Chapter Text
10:48 pm- the speaker is playing obscure french rap in the corner. Hoseok thinks he recognizes the track but he can’t name it and anyway, it’s only as loud as a lullaby. It’s just for the atmosphere.
His hands are tingling with post-adrenaline jitters. On the last day of the concert, he’d closed his eyes and let the soaring wave of music break over him. They didn’t hold back at all and let themselves go crazy.
Here and now the blunt head of the dildo pops in and Hoseok’s insides seize up. His thighs twinge with the effort of holding himself suspended and not letting the cock ram into him the way he already wants it to.
Deep breaths. Tonight, he wants to make it last.
His hips shift of their own volition, inviting the sweet, slow stretch sliding inside, rolling his hips in tiny thrusts. Hyperaware of the inches of the shiny and pearlescent dildo dragging against his soft, wet walls, velvety to the touch, and easily mistaken for an installation piece meant to sit on a pedestal in Palais des Arts.
He’s never been much of a flagger during penetration and he lets out a hiss when he’s got the whole thick, nine inches tucked inside – he’s almost gasping. He pushes up on his knees, letting an inch or so slip out before sitting back down. Goosebumps fly up his skin. He bites his lips around a low sound of longing. He knows he’ll probably regret being this greedy later, but he doesn’t care.
A clear bead of fluid drips down the length of his cock, leaning hard and heavy to the left and warm lube runs cooler and cooler as it seeps down his taint and the back of his thighs. His balls tighten and his stomach and calves clench. A whimper— pathetic— claws up Hoseok’s throat and indulgent, he lets himself make a soft pained sound.
His attention is pulled by a small commotion in the hall. There are sounds: people calling to each other. Hoseok’s thighs shake as the dildo brushes against his prostrate. The voices are leading towards him, then a knock and Hoseok stops, pauses, heart high, and then just does it, just does it. Gets up from the bed.
He impatiently pulls up the sweatpants over the tent of his cock and wraps himself in a fuzzy robe, clenching down around the girth of the dildo to keep it from slipping out when he limps to open the door.
Seokjin’s on the other side of it, leaning his weight against the frame. Cavalier as ever. Hoseok has barely flagged, and the sight punches a delirious laugh out of him. It makes Seokjin give him a frank once-over.
“Jwaehope! Busy?”
“Well, I was busy,” he pauses slightly, the edit deliberate. “I’m not anymore, no.”
“We’re going out for dinner.”
“We just had dinner.”
“Well I’m going to get some finger food and they’re going out for drinks. Don’t want to be indoors in the City of Dreams.”
“City of dreams? City of lights.”
Seokjin winks. “City of love.”
He’s wearing a tight shirt over pyjama bottoms today, pale blue check. Arms folded. Those checks are warping into diamonds, those shoulder seams are straining. Bare throat; first two buttons open. Hoseok can feel the dildo, which is pink, skimming against the bundle of his prostate.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he blurts out and shuts the door on Jin’s face.
In the bathroom, his hand moves alternately in a frantic blur, then achingly slow, edging closer and closer to the inevitable. He gasps—reaches around blindly—swipes at the switches. The fan roars on, drowning out the ragged sound of his breath. Seokjin’s right outside, oh fuck, oh god. He closes his eyes. Clenches around the nine inches buried inside his ass and spurts thick ropes of cum all over the sink.
In the third year of their debut, they still used the shared company card for dorm expenses. One day, Seokjin sat them down around the dining table, put a bank statement in the middle of it, all heat, and dark lashes, and the heavy scent of cologne and sunscreen.
“One hundred thirteen thousand two hundred and forty-five won debited,” Seokjin enunciated slowly, as though he was holding himself back, “So, which one of you put down payment for a house?”
No one said anything, it had been late afternoon. Late enough to be dark, too early to switch on the lights so when Taehyung squeaked, the flush in his face appeared several times more severe than it was.
“We can afford it though,” Taehyung said, by way of explanation when six pairs of eyes turned to look at him, “Can’t we? We can afford a-” he rubbed his knuckles over his mouth like he did when he was nervous.
“A what?” Seokjin prompted.
“Just-just, something. Not a house.”
Namjoon rolled his eyes. Jimin gasped, said, “Is it the thing we were - ”
“No!” Taehyung jumped in his seat, but there was a crack in his voice. A tell was a tell.
“Oh-kay,” Seokjin narrowed his eyes, “I’m not going to ask, but I hope your ‘something’ will cook and do your laundry.”
The ‘something’ in question arrived, wrapped conspicuously in layers of newspaper and black packing material. Seokjin and Taehyung had been out and the rest of them didn’t touch it for a while, fearing it was an explosive. It was Yoongi in the end, who ripped all the packaging apart, peeped inside, snapped it shut and tossed it violently across the room.
The package hit the wall, made a horrible clanging sound, fell to the floor and out rolled a cocksleeve.
They all went flushed cheeked. Jimin took three steps towards it and four steps away. Yoongi turned aright around and aggressively began to prepare for dinner, Namjoon switched on the TV and turned the volume all the way up, Jungkook hid in his room for an hour and Hoseok cleaned all the packaging, refusing to touch the real thing. His heart thundering painfully in his chest every time his eyes strayed to it.
The fleshlight looked expensive, it wasn’t the flimsy things one came across on porn sites. This one was deep, girthy, the clear silicone ( shaped like a clit as if they weren’t all raging homosexuals in that dorm ) that peeked out looked obscenely lush.
Taehyung and Seokjin returned with windswept cheeks, they froze in the living then refused to acknowledge the sextoy. So it laid there, on the floor between the balcony and the bathroom, and they ate dinner barely two feet away without tasting their food. Someone brought out a bottle of soju, someone brought out a bottle of beer, and the fleshlight ended up propped on the table like a year-end Daesang.
“Y’hafta let us share,” Hoseok heard himself say and received a hard shove from Taehyung. Hyung, what the hell?
“No, yeah,” Jimin slurred, “s’like an investment right, worth-worth a lotta buck. We gotta share the house.”
Jungkook snickered and then covered it up with a cough.
He doesn’t quite remember whose idea it was. Only that it turned into a competition; someone mentioned it jokingly over one too many drinks, and somehow the rest of them ran with it. The semantics were simple- there were seven days in a week, seven of them, and after a drunken stationary dash ( to Jungkook’s room ) seven permanent markers in different colours. The rules were simpler- don’t cum for a week, mark how much of the fleshlight you fill, pass it on. Like a very inappropriate version of Passing the Pillow.
They slurred an oath to not cheat in the results on their unreleased album.
Even Seokjin looked a bit pale.
“And the loser,” Namjoon said, skinny still, long silver hair falling shaggily over the rasp of his undercut, “the loser gets a facial.”
Jungkook spilt his glass of spiked juice over the table.
“From who?” Yoongi stared Namjoon down. Pupils blown wide, his lips pulled into a scowl. Nostrils flaring. He had a look about him like banked embers trying to catch a flame, “From who, Joon-ah?”
And Namjoon paused, he flushed, stuttered, “The winner obviously, the rightful-”
Hoseok doesn’t remember who won, only that each morning for one week, a different member would be in the kitchen boiling the fleshlight in a vat of soap water, a new line marked on the side of it and Hoseok, 21 and out of his mind horny, not having gotten off an entire week purchased the first dildo he came across, opted to pick it up instead of getting it delivered to the dorm. What he does remember is the bead of sweat that slid down his flushed back as he explained to the pharmacist’s wife what lube was and how little of it he bought, the tacky, cold puddle of it in his hand, the mess it made of his sheets. The way he came so hard on that, he lied about it on the fleshlight, marked it much below what it was, embarrassed at the physical quantity of his desire.
One has to cross a garden pavilion from the rooms to the reception of the hotel so predictably they don’t make it out, piling instead into a private lounge. The room smelled like old paper. The ceilings are high and there’s a chandelier in one of the rooms, bookshelves line the walls with pretentious knick knacks that are probably for sale, dotted with uplit paintings in between. It’s late into the night, and there’s drowsiness to the space; the muted shades, the late summer wind outside, the high breathless laughter of a pedestrian.
Moments jerk into the next, the house music (Concerto for 2 Violins in D Minor, BWV 1043: II. Largo, ma non-tanto) plays infinitely to fill the space up, to allow them all to let things go. Yoongi orders them a bottle of whiskey, a few dirty martinis and ‘arancini’ which when it arrives looks neither french nor finger food.
Taehyung’s holding court in one of the numerous scattered slate settees. Ever the entertainer. Relating the highlights of an exhibition he wants to visit the next day, overcompensating for his absence at dinner. Though they all know - someone who had moved to Paris, an old friend, a dear one. I can be discreet, so you don’t have to worry. It’s not like. No one will find o-
Jimin’s drowning in his beanie and hoodie with a lost expression about him, looking smaller than he is and carding through Jungkook’s hair cradled in his lap, and Namjoon’s listening very attentively, his thumb rubbing wide circles on Yoongi’s crossed legs. He turns, his eyes meet Yoongi’s and the pad of his thumb sharpens to a fingernail.
Yoongi’s leg jerks but the rest of his expression is hidden behind a palm thrown over his mouth.
So they’re all tipsy, most of them are, and hiding things. Jimin’s hiding his overworked body. Taehyung, his winter bear. Yoongi, the fact that for once he doesn’t want to be part of an erudite conversation. Jungkook, the way he shivers every time Jimin’s nail scritches his nape. Namjoon, a velvet box rolled in layers of socks and stashed at the bottom of his suitcase. Hoseok himself is hiding the way his asshole clenches sore and empty. And Seokjin-
Seokjin is sitting alone at the table, picking the olives from Jungkook’s drink and watching Hoseok.
Hoseok stills. He stares back. Seokjin’s knees are parted. He’s leaned back in his seat. He’s settled comfortably. He’s been looking for a while. So maybe not hiding at all, maybe just waiting for someone to find him out.
Seokjin eyebrows raise when Hoseok doesn’t look away, a small smile appearing on his face.
Slowly, Hoseok rises, drink in hand and walks towards him. There’s a movement to his steps, his mind has no idea what the music is, but his body does. Seokjin’s chin tilts up with his every step to hold his gaze.
The tempo is addictive- a looping hook broken down by discordant drum beats, and when he comes to a stop between the leisurely splay of Seokjin’s knees, his hips pick it up. He says, “Want me to pour you a nightcap, Jjwan?”
“We’re on schedule, Jwaehope.”
Hoseok isn't sure he's ever heard that particular low, rough edge to Seokjin's voice before. His eyes fall onto Hoseok’s hips rocking slowly from side to side. Seokjin brings a hand up to cup the curve of it, fitting his palm onto the handle. The grip is loose, not intended to deter. “You should pace yourself too.”
Hoseok can't help it. His mouth insists on lazily smiling down at Seokjin.
“I don’t need to be drunk to dance.”
Seokjin squeezes his hips gently, then starts rubbing the area. Hoseok’s breath stills a beat. Even from above his jacket and t-shirt, Seokjin’s hands are so warm.
“So no drinks for you and no dancing,” Hoseok says. “Boring.”
“Are you offering?”
Hoseok swallows the pool of saliva under his tongue and Seokjin glances at his mouth, so fleetingly that he might have imagined it.
“Maybe.”
“Which one?”
Hoseok digs out a cube of ice and holds it to Seokjin's bottom lip, seeking entrance, “Open up.” and Seokjin opens: tilts his head and Hoseok slips the ice into his mouth.
Seokjin keeps it on his tongue till Hoseok’s fingertips skim the soft underside of his lips, presses down the centre.“Swallow.”
Seokjin teeth crunch down. He swallows. Says, “I bet you say that to all the boys.” The moment goes bleary. Hoseok can feel Seokjin's teeth work under the tips of his fingers. He wants to slide his hand to Seokjin’s throat to feel it the shift of bone there. He dare not. Seokjin flicks his tongue out to lick his fingertips. He hums.
“Salty.”
“Gross.” The word comes out muddled through the sharp aftertaste of liquor in Hoseok’s own mouth. But Seokjin is now holding him by his waist. Hoseok doesn’t know when that happened.
Hoseok makes to step back. Seokjin grunts, non-committal and presses a spot at his hipbone that causes Hoseok to whine a little in the back of his throat. His hand slips to grip the breath of Seokjin’s shoulder. He can feel the thickness of the muscles beneath his fingers and his hole clenches. Leaks lube into the seat of his underwear.“ Jin .”
Seokjin laughs then, but his eyes have gone hard. Hoseok's body has been blocking the light. It casts the sharp line of his jaw in shadows. He sees the cocking of it, the bob of his throat—up, down—
“J-hope,” Seokjin murmurs, dipping in and out in-between music and surrounding conversation. “You should see yourself right now.”
Hoseok huffs, like it was supposed to be a joke. Only that now he has his fingertips digging into the meat of Seokjin’s shoulder who, in turn, is holding him by at the ribs. He squeezes and Seokjin squeezes back. He remains quiet, stomach in knots. Seokjin’s looking up at him through dark eyes and just. Just. He wishes .