with want, as he pushes his finger into Yoongi slowly, all the way down to his second knuckle. 

The first finger is nothing—just a promise, a hint of what’s to come. Yoongi forces himself to relax as Seokjin slips the second one in, scissoring him open, spreading the tight muscle. 

Seokjin finds Yoongi’s prostate easily, pressing his fingers down on it nicely and making Yoongi groan. Yoongi arches up, squeezing his eyes shut; he clamps a hand on the base of his cock, telling himself to hold the fuck on. 

“Third,” he manages to get out, in between breaths. “Third, hyung.”

“Are you sure?” Seokjin asks.

Yoongi growls, pulls him down by the neck to kiss him desperately. Seokjin slips in the third finger after that. 

He starts fucking Yoongi with his fingers, like a teasing, stupid imitation of what’s to come. It’s good, but it’s not good enough, and Yoongi whines a little in frustration. 

“Your cock,” he says. Begs, more like. “Please, hyung.”

Seokjin’s hand stills. “Yoongi—”

Yoongi knows what he’s going to say—that he’s not ready, that they rushed through the prep, but the thing is, Yoongi doesn’t care. He wants that cock in him yesterday, already so fucking desperate for it that he can’t see straight.

So Yoongi kisses him again, slipping his tongue into Seokjin’s mouth. Kisses him with everything he has, pouring all the desperation and arousal and want that he feels into the movement of their lips together. 

And it’s clear that what Yoongi wants, Yoongi gets, because Seokjin goes slack, his fingers slipping out of Yoongi’s hole; because Seokjin is murmuring, “No work, remember?” against his mouth; because Seokjin is pulling away, slipping on a condom, and slicking himself up before lying back, a clear invitation for Yoongi to ride him.

Yoongi decides Seokjin looks stupid like this. His lips are swollen from their kisses, and he’s all sweaty and flushed, and his eyebrow is raised cockily, his hand at the back of his head. His stomach is clenched, the definition of his abs showing clearly through his skin, and he’s all sharp lines and sharp angles, like something straight out of Yoongi’s wet dreams.

In any case, he looks stupid. Or maybe Yoongi is the stupid one. It’s the only explanation for not having realized just how fucking hot Seokjin’s become.

It’s just Jin-hyung, Yoongi tells himself as he throws a leg over him, lines up his hole over Seokjin’s cock. Seokjin’s hands come up to grip him by the waist, so tight that Yoongi’s sure it’ll leave bruises. Funny, awkward, unpredictable Jin-hyung.

But why does it seem so different now?

Seokjin feels a lot bigger than he is; Yoongi has to grit his teeth as he sinks down, regulate his breathing as he takes every inch of Seokjin’s gorgeous cock. It takes excruciatingly long, and it’s a little painful, but Yoongi loves every minute of it. He’d never thought himself to be a masochist, but, he supposes, for this cock, he’s willing to be anything.

Eventually, he’s fully seated, Seokjin’s cock snug inside him. Seokjin’s breathing heavily, the veins on his neck popping from self-restraint, from holding himself back from fucking into Yoongi as he got himself situated.

“Baby,” he says, and he sounds just as wrecked as Yoongi feels. “Please.”

Yoongi leans down to kiss him once more, hard and bitey, before gripping Seokjin’s shoulders and fucking himself on Seokjin’s cock.

He starts off on a quick rhythm right away, chasing the pleasure, chasing release. Seokjin, true to his word, does absolutely no work at all, just grips Yoongi’s hips and supports him as he bounces on Yoongi’s cock.

He talks, though. Which—Yoongi appreciates compliments.

“Fuck,” Seokjin breathes out, and it sounds like it’s been punched out of him. “God, look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

Yoongi grinds down, moaning when the tip of Seokjin’s cock presses against his prostate. “Yeah?” He says.

“So, fucking gorgeous,” Seokjin says. “Taking my cock so well.”

“It’s a good cock,” Yoongi says, throwing his head back as a groan escapes him. He’s so turned on that his cock is blurting precome, dripping onto Seokjin’s stomach. “Love your cock.”

“Love you fucking yourself on my cock,” Seokjin says immediately. His grip on Yoongi’s waist gets tighter. “You’re amazing.”

“You feel so good inside me,” Yoongi tells him, focused on the pleasure coursing through him. The lust has crowded his brain, made it so that he doesn’t really think about the words spilling from his lips. “I don’t want to fuck anyone else.”

“You shouldn’t,” Seokjin gasps out, because he always responds, always gives Yoongi as good as he gets. “You can’t.” He’s started to move now despite his claims, thrusting up roughly every time Yoongi sinks down, making the both of them moan. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else, baby.”

The idea of Seokjin not being able to fuck anyone else because of Yoongi spurs him on, makes him move faster, bouncing on Seokjin’s dick a little more erratically. Yoongi thinks he could come from this, just this. “Yours, hyung,” he gasps, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yours.”

From beneath him, Seokjin stills. For a moment, Yoongi thinks he’s come, and he’s a little disappointed at the fact that he’s going to have to pull off and finish by himself, but then Seokjin makes a noise that sounds like growl and he’s flipping them both over, pushing Yoongi’s knees up to his chest and driving his hips in roughly.

So much for not doing any work. Yoongi distantly hears his own moans getting louder and louder, his orgasm getting closer and closer, and Seokjin has to clamp a hand on Yoongi’s mouth to keep him quiet. 

“They’ll hear us,” Seokjin hisses, but words are rendered moot by what comes out of his mouth next. “Say it again,” is what he says—no, demands, his hips snapping against Yoongi’s ass roughly. Yoongi moans into his palm, one hand clamped around Seokjin’s wrist. “Baby, say it.”

“Yours, hyung,” Yoongi mumbles obediently into Seokjin’s palm. He doesn’t know if Seokjin can even understand him, his words both slurred from the arousal and muffled from Seokjin’s skin. “I’m—fuck—yours, hyung.”

Seokjin groans. “Can’t fuck anyone else,” he says, his eyes a little wild.

“Won’t fuck anyone else,” Yoongi says. He’s close, almost there, the spring in his belly coiling tighter and tighter. “I don’t want you to fuck anyone else either.”

“I won’t,” Seokjin says, answers, promises. “I won’t fuck anyone else.”

“No one else,” Yoongi mumbles.

“No one,” Seokjin echoes.

Then Seokjin thrusts into him particularly hard and Yoongi is gone, his cock spurting come in arcs all over his stomach as he moans into Seokjin’s palm. The sight of Yoongi coming untouched seems to be enough to drive Seokjin over the edge as well, burying himself to the hilt and coming inside Yoongi.

Even while coming, Seokjin looks absolutely, ridiculously gorgeous. Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with this little piece of information. 

Eventually, Seokjin pulls out, collapses onto the space beside Yoongi, spent. He and Yoongi take some time to come down, the sound of their breathing loud in the quiet of the room.

“That was—” Yoongi begins. His voice comes out a bit dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Seokjin agrees, sounding just as stunned. He flails an arm out; comes back with a tissue to gently wipe the come off Yoongi’s stomach. When he deems Yoongi clean enough, he pulls the condom off his softened cock and ties it, before pushing himself onto his feet and disposing of it in the trash.

Yoongi rolls into his arms immediately when he returns, hiding his yawn in Seokjin’s chest. The movement makes Seokjin chuckle, and Yoongi feels him press a gentle kiss on the crown of his head, then burying his face into his hair.

“Sleep well, baby,” he says, and his words are soft, fond and gentle.

Yoongi pinches him lightly on the side of his hip. “Night, hyung.”

That night, Yoongi gets the best sleep he’s had in months.

. . .

It ends up being a one-time thing. Okay, maybe a two-time thing. Or a ten-time thing, max.

…Not that—not that Yoongi’s counting and all. It’s kind of hard to, when it starts happening every other night.

. . .

And something Yoongi failed to realize is that once you start having amazing sex with someone, you can’t just stop. No matter how many times you tell yourself to tone it down, clench your hands into fists and tell yourself that you shouldn’t be too greedy, shouldn’t want it too much to maintain the dynamic of the group, it’s just so hard to turn it down when given the opportunity. Which means they almost get caught. A lot of times.

“Is...is everything okay?” Namjoon asks, bewildered. His eyes flit from Yoongi, standing on one end of the room, to Seokjin, who is standing on the opposite side. They’re both flushed red, Yoongi knows; he also knows that they must look strange to Namjoon, their lips swollen and their hair sticking up in strange directions.

Seokjin’s the first one to gather himself. “Yeah,” he says, his voice light. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Namjoon shrugs. “I dunno, I just heard…I heard some noise,” he replies. He still looks lost, unsure of what he’s interrupted. “What are you guys doing?

Yoongi crosses his arms, looks away—he doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, doesn’t know what Namjoon might see in it. Namjoon has always known him a little too well, and he might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but he always, always gets there. 

There’s a pause, and then Seokjin speaks again. “I was just...teaching Yoongi how to work out.”

“Oh.” There’s a sound of some rustling, like Namjoon’s shifting in place. “Um, carry on, then,” he says, and then Yoongi hears the door shut.

Seokjin, when Yoongi turns to look at him, is grinning like an idiot—the curve of his lip disbelieving, like he can’t believe that he managed to pull that off. Yoongi rolls his eyes, trying to stop his own lips from twitching up amusedly, before crossing the distance between them.

. . .

For Chuseok, Yoongi decides that he should bite the bullet and make the bitchass trip down to Daegu. They get a week off this year, and there’s absolutely no excuse left for him to not go and see his family. And Holly. Holly is probably missing him.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves his family. He just hates the three-hour drive back and forth. And he also doesn’t really like the first two hours of being home, the time his mother fusses over him, checking to make sure that he’s eating well and that he’s sleeping enough and that he isn’t overworked and tired.

But once they’ve all calmed down, Yoongi will admit that it’s nice, being able to have dinner with his family, to exchange stories and anecdotes and just catch up. 

“I’m glad that you’re having fun, Yoongi,” Seokjin says in his ear later, when Yoongi is lying in bed in his childhood bedroom. It’s a twin-size, much smaller than the one he has in the dorms, but Yoongi’s body seems to think it’s still far too big, unconsciously squeezing itself onto one side to make room for a broad chest and even broader shoulders. “Was Holly happy to see you?”

Yoongi scoffs. “Of course he was,” he answers, a little insulted. Even right now, Holly hasn’t let him out of his sight—he’s curled up at the foot of the bed, sleeping deeply. “How about you? Does Gukmul still remember you?’

Seokjin’s laugh on the line is bright. “He smiled at me, so I think so,” he says. “It was nice to see him.”

Yoongi feels his own smile bloom at the sound of Seokjin’s laugh. “Say hi to him for me,” he says. “He probably doesn’t remember me.”

Seokjin gasps, dramatic. “Are you insulting my pet’s intelligence?” He asks. “Gukmul is a genius sugar glider, thank you very much. How would you like it if I called Holly a chicken leg?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Holly does look like fried chicken.”

“You know,” Seokjin says, and Yoongi can practically hear his eye-roll. “It’s no fun if you agree with me.”

“Thought you didn’t like your bed partners to be smart mouths,” Yoongi shoots back.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t like my bed partners to be,” Seokjin replies easily. “Far away from me in Daegu, for one.”

That’s. That’s kind of sappy. And smooth. Yoongi hates how it makes him feel inside, all mushy and warm and gross. Hates how he can’t seem to wipe his smile off his face. 

“I’ll see you next week, hyung,” he says. For some reason, his voice comes out fond and mushy and gross too. “Try not to touch yourself too much while I’m not there.”

“Please, I’m too lazy to get off on my own,” Seokjin says. “I’d rather you do it for me.”

Yoongi laughs. “Next week,” he says, and it’s a promise he intends to keep.

. . .

Dance practice is terrible today. The energy is off, and none of them can hit the high the choreography requires, all of them too exhausted from their busy comeback schedule. The new album has been charting worldwide, which is great, but it also means that they have to work harder, meet the expectations of their fans around the world. They’d made a promise when they were rookies that they’d do their best never to disappoint; eight years later and they still refuse to let go of that promise. 

But there are off days sometimes. And Yoongi will admit that today isn’t one of his best days.

He’d woken up with a phantom pain in his shoulder, not so bad that he couldn’t move, but jarring enough that he’d been strangely aware of it. And being aware of it means that his movements are limited, that he can’t match the energy of the other members, that he gets tired and sulky and a little moody. Add to that Seokjin, who’s being absolutely distracting.

Not that he’s doing anything in particular to distract Yoongi. He’s just there, broad and gorgeous and sweaty, his brow furrowed as he focuses on their choreography. It reminds Yoongi of the way he looks when they’re together, when he’s got Yoongi on his back and is pushing into him slowly, doing his best not to hurt him. And remembering that makes him remember all the things that they’ve said to each other during sex, things they’d never say to each other in the light of day. 

And Yoongi tries his best to stop thinking about it, he really does, but he can’t, the thoughts popping into his head at random moments, or whenever he so much as looks in Seokjin’ direction. And then he feels hot all over and his dick starts reacting like it’s something Pavlovian and then all he wants to do is tear his clothes off, drag Seokjin into the bathroom and get on his knees. It’s stupid and it’s dumb and Yoongi is getting both mentally frustrated and sexually frustrated, which just brings his mood down even more.

It’s just Jin-hyung, he tells himself all throughout the day. Just Jin-hyung.

If Yoongi just doesn’t look at him, he’ll be fine.

. . .

Over the years, over the course of countless different hobbies and specific fixations, Yoongi has learned that generally,  you don’t really know how deep into something you’ve gotten until you turn around and find that the exit door has disappeared. That’s fine, that’s something he’s come to recognise by now, and these days, Yoongi tends to have an emergency plan ready. 

So there’s absolutely no reason why this should’ve caught him off-guard. Absolutely none. He should’ve known, should’ve expected it to happen; should’ve made the proper plans and preparations, ensured that the exit door was kept propped open so he could speedily walk backwards out the door and away from whatever awkward situation was looming.

But—it did. It has. And Yoongi has accidentally wandered so deep into it that now he can’t even remember the general direction of the stupid exit door.

It’s all the orgasms, he reasons. His body isn’t used to the amount of pleasure he’s been getting over the last few months, and now he’s gotten all dumb and sex-stupid, each part of his brain slowly shutting down logical thought and giving in to his more carnal desires. It’s the only explanation for how he’s somehow forgotten how to do things such as suppress all his random boners or fall asleep alone and, following the latest developments in his mildly-interesting life, fucking look at Seokjin when he speaks to him.

Look, their general inability to look each other in the eye isn’t notable, in Yoongi’s opinion. They’re both admittedly extremely bad at eye contact which is a thing their fans like to make fun of them for, but Yoongi just doesn’t really like looking people in the eye, thinks it’s too intimate, and Seokjin—well. He can and he will force himself to make eye contact with everyone else in the group, but his natural state of being is to not. It works well for them.

But lately, it’s become a problem because now Yoongi can’t even look at him.

It started off with Yoongi being unable to look him in the face, choosing to focus his vision somewhere in the vicinity of Seokjin’s neck. Which isn’t bad, except for the fact that Seokjin has a beautiful neck, and the curve of it makes Yoongi feel things that aren’t very appropriate in public. So he’d decided to turn his attention to Seokjin’s shoulders. Seokjin has really nice shoulders, large and broad, and they always make Yoongi feel so safe and secure when they’re in bed, and that’s not a very good train of thought to go down either. And it’s not like Yoongi can look at his chest, or his knees, or his feet. So the only logical solution is to just...not look at him outside the bedroom. Just to be safe. Prevention is better than cure, and all that.

They still speak to each other of course, but it happens like this: Yoongi will say “Jin-hyung, listen to this,” while turned towards Jimin, then recount the whole stupid story he’d wanted to tell him with his eyes trained on Jimin’s face. When he finishes, Seokjin will say, “Haha, that’s really funny, Yoongi,” and then launch into a witty quip about the story with his eyes trained also on Jimin. And then Yoongi will laugh and say, “Oh, but, hyung—” and give his own bullshit opinion specifically designed to make Seokjin cackle, which, oftentimes, he does, but which also triggers the unintended action of Jimin blinking at the both of them, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and saying, “But why are you both looking at me?”

And if it isn’t Jimin, it’s the other members. Sometimes Seokjin and Yoongi are lucky and they get Taehyung, who just seems to relish in the attention and doesn’t question why he’s suddenly a third wheel in the conversation. Sometimes, it’s Namjoon, who participates actively in the conversation, not really picking up that they’re not exactly talking to him. But there are other times when they aren’t as lucky and get stuck with Jungkook, who fidgets under their combined attention, unsure of what to do. The worst is when they get stuck with Hoseok, who’s probably the closest to unraveling their whole not-thing—his eyes narrowed as he tries to make sense of just what is going on.

So it’s like. Yoongi goes to work then goes to the dorm and ends up with Seokjin most nights, cuddles him and talks with him about everything and anything under the sun, falls asleep wrapped in his arms and wakes up with the sudden inability to even look in his general direction.

. . .

Seokjin still fucks him so well, though, and that’s the problem. That’s all the problems, actually, all ninety-nine that Jay-Z was talking about in that one song. Because Seokjin fucks him so well that Yoongi aches for it, craves for it on days he doesn’t get it; because Yoongi’s brain shuts down during sex and he can’t help but babble on and on, things like fuck and hyung and you feel so good inside me and yours forever, hyung; because Seokjin responds with yours, and fuck, and you’ve ruined me, baby, and fucks him harder everytime; because Seokjin’s voice is sincere and his expressions are some of the most vulnerable ones Yoongi’s ever seen him wear, and Yoongi doesn’t know what he looks like but he knows that it’s probably similar.

And Seokjin is gorgeous, which is yet another fact that Yoongi has had to come face-to-face with and re-understand over the last few months. He’s just so fucking handsome it’s ridiculous, like God woke up and decided let me make the perfect man and sculpted him out of clay. Even his face when he comes is a work of art—his hair matted to his forehead from exertion, his chest heaving with breaths, his mouth thrown open and all his features their own version of blissed out, and it makes Yoongi want to stare at him for hours, makes Yoongi want to kiss him again and again, over and over, live and die and breathe and exist within the pillows of Seokjin’s lips. 

He thinks he said something like that to Seokjin, once, coming down from his sex-high. Seokjin had laughed all breathy and said wouldn’t that make eating hard? which was definitely a valid point against the idea, but one that Yoongi has chosen to ignore. Maybe one day the scientists will come through and teach humans how to photosynthesize. Maybe one day Yoongi won’t even need anything else except Seokjin’s lips and his cock.

And that’s the other thing—all this sex talk is embarrassingly intimate, far too intimate for this super casual, super great not-thing that they have between them. Because they’re friends. Best friends. Bandmates. Seokjin is his hyung. Yoongi has known Seokjin for ten years, has seen him almost every day during that time, has seen him dressed up in all the best and worst outfits their stylists have chosen for them. Seokjin is flaily and loud and unpredictable and a little awkward with his body sometimes. Seokjin is athletic and competitive and very good at board sports. Seokjin makes dad jokes and has little rules he makes for himself that he follows to the letter, and he postures a lot and likes to pretend he can drink Yoongi under the table. Seokjin can’t drink Yoongi under the table. 

Seokjin can suck Yoongi under the table though.

You see why this is a problem?

. . .

The straw that breaks the camel’s back happens during their pre-filmed Japanese interview for the new album. It’s with one of those interviewers they always go to whenever they release something new, and she’s familiar with them by now, used to their random antics and quips and their generally chaotic energy. And it goes well, for the most part. Except then they start answering fan questions and everything turns to shit.

“Who do you think worked the hardest on the album?” Is the question they get. It’s an easy question they always get, and one that Yoongi is so ready to give an answer to, so he does. 

But then in five seconds everything starts going downhill, because: 

First, Yoongi stares intently at her and says, “I think Jin-hyung really worked hard this time”, and Seokjin, keeping it equal, laughs demurely and says, “No, probably not as much as Yoongi did”, while also staring at her; 

Then, Yoongi—because his brain-to-mouth filter doesn’t really work sometimes—decides that the logical response to that is “Your ears are turning red”, while still staring at her, and Seokjin—because they keep everything equal at all times, says—“Stop looking at me”, while also still staring at her, and—  

And to add insult to injury, to add fuel to the fire, the interviewer very clearly notices, seems a little taken aback, and says, “SUGA-ssi...Jin-ssi is...over there?” like it’s something Yoongi doesn’t fucking know, something he isn’t especially attuned to at all times—Seokjin’s location in any given space, in any given room—and her response makes Yoongi laugh awkwardly, makes the energy in the room flip from something bright into something more awkward; makes Namjoon and Hoseok’s auras flip from happy to mutinous. 

But see, Yoongi still can’t look at Seokjin, is still physically unable to even turn his head into Seokjin’s direction, so instead, he does the literal opposite—turns to Namjoon, sitting on his other side. “Yeah,” he says, straight into Namjoon’s quietly murderous glare. “Hi, Jin-hyung.”

There’s a pointed pause.

On the monitor in front of them, Yoongi sees Seokjin do the exact same thing, turning towards Taehyung. “Yoongi-ssi,” Seokjin replies. The expression Taehyung gives him is a little incredulous and a little insulted.

“Right,” Jimin says, his voice strained. “Next question, please.”

. . .

So it’s not surprising that when they arrive at the dorms, Hoseok says, “No, you don’t,” and grabs him by the wrist before he can run off to his room and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. Hoseok is, quite honestly, the sternest of them all; when he’s mad he’s really mad, and it’s really terrifying, even to Yoongi.

Hoseok drags him all the way to their dining table, where Seokjin is already sitting, flanked by Taehyung and Jungkook who are needlessly holding him in place. “Let go of me,” he’s in the middle of saying, while Namjoon sits across from him with Jimin, his eyes a little squinted as he studies Seokjin’s expression. 

Hoseok deposits him on the seat right next to Seokjin, then goes to sit beside Jimin. Jungkook pats Seokjin on the shoulder once, and then he and Taehyung move to sit in the last two vacant seats. They’re all crowded around the table in a semi-circle, like some sort of budget version of the Jedi High Council. 

It’s fucked up, is what it is.

“This is fucked up,” Yoongi complains. 

“It’s not,” Namjoon replies immediately. 

“I didn’t consent to this,” Yoongi says.

“I didn’t consent to the dynamic of our group getting messed up because of whatever is going on with you and Jin-hyung either,” Namjoon points out. “But here we are.”

Yoongi wants to throw something at him. At all of them. But there’s nothing to throw, their dining room strangely barren. Yoongi makes a mental note to buy more things if only for tantrum purposes.

Beside him, Seokjin sighs. “Why are we here?” He asks, and his chair shifts, away from Yoongi. The movement makes Yoongi pout a little.

“We’re here because there’s something going on with you two and it’s ruining our group dynamic,” Hoseok says, his voice steely. “We’re supposed to be a team.”

“We are,” Yoongi says. He shifts away from Seokjin as well, just so they’re even. “There’s nothing going on with me and Seokjin-hyung.”

“Really?” Hoseok asks skeptically. “Then why can’t you guys look at each other?”

“There are just more interesting things to look at, that’s all,” Yoongi shoots back. “Like you. Or maybe Jimin. Sometimes Namjoon.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “Yoongi-hyung,” he says, sternly. “Shut up.”

Seokjin sighs again, this time louder and more dramatic. “Well, whatever it is, if there is something going on with us, shouldn’t you leave us to sort it out on our own? Not...ambush us with a group meeting or whatever you’re doing.”

“Agree,” Yoongi says. He still doesn’t look at Seokjin.

Namjoon rolls his eyes in reply. “No, because we know you both,” he says. “You guys would talk about all the stupid things in the universe, but move to opposite ends of the world before you’d even think about discussing your feelings towards each other.”

“Where are the opposite ends of the world?” Seokjin asks. “Is it New Zealand and Alaska?”

“No, those are sort of near each other because of the Pacific Ocean,” Yoongi answers dismissively. “The earth is round that way. North and South pole, maybe.”

“But the earth is round that way, too,” Seokjin replies, confused.

“See what I mean?” Namjoon deadpans. “This is why we need to be here. To mediate. To facilitate the conversation enough until we’re able to get to the core of everything.”

Sometimes, Yoongi hates Namjoon’s pacifist ass. “Okay, fine, we’ll talk,” he says, crossing his arms. He stares at Jimin. “Seokjin-hyung, do you have a problem with me?”

“Absolutely none,” Seokjin says. Yoongi doesn’t know who he’s looking at, but he knows it isn’t him. “Yoongi, do you have a problem with me?”

“Nope.”

“See, all sorted,” Seokjin says, his voice light. “Can we go now?”

Apparently, that makes Hoseok lose his shit. “Can you two please look at each other?” He explodes. His expression is desperate, and he’s gripping Namjoon’s shoulder so hard that Yoongi thinks it must hurt. “I can’t handle this. I genuinely can’t. They’re never going to speak, Namjoon.”

“I agree with Hobi-hyung,” Jungkook agrees, his voice a little quiet. It’s the first words he’s said this whole time. He’s pouting and he’s wearing the expression he gets when he’s about to cry, clearly upset about his two eldest hyungs fighting in front of him. Even though Yoongi and Seokjin aren’t fighting. “I don’t think they’ll tell us.”

“Maybe we can make guesses?” Jimin suggests, because he’s proactive and annoying like that. “Throw stuff at the wall until it sticks.” He squints at Seokjin. “Jin-hyung, did you and Yoongi-hyung fight?”

“No,” Seokjin answers. 

“SUGA-hyung, did Jin-hyung touch your stuff again?” Jungkook asks.

“No,” Yoongi says. “At least, I don’t think he did.”

“I didn’t,” Seokjin says helpfully.

“Maybe it’s something stupidly shallow,” Namjoon muses. “SUGA-hyung ate Jin-hyung’s food.”

“Jin-hyung drank Yoongi-hyung’s iced americano,” Jimin says, his tone lilting up at the end like a question. 

“Jin-hyung adopted a dog and didn’t let Yoongi-hyung play with it,” Taehyung suggests. 

“Why does Yoongi need to play with my hypothetical dog?” Seokjin puts in, a little baffled.

“I want to play with Jin-hyung’s hypothetical dog,” Yoongi says, because he needs to put that out there. “Just saying.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “Maybe they’re not fighting,” he says. “Maybe...maybe they have a stupid bet. Whoever looks at the other first loses.”

“Maybe they saw a conspiracy theory documentary about eye-contact being a leading cause of death and decided they’d just never look at each other,” Jimin says nonsensically. He pouts when the rest of the group looks at him incredulously. “It’s possible. It’s the two of them. They do all sorts of dumb things together.”

“They really do,” Hoseok says, still studying them too sharply.

“Maybe they got drunk and accidentally got married,” is Jungkook’s contribution to the growing list of nonsensical, shallow reasons. Yoongi snorts at that.

Jungkook’s suggestion however, clearly gives Taehyung an idea. “Or maybe, maybe Seokjin-hyung and Yoongi-hyung are secretly hooking up,” he suggests. Then he laughs like it’s a particularly funny joke he’s telling, which makes Jungkook and Jimin laugh as well. Namjoon also giggles a little bit.

Yoongi however, isn’t laughing. Can’t make himself, frozen in his seat. Beside him, Seokjin stills too.

Taehyung catches their reaction, and his laughter quickly gives way to wide-eyed terror. “Oh my God,” he says, sounding horrified. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Namjoon says. His smile slips off his face. “What?”

Yoongi wants to look at Seokjin, his only ally in this whole thing, but, well. He can’t. He still physically cannot fucking bring himself to turn to face him, cannot bring himself to turn in his direction for even five seconds to see how he’s reacting. 

“You’re fucking?” Jungkook asks bluntly, his eyes wide. “You?” He asks Yoongi. “And you?” He asks Seokjin.

Seokjin sighs. “We are not fucking,” he says, and it sounds like an absolute, goddamn lie. “We were just...we’re just…”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, cutting Seokjin off. “We are fucking.”

The collective dramatic gasp echoes comically around the room.

“Since when?” Jimin’s the first to get his bearings, and he slams a hand down on the table, eyes big, demanding more information. “How long has this been going on?”

Yoongi screws up his face as he thinks. “Like. Two weeks before we started making the album, I think.”

Jungkook gasps again. “That long?”

Has it been that long? Actually, Yoongi hadn’t realized—hadn’t noticed the time passing, all distracted by work and their schedules and Seokjin. He supposes, if he thinks about it, it has been quite a while; they started making the album almost six months ago, after all.

“I guess,” Yoongi says eloquently.

“How did it start?” Namjoon wants to know.

This time, Seokjin speaks. “Yoongi and I were alone in the dorm,” he says, and his voice is lifeless. Devoid of the joking tone he often uses when he’s trying to talk his way out of things. “We were watching a movie. There was some soju. Also some boners.”

Namjoon looks pained. “I shouldn’t have asked,” he says. 

This time, it’s Hoseok who gasps again, clearly having put something together in his brain. “I caught you leaving Jin-hyung’s room that one time,” he says, pointing at Yoongi. He sounds a cross between angry and disgusted. “I—was it—did you guys—”

“No,” Yoongi says, because Hoseok looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm at the idea of having caught Yoongi post-sex, and also because it’s the truth. “Not that time, no. We just cuddled and fell asleep.”

“Why wasn’t I invited to the cuddling party?” Taehyung asks.

It’s Seokjin who answers him. “Did you want to be?” He deadpans.

Taehyung opens his mouth to reply, seems to realize the implication of that, then closes his mouth with a click.

“That’s what I thought,” Seokjin says.

And see, this is exactly why Yoongi didn’t want them to know. What he and Seokjin have isn’t something worth all the dramatics. Sure, maybe Yoongi’s brain gets all sex-stupid and sappy and he says all the dumbest most romantic shit while they’re fucking, and sure, maybe Seokjin spends most nights cuddled up to Yoongi, but at its core they’re just best friends who fuck. Two people who help each other out. Perform acts of service to show their appreciation for each other.

Right?

“Look, it’s not a big deal,” Seokjin is saying to the others. His tone of voice is placating, but for some reason Yoongi’s heart doesn’t seem placated, thudding in his chest like Seokjin’s making his ridiculous statements once again. “We just help each other out. If you guys want to do the same thing with each other then you guys can.”

All five faces in front of them simultaneously settle into an expression of disgust. Yoongi would find it hilarious if he wasn’t too busy trying to get his heart to calm down.

“...Okay,” Namjoon says, obviously still a little disturbed at Seokjin’s last statement. “Um. Now that...now that the secret is out, can you both please talk to us?”

Yoongi makes a noise. “But there’s nothing to talk about,” he replies, even as his heart seems to protest, thumping in his chest like it’s demanding for his attention. “Jin-hyung and I haven’t fought. We’re still friends. We interact with each other. We just fuck, sometimes. There’s nothing wrong.”

A pause. “You both can’t look at each other.”

“Well, that’s between him and me now, isn’t it?” Yoongi shoots back.

Namjoon opens his mouth, clearly about to argue but it’s Jimin who cuts him off with a frustrated noise. “No,” he says, his voice a touch angry. “No, it isn’t. Because we’re in a group aren’t we? Which means we have to live together and work together and practice together and interact with each other. And if there are two members of the group who refuse to even look at each other, it affects us all. So please, talk to each other before you drive the rest of us insane.”

The pause that comes after that is a little damning. “He’s right,” Namjoon says, his voice small. “Yeah.”

When Jimin puts it like that, Yoongi supposes it is a bit of a problem. The group is—Seokjin and Yoongi have never spoken about it, but it’s both clear to them that the group is far more important than whatever this not-thing is. They’ve worked so hard, sacrificed so much to get to where they are now, and it would be a shame if it all fell apart just because they fucked and then fucked up somewhere along the way.

Besides, Yoongi thinks—as his heart beats out patterns like he’s on the verge of a life-changing realization—it’s Seokjin. It’s been ten years at this point, which makes this ten years too late to be all awkward and stupid and dumb around each other. They’ve shared rooms and beds and even mutual orgasms. Yoongi had been the one to take care of Seokjin whenever he’d gotten sick; Seokjin had bought his sugar gliders because he’d decided to search up SUGA on the internet. They’d cared for Odeng and Eomuk together, sitting on the floor of their shared room years ago and letting them crawl all over their bodies, giggling as their tiny feet tickled them. Yoongi had been the only one Seokjin had trusted to look after them when he’d been away from the dorms.

It’s Seokjin. Jin-hyung. Funny, awkward, unpredictable Jin-hyung, who makes Yoongi laugh no matter how sad he is, who somehow manages to shut up all the noise in Yoongi’s head. Jin-hyung who kisses him exactly the way Yoongi likes, who fucks him good and hard, almost every night, who holds him close while they’re coming down and hides his face in his hair like some sort of pachycephalosaurus. Jin-hyung, who’s always warm when Yoongi is cold, who’d known, from the get go, what Yoongi wanted. What he’d needed.

It’s just Jin-hyung. His Jin-hyung.

Fuck.

“I love you,” Yoongi says, and it’s a revelation even to him. The rest of the members gape at him, but Yoongi barely notices, because for the first time in months, Seokjin is staring right at him, looking a little bit like he’s been slapped in the face.

And Yoongi knows this, because somehow, he’s finally mustered up the courage to look at him again.

There’s a pause where it feels like everyone is holding their breath. “Oh,” is Seokjin’s reply, swallowing. His eyes are wide as saucers. “That’s...cool.”

Right. Definitely cool. So cool. Yoongi manages to keep his expression blank, turning to look at Hoseok. “Right,” he says. “We’ve spoken. May I go?”

“No,” Hoseok says, like the hard-ass he isn’t. “Let’s listen to Jin-hyung now.”

Yoongi scoffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, waiting. Fuck was definitely the right reaction, and this entire group meeting has gone from marginally annoying to ridiculously stupid. It’s obvious from Seokjin’s reaction that he doesn’t love Yoongi back. He doesn’t know why he still has to stay, has to listen to the torture that is Seokjin letting him down before he can go into his room and cry a little, relearn how to suppress his boners and wonder how he’s going to get used to sleeping alone again.

Seokjin’s ruined him for anyone else, he’s pretty sure.

Hoseok clears his throat, a clear gesture for Seokjin to speak. The rest of the members are silent, like they very rarely are. They must be waiting, too.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin begins. It’s Yoongi’s name. A name he’s said millions of times. A very nice word to begin the whole rejection speech. Yoongi can’t believe Seokjin has the audacity to taint his own name like that. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m…” Seokjin pauses, running a hand through his hair. His eyes suddenly grow wide, “…that…shit. I love you too.”

Yoongi’s brow furrows. Seokjin appears to have missed some words there somewhere. “You what?” He asks, giving him a chance to correct himself.

“I…” Seokjin swallows, looking like he’s just eaten a particularly sour piece of jelly. “I love you too.”

That’s convincing. Yoongi stares at him. “You love me?” He repeats, just to be sure.

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you meant to say?”

“Yeah.”

Yoongi’s pretty sure Seokjin’s just making ridiculous statements again. “Are you sure you didn’t just miss the word don’t there, somewhere?” He asks, trying not to get his hopes up.

“Hey,” Seokjin says, affronted. He pulls himself up to his full height, his shoulders becoming broader, and it reminds Yoongi of a puffer fish blowing up when it gets threatened. “I didn’t have that many questions when you told me you loved me.”

And then all of a sudden, it’s too late; Yoongi’s stupid heart starts singing. It really, genuinely does, high notes and low notes and romantic lyrics audible only within his chest cavity. “I just want to make sure,” he replies.

Seokjin scoffs. “You think I don’t know my own feelings?”

“It’s very possible.”

“Which one of us had a boyfriend again?”

“Just because you were getting laid on the regular—“

“—and that’s our cue to leave, I think,” Hoseok interrupts, getting to his feet and pulling Jimin up with him. He pauses for a moment, before slowly sitting back down. “Actually, no. We’re five people and two idiots here. We’re the majority. You leave.”

“Fine,” Yoongi says apathetically, unwilling to argue over being called the blanket title of ‘idiots’. Not when there are more important, more urgent things to discuss. “Jin-hyung, let’s go.”

Seokjin, to his credit, follows Yoongi to the bedroom without a word. Yoongi can hear the other members talk as they walk away, some quiet complaints and general questions.

“But Hobi-hyung, I wanted to watch,” Jungkook’s voice is saying.

“Let them have their privacy, Jungkook,” is Hoseok’s reply.

“How did we not know they were fucking?” Namjoon wonders, incredulous. “Really?”

“Is that why they kept staring at me when they spoke to each other?” Jimin wants to know, sounding vaguely scarred.

“They stared at you?” Taehyung asks.

The voices fade when Yoongi shuts the door behind them. Seokjin, as always, seems to take up all the space in the room with his shoulders and his height and his general broadness. His face, however, is the one to blame for the sudden lack of air in Yoongi’s lungs, his expression a mix of confused and fond and hopeful, so hopeful.

“So,” Seokjin says. “You love me?”

Yoongi crosses his arms, feeling defensive. “You love me,” he shoots back.

A pause. “I do,” Seokjin admits quietly. His tone is far more sincere than earlier around the members. “I...I really do.”

Yoongi’s heart is still singing. He sighs, fighting a smile. “What should we do about this?” He asks woefully, sitting down on the bed. He thinks for a second, before he just lets himself fall all the way down, his back hitting the soft mattress with a quiet thud. 

Seokjin, perceptive to Yoongi as he always is, takes the invitation. “I don’t know,” he says. Yoongi hears his footsteps as he crosses the distance between them, and then suddenly the bed is dipping underneath his weight. It’s only a few seconds before Seokjin’s face pops into his line of vision, his hand hovering over Yoongi’s face like he’s afraid of making the wrong move. “You love me and I love you.”

“A mutual love,” Yoongi replies seriously. “That maybe deserves mutual orgasms.”

That makes Seokjin bark out a laugh. “Really?” He asks. “Right now? The others are probably listening in.”

“So? Let them,” Yoongi says. He reaches up, wrapping his arms around Seokjin’s neck, his hands slipping into his hair. “It’s the price they have to pay for subjecting us to that terrible group meeting.”

“It wasn’t that terrible,” Seokjin says.

“It was terrible and you know it.”

“It wasn’t,” Seokjin insists, his lips twitching up into a smile. He lets Yoongi pull him closer until their noses are brushing against each other. “Because at least now I can look at you again.”

Yoongi scoffs, feeling himself flush a little. “It genuinely wasn’t that big a problem,” he argues.

It’s difficult to see, but Yoongi is fairly sure that Seokjin rolls his eyes. “One day, you should really stop playing the devil's advocate and just accept whatever I tell you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Yoongi shoots back, and pulls him down to kiss him before he can reply.

Seokjin kisses him back, immediately, of course—his lips the perfect combination of soft, gentle and wicked, the curl of his tongue hinting the promise of more.

. . .

Later, when they’re both coming down from their orgasm, still sweaty and shaking and panting, Yoongi throws a hand around Seokjin’s waist, nuzzles into his chest. “Really though,” he begins. “What are we going to do about this?” 

Seokjin hums, his fingers carding through Yoongi’s hair. “Well,” he says. “I was thinking we could...date.”

“Date,” Yoongi echoes.

“Yeah, you know.” Seokjin shifts, dislodging Yoongi a little. “See each other romantically, but it’s also all super casual.”

Yoongi pinches him. “I know what dating means, you dick.”

“Are you sure?” Seokjin asks. “`Cause I can explain it a bit more.” He scrunches up his face, as if thinking. “You see, Yoongi, when two people love each other—”

“Stop,” Yoongi says, laughing. He pushes himself up to hover over Seokjin, unable to stop himself from grinning. “Seriously, stop it.”

Seokjin purses his lips, still red and still a little swollen from Yoongi’s kisses earlier. “Forgive me if I just want to help out my dongsaeng,” he points out.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, leans down to kiss him again—he’s allowed to now, allowed to do it whenever he wants, and the thing about Seokjin’s lips is that they’re just begging to be kissed at all times, all twenty-four hours of the day, all seven days a week. “Hyung of the year,” he deadpans, when they eventually separate.

Seokjin rolls his eyes. “An accolade more important to me than all the daesangs,” he quips. He pauses, a slight, unsure expression crossing his face. “So...do you want to?”

He’s absolutely ridiculous for even considering that Yoongi might not want this too. “I don’t know,” Yoongi replies, just to tease him a little. “Will I be kept secret from the rest of your members?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, his lips twitching up. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi isn’t finished. “Will you break up with me when you win a BBMA and get too busy with your job?” He asks, grinning. “Then we’ll never see each other again because you won’t have time for me?"

Seokjin glares at him, but there isn’t any heat behind it. “We’re literally in the same group, you dumbass,” he says. He grabs Yoongi’s wrists, and in one swift motion, pins them above his head, hovers over him. “I see you everyday. You’re busier than me.”

All very true facts. Yoongi pulls his wrists away. “Yeah,” he says. He reaches up to tangle his fingers in Seokjin’s hair, scratches at his scalp a little. “So?”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “So?” He shoots back. “Dating? Yes or no? I need to know so I can start making plans to bed someone else, if needed.”

Right. Yoongi pretends to hem and haw over it, even though he’s pretty sure Seokjin already knows his answer. He does it for so long that Seokjin gets impatient, leaning down to bite sharply at Yoongi’s lower lip.

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi feels himself grin. “Fine, I guess I’ll agree to dating,” he says, doing his best to sound long-suffering. “As long as I’m not kept secret from the rest of your little group, or whatever you do to your boyfriends.”

That makes Seokjin bark out a laugh, flopping down onto his back right beside Yoongi. He flails his limbs around a little because he’s still Yoongi’s awkward, unpredictable Jin-hyung, before turning onto his side, his wicked lips curved up in a gorgeous smile. “Trust me,” he tells Yoongi. “I think they might already know.”