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the faceless young grandpa who openly lives in jin's room

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Seokjin does something most people with faces don’t do: he looks at Yoongi where his void is, like he’s looking in his eyes.

To be fair, all of Bangtan and most of BigHit looks him in the void now, and it wasn’t like faces hadn’t unnerved Yoongi when he was young, before he realized most people had them. They’re used to him by now. Everyone in Bangtan got used to him, got used to each other, right away. Even fans look him in the void sometimes. But Seokjin’s done it from the start.

Yoongi doesn’t have eyes but that doesn’t mean the void isn’t where he processes things. It’s not a face but it’s like a face, sort of. People don’t like looking at it, really, and Yoongi’s used to covering it up, but Seokjin always just looked at him, even in the morning when he woke up and hadn’t put on a cap or a mask or put up his hood, when he wasn’t masking that there wasn’t a face, just empty void between neck and ears and hair.

It’s weird that it doesn’t bother Seokjin in the slightest, but Yoongi appreciates it. He’s never particularly suffered for being faceless, and these days most everyone has at least a little monster blood, but being faceless is a little more inhuman than average. He gets side-eyed fairly often and has made children cry more than once. But Seokjin just...rolls with it. Looks him right in the void when they first meet in the hallways of Big Hit and says nothing. Doesn’t flinch when the ends of Yoongi’s chopsticks and lettuce wrap vanish into his void. Yoongi’s just another guy. They’ve only known each other for about two weeks before Seokjin’s saying “try this, is it done enough for you” and holding up his chopsticks for Yoongi to take a bite, which is not a thing anyone who wasn’t Yoongi’s mother had ever done for him.

It’s nice. Seokjin looks him in the void, and bosses him around, and scolds him when Yoongi interrupts him. From the moment Seokjin meets him, he doesn’t tread carefully around Yoongi at all.

Yoongi likes that; he likes Seokjin. He likes Seokjin kind of an awkward amount.

The problem is that there’s no reason for him to like Seokjin like that. Seokjin wasn’t the only one who looks him in the void from right away. Hoseok did, too. He tells Yoongi maybe a week after they meet that he dated a girl without a face in Gwangju. “It’s not like you’re weird, hyung. Even though watching you eat’s a little unnerving.”

“Statistically, less than half a percent percent of people are faceless,” Yoongi had said. “I’m literally abnormal.”

Hoseok shrugged. “Look, I’m just saying your void isn’t that freaky, okay? It’s just a void.”

But Hoseok’s comfort with Yoongi hasn’t turned into the same thing as Seokjin’s. Not that Yoongi doesn’t love Hoseok, his closest, dearest friend. Hoseok, who curls into bed with him when Yoongi can’t breathe from panic and doesn’t say anything, just holds his hand. It’s just...he doesn’t think about Hoseok’s mouth. About his hands. About Hoseok smiling at him.

He doesn’t have a dumb crush on Hoseok.

He also doesn’t end up living in the same room as Hoseok, which seemed like a great decision at the time and still is, most of the time, except for when the sugar gliders are crabbing at four in the morning or Seokjin walks into the room shirtless with a toothbrush in his mouth and sets his timer for five minutes.

(“Five minutes?” Jungkook had asked, not long after Seokjin had moved into the dorm with them. Taehyung had bullied him out of the bathroom by threatening to shit in the kitchen sink and he was brushing his teeth on the sofa.

Seokjin gave him a withering look, pausing the timer before pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth. “I have three times the teeth you do,” he said, spraying toothpaste everywhere, probably as petty revenge for bothering him during his sacred toothbrushing time. “And cavities are ugly.” He gestured at the toothpaste foam on the coffee table with his toothbrush. “Clean up your mess, Jungkookie.”)

Despite all their differences, even with Yoongi’s ridiculous crush, Seokjin is a perfect roommate for Yoongi. They have similar taste in movies and they’re well-matched. Yoongi meant it when he said he’d never been more satisfied with a roommate than he was with Seokjin. Even if he’ll never likes Yoongi back--even if Yoongi never tells him how he feels, which he won’t--Seokjin makes it easy to be happy with him. He always has, ever since the day they met.


They’ve been roommates a long time but there are also some things none of them really share. Hoseok’s been rooming with Jimin since Jimin moved into the dorm, but Hoseok’s never seen Jimin take off his head, and Jimin’s never seen Hoseok strip all the way down to his bones, just his hands when something rolls under the fridge or gets caught in between two seats in the van. Yoongi doesn’t show his tendrils to anyone, really. He knew Seokjin filed his teeth, but he’d never seen Seokjin do it.

So when Yoongi’s computer shits on him at the studio and IT sends him home way earlier than he planned so his inevitable tantrum doesn’t bother them working, and he stomps into their room on Seokjin’s mouth open as he runs a file over a back molar, it’s the first time he’s ever seen him do that. The first time, really, he’d seen Seokjin’s mouth so far open for so long that he can see all his teeth, all three rows. The back rows aren’t as pointy-sharp, for grinding and not tearing and cutting, but they’re still shaped strangely. Seokjin files them to look a little less inhuman.

His surprise kills the rant growing in his throat about his work being cut short. It takes a long moment for Seokjin to notice him, and when he does he bites down on the file so hard a tooth cracks. “Yoongi!” The tooth, some form of premolar or carnassial, falls out of his mouth as he spins on his stool to face the door.

“Holy fuck, hyung,” Yoongi says, and rushes over, kneeling in front of him, half-reaching for Seokjin’s face. “Are you okay? Your tooth--”

“It’ll grow back in a week,” Seokjin says, flapping a hand. “It’s fine.” He grabs Yoongi’s hand before it touches his face, squeezing his fingers. “You just surprised me. I usually try to do it alone, people think it’s unnerving.”

“No, it’s fine!” Yoongi says. “I mean, go ahead. I don’t mind. There was a computer fuckup at the studio so I came back way earlier than I said. I’m sorry, you thought you’d have the room to yourself.” He can’t stop staring at Seokjin’s mouth. At his teeth.

“Okay,” Seokjin says. He leans down and picks up the file, and his tooth. “I’m gonna--”

“Can I watch?” Yoongi blurts.

“You--want to watch?” Seokjin says.

“I’m...curious,” Yoongi says and then feels like a complete freak. “Is that okay?”

“No, it’s fine!” Seokjin says. “I was just surprised.” He turns back to the magnified mirror. “Can you, uh. See okay?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, and Seokjin opens his mouth wide again, starting in on the tooth he broke, softening the ragged edges of the broken tooth before he starts filing down the rest of his teeth.

He pulls back, taking a swig of water to clean up the tooth dust and spitting in a bowl he’d already set aside before glancing at Yoongi. “So even though I file them a lot, they sharpen themselves on the stuff I eat, and they keep growing. So after a while they start looking sharper again. And I always would bite my lips before I filed them down, so it doesn’t bother me that much to do it.”

Seokjin’s mouth always seems huge, like there’s more space inside than out. Yoongi knows it’s because his whole face is structured differently because of the extra teeth, but it’s so strange to watch his jaw seem to unhinge.

“Can I--” Yoongi says, before he can stop himself. Seokjin looks at him, really looks into his void, and Yoongi has to finish the stupid sentence. “You don’t have to say yes but can I--touch them?”

“Sure!” Seokjin says, without hesitation. “Honestly, Yoongiyah, I thought you’d ask sooner. Like after I accidentally stuck my hand in your void on the plane that one time.”

Yeah. Yoongi had hated that, the forced intimacy of the accidental touch. It hadn’t hurt, really--it was just intense and private and strange, and Yoongi had made a scared, high-pitched whine that frightened the whole group and their managers. Seokjin had apologized profusely, and even offered, then--wanna touch my teeth? So we’re even?--and Yoongi had laughed at him. But also he’s been thinking about Seokjin’s teeth ever since. About how they’d feel on his neck, his collarbones, that row of slightly-too-sharp, almost human teeth concealing the rows of smaller, more dangerous teeth behind them.

Seokjin slides off the stool to kneel in front of Yoongi, and smiles. “Be careful,” he says, and opens his mouth.

Yoongi swallows his pride, and reaches out, touching one of his bicuspids.

Seokjin’s first row of teeth don’t look especially sharp, especially since he files them, but the edge is thinner than he expected, biting into Yoongi’s finger. “Oh,” he says.

“I told you they were sharp,” Seokjin chides, grabbing Yoongi’s wrist. “I can taste blood.”

“Sorry,” Yoongi says, and twists his hand out of Seokjin’s grasp and goes back, touching with even less pressure, barely running his fingers along the teeth.

Seokjin’s teeth are straight and white, all three rows. Yoongi’s close enough to smell his breath, like toothpaste with a hint of garlic from the kimchi he had at lunch. His front teeth are still mostly flat but the middle and back rows have shaped themselves back into little points, the ridges catching on Yoongi’s fingers. He wonders how they would feel on his wrist. His neck. His--

One of his knuckles brushes against Seokjin’s tongue, and the sudden change in texture has him yanking his hand back like he’s been burnt.

“Yoongiyah,” Seokjin says, gently like he doesn’t want to break the moment, “You’re blushing.”

Yoongi’s hand shoots to his neck, hot under his palm. His fingers, usually paper-dry and freezing, are wet with Seokjin’s spit, warm from Seokjin’s mouth. “I--sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Seokjin says, voice odd. Yoongi looks up at him, and his ears are red, too, flush spreading across his neck and cheeks. He’s so handsome.

“I--you can finish now,” Yoongi says. “Sorry for bothering you.”

Seokjin opens his mouth, but Yoongi flees to his side of the room before Seokjin can say anything else.

The cut on his finger is smaller than a papercut, barely bleeding. Yoongi sticks it in his void, tendrils sucking the blood out, before he remembers his hand was in Seokjin’s mouth a literal minute ago, his fingers still wet, and his neck burns. Shit.

He pulls his hand away from his void and flops onto his bed and doesn’t sulk because he couldn’t taste Seokjin’s saliva under the flavor of his own blood. He doesn’t.


Yoongi falls asleep to the sound of Seokjin humming and the persistent scrape of the file across his teeth, and wakes up because Seokjin says “Eomukie!” and follows his little ball into Yoongi’s side of the room.

“‘S fine,” Yoongi mumbles into his pillow.

“Okay,” Seokjin says, and flops on his bed, on top of the covers. “I’m gonna watch him while he’s over here, okay?”

“Cool,” Yoongi says, and dozes off again. There’s maybe a hand in his hair as he falls asleep, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

He can’t have been asleep long when Seokjin’s shaking him awake again. “Yoongiyah. Yoongi.”

What, hyung,” Yoongi mutters, turning his head just enough to see him.

“I’m going to tell you this now because I’ve never been brave enough before and I don’t want to lose my courage.” That makes Yoongi push himself onto his elbows, waking up a little.


“I like you,” Seokjin says in a rush. “I really like you a lot, Yoongi.”

Yoongi can feel his neck go red, to match Seokjin’s ears. “I--hyung, I--”

“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” Seokjin says. “Like. A date.”

This is an attack. Or a dream. “Jin-hyung,” Yoongi says, swallowing, and Seokjin stares at him with an eerie, blushing intensity that just makes Yoongi feel squishy inside. “You like me?”

“A really stupid amount,” Seokjin says, still talking like he wants to get it all out before someone (Yoongi?) makes him stop talking. Like Yoongi would ever make Seokjin shut up. He even likes listening to Seokjin’s terrible dad jokes. “I want to like, write songs about you and then sing them to you.”

Yoongi knows how preciously Seokjin guards his music, his lyrics, tweaking and editing for years until he submits them to Pdogg or Bang-PD. He’s painfully, intensely anxious about showing the rest of them his music, even though Yoongi, Hoseok, and Namjoon have all told him he has nothing to worry about. He doesn’t, not when Yoongi once handed over a lyric sheet where half the verse was “BLAH BLAH BLAH SOME BULLSHIT HERE” and Namjoon once seriously submitted a beat he created while sleep-deprived and overcaffeinated that sampled both teletubby laughter and the sounds of Namjoon’s own tentacles getting stuck to the tile in the bathroom after a shower. Seokjin almost never workshops his own music with the group until after he’s talked it out with one of the producers and gotten a satisfactory reaction, and he never plays music he’s working on for Yoongi special, even though he’ll pluck out lots of their finished songs on the guitar. He didn’t let Yoongi see any of Awake until it was very nearly completed, instead asking Hoseok to help him.

And Yoongi gets it, because Yoongi has his own neuroses about making music, his own debilitating anxieties and crippling fears, and he gets it because sometimes they lie in bed at night, beds separated by the shelving they use to divide the room, and talk about how hard it can be to make music, and how afraid they both can be, to put it out there, and how worth it it is when they can overcome it. For Seokjin to say that, for Seokjin to say I want to write songs for you and then sing them to you--

Really?” Yoongi says, and his voice sounds small and kind of echoey, poorly modulated as it comes out of his void.

Seokjin laughs. He’s not crying, but the sound is wet and nervous. “Yeah,” he says. “Really.” He’s twisting his hands together in his lap. He swallows and glances up into Yoongi’s void.

He’s always looked into Yoongi’s void.

“I like you too,” Yoongi says, the words falling out of his mouth in a jumble. “Hyung, I really like you too.”

Seokjin’s face splits open in a smile, the big, happy one he sometimes gets singing along to the radio or during board games with everyone, the one that shows off a glimpse of his back rows of teeth. “Good,” he says. “That’s awesome.” He takes Yoongi’s hand. On the floor, Eomuk rolls into Yoongi’s dresser and changes course. “You can go back to sleep now.”

Like Seokjin’s said the magic words, all of his earlier sleepiness is back. He curls on his side, holding Seokjin’s hand to his chest, and passes back out immediately.


They go out for sashimi the next night, a restaurant near the dorm with private booths, where the staff know them fairly well. Yoongi still wears a mask and baseball cap pulled low, but forgoes sunglasses.

Seokjin loves sushi, and he loves food, and he loves this restaurant with the small booths and the lights with the little koi on them, and he apparently likes Yoongi, too, so he’s ebullient, at his most smiley and just goofy enough that Yoongi knows he’s not hamming it up for the donsaengs or the camera. Yoongi loves eating sushi with Seokjin. Seokjin’s happiness is contagious.

They split a big order, trading bites and talking about the group, their ongoing attempts to decipher Namjoon’s extended timeline for HYYH, HyunA’s newest MV. It’s easy conversation, interrupted occasionally by comfortable periods of silence while they eat or the conversation lags. Silence isn’t awkward with Seokjin; they’ve lived together long enough to enjoy the quiet spaces between them.

Seokjin links their ankles together at one point while Yoongi macerates his way through some tuna, and smiles when Yoongi relaxes into it. Keeps talking about his fight with one specific recording mic at the studio that never seems to get his levels right, their feet locked together, and turns to Yoongi and asks “Do you have any tips, Yoongiyah?” His face is closer than is generally polite and Yoongi doesn’t mind.

It’s a good first date, even if it’s sort of weird to walk back home together and then into the same room and never actually say good night. Yoongi’s jacket gets stuck on the cord of his hoodie when he goes to take it off and Seokjin helps him get it off before hanging it on the hooks next to the door, and then he looks down at Yoongi, straight into his void, and swallows.

Yoongi wants to kiss him, or kiss him as best as anyone without a face can: press their heads together and push his tendrils into Seokjin’s mouth and breathe together, pushed up against each other, wrapped up in each other.

Seokjin will probably think that’s weird. Seokjin probably went into this not planning on kissing. Maybe Seokjin doesn’t like kissing. The first--and only--other faced person Yoongi’s dated didn’t like kissing. That wasn’t why they dated but she said it was a bonus.

He tears his gaze away from Seokjin’s full, beautiful mouth--not that Seokjin would know that was where he’d been looking--and says, “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Only if I get to cuddle you, Yoongichi,” Seokjin says, breaking the weird tension with the nickname.

“You always do that,” Yoongi says, but gets his laptop and allows Seokjin to arrange him, tucked into his side with Seokjin’s cheek against his head, Seokjin’s arm wrapped snugly around his side. Yoongi isn’t as cuddly as most of the group--he’d hold all their hands at once if he could, but he’s more reticent to snuggle. But Seokjin’s an undemanding cuddler, and apologizes if he accidentally gets up in Yoongi’s void, and doesn’t grumble or care or get awkward when Yoongi shifts a little. If Yoongi was genuinely uncomfortable, he’d pull away, and Seokjin knows that.

The movie is mediocre, some American romcom with jokes bad enough that even Seokjin is rolling his eyes. They’re watching without subtitles, to try and keep up, but Yoongi’s tired enough and keyed up enough he’s already lost the plot more than once. He can feel Seokjin glancing at him regularly.

“What?” he says, shifting enough to look at him.

Seokjin’s ears go red, and then the rest of his face. He’s been chewing in his bottom lip. “Nothing.”

It’s moments like this Yoongi wishes he had a face, to better display his skepticism. “Liar,” he says, resettling against him, but doesn’t push. Seokjin’s antsy enough that he’ll spit it out sooner rather than later.

The movie gets more and more incomprehensible, and Seokjin snorts with laughter when the heroine inexplicably buys a gun and Yoongi says, “What the fuck.”

“We missed something, right?” Seokjin says.

Yoongi shrugs. He's only been half paying attention, and it’s gotten worse since he looked at Seokjin and Seokjin’s sharp teeth were digging into his plush lip. “We’ll make Namjoonah watch it and tell us.”

“He’ll probably write us an an essay.”

“Why would he think I’d ever read one? The discussion posts for class are bad enough.”

Seokjin giggles, squeaking a little, shoulders shaking. It makes Yoongi laugh, too, and he pushes his head into Seokjin’s shoulder.

The movie gets weirder. Seokjin’s hand strokes soft along Yoongi’s side. “So,” he says, too casually.

Yoongi hums. Here it comes.

“If I wanted to kiss you--”

Oh. “I don’t have a mouth,” Yoongi says. But he can imagine his tendrils in Seokjin’s wet mouth, Seokjin’s sharp teeth raking across ichor, his hot tongue dragging along them, Seokjin’s throat stuffed full, Seokjin gasping and half-choking. “I mean, I have--” He cuts himself off.

Seokjin sits up and looks at him. “Have what?” he says.

“Um,” Yoongi says. He swallows. “It’s really weird?”

Seokjin shrugs. “I’ll live,” he says, though he looks a little apprehensive.

“Okay,” Yoongi says, and then, “Okay.” A tendril slides out of his void, and then another. He doesn’t really have a specific number of them, but two seems like a good place to start. They don’t exactly need to obey the laws of physics.

“Holy shit,” Seokjin says. Well. Seokjin shrieks. He doesn’t scramble back, but he recoils a little. “”You have mouth tentacles!”

“You have a hundred teeth and a pocket dimension in your throat!” Yoongi snaps.

“But I don’t just spring that on people!”

“You asked!” Yoongi says. “You said you’d deal with it!” He prepares to extricate himself from Seokjin. This was a bad idea. “I don’t have lips or teeth or anything, I have these.” Another one slides out. He moves back a little more.

Seokjin reaches out and grabs his wrist. “Wait,” He says. “So when you eat--”

“I mean, I’ve never seen it,” Yoongi says. “But I put the food in and my tendrils macerate it, and then I swallow it.” He pauses. “But they smell and stuff, too. They’re not just like a bunch of tongues. They’re really different.”

Seokjin’s staring at them, his momentary jumpiness gone. “Can I…” he says, and reaches, and Yoongi usually has pretty good control of his tendrils--they’re not involuntary, like Namjoon’s tentacles are sometimes, and they don’t do anything to help his balance, like Taehyung’s tails sometimes do, but he still reaches out for Seokjin’s hand without thinking about it, two tendrils curling around his familiar fingers, watching Seokjin’s eyes go huge.

“They feel,” Seokjin says, and doesn’t say anything else.

Another tendril unfurls to wrap around Seokjin’s hand, and Seokjin’s fingers squeeze back lightly. “I-it’s called ichor,” Yoongi says, trying not to shiver. “Don’t call it ectoplasm. Or skin, ew.”

“It’s…” Seokjin says. “It feels--” He strokes the tendrils, and they swell a little in Seokjin’s hand. Yoongi can feel his guitar calluses, the fine hairs on the back of his hand, a few scars from cooking mishaps on his knuckles, the whorls of his fingerprints, the crookedness of his joints. Seokjin looks back up from his hand to Yoongi’s void. Slides his hand up to touch Yoongi’s neck, thumb brushing against the curved barbell in his earlobe. Yoongi’s tendrils pull back closer to his void, and Seokjin’s front teeth, freshly filed, sink into his full, red lip.

“Hyung, can I--” Yoongi says, desperately, and Seokjin says “Yes” and then Yoongi’s pushing his tendrils, three or four of them, into Seokjin’s mouth, dragging Seokjin in closer, so his forehead is brushing Yoongi’s bangs, and Seokjin’s gasping, digging his fingernails into Yoongi’s neck, opening his mouth so his tongue can tangle in Yoongi’s tendrils, his mouth as hot and wet and sharp as Yoongi had always imagined.


Seokjin closes his lips around the tendrils and sucks, tongue sliding along his ichor, and Yoongi’s scrambling into his lap, holding his face, so he can feed another tendril in and in, sliding past Seokjin’s soft palate and into the space where his throat opens up, and he can’t stop a full-body shudder when Seokjin moans into his mouth, the sound vibrating against him. Another tendril and another as Seokjin’s mouth opens for him, swelling in his throat past the realms of possible space. The dimension in Seokjin’s throat is finite, Seokjin’s said, and not actually particularly large, but Yoongi wonders if he could fill it up with tendrils. If Seokjin would let him. If Seokjin likes that.

“Fuck, hyung,” Yoongi says, tendrils growing in Seokjin’s throat, and Seokjin pulls back--and keeps pulling, until they’re separated, and Yoongi can feel Seokjin’s saliva running in a trail down his neck. “What?”

“You can’t just talk while I’m making out with you!” Seokjin says. His mouth is wet and red and Yoongi wants. “I have to draw a line somewhere. It’s weird enough that you do it while you eat.”

“Fine,” Yoongi says, mostly to shut him up, and pulls Seokjin back in. Seokjin’s mouth is wet, his lips are wet, his chin is wet--he tangles his hands in Yoongi’s hair and pulls him closer, groaning around the tendrils in his mouth. Yoongi slides another down his neck, to curl around his jaw, his bare left earlobe, and Seokjin shivers under its touch, one hand leaving Yoongi’s hair to cup the nape of his neck before running down his spine, pressing against each vertebrae, and Yoongi can hear himself, making little, hitching gasps as Seokjin figures out the erogenous zones across his back, as his teeth scrape across Yoongi’s tendrils.

Yoongi’s tendrils are pushing into back into Seokjin’s throat, and Seokjin whines, holding Yoongi so tightly around his waist that he’s almost bent backwards in Seokjin’s lap. Seokjin’s other hand is on his hip, moving him a little--Seokjin’s strong, they always joke about Jungkook the muscle pig but it was Seokjin (and Jimin) that he trailed to the gym in the first place, even before debut. Seokjin’s hand is urging him to rock, shifting him so their growing erections are pressed against each other, only separated by their jeans. Seokjin’s throat opens around him, into the pocket dimension there, and his tendrils swell without him thinking about it, more and more slim tendrils sliding into Seokjin’s open, panting mouth and unfurling in his throat, filling and filling, pulsing to the rhythm that Seokjin’s encouraging in his hips.

Seokjin gasps, breath thin, and chokes, and then Yoongi can feel the edges of the dimension in his throat, can hear Seokjin barely catch his breath through the mess of tendrils in his mouth. He pushes down, desperately into Seokjin’s lap, and the dimension in Seokjin’s throat vibrates as Seokjin moans. The walls of the dimension feel like nothing, feel like the space inside Yoongi’s void, and yet he’s still oversensitive, tendrils twitching as they writhe against each other, press on the edge of the space inside Seokjin. There are strange, desperate whimpers coming from him, something he can’t control no matter how weird Seokjin thinks talking while kissing is.

Seokjin swallows around him, the dimension shifting inside his throat, and Yoongi remembers the time he ate a whole pizza and most of it was still in the pocket dimension and there was a bulge there, while he swallowed it piece by piece, and he touches Seokjin’s throat, the skin soft and delicate and twisting under his hand, his tendrils pressing on the limits of the dimension and showing through the skin.

Seokjin gasps again, breath reedy, and his hand moves to Yoongi’s ass. Seokjin’s hands aren’t especially large compared to the rest of him, but he's bigger than Yoongi, wider, and on his narrow ass his hand suddenly feels enormous, and Seokjin’s dick is pressing up against his, and Yoongi’s tendrils are pushing against his hand through the thin skin of Seokjin’s throat, and Yoongi surprises himself by gasping and coming, Seokjin’s hand on his ass rocking him through it.

Seokjin’s pulling back as Yoongi pants, the look on his face clearly indicating he wants to talk, and Yoongi pulls his tendrils back slowly. If he thought Seokjin’s mouth was wet before, that’s nothing compared to now, saliva spilling out of his lips as Yoongi pulls his tendrils out. Seokjin’s already smirking even with his mouth full, and lets Yoongi touch his slick, swollen lips.

Yoongi’s about to push his fingers into Seokjin’s mouth in place of his tendrils when Seokjin says, “Having fun?” He’s hoarse, voice just barely raspy. His mouth smiles against Yoongi’s fingers.His dick is still hard. He shifts his hips and Yoongi gasps as he rocks against Yoongi’s sensitive, softening cock. “Are you going to judge me for putting out on the first date, Yoongiyah?” He presses his lips to Yoongi’s jaw, sucking before he drags his teeth--oh fuck his teeth-- along Yoongi’s skin. Seokjin’s hips move like a metronome, slow and unceasing, keeping him right on the edge of overstimulation.

Yoongi’s come is cooling inside his boxer briefs, sticky and uncomfortable, and Yoongi has no desire to move. Seokjin bites at his jaw, nosing at his earlobe, pushing against him.

“H-hyung,” Yoongi stutters, and Seokjin laughs against his carotid artery in that way he has when he’s laughing at Yoongi because he loves him. “Are you judging me for putting out on the first date?”

“I’d never judge you, Yoonie,” Seokjin says, and bites down as he pushes his hips up, and Yoongi makes a high, thready whining sound, overwhelmed. His cock aches but it’s twitching too, trying to get hard again. Seokjin smiles against his throat. He doesn’t bite hard but Yoongi wants him to break the skin.

“Just my shitty jokes, right?” Yoongi chokes out, tangling his hand in Seokjin’s hair. There’s a tendril curling around Seokjin’s ear, stroking, and despite himself he pushes his hips back against Seokjin’s, cock sliding through the mess he’s already made.

“Right,” Seokjin says breathlessly, into the hollow of Yoongi’s throat. “Fuck, Yoongi--”

Come on, hyung,” Yoongi says, and Seokjin’s teeth graze his collarbone, sharp and sweet almost like he bit hard enough to cut, and he’s losing his rhythm, bucking up against Yoongi.

“Kiss me again,” Seokjin says, bossy, and yanks Yoongi’s void up to his mouth with a hand in his hair, and Yoongi pushes his tendrils into that wet, drooling space, pulling Seokjin close enough that he can feel Seokjin’s nose sinking into his void and this time he doesn’t mind. It sends a current of cold-hot-cold through him and he shudders, tendrils searching, pressing into Seokjin’s mouth and Seokjin drags his tongue along them and moans, and comes.


Yoongi’s at a distinct disadvantage in this relationship: his tendrils can’t really leave hickeys, but Seokjin’s mouth is a bruise factory. He’s careful to avoid Yoongi’s neck and wrists and jaw, but he leaves massive, objectively hideous, wonderful hickeys on Yoongi’s chest, his soft, thin-skinned inner thighs; big, long-lasting bruises with rows of little teeth marks that make Yoongi shiver when he pokes them in the shower later. Once, after they had talked about telling the group, he left one on the back of Yoongi’s neck that had made Hoseok go, “Hyung, you’ve got a--rash? On your neck--holy fuck what sort of mouth leaves a hickey like--OH MY GOD JIN-HYUNG,” and after that they hadn’t needed to tell the group.

That doesn’t mean it’s not awkward. They’re practicing for the skydome concert a few weeks after they get together, and Yoongi, Hoseok, and Namjoon have just finished a runthrough of Cypher 3.

“Something I’ve always wondered, hyung,” Jimin says, while they take a quick break and Yoongi’s gulping water. “That line, about your tongue, and uh,” He coughs. “Hong Kong. Can you...actually do that?”

“It’s a metaphor,” Yoongi snaps. He ignores the blush creeping up his neck and the way the everyone in the studio suddenly looks at them like they’re about to compete for Unpretty Dance King on Weekly Idol and the immediate sense memory of Seokjin’s legs over his shoulders two nights ago, his thighs squeezing Yoongi’s head, Seokjin pressing a pillow into his face to muffle himself while Yoongi’s tendrils worked him over.

Jimin goes pink. “I know, but I mean…you don’t have a tong--”

“Finish that sentence and I’m gonna rip that ribbon off your neck, and hide your head where you’ll never find it,” Yoongi says. Jimin yelps, clutching his choker.

“Uh,” Seokjin says. His ears are bright red.

“Nope!” Namjoon says, covering his ears and reaching for his headphones.

“NevermindIdon’twanttoknow!” Jimin says, high-pitched and frantic, and Yoongi slumps in relief.

“Wait,” Taehyung says, and oh no. “So you do have a tongue?”

Namjoon sighs noisily, but doesn’t actually put his headphones on his ears. Yoongi rolls his eyes.

“He has mouth tentacles,” Jungkook says.

Everyone looks at him.

“What,” Jungkook says. “You didn’t know?”

“He calls them tendri--” Seokjin starts, but Jungkook cuts him off.

“Honestly, eat lamb skewers with him sometimes. It’s freaky as fuck.”

“Mouth tentacles,” Namjoon says, looking faintly green.

Tendrils,” Yoongi snaps.

“Hyung, you have tentacles too,” Jimin says.

“It’s different,” Namjoon says archly, as two of his tentacles materialize to pull his headphones up over his ears. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

“Wait,” Yoongi says to Jungkook. “You can see my tendrils when i eat lamb skewers?”

“They come out and take the lamb off the kebab,” Jungkook says. “It’s weird, hyung.”

“Can I see them?” Taehyung says eagerly.

“No!” Yoongi says.

Hoseok is laughing so hard he’s not making any noise.

The vocal line gets summoned and Yoongi crosses his arms at Hoseok. “Did you know?”

“Remember, hyung? I told you there was a faceless girl on my crew in Gwangju,” Hoseok says.

Oh, right. Wait. “Didn’t you say you dated her?”

Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, grinning. “If you’re half as good with yours as she was with hers--”

Maybe Namjoon had the right idea. “Nope!” Yoongi says, and grabs his phone and headphones. Hoseok’s laughing at him again.

Seokjin’s emailed him during the vocal line break; it’s a link to a private soundcloud playlist of four tracks, and it’s called myg songs. He pushes play curiously; did Seokjin make him a mixtape? A...really small mixtape?

The first song’s got terrible sound. “Sorry, Yoongichi,” Seokjin says over what’s clearly a cell phone microphone. “But everyone’s at the studio, so I wanted to do this here while I was by myself.” He strums his guitar a few times before breaking into a song, something kind of raw but cohesive.

Seokjin’s sharing his songs with him. Seokjin, who whispered I’ve always been scared to share my music with you because I wanted you to like it the most into Yoongi’s ear a week ago, and Yoongi didn’t know how to tell him that when it came to Seokjin’s music all he wanted was to hear his music, even the shittiest rough drafts. That he just wanted Seokjin to trust him enough to show it to him.

He looks up. Seokjin’s midverse in Lost but he keeps glancing nervously over to Yoongi, and for a brief second Yoongi wishes he had his father’s gummy smile so he could show Seokjin exactly how happy he was. He holds up a heart instead, and presses it to his own heart.

Seokjin smiles at him, looks him right in the void and grins, open and happy, and sends him a heart back even as he comes back in during the chorus. Jungkook elbows him and then recoils, rolling his eyes as he gets an empathic swell of whatever sappy emotion Seokjin's feeling.

A tentacle lifts one of Yoongi’s earpads up. Namjoon and Hoseok are looking at him with expressions clearly torn between laughter and judgment. “You’re gross,” Hoseok says fondly.

Seokjin sings a perfectly composed line about Yoongi being just on the other side of the shelf into Yoongi’s other ear, cell phone mic crackling as he hits a wrong chord and swears before launching into the chorus. “Yep,” he says, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes, his headphones snapping back over his ear. “I’m really gross.”