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do not choke on or swallow the thermometer

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Yoongi’s mouth falls open and he shifts, hand creeping out from beneath the covers. Pink blooms along the golden in his skin the way it only does after a shower. Hoseok presses Yoongi’s twitching hand back under the blanket with his thumb.

Yoongi’s hair is damp between Hoseok’s fingers, inky strands that are haphazard like illegible handwriting thrown along his forehead. Stubble slices along his face around the curve of his lips, flamingo pink. Hoseok lightly brushes Yoongi’s palm with his other hand and Yoongi’s fingers wrap around nothing like a hunting snare set off. Yoongi bunches up the blankets, sucks in his lips, squeezes his eyes closed a little tighter.

Hoseok’s heart throbs.  

He sets his loafers down on the rug so they won’t make noise against the hardwood, props his briefcase against the wall, and pads to the other side of the bed, a little too excited. He sits on the edge and tries to shift himself over. Once he settles down and the bed sinks under his weight, he shoots a glance at Yoongi, who curls into himself and migrates further from his own side and towards the middle.

Hoseok slides into bed, tangled up in himself from trying to be as small as possible. It’s rare seeing Yoongi like this. Sleeping, first off, but more specifically sleeping without his laptop sitting on his chest about to overheat from blocked vents, and actually sleeping like it was intentional.

Yoongi looks so defenseless, facing Hoseok with his lips set into a pout. The lights are on, and he’s a little bit of a mess.

Head propped up with his hand, Hoseok relaxes into an untouched corner of the bed and takes in the rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest. His heart rattles in his chest and he inhales and Yoongi’s pillow smells strongly of lavender and basil. It’s stale, and for a long moment Hoseok wonders how long Yoongi’s opted to sleep in a desk chair in a soundproof room heated by game consoles and two computers and scattered software while Hoseok wouldn’t know about it.

Looking at Yoongi brings more rest than sleeping ever could. And Hoseok’s wide awake anyway. Doesn’t want to miss a second. Yoongi’s just childish and confused right now, like he forgot something right before bed and is still trying to remember it in his sleep, brows knit together.

The corners of Hoseok’s mouth lift. He’s such an idiot grinning alone, bursting because he’s finally back within reach of Yoongi, stupidly in love all over again.

Yoongi’s brows lower further, the way they do when he’s finally figured that something out. Hoseok knows because he’s always watching when Yoongi does that, blind to the world around him, beautifully lost. Hoseok is always within reach.

Sometimes Hoseok feels like Yoongi only needs him when it’s cold, or when the self checkout lane isn’t open and Hoseok’s extroversion gains another use, or when he falls asleep on a movie and whines at Hoseok to tell him what happened because if Hoseok’s crying that must mean it’s somewhat good, and Hoseok gives in every time.

But this is now. This is Yoongi reaching forward with his eyes closed and his nose wrinkled. This is him lurching backwards when his fingers hit Hoseok’s suit. This is his eyes opening wide and brown, and Yoongi coming this close to kicking the shit out of Hoseok. But mostly this is Yoongi asking why he didn’t text with this betrayed, conflicted expression that reminds Hoseok just how much he hates surprises.

“I texted,” Hoseok says hurriedly. He decides to keep it at that because Hoseok doesn’t want to be That Guy, but an hour into his drive back (on an empty road, mind you), he checked his texts for a reply that wasn’t there. Nineteen minutes after that, he called. Because he was partly worried and mostly lonely and too perky for his own good and half wondering if Yoongi tied himself up for him again. And by the time he closed the door behind him, Hoseok was just plain concerned.

Yoongi sighs. “I forgot to charge my phone.”

That’s probably a good thing. As much as Yoongi likes to say that he was just about to go to sleep and happened to be up, Yoongi's usually wide awake when Hoseok comes home with a two hour midnight drive under his belt, and he always replies to the preceding text with passive aggressive safety concerns, and would bite his head off for using his cell while on the road.

“Shit.” Yoongi’s eyes are teary and murky and even as he curses, he rolls his way into Hoseok. “I thought I was dreaming again.”

Hoseok kind of smirks and he’s kind of ashamed about it. “You have dreams about me?”

“You’re gross. They’re just dreams where we’re sitting around doing nothing. And they’re boring. Just like you.”

“Hey, look at me,” Hoseok whispers against the top of his head, pushing Yoongi’s hair back rougher this time (because he can and because he missed feeling Yoongi’s skin under his hand). Yoongi shifts back a little, lets his head be moved with the motion of Hoseok smoothing back his hair, and looks up at him through his eyelashes. “I’m back, baby.”

“You and your godawful cologne.” And even as Yoongi says it, he breathes in, presses his forehead into the built facets of Hoseok’s chest and drapes an arm over Hoseok and squeezes him.

His movements are lethargic and lack the usual pep he gets when Hoseok walks through the door. They’re syrupy, fluttery, pliant, and when Hoseok pulls Yoongi closer to him he folds forward like a ragdoll, pressed so tightly into Hoseok that their ribs wrestle for space when they breathe.

“Take a fucking shower next time,” Yoongi mutters, sandpaper drawl rattling in his chest, vibrating along Hoseok’s skin and flesh and bone like a cat’s purr. He slides Hoseok’s suit down his shoulders and arms, lets it fall over the side of the bed.

Hoseok kisses Yoongi’s head. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You did, though.” And there’s some bite left there, a little sourness to his tone and his breath. Stale coffee.

Yoongi pushes against Hoseok’s chest, fingers bunching into his too-white shirt. He’s honestly straining but getting nowhere. Hoseok blinks down at him and gives into the limp nudges, rolls himself to his back, tightens his grip around Yoongi’s waist to bring him with him.

The blanket falls back from Yoongi’s shoulders and collects around their hips. Yoongi’s only wearing socks, red briefs, and one of Hoseok’s old black college sweatshirts—the big one that’s worn and soft and a few washes away from a hole, the one that devours his wrists and when he walks around in it, he looks like a comforter that’s come to life.

Yoongi brings his hands forward and combs them wildly through Hoseok’s hair, stiff with product and slicked back. Yoongi’s breaths are heavy and a little nasally and Hoseok didn’t know you could miss the way someone breathed before Yoongi.

Hoseok squeezes his eyes closed. “What are you doing?”

“You’re home and you should look like it,” Yoongi says.

Hoseok’s hair all but flops out of its part, soft and frizzed around his fingers. Yoongi smiles—triumphant, pleased, possessive, and benign all at once—and Hoseok just watches him, eyes hooded with a lazy brand of fatigue, the kind perfect for catnaps, open windows, a silent house, tangled limbs, and periodic giggling that’s heady with half-awake.

Yoongi reaches next for Hoseok’s tie, takes his time with it because it’s something intimate. His head is tilted and dipped, damp hair less than a centimeter from brushing Hoseok’s forehead and nose, skin a mix of honey and the pink of tacky blush you only find in kids’ dress-up kits.

He drops the tie off the side of the bed and pops Hoseok’s collar. Presses his hands into the curve of Hoseok’s shoulders before leaning over him again and undoing the first button of his white shirt. His head drifts downwards with each one he works on till his lips brush the peak of Hoseok’s nose and down to his cupid’s bow, and Hoseok tilts his head back to catch his lips. Yoongi’s fingers turn unsteady around the next button and he gives up and holds on.

They join over an open shirt and then Yoongi’s chapped lips are on Hoseok’s, greasy with chapstick. And sighed breaths and half-open eyes and eye contact and Hoseok’s thumbs pressed into Yoongi’s hips hard enough to bruise.

Yoongi pulls back first to catch his breath and Hoseok leans up, strains to meet him again in short kisses that Yoongi doesn’t move against, just lets come. Light pecks, sharp eye contact, and Yoongi fumbling with the last button.

Hoseok closes his eyes and falls back on his pillow, hair unraveled and undone and cutting across his pillowcase, arm behind his head. Yoongi slips Hoseok out of the shirt and tosses it.

“You’re being weird, Yoongs,” Hoseok whispers in a singsong voice.

Yoongi sniffles once, rolls back his shoulders, and waves him off. “Am not.” He fumbles with Hoseok’s belt buckle and wets his lips (chapped because he’s absolutely a mouth breather) with his tongue. He’s breathless and there’s a headiness to him like his everything’s heavy. He tilts his head to the other side with flustered concentration. It’s a few steps past tired and more into the category of obliviously exhausted.

Hoseok wants to gather Yoongi up and press him into the crook of his tanned shoulder and anchor him down till his eyes flutter closed.

Yoongi drops down the belt and turns around and one blink later, all Hoseok sees is ass and a wedgie. Yoongi unbuttons and then unzips Hoseok, ignoring the fact that he’s literally dying with laughter, and crawls forward to ease off Hoseok’s pants and socks, leaving him in briefs and haphazard blankets.

Hoseok sits up and pulls Yoongi in his lap and he complies with a wince. Hoseok presses his lips to the back of Yoongi’s neck and gets stuck there, leaning his head against him. His arms circle Yoongi’s body. His fingers knead his thighs, thrum against them.

Yoongi’s head droops downwards, hair curtaining his eyes, chest rising and falling, and for a long moment he just basks in this, in them, and it’s a good look on him. Hoseok traces a short line up the nape of Yoongi’s neck with his nose and rests his head against Yoongi’s shoulder and inhales a haze of sandalwood and citrus and a hint of sea salt.

Hoseok wraps his arms around Yoongi under the sweatshirt instead. Yoongi is soft and clammy, thrumming with warmth. Hoseok strokes Yoongi’s stomach. “What did you have for dinner?”

“Haven’t had it yet.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

Yoongi stands up, gathers Hoseok’s clothes into a pile, and tosses them in the hamper. “I took my shower and I was so tired I forgot my pants, so. Cut me some slack.” He’s unsteady on his feet padding to the closet like that, and his knees buckle lazily as he leans forward and then back, humming under his breath.

“You’re tired?” Hoseok’s voice is suspiciously saccharine. “Are you feeling okay?”

Yoongi stiffens. “What?”

“Just asking. Since you haven’t eaten anything.” Yoongi whips his head around and Hoseok plasters a grin on his face and adds his most innocent half-moon eyes for good measure, then says, “Do you want me to make you something, baby?”

Yoongi returns with a plain white tank and the hot pink cotton booty shorts that they got from the women’s pajama section a year ago, an inside joke turned luxury because Hoseok’s thighs, enough said, and cuts his eyes at him. “Breakfast. In like, four hours. Goodnight.”



Hoseok wakes with Yoongi plastered to his chest, legs flushed and clammy and burning hot against his, face tucked into him. Yoongi’s eyes are squeezed closed like he’s waking up but trying desperately to stay asleep. 

That expression is the reason why he went back to sleep the first two times he had to piss.

Hoseok rocks slowly backwards, taking five minutes to get out of bed even though his bladder’s about to explode.

Yoongi snatches Hoseok’s hand like something out of a horror movie and Hoseok’s bladder control goes uncomfortably slack from the jolt it gives him. Yoongi tugs. “Where are you going?” Unsteady words drip into each other, creating a kind of loose drawl.

Hoseok strokes Yoongi’s fingers one by one with his thumb, then brings his hand to his lips. “Just the bathroom, baby.”

“The bathroom,” Yoongi mutters, rolling onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds but the moment Hoseok stands up, he pulls him back. Hoseok’s ass slams back onto the bed and he thinks he can hear the sloshing inside him right now. Yoongi pushes himself up and plants a kiss on the edge of Hoseok’s mouth, the kind of kiss that isn’t very balanced and ends up being a forward fall, a squish of lips on skin (or in this case, Hoseok’s dimple).

“What was that for?”

Yoongi stabilizes himself with Hoseok’s legs and crawls halfway into his lap to kiss him properly, a soft and unconcerned peck, a mix of morning breath. Yoongi’s mouth is soft and hot and welcomes Hoseok’s tongue. Yoongi pulls back and smacks his lips and licks them because they are sandpaper dry. He exhales slowly, body sagging, loosening. “Come back soon.”

Hoseok puts his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Yoongi sits back and rubs his eyes. “Be careful. Brush your teeth before you go.”

Hoseok almost repeats himself again, then shakes his head. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

He tiptoes down the hallway barefoot, raking his fingers through his hair in a bit of a frenzy once he’s out of sight. He flutters with a thread of anxiety. Resentful worry that’s knife sharp. He actually never thought taking a piss could feel so inconvenient, so time-consuming, but all he can think about is whether they have Tylenol. His attention eases to the medicine cabinet while he washes his hands.

Step one: Feign leaving to the kitchen.

If Yoongi listens so hard it’s almost tangible and then coughs like he’s making up for lost time and sniffles like a snivelling toddler, he is Absolutely Not Sick.

(But first, he resentfully brushes his damn teeth.)

Step two: Wait until he falls asleep.

Hoseok slips back in the room ten minutes later with a bottle of water and a cup of coffee. Since they’re Safe objects, he sets them on the nightstand and shuffles back to the bathroom. The thermometer is easy to transport but the Tylenol requires a certain type of skill in order to not make noise.

Step three: Evaluate the plan of attack.

The hardest part about dealing with sick Yoongi is getting him to accept that he’s sick.

The easiest part is that he’s actually five years old and rather stubborn and wants to hold your hand everywhere and throw spontaneous tantrums.

Hoseok puts his hands on his hips and musses up his hair again, this time with both hands and a scowl on his face. He slides the thermometer discreetly between Yoongi’s lips and parts Yoongi’s clammy (dead, no offense) fringe to frame either side of his face.

Yoongi opens his eyes, screws up his face, and whines in the back of his throat. He reaches forward and tries to sit up and tries to say something all at once.

Step four: Do not choke on or swallow the thermometer.

Hoseok swats back Yoongi’s hand, pushes him down, and squeezes his mouth closed.

And it’s like Yoongi’s been punched in the stomach and shoved on the ground. He looks absolutely dazed and Hoseok almost feels bad, but with toddlers it is necessary to put your foot down.

The thermometer beeps. Yoongi’s hand shoots out. Hoseok emits a (stern) squawk of surprise but Yoongi’s already snatched it. He sits up and stares at the result.

Hoseok reaches for it. “What does it say?”

Yoongi pulls it back. “I don’t know.”


He looks away. “103 degrees.”

“103 degrees,” Hoseok deadpans. “103 degrees?” He yanks back the thermometer and actually can’t read it for how hard he’s shaking. “Oh my god! 103 degrees!”

“What?” There’s an edge to Yoongi’s voice. “Stop it.”

“That’s bad. Isn’t that bad? Shit, Yoongi—”

“I don’t know!” Yoongi flails his arms. “Fucking Google it!” His expression slackens two seconds later. “Are you okay?”

Hoseok takes in a deep breath and gets his cell phone. “You shouldn’t be sick the day before your birthday.”

“No shit. Thanks. For giving me germs for my birthday.”

Hoseok almost chokes on his spit. “I gave you germs? I’ve been gone for a week!”

“Hoseok. Honey. Listen. I don’t socialize. I—don’t—get—sick. You’re the one who brings home germs in this household.”

Hoseok completes his Google search in silence. “Does anything hurt?”

“I’ve had a headache for two days. It hurts like hell. I want to die.”

Hoseok whips his head around. “Did you take anything?”

“Why? It’s a headache.”

“See, this is your fucking problem!”

Yoongi pulls the blanket up to his chin. “I’m not taking shit, Hoseok. I’m not a goddamn pill popper like you. I’m not fucking up my pain tolerance.”


“People these days are popping a pill for everything, the fucking weaklings. This is why my pain tolerance is so high. This is why I’m a tough piece of shit. This is why I’ll survive. It’s good to know exactly how much pain you’re in because it—” He coughs so hard that it drags a low groan out of him. “Fuck. Fuck, is that coffee? I love you so much.”

“It’s my coffee, actually. Coffee will dehydrate you.”

Yoongi lurches up. “That’s a myth!” He kicks out of the blankets, which doubles as desperation from a hot flash and a True Expression of Rage, and gets so winded that he’s dizzy. At this point, he’s probably strong enough to vehemently rip a napkin in half.

Hoseok puts his hands on either side of Yoongi’s face. “I love you but please shut the fuck up.”

“Love you, too.”

“What have you been doing while I was gone?”

“Working,” Yoongi says. “Scheduled a few reviews, made progress on some songs, streamed horror games like a motherfucker—”

“So what you’re saying is you’ve been working your ass off and not taking care of yourself. Very nice. Dunno what Tumblr’s been telling you lately, but that’s nothing to be proud of.”

“I just wanted to make sure we had a lot of time together.”

Hoseok stands up. “I’d rather you keep to your schedule and film videos while I’m here and spend time with you by featuring in those creepy Let’s Plays and cry and have you read humiliating comments to me.”

“Wait, don’t go.”

Hoseok’s mindset does a 180 because fuck, it’s the cuddles stage again and he’s grouchy and starving and really not in the mood to lay in bed for six hours and share sweat. “I’m going to make you soup. Or something.” Smooth.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Y-you still need to eat something, Yoongi.”

For the love of god, Hoseok needs to eat something.

“Hobi,” Yoongi whines. “Please.”

Hoseok stops. As in, stops thinking about pancakes. “Please what?”

“Please love me. I’m your favorite sweaty corpse.”

“You’re my only sweaty corpse,” Hoseok corrects.

“Thanks. That makes me sound less special.”

Please drink that bottle of water,” Hoseok says with a soft smile, “and I’ll join you in a second.”

Yoongi drinks his water.

And Hoseok has cereal.



Hoseok set his alarm to check Yoongi’s temperature every hour. As of the scheduled 10:00 P.M. cat nap interruption, Yoongi’s temperature is just under 102 degrees, and the next task in hand is to finally convince Yoongi to get up and go to the damn bathroom. It takes a great deal of all the soft words Hoseok can shoot out his ass while half-asleep (there are a lot) and persuasion and reassurance that yes, Yoongi can absolutely get right back in bed. The urge to go finally wins out.

Yoongi drags himself out of bed and begins a solemn trek of a few feet to the bathroom.

He returns shirtless and announces, “I feel so gross.”

Hoseok pulls the blanket back over them. “Aww. You’re not gross.”

“I know that,” Yoongi deadpans. “I said I feel gross.” But Hoseok can tell from his expression that the sentiment means a lot. He rolls on his back and stares up at the ceiling, using Hoseok’s arm as his pillow. “I’m just germs in a bag of skin. In a sauna. I’m probably getting you sick.”

“You’re my bag of germs, though,” Hoseok chimes. It’s a lazy comment and he’s almost ashamed but he’s also tired as fuck and working hard to not slur his words. Yoongi’s face reddens anyway. “I’m an extrovert. I’m immune to gross, stressed out business people germs.”


Yoongi goes back to scrolling through the comments on his videos. He smiles to himself at random and eventually turns his back to Hoseok, still pressed against him.

And Hoseok kisses Yoongi’s neck absently and pets his side. He basks in a fuzz of comfortable lethargy with his eyes closed, humming. When Yoongi doesn’t react, Hoseok sucks a mark into Yoongi’s collarbone that has Yoongi release a gasp and pull his legs closer to himself. Vaguely pleased, Hoseok licks it and drapes his arm a little further down from Yoongi’s waist and a little closer to his hips. Rests his hands near the waistband.

Hobi, I can’t get comfortable.”

“Maybe you are gross,” Hoseok says around a yawn. “Maybe a shower will help.”

Yoongi shakes his head and grumbles something that gets lost in the sheets. He looks restless. Fidgety and cold and uncomfortable and shaky. He lets out a frustrated groan after kicking off the covers for the fifth time.

“Too much work,” Yoongi says, but before it even comes out he’s already turned to face Hoseok and lean against him and look up at him.

Yoongi’s poker face is godawful.

“Then I’ll come with you, baby,” Hoseok says like the idea just came to him like that, even going as far as to enthusiastically tug him in the direction of the bathroom. Lightly enough that he doesn’t fall forward and slam headfirst into the mattress while trying to crawl out of bed.

Diligently following some shit on WikiHow, Hoseok takes extra care to make the shower just warmer than lukewarm to help with the fever. And after that, it’s mostly him holding Yoongi’s hand and begging him to stay standing because it’s a shower, goddammit, and Hoseok has Standards. Standards like not doing everything short of wiping Yoongi’s ass for him.

Hoseok washes Yoongi’s hair last, brings it to a gentle lather and nags at him to make sure he closes his eyes, and Yoongi actually insists on returning the favor. Yoongi washes Hoseok’s hair the way he likes, fingers dancing along his scalp with lots of stroking and petting and short tugs.

It’s nice. It’s really fucking nice and Hoseok actually moans, the kind of moan that just comes out, the kind of moans that Hoseok usually has, the kind that causes awkward silences or laughter but this time Hoseok just rolls with it because he has other, more important things to do.

Like fingercombing Yoongi’s hair while he brushes his teeth while naked.

Hoseok barely even has time to towel himself off and get some boxers from the closet before Yoongi’s behind Hoseok, smoothing down his hair. “You should give me a massage,” Yoongi says, but he hands a two year old bottle of lotion (that he never once showed interest in) to Hoseok like it’s a done deal, and stretches out on the bed.

Hoseok eyes the bottle of lotion. “I thought you actually loved me and were being sweet but all you want is dick.”

“I do love you. That’s why I want your hands all over me. And your dick,” he adds as Hoseok approaches. “Yours is special.”

Hoseok shuts him up by squirting lotion onto his chest, across his nipples. Yoongi twitches and his chest shudders and Hoseok smiles down at him, eyes dark. “Is it cold?”

Yoongi closes his mouth and nods in reply. Hoseok’s hands trail lightly along his skin, collecting dollops of lotion off Yoongi’s chest as he needs it. His fingers are sturdy and delicate and rub slow circles along Yoongi’s lower stomach and back up his chest. He takes a drop from Yoongi’s nipple and rubs his palms fully along the soft muscles of his chest, then collects more, touch rough and purposeful against the nub. He brings the last of the lotion to Yoongi’s neck, fingers tracing it in a gentle squeeze and Yoongi squirms, legs kicking out, toes curling, fingers bunching the sheets.

Hoseok turns his back to Yoongi and straddles him. He rubs lotion next along his inner thighs, nails scraping and pinching possessively but casually, and Hoseok settles on him just enough for his boxers to graze Yoongi’s soft dick. Yoongi sucks in his lower lip.

Hoseok turns Yoongi onto his stomach and presses his thighs around him again, relaxing against the small of Yoongi’s back. He eases back and forth, rides the motion of diligently reaching all the knots in Yoongi’s back, and whispers against Yoongi’s ear, “How does that feel, baby?” His voice lilts and his wet lips brush Yoongi’s skin.

Yoongi presses his face into the pillow. “So good.”

Hoseok puts lotion down Yoongi’s arms next. Wrestles them behind Yoongi’s back because he can. “Relaxing?” he rasps. He moves so he’s positioned behind him and Yoongi releases a low, broken whine into the pillow. Hoseok grips Yoongi’s waist and pulls him back till he’s spread for him. “You like this?”


Hoseok combs his fingers through the hairs at the back of Yoongi’s head and pulls. “Tell me.”

Yoongi stiffens, arching off the bed, blooming with redness where Hoseok’s fingers have branded him, claimed him. “Yes.” His breath stutters when he’s pressed down on his cock again, sandwiched between the mattress and his own rippling stomach.

“That’s good, baby.” Hoseok feels Yoongi’s legs, moves instead to kiss his inner thighs, to lick where his ass ends and his thighs begin, the gentle fold tight around his tongue. He spreads Yoongi’s ass forcefully this time, fingers digging in. “And how’s that?” he says, breath so close to Yoongi’s hole that he clenches, thighs pressing together and quivering.

Yoongi mumbles something into the pillow and there’s strain to his voice now, a carnal quiver, a gap in between his words. He bucks into himself involuntarily and locks his muscles in an attempt to stop. He slackens and grinds against the mattress and sheets with a sob that says he can’t control himself because finally, finally he’s found friction. And he is close and closer and chasing it so desperately that it’s humiliating.

Hoseok holds Yoongi’s arms behind his back. “Are you going to come all over yourself on my clean sheets?” He pulls Yoongi’s hair and Yoongi arches off the pillow. “Drooling? Crying?” His tone is soft and benign and stating the facts. It’s painfully conversational. “Begging?”

Yoongi trembles and sags, falling headfirst when Hoseok releases him.

“How bad do you want to come?”

“Bad, Hobi—” Yoongi’s toes curl again and he raises himself up and grinds back down. “Really— F-fuck—”

“Can you come like this?”

Yoongi whines and rolls his hips forward and back and sucks in his lower lip. “Mmm—” He gasps and nods into the pillow. “Mmhmm—” He raises his ass and fucks down into pressure of the mattress and blankets, rushed and desperate and sweaty, eyes screwed shut in concentration.

Hoseok pushes the back of his head, forcing him down further into the pillow.

Yoongi’s hips circle and swivel. The muscles in his stomach tense and roll and his ass tightens and he curves into himself hard and tight, legs trembling, feet pressing against the mattress so hard that he raises him up halfway. Tears drip into his open mouth and he writhes, needing a hand around his cock, something, anything to snatch the orgasm building in his stomach.

Hoseok puts pressure around Yoongi’s neck. “Come,” he says.

Yoongi grinds into precome soaked blankets, ass raised and spread at the peak of each frenzied thrust, and pounds into the mattress with staccato gasps. He comes onto the sheets with a sob and a broken moan and quivering hips and shaking legs, wrecked so completely that he collapses in a mess of come and saliva and sweat.

Wait, shit. Yoongi’s wrecked so completely that he collapses in a mess of come and saliva and sweat.

Hoseok rolls Yoongi over and kisses the base of his jaw and it’s always like this, when he’s sick, finding just enough energy to come before he wants to die all over again and blame Hoseok for it.

Yoongi just stares up at him for a few moments like he can’t believe he’s there. The come tangled into the dark hair above his cock slides down between his balls and down into his crack. He squeezes his thighs together. “I feel gross again, dammit,” he slurs. “For fuck’s sake.”

Hoseok’s chest swells with laughter. “Did it feel good?”

Yoongi’s arms circle Hoseok’s waist. “Yeah, Hobi.”

“Yeah?” Hoseok pecks Yoongi’s forehead and moves to stand and Yoongi shoots up in bed, gripping the blankets on either side of his legs. He wants to snap at Yoongi to lay back down before he passes out but he looks lost. Yoongi peers at him through tear-clumped lashes and Hoseok ruffles his hair, strokes the side of his face, rough with stubble, and whispers, “I’m just going to get you some things. How about you drink a little water while I’m gone?”

Yoongi looks down. “Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

When Hoseok comes back, the anxiety flickers from Yoongi’s face. He relaxes and triumphantly holds out the empty water bottle beside him and Hoseok tells Yoongi how good he is.

Usually their aftercare is more detached: Casual cuddling, quiet vulnerability, muttered conversations while scrolling through Youtube. But there are times where it’s changed sheets and warm, damp washcloths and Hoseok spending extra time cleaning Yoongi up.

Hoseok gets a second washcloth to dab at Yoongi’s forehead and lips to cool him down. He dabs his lips almost teasingly, this splitting grin on his face, and when he moves to boop him the fourth time, Hoseok pulls back and steals a kiss. Yoongi exhales and winds his fingers into Hoseok’s without saying anything, but never averts his eyes.

Hoseok squeezes Yoongi’s hand.

“Happy birthday, baby.”