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Over the years, Yoongi likes to think that he’s developed a solid grasp on most – if not all – of Namjoon’s both human and unhuman-like behaviors. He knows, for instance, to prepare meat as blue as possible when preparing bulgogi; knows that Namjoon prefers to air-dry after showers rather than use a towel, so Yoongi saves a considerable amount on linens; knows that Namjoon gets very excited very quickly when passing by dog parks, so he makes sure to take a detour through the city when they’re in a hurry to be somewhere.
Some things, though, Yoongi will never be able to get used to.
He’s lived with his now-best friend for what is approaching four years very quickly, and every February catches him off guard every single time. He knows it’s coming, he knows what’s going to happen, and it still has the audacity to creep up on him like a spider unseen on the back of his calf, inching its way forward, undeterred, while Yoongi struggles to summon the amount of effort necessary to care about the insistent tickling sensation that he should do something about, but won’t, because, eh. It’ll take care of itself. (He then ends up with a nasty bite mark as a smarting reminder of what happens when negligence takes precedence over proactivity.)
It starts small: Namjoon’s ears flat, but perked outwards, constantly – a telltale sign of anxious restlessness. Yoongi asks him what’s wrong – it might be the cold weather, the constant need to bundle up and stay out of the snow when all he wants to do is shed layers and romp around in it. It’s late December, maybe early January. Namjoon furrows his brow and shakes his head in a nonverbal communication of it’s fine, hyung. Always one for masked communication. Yoongi accepts it, nevertheless, like he knows he shouldn’t.
It metastasizes, albeit subtly: mid-January, still balls-freezingly cold, although less so, due to Namjoon draping himself all over Yoongi any chance he gets. His limbs are long and gangly, seemingly wrapping around the elder three times over, holding him captive on the couch, or the bed, or the floor, or literally anywhere Namjoon gets the urge to settle them down into. Yoongi thinks about telling him to disengage, but hears the quiet, contented panting by the side of his ear and decides against it. It’s cold and they don’t have the money for thick comforters. He’ll take what he can get.
It really starts rearing its head around the end of January. By now, Yoongi comes home at nights after his shift at the ramen house in the city to Namjoon’s locked door, beyond which he can faintly hear muffled whines and groans and grunts and all the other stuffs of his own (ashamed) wet dreams. Their apartment does not have the luxury of thick walls, let alone thick walls inside of its individual units. For weeks, Yoongi has a front-row seat to a symphony of sin, accompanied by his own right hand and a couple of pumps of fragrance-free lotion picked up from the corner store. It’s embarrassing. He’s twenty-two and jerking off to the sound of his best friend like he had done when they were both eighteen and hormonal and virgins. It’s been four years and the only thing that’s changed is that they can afford the internet bill for more than six months out of the year.
Now, it’s early February, and Namjoon sits next to him on the couch – well, he tries to. He must land on a stray spring, because he winces and repositions himself closer to Yoongi, so close that Yoongi can feel his natural heightened heat radiate off of him in waves. “Hi, hyung,” he says meekly, like they don’t have this conversation every year.
And still, Yoongi entertains him. Knows that Namjoon processes better when he’s allowed to do it on his own terms. “Hi, Namjoon.” He doesn’t look up from his laptop screen; not because the process of applying to bus tables at shitty noodle shacks is particularly entrenching work, but because he doesn’t think he’s able to make eye contact during this particular conversation; he wasn’t able to the first time, and, four years later, he still finds his toes curling in secondhand embarrassment. Go figure.
Namjoon’s ears lie flat on his head, tail twitching behind him on the sofa. Yoongi can hear the sound of his chestnut fur swishing back and forth over top of the cheap fabric, scritching and swishing and batting and thumping. He’s so anxious, every time. It would be endearing if it didn’t make Yoongi worry for his peace of mind.
“It’s February,” says Namjoon in lieu of getting to the point.
“That it is.”
The empty sound of keys clicking into a silent room. Water rushing through the pipes overhead. Outside, a car alarm blares.
Just beyond the screen of his laptop, Yoongi makes out a water stain on the cracked drywall. Fuck. They’re probably going to have to pay for that with money they don’t have. He’ll have to text someone and see if he can pick up a couple of their shifts.
“So—you know, in the wild. Um. Around this time of year, wolves usually—“
Suddenly, Yoongi can’t stand it anymore. The awkwardness, the clipped sentences, their abrupt inability to make eye contact when usually all they communicate with are facial expressions – it lights something on fire, just underneath the surface of his skin. He can feel it burn its way up from his toes, past the pale, bruised knobs of his knees, singeing through his thighs and up his spine, all the way to and out of his mouth: “Yes, Namjoon, I’ll mate with you this season. Christ. We have this same conversation every year. Have I ever said no? Have I literally ever refused you access to my asshole?”
He’s not looking, but he can hear from the way his voice comes out slightly muffled that Namjoon’s got his face buried in his hands. “God, if you’re listening, please help me.”
“Don’t be cute. You’re an atheist.”
“Anyways,” Namjoon continues on, apparently recovered, “it’s still important to ask. Just because you said yes last time doesn’t mean that ‘yes’ lasts forever.”
Yoongi fixes him with a Look.
“Don’t look at me like that! I wasn’t preaching. I was just telling you. Stop it. I was not being preach-y. Come on.”
Yoongi stays silent.
“…Okay. Even if I was preaching, it was still a valid point.”
“You definitely were preaching, and you were doing it to the choir.” Yoongi shuts his laptop – job applications can’t really wait, but neither can an anxious, rambling Namjoon – and turns to face the agitated wolf on the couch. With a natural kind of familiarity that kind of makes him want to cry, he takes Namjoon’s left hand into his own.
“It’s fine, yeah?” He murmurs, voice low and rumbling in that specific way that Namjoon loves to press his head against Yoongi’s chest to feel. “We’re fine. It’s normal. What is it, four years now?” And two months and one week and six days, he doesn’t say. “What’s a fifth, huh?”
Namjoon looks away.
“Joon-ah. Look at me. Do you want this? Tell hyung honestly.”
“I do,” whispers Namjoon, so, so, so quietly that Yoongi would have had to strain to hear the words had he not been hoping so violently to hear them in the first place.
“So do I,” he whispers back. “So let’s stop this. It’s fine. We’re fine.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Yoongi removes his hold on Namjoon’s head only to pat the soft space between his ears, chuckling inwardly when they automatically part and relax. “Good boy.”
He pretends not to notice the way the younger flushes completely red. “Ah, hyung. I’m not a dog, you know.”
“I know,” says yoongi as he opens up his laptop with his free hand and resumes the process of selecting his available hours. “You act like more of a pup, anyways.”
“Hyung.”
“I know, I know.”
Yoongi forgets about it for a few days. But not really. He doesn’t actively fret over it, doesn’t badger Namjoon about it, doesn’t complain to anybody else about it (ha, like he has anybody else to complain to), but it’s still there in the back of his mind, weighing heavier and heavier with each passing moment.
Will this be the year? He thinks, every year. Will this be the year when I slip up? When I give it away? When he finds out I’ve been balls-retractingly in love with him since the first day I met him?
There is, of course, a component of guilt tucked somewhere deep inside the big ball of emotions that sits thick and tangled at the pit of his gut. He is attracted to Namjoon. Namjoon does not know this. He has sex with Namjoon on an annual basis. It feels kind of skeevy, even though Namjoon is the one who initiates it every year. And every year, Yoongi follows blindly, does as is asked of him without complaint like he’s the dog in the relationship.
There is no relationship. He’s quick to remind himself, always.
Nothing happens for a week. Namjoon goes to class at the junior university he attends on a grant. Yoongi fills shifts, and more shifts, and more shifts, still, until it feels like his feet will grow rotten and grotesque and fall off of the ball-and-socket of his ankle. He befriends a coworker for the first time – a young kid named Jeon. Jeon, something. Fuck. Kinda reminds him of Namjoon, a little bit: that same anxious, restless look in their eyes, like they can’t wait to start moving, like they’re about to burst from all of the energy contained into such an insufficient vessel.
The mundanity of it all makes him want to scream. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, perpetually perched on the edge of his seat as though enraptured in a particularly engaging film: only the film is the sad, dark comedy that is his life, and he’s the protagonist being tortured on-screen for the entertainment of the audience.
It’s Wednesday evening. Around five-ish. Namjoon gets home from his late class soon. Yoongi’s about to go in for the graveyard shift in a couple hours. He eyes the collection of dark brown fur clinging to their ratty old couch and rolls his eyes in exasperation. Namjoon never cleans up after himself when he sheds. Minutes later, the front door opens, and Yoongi advances like a predator upon prey, mini-vac brandished in front of him in an open threat.
“Kim Namjoon,” he scolds, less playful than he is genuinely irate, “you think because you’re some kind of genius you can’t clean up after yourself? What? After your IQ reaches 140, you’ve risen above simple household tasks?”
“Hyung,”
“And that’s another thing—interrupting me. Tell me: who’s the hyung here?”
“You, hyung, but—“
“Namjoon-ah, I know we’ve lived together for quite a while, but this is getting—“
“Yoongi.”
Yoongi’s mouth snaps shut.
“It’s—it’s time. I feel it. It’s tonight, hyung.”
It is only then does Yoongi notice the tremor in Namjoon’s legs, the anxious perk of his ears, his restlessly swishing tail, the raw over-bitten-ness of his plump lips; mating season has hit him in full force.
And here Yoongi is, scolding his on-edge cryptid monster of a best friend with a mini-vac. “Okay,” says Yoongi, calmly setting the mini-vac down on the ground next to their shoe rack. “Okay.” Oh, God. Fuck. “Come on, come help me fix the bed.”
Regular human sex can be messy. Wolf sex is unbelievable amounts of headache-inducing messy. Or maybe that’s just how it is during mating season. Yoongi wouldn’t know, he’s only ever engaged in wolf sex during mating season – has only ever engaged in sex during mating season.
Regardless, a considerable amount of set-up is required before any sexy activities can take place. They strip the bed, because sheets aren’t cheap. They layer the entirety of the mattress in old towels, cringing at the amount of moth holes which seem only to multiply year after year. Namjoon grabs a case of water from the kitchen, bought in proactivity earlier in the week. Yoongi takes out and sets aside the lube and the condoms. It’s all very disconcertingly clinical.
That’s okay. For Yoongi’s sake, it’s better that way.
By the time everything’s set up the way it needs to be, Namjoon’s body has already begun to transform. He doesn’t actually turn into a wolf during sex – that would have been a very hard no. However, his bones shift and expand to allow for a beefed-up structure, more capable of holding down a mate – holding down Yoongi.
When Namjoon turns to look at him over the length of his broad, bare shoulder, time seems to slow down until it runs through his hands thick and tangible, like molasses, so heavy that Yoongi feels bogged down by its burden, chest kicking to life in an attempt to breathe through what is probably the longest five seconds of his entire lackluster life. Despite this, he moves through murky waters of attraction so dense they threaten to suffocate him, positioning himself on all fours above the toweled bed in a crude imitation of flagging.
He can hear Namjoon get excited. The wolf begins to pant in that annoyingly endearing way where his tongue lolls absentmindedly out and he slobbers everywhere; only, now, its less cute than it is intimidating. Accompanying the loud breathing is a sharp gaze needy with its lust, irises glowing an iridescent amber. He looks like the stuff of folktales, of myths, of bedtime stories told to unruly children in an attempt to get them to behave. Yoongi very suddenly feels as though he’s just invited the big bad wolf into his home.
From this point on, there is rarely any type of verbal communication. Yoongi remembers the first year, how world-alteringly different it was to see a version of Namjoon who didn’t ramble on nervously, who didn’t over explain himself at any given moment, who only spoke in grunts, snuffles, and monosyllabic sentences. He loves his brainy boy, he does, but there is something undeniably arousing at being told to bend over or spread legs or open with just a quirk of an eyebrow, a twitch of the jaw.
This is very much the Namjoon he deals with now. The wolf stalks over without any preamble and licks a bold, wet stripe from his scrotum all the way up the cleft of his ass before groaning and doing it again. And again. And again.
“Christ, Joon,” Yoongi pants, dropping down onto his elbows in blindsiding pleasure. “Someone’s worked up, huh?”
Namjoon merely whines in response, a tiny, breathy sound that gets to Yoongi’s head. He imagines him doing it in another circumstance, where maybe their roles are reversed and Yoongi is the one doing the licking apart and Namjoon is the one bending over and burying his face into his forearms atop a towel-clad mattress, and he very quickly has to derail that train of thought before it can mature any further.
This is nothing more than a ceremony, he reminds himself. A fulfillment of natural needs.
It’s hard to remember when Namjoon’s got his tongue licking all over his most sensitive and private areas, hot and wriggling and probing like it’s his mission to break Yoongi down into tears. He has to catch himself from being too noisy, lest something he isn’t ready to say slips out on its own accord. He’s a Pisces, he knows, but love confessions during sex is a bit much.
The cheap fabric of the towels bites into his hands as he clenches them and holds on for dear life as Namjoon snags the lube and hurriedly coats two fingers, coats Yoongi, and pushes in with considerable care and negligible amounts of trepidation. It isn’t exactly a secret that Yoongi regularly penetrates himself – nothing is a secret with how thin their walls are. The thought, however, of Namjoon knowing Yoongi must finger himself frequently enough to warrant two fingers right off the bat, infers that Namjoon must hear Yoongi getting off at nights in their shitty grout-stained bathroom. The humiliation lights every nerve ending he possesses on fire.
“Oh, good boy, Joonie. Good boy, good boy, just like that, keep going.”
Namjoon’s tail thumps against his thigh. Absentmindedly, Yoongi reaches out to stroke it and his lips curl in devilish delight when it earns him a near-pained yowl. “Such a pretty pup. What a nice coat you have on you, hm?”
A needy whine. Tongue on hot flesh. Teeth grazing his most intimate spaces.
At this point, the fingering is more a part of teasing foreplay than it is a necessity. Yoongi looks back over his shoulder at Namjoon and suppresses the urge to groan at the sight of his best friend with his hair mussed, lower half of his face messy with his own spit and covered in Yoongi’s mess, eyes wild and hungry like Yoongi’s his next meal. Something akin to fear jumps in his stomach. “C-come on, puppy, hyung’s ready.”
Namjoon snaps warningly at his thigh, but sits up on his haunches to mount, regardless. It’s only when he reaches out for the couple of condoms they’d spread out earlier does Yoongi grab his wrist and return it back to where it’d come from, gripping solidly onto Yoongi’s frail waist. He looks up at Namjoon, nods his head. Says, It’s okay. Says, I trust you. Says, I know you hate those things because they make your dick feel weird because they don’t use condoms in the forests of Alaska or wherever the fuck wolves are native to. Does not say, I’ve wanted you to raw me since our first time together. Does not even dare to think, please make me yours.
After this, things get a little out of control.
For one, Namjoon howls. Like, an honest to God howl. Yoongi didn’t think werewolves did that in their humanoid forms, but he’s just been proven wrong. It must be a testament to how aroused and excited Namjoon is by the prospect of taking Yoongi raw and bare, for the wolf cannot contain himself for any longer and aims his hips forward to catch on Yoongi’s rim and sink into the hilt in one smooth, instinctive motion.
“Hhhhscnd,” he gasps. “Holy—“ He’ll never get used to the impressive length, how it all miraculously manages to fit inside of him every time. How he adores the slight smarting of the stretch, how he purposefully clenches not only to hear Namjoon lose his goddamned mind, but also to feel just how immeasurably full he is and sigh in contentedness.
It’s an entirely new experience to feel him as intimately as Yoongi now feels him; every crevice, vein, pore, beauty mark, everything feels so vivid inside of him. You’d think after four years of this, nothing would be able to faze him.
This time, though, something is markedly different. It all feels so dangerously intimate in a way that Yoongi hadn’t ever dared to let himself fantasize about even in his lowest, most deepest-darkest moments, let alone entertain the idea of it coming to fruition. The way Namjoon’s hands stay anchored on his hip bones hard enough to bruise; the way Namjoon leans his torso over Yoongi’s back just to be able to lick and nuzzle into the crook of his neck; the way Namjoon chants so lowly under his breath that it is almost inaudible: mine mine mine mine in time with each pistoned thrust—it’s all Yoongi can do to bring a hand behind the nape of his neck and draw him closer, hold him tighter, clench him harder.
“Yours, pup,” he pants. “Doin’ so well. Hyung’s proud of you, always working s-so hard— ngh!— you des-deserve this.”
“S-say it,” Namjoon whines brokenly into his collarbones.
“Say what, baby?”
“Nnnnghh,”
The grip on his hips grows impossibly tighter; the timing of the thrusts speed up. It won’t be long now. “Nuh-uh. Use your words. A-ask hyung nice enough and he’ll give you your treat.”
“Cuh-call me good.” Namjoon says it so quietly that Yoongi would have had to ask him to repeat it had he not already known what the younger was going to request. “Please,” he adds, desperately, hips jack-rabbiting into Yoongi with reckless abandon.
“Good boy,” comes out of his mouth almost involuntarily. At this point, Yoongi’s given up on filtering what leaves his lips. “Good boy, the b- bestest boy, always make me so proud, Joon-ah. Ah, good boy, good boy, guh-good boy, good boy—“
This feeling has never lost its novelty, even after all these years. Namjoon just comes so much, releases such an incredible amount just on the first orgasm that Yoongi squirms on the cock that impales him, so much so that Namjoon must grab him by the midsection and bite into his nape to force him to stay still and take it.
Meanwhile, he’s drifting somewhere far outside of his body, blissed out to heaven and back at the sensation of being pumped full of seed in its most natural, primal state. He’s a human, has always been one, has only ever known others—and yet, in this moment, he feels animalistic; primordial; like prey. As he lays there on his stomach, legs forced apart at the knees, held up only by his ass, a ruthless pair of canines rendering him immobile at the base of his neck, Yoongi can honestly say that there’s absolutely nowhere he’d rather be.
He takes just one moment longer to revel in the early stages post-coital ecstasy before speaking. “Turn me over t’ m’side ‘fore you go again,” he slurs, eyes bleary and limbs shaking from the exertion of staying upright.
Namjoon complies with a snuffle, releasing his hold on Yoongi only long enough to shift them so they’re spooning before wrapping himself entirely around the elder and nuzzling into his overgrown undercut with unabashed affection. He always gets like this after the first orgasm. Even still, Yoongi snuggles back into the touch.
The grip around him suddenly constricts as though he’s being confined, and a second wave of wet hotness floods inside of his nether regions. He groans at how fulfilling it feels to be unloaded into, to be held down and made to accept the fact that this was being done to him and not with him. By the time Namjoon’s relaxed, Yoongi’s belly is slightly distended. He pokes at it with casual interest and laughs incredulously (albeit hoarsely) when it jiggles.
“Hey, Joon-ah. Joon, look. Think y’got me pregnant,” he jokes.
The silence he’s met with is disconcerting. “…Namjoon?” He asks, halfway through the process of turning his head to gaze questioningly up at the younger before he feels a sharp pain at his jugular—a sensation so acute, so smarting that he knows blood has been drawn. Not even a fraction of a second later does the thrusting resume, deeper where it had previously been frantic, slower where it had been shallow. Every push of the cock inside him drags agonizingly against his already-sensitive walls. The dual mixture of the pleasure down below and the otherworldly pain up top has him writhing in the overwhelming experience of sensation that threatens to drown him.
“Namjoon,” he gasps, “s-so—“
Growling at a pitch he’s never heard before from the wolf reverberates from the side of his neck. All at once, Yoongi realizes what has happened. He may be a human, but he’s done his fair share of research on werewolf culture and behavior—enough to know that he’s just been mated. Presumably, forever. By his best friend. Who is also, coincidentally, the love of his life. He supposes there are worse fates to end up with.
He is filled with another load of come. And another. And another. He loses track around the third or fourth time; loses sense of all time and being, really, grounded only to reality by the unfamiliar (yet not entirely unpleasant) heaviness in his gut. It weighs him down to earth, keeps him from floating high above their mattress, up past the roof of their apartment, and up, up, up into the clouds, where he would dissolve amongst the vapor in a dazzling display of ecstasy.
No, instead, he presses both hands into the swollen stretch of skin that runs inflated from the bottom of his rib cage all the way down to the first beginnings of his pubic hair. Behind him, Namjoon thrusts shallowly, calming down from the fervor he’d worked himself up into. He has yet to release his neck, like Yoongi will disappear the moment his canines extract themselves from the tender flesh of his virgin neck.
Yoongi takes this moment of quietude to regroup. How is he feeling? A little nauseous, for one. All that cum inflation fantasy porn doesn’t adequately prepare you for how full your stomach is. Is this how pregnant women feel all the time? God, he should apologize to his mother the next time he calls.
Aside from that, however, there are no negative sentiments that he can recognize. He feels satisfied. Sated. Content. Like he’s served a purpose, like he’s made someone other than himself happy, and what better sensation is there?
In an exhausted stupor, he brings a wayward hand up to pat clumsily at the tangled, sweaty, matted mass of hair somewhere vaguely behind him. “G’boy, Joo.”
In response, Namjoon brings both hands down and around to grip at Yoongi’s enlarged belly, groping and rubbing and massaging like he really is pregnant. He hums a low, contented growl before retracting his canines from Yoongi’s neck; he still remains close to the wound, however, lapping up the blood which leaks from the bite with hot swipes of the tongue. Even after the bleeding stops, Namjoon continues to lick all over the expanse of Yoongi’s neck that he’s able to reach; and then, his ear; and then, his hair.
He’s grooming me, thinks Yoongi, amusedly. Well, that’s new.
But definitely not unwelcome. Neither is the heaviness in his stomach, neither the soreness in his thighs, or the ache at his hole where they are still bound together. He relishes in being this close to Namjoon, knows that when the younger comes out of his mating-induced stupor, he will react with the level of panic appropriate for accidentally mating his best friend for life.
For now, though, Yoongi accepts the fat, wet stripe licked up the side of his cheek. They’ll deal with the rest in the morning. “Good boy, Joon,” he slurs one final time before letting himself slip away into the murky depths of unconsciousness.
Just beyond their warped, dusty windowpane, the full moon shines incandescent in all her glory.