"Try—" Seokjin smoothes his thumb along the sharp dip of Yoongi's bare sternum—a whisper of a touch—relishes in Yoongi’s heavy, responding tremor. They both swallow. "Try...try to relax." He presses again, fans his fingers apart to skim them over the pucker of Yoongi's left nipple.
And Yoongi shudders again, laughs tightly. The sound rumbles against Seokjin's palm. "I'm trying, hyung," he says, sincere if not begrudging. He arches into Seokjin's next slow, soft whisper of a touch, bites his lip when Seokjin does it third time.
Seokjin pinches lightly, and Yoongi moans, head tipping back with it. He’s tense still, not relaxed—still.
But Yoongi, he’s so often sharp, guarded, biting.
And he’s sharper now somehow, more guarded, more biting like this, naked and bare-faced and splayed open across Seokjin's sheets. Sharper, more guarded, more biting, more dangerous—without the pretense of performance or audience or clothing or coyness. It's his dark, dark eyes, the play of stark, stark shadows across his cheekbones, jaw, collarbone, throat, the soft, deliberate way his lips part just just just too shy of enough.
And Yoongi is seldom soft, seldom pliant except when he chooses to be. And even now, like this, he isn't—not enough, not not quite as much as he can.
Seokjin pinches again, longer, and Yoongi moans again, longer, louder.
And Seokjin, he’s only asking him to try—try to be relaxed, pliant, soft for him.
Yoongi like this, naked on his bed save for his tube socks, he's still not trying, not trying—enough. All hard planes, rough edges, rigid limbs, the same hard planes, rough edges, rigid limbs that are Seokjin's favorite to touch, favorite to sometimes to smooth, erode, mold, favorite to tear himself on, too.
But with his lips pressed to the dip of Yoongi's thin wrist, Seokjin can taste the restless flutter of his pulse, feel the warm tremble of his muscles beneath the fine skin, knows that this is enough, really more than enough.
Cradling, exploring, coaxing, coaxing, coaxing, Seokjin lets his lips catch, drags them higher along the network of thin, blue veins beneath Yoongi's skin, skims his other hand upwards towards Yoongi's face.
And kneeling on the edge of the bed, Seokjin kisses along the crook of Yoongi's elbow, drags the heel of his palm over the quiver of his cheekbone as he threads his fingers through his hair. Pausing to kiss his shoulder, Seokjin watches Yoongi watch him.
Yoongi had run a makeup wipe through his face, and Seokin can still make out the ghost of eyeliner, bb cream, nude lipstick on his skin. And his dark hair is tacky with hairspray residue and sweat, a crude halo as he tilts his head back with another moan. And fuck, he's achingly, disarmingly beautiful.
Yoongi's fingers skip over Seokjin's wrist, squeeze once. Hard.
"Try, Yoongi," he repeats. "Come on, for hyung."
But he's still hard—eyes, grip, cock. And Seokjin thinks of rasping himself raw on every rough corner of him, bleeding for the sake him and this and them as he's pulled forward by Yoongi's insistent, impatient fingers.
Yoongi's kiss is hard, sharp, biting, too, too rough around the edges, too fierce, too demanding, and Seokjin lets every rough edge of him catch and burn, skims his tense fingers over the soft dip of Yoongi's stomach. His fingers fingernails stumble on the jut of his hip, the swell of his thigh, whisper over coarse hair at the base of his cock.
Yoongi’s still thinking himself consciously through the relaxation, pausing as he lets his limbs loosen, shuddering as Seokjin touches him again—more deliberate, more insistent.
And Seokjin can taste the bright, bitter bite of residual Suga on his tongue, feel it still in the nip of his teeth, the unyielding force of his limbs. He wills it away as he lets his thumbnail catch on the thin, thin, trembling skin just just just shy of his cock.
Yoongi breaks the kiss with a shudder, a pant, his neck lolling back once more, hands digging into Seokjin's shoulders. "Hyung," he says, shaky, overcome, imploring.
And even the way he melts, the way his tips his head back is too much of an affectation, but Seokjin doesn't need to see the cracks in his facade, doesn't need to burrow beneath to get at the vulnerable boy that loves him back, at least not anymore. And the involuntary tells—the white-knuckled grip of his fingers on the sheets, the flutter of his eyelashes as Seokjin kisses over the exposed column of his throat, these potent, helpless little doses of helplessness make Seokjin feel vulnerable, helpless, too.
"Yoongi," Seokjin breathes, shaky, too, overcome, too, imploring, too. "Try harder."
harujongin, you're up :)