Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It begins creeping up on him before he can even think about it or understand it. The heat under his skin, the pulsing feeling over the sides of his neck. Beomgyu chalks it up to jet lag and exhaustion. They had been everywhere for too long. Even with a month of resting, age-old exhaustion still lingers in his bones. So he doesn't pay much attention to it.

Yet when they land in Barcelona, it doesn't go away. If anything, by the time Beomgyu reaches his hotel room, he feels as if he's halfway dead.

He showers right away. The first jet of water is ice cold, but he doesn't have enough energy in himself to even flinch, let alone move away. His breathing is ragged and when he finally manages to get the water to some sort of decent temperature — still too clammy for his liking, but better than before; Beomgyu doesn't think he could handle the heat of his usual choice anyway — his knees are ready to give under him.

He goes through the motions on autopilot, scrubbing at his skin head to toe with as much fervor as he can muster, even though there is barely any air left in his lungs. With every second that passes, his vision blurs around the edges more and more. He quickens his movements.

Fire licks at his bones, squirming under his skin.

Maybe I caught a cold, he thinks. It wouldn't be unlikely. Beomgyu's immune system has failed him for less before, though he'd been getting better with it lately. Maybe it's the change in the air, the continent. But it'd be strange; he had barely been there for a few hours, not enough for anything to incubate.

Beomgyu heaves a long breath. He drags himself out of the bathroom, half dry, stumbling over his feet with the damp towel sticking to the back of his legs. A bed has never looked more inviting, even if the moment he touches it, bare of any clothes except the half drag of his fluffed out towel, his skin itches even more. The bedsheets are dry and too rough, but they're cold enough to bring just the slightest bit of relief, even if it goes away in what feels like a second.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the—

He presses the back of his hand to his forehead. He's burning.

But it's late, too, and they have a schedule the next day early, in the morning, and the first concert to kick off their first European tour, so Beomgyu can't risk it. Not when they'd prepared for so long.

So he forces himself to empty his mind despite the way his skin seems to burn off his bones. He counts from one to one hundred, and every time he messes up, he starts over, until the pounding in his head is a foggy memory at best.

—

Beomgyu wakes up with his throat dry. It hurts to swallow, and his tongue is heavy in his mouth and scratchy like sandpaper. The ache in his head pulses behind his eyes, too, and every time he tries to blink, it hurts even more.

He whimpers. He hasn't felt this sick in a long time, if ever.

Beomgyu checks the time. Twenty minutes past three in the morning means that no one in the protocol team is awake. It's a relief, somehow, because he is not quite sure how he could explain it to them, anyway.

My chest is on fire. My lungs are on fire. My skin is on fire.

Everything is on fire.

They're not exactly symptoms if he were to ignore the blooming ache in his temples.

He rolls out of bed. Bile rises in his throat, and his vision swims, blurry around the edges. His hands shake when he unlocks his phone. Soobin's user appears as last seen hours ago. He did mention, off-handedly, on their way to the hotel, that he couldn't wait to crash until the following morning. Everyone else's users state the same.

Last seen — Beomgyu groans.

He gets to his feet, staggering. That nauseous feeling in his chest doesn't seem to go away, even when he sips a bit of cold water. If anything, it's worse. His skin itches, too hot for comfort. He stumbles out of his room. It doesn't matter where he ends up, as long as he is no longer alone.

Yeonjun is two doors down on the left. Closest to Beomgyu's room, too. Usually, he doesn't like to bother him. Not when he's sleeping at least, because Yeonjun is always tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, and he has that grayish — blueish tint to his cheeks every morning, like he could use about three more days of uninterrupted sleep.

Yet, against his better judgment, Beomgyu drags himself to Yeonjun's door, his hand pressed tight against the wall, to hold his weight up. His lower back hurts, too, the more he stands up — a dull throb at the base of his spine. Every step feels like a thousand years have passed.

In front of Yeonjun's door, Beomgyu heaves out a breath. Sweat rolls down his back, one drop at a time. It'd be infuriating, would he not be burning from the inside out. He checks his phone. Yeonjun hasn't been online in a while, either. He's probably asleep, too, like the rest of the team. Or, if not asleep, then at least feigning it for the sake of tricking himself into adjusting to the time zone.

"Okay," Beomgyu mutters to himself. He has one hand pressed against the side of his stomach, his fingers spread out enough to put just the slightest bit of pressure against his skin. "Okay, I can do this."

It isn't that Yeonjun wouldn't help him. On the contrary, Yeonjun is the type to bleed himself dry, just to make it okay for the other person, rather than for himself. It's more about the fact that Beomgyu doesn't have any clue what the fuck is happening to him. He knows he should have gone to the protocol team; they're there for a reason. But Beomgyu's blood sings at the familiarity that Yeonjun would bring. Even to him, a beta, Yeonjun's presence is calming. The type of alpha that de-escalates more than anything, even if he's hot-blooded and easy to rile up. Nothing that Beomgyu has ever done to annoy him has ever lasted. No grudges or pettiness — just that momentary flare of his nostrils and furrow of his brows and the instinctual urge to hit back. Never enough to stick.

Yeonjun is safe. Just like Soobin would be, or Kai, or Taehyun.

Beomgyu takes a deep breath.

He knocks on the door.

No answer comes at first. He knocks again, and again, his heart pounding in his chest. Beomgyu's knees feel weak under his weight. If Yeonjun isn't going to answer soon, he can't vouch for himself that he won't faint.

"Hyung," he croaks. He pounds his fist on the door. "Hyung!"

Before Beomgyu can raise his fist for what feels like the thousandth time, the door gives under his weight. Beomgyu whimpers. He loses his footing, heavily weighted, like he's free-falling.

It all takes less than a second — Beomgyu's eyes screw shut, his mouth purses, and he raises his shoulders involuntarily, bracing for the impact with the floor.

It doesn't come.

Instead, Yeonjun's arms are warm around him, his fingers digging into his sides to hold him upright.

"Beomgyu?" he rasps out, clearly half-asleep.

Before he can answer, Beomgyu takes a deep breath. Yeonjun's scent hits him all at once. His eyes open wide. Why is he able to take in Yeonjun's scent? He's never been able to. He's a beta. Betas don't scent out others. His heart speeds up in his chest as his mouth dries. Yeonjun smells good, like too much of a stormy earth early in the morning. Like lightning and thunder, and ruin. Beomgyu takes another breath, deep and greedy, to fill his lungs.

"Are you okay?" Yeonjun asks. Then, his eyes grow wide, eyebrows rising. "Gyu-yah …," he begins, warily. "Why do you smell like this?"

Beomgyu doesn't answer him. Smell like what? The only scent in the room is Yeonjun's, and it's so potent it makes saliva pool on the tip of his tongue. Beomgyu shouldn't be able to pick it out of the crowd. The closest he's gotten to scenting people out has been that collective, soothing pack smell that lingers in the dorm, though more often than not, Beomgyu thinks it's just all of their perfumes combined.

Beomgyu's fingers twitch. He grasps at Yeonjun's shirt, soft cotton under his touch, and mutters, "What are you talking about?" So much of Yeonjun's scent pours out of him, it's hard to focus.

"You —," Yeonjun heaves a breath. He brings Beomgyu closer to his body, nose twitching. "You smell sweet. Like heat."

Laughter bubbles in Beomgyu's throat. "Don't be silly, Hyung," he says. "I'm a beta. "

He's always been.

Beomgyu had made his peace with it a long time ago. He mourned it, at first — his presentation. The idea that he could be mated, that he could bear the claim of someone else, that he could love someone so much, they'd both bleed for it before they would be forever intertwined. He'd made his peace with it because there hadn't been another option. He'd been fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, then eighteen, and still unpresented, and by the time he turned nineteen, and every single one of his friends had a secondary gender, Beomgyu had learned that sometimes, you are dealt less than you want.

"But —," Yeonjun leans in closer. Beomgyu doesn't move away. He doesn't think he could, even if he wanted to. Yeonjun feels nice. He's warm and he smells good, even if it's slightly burnt with agitation. Beomgyu has never been able to smell him before. Is this what he's always missed out on?

"Everything burns, Hyung," Beomgyu mumbles. It's somewhat of a lie, because since Yeonjun had touched him, the fire in his body had begun seeping out, like smoke clearing out. But Beomgyu's brain is far too foggy to process that. "It hurts."

Yeonjun pulls him into his room. Distantly, Beomgyu thinks he should have really just gone to the protocol team, because there is little that makes sense about what he's feeling. Yet it feels good now that Yeonjun is holding him in his arms, albeit awkwardly.

The door shuts with a click. Beomgyu doesn't spare it a glance. He presses himself tighter to Yeonjun's body and breathes him as deeply as he can. Every inhale of his scent appeases him.

Thunderous rain, the kind that dusts off the streets when the heat gets too much.

Yeonjun's hands are cold when they press against his face. "You shouldn't be here," he tells him. "I think you're presenting. Gyu-yah. You really shouldn't be here, I — I'll call the protocol team. There are systems in place for this, you know?"

Beomgyu shakes his head. He leans his head more into Yeonjun's touch. "I am not presenting," he laughs. It scratches at his throat. He should drink water; Beomgyu doesn't remember a time he'd been this thirsty. "I'm twenty-four, hyung, I'm a beta."

Yeonjun's hand presses tighter against his forehead. Gently, he drags it down his face, all the way to his jawline. Beomgyu shudders. He inhales sharply. His heart thuds in his chest.

"Hyung," he whispers. He can't stop breathing him in. This is what I missed out on?

Yeonjun doesn't answer him. Instead, he drags his hand further down, ghosting over the sides of his neck. Pleasure shoots down his spine.

When Yeonjun's fingers press down onto the side of his neck, Beomgyu all but topples over. Had Yeonjun's arm not been wrapped tightly around his middle, Beomgyu knows his knees would have given out under his weight. A moan rips out of his chest.

"Yeonjun," he breathes. His pulse is unsteady, a rapid beat thrumming under his skin.

Against his better judgment, he presses himself even tighter to Yeonjun's body. His nose finds the dip in Yeonjun's shoulder, right next to the base of his neck. He's all warm, golden skin, steady under his touch, and even now, Yeonjun indulges him. Beomgyu breathes in summer rain, fresh and overwhelming.

"Beomgyu—."

Beomgyu can barely hear him over the sound of his heartbeat. It sets off, right in the middle of his chest. He presses his nose tighter into the alcove of Yeonjun's shoulder. Every inhale of his scent makes him dizzier. Light-headed; almost like he's floating. He opens his mouth, and, with a shuddered exhale, Beomgyu's lips press to Yeonjun's heated skin, right over his scent gland. Pleasure blooms in his body; Beomgyu hasn't felt this good in forever.

The older boy startles with a curse under his breath. Quickly, he pries Beomgyu's hands off of him, separating them.

Immediately, Beomgyu mourns the heat of his body.

"Hyung," he whines. He's never heard himself sound like this. All high-pitched and needy.

His hands grab Yeonjun again, despite the elder's squeaked protests. It doesn't matter that they've never been this intimately close before at all. Yeonjun's skin feels good when it's pressed against Beomgyu's, like a cold shower on a torrid summer night. Sweat gathers at the back of his neck, droplets over droplets, rolling down his heated skin.

"Beomgyu-yah," Yeonjun says again, warily. "Calm down."

Beomgyu doesn't hear him anymore. Everything is white noise against the pulse of his heart. Yeonjun feels good. Why does he feel this good? Beomgyu has always had a soft spot for him, but never like this; never with this nervous, desperate curl in the pit of his stomach.

He wrangles himself out of Yeonjun's steady grip. His legs shake under his weight, and every movement he makes only serves to dizzy him more. Yet it doesn't matter. Beomgyu has long since stopped thinking. Instead, he presses himself to Yeonjun's body again, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, and buries his nose into the crook of his shoulder.

He inhales deeply.

That same sweet, smoky scent of autumn pools in his lungs.

Beomgyu's mouth waters.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, though he doesn't know what he's apologising for. "I'm sorry, hyung," he repeats, because he feels guilty. For what, Beomgyu doesn't know. All he knows is that there's an unpleasant twist to Yeonjun's scent the more he breathes him in, like he's agitated, and it curls shamefully inside Beomgyu's chest, too.

He hears the older boy sigh, but he doesn't make any attempt to get Beomgyu off of him anymore. He's stopped mentioning the protocol team, too, and all Beomgyu can feel is relief. If he's really presenting, then Beomgyu doesn't think he could face the protocol team yet. It's bad enough he's in Yeonjun's room, stuck to him like he's the glue holding all his pieces together.

Beomgyu knows, at the back of his head, that this is not how an alpha presents. He wouldn't be able to stand Yeonjun if he were.

But people don't just present at twenty-four anymore. If anything, they present young enough for it to be easy to accommodate.

Twenty-four is weird.

By twenty-four, omegas are supposed to find pseudo-mates, at least, if not an actual mate, like Soobin, who's already halfway sickeningly in love with Taehyun, but also with Kai. By twenty-four, they're thinking of pups, not learning how to nest or whatever it is that an omega learns at first. Beomgyu wouldn't know. He made his peace with being a beta a long time ago.

So why is every nerve in his body singing at even the briefest touch that Yeonjun leaves on his body?

"I'm a beta, hyung," he mutters into Yeonjun's heated skin, clammy under his lips. " I'm a beta."

He feels Yeonjun's chest shudder against his. He doesn't speak at first. His large hand comes to comb through the hair at Beomgyu's nape, all gently as if he's trying not to spook him. Beomgyu wants to laugh. He feels like a child. He feels like he did back when he failed to show any signs of a definite subgender three springs in a row before giving up on it entirely and pushing it to the back of his mind.

"You smell sweet," Yeonjun mutters, eventually. He has yet to start running his hand through Beomgyu's hair. It's a soothing thing. He'd told him once, when they were both a little tipsy, that his mother used to do it, too, when he was a pup.

"I'm a beta," he whines. "I've always been."

"It's not —,"

Over the years, Beomgyu has learned that being a beta is easy. There are no overwhelming scents. There are no instincts, no succumbing to the heat in your bones once every three months. More control, fewer medical check-ups. No suppressants, or scent patches, or lashing out over trivial scents because of pheromones.

It's all Beomgyu has used to soothe himself with.

"I'm a beta, " he repeats, though the words slur together on the tip of his tongue.

He hears Yeonjun sigh. Then, he stops carding his fingers through his hair. Beomgyu bites back the whimper threatening to escape his lips.

Tears pool in his eyes. "I'm a beta, hyung," he whispers.

He isn't scared. If anything, Beomgyu doesn't feel much at all, other than the overwhelming heat coursing through his veins. Even that has marginally subsided since Yeonjun had first touched him.

"What are you feeling?" Yeonjun asks him. It's in a voice Beomgyu has never heard before; patient and soft and barely whispered.

Beomgyu doesn't know. His head is spinning, though it's heavy, and the longer they stay upright, the dizzier he gets. Yeonjun's scent is everywhere, and the more Beomgyu breathes him in, the calmer he feels, even if his limbs ache.

"Overwhelmed," he settles. It's the closest he can get to whatever it is spinning around in his mind.

Twenty-four and presenting is embarrassing.

Even more so when they're in a different country and Beomgyu can't curl into the mess of blankets he has at home on his bed. They used to joke about it with him, tell him maybe he's got omega traits, if he likes nesting so much. Beomgyu would scrunch up his nose and huff into his bundle of soft fabrics.

You just don't understand, he'd say, petulantly. 

Now, he thinks Soobin wasn't so far off.

"That's alright," Yeonjun mutters. "Do you want me to call the protocol team now?"

Beomgyu feels himself grow cold. "No." He says. He pulls away from Yeonjun, just enough to look at the boy's face. He's tired — so obviously tired, with dark shadows over his face and hollowed out, bloodshot eyes — but Beomgyu tries not to let that twinge of guilt settle too deeply into his chest. He shakes his head. "No. No, no, no. I don't —," he presses his face back into Yeonjun's neck and breathes in again.

Thunder and lightning and late autumn. Smoked, like wet pinewood burning in a hearth.

"I don't want them here right now."

Yeonjun pries him off again, just as gently as he had before. His hands find Beomgyu's face, thumbs digging under his jaw. He angles Beomgyu's head back, a soft look on his face. "I'm an alpha, Gyu-yah," he tells him. "Even if it isn't a full heat, I can still trigger it for you."

Beomgyu wraps his hands around Yeonjun's wrists. He's warm, and when his touch settles, electricity zaps down his spine. "I don't care. I don't want them here right now. They'll —," he swallows, "they'll take me to the doctors and I just —," I'm not home and doctors are scary there, too, let alone in a country he's never been to before.

Yeonjun softens with a heavy sigh. "I know," he mutters. His thumb moves, brushing over Beomgyu's skin. "But it's better to be safe than sorry, Gyu-yah."

"Can't it just be tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure, I really—."

"Please, hyung. I don't want to go to the hospital."

Yeonjun's eyes screw shut. He heaves out another sigh, just as long and shuddering as the first one. "Fine," he says. "But you're going tomorrow."

Beomgyu's lips quiver. Relief fills him. He doesn't know what he'd do if Yeonjun were to force him into a car. They'd probe at him with needles and wonder just how the hell he'd managed to wait this long to show any sign. The protocol team wouldn't be happy, either, because it's not according to any of their schedules. They have things to do: a music video to shoot, concerts, appearances — Beomgyu knows this will only mess it up.

They've always liked their things organized down to the minute.

Beomgyu has never liked to be the one fucking it up for them.

Yet it doesn't seem to matter as much anymore when Yeonjun leads him into his messy hotel bed. The sheets are just as rough as Beomgyu's had been, though they're coated thickly with that same autumn scent that sticks to Yeonjun's body head to toe. Yeonjun pushes one of the pillows towards him, but before it reaches him, Beomgyu's heart stops in his chest. Desperately, he snatches the one Yeonjun had been sleeping on before Beomgyu had pounded his door down. It smells the most like him and still holds some sort of resemblance to his warmth.

He knows he's far too gone when there is barely any shame festering inside him as he buries his face into it, inhaling deeply. What the fuck. Beomgyu can barely wrap his head around it. He ignores the little squeak Yeonjun gives out, or the reddening of his ears, and inhales again, deeply.

"You smell good, hyung," he whispers. "I never knew you smelled like this."

Yeonjun muffles another squeak. Hesitantly, he lies down next to Beomgyu. He's too far, Beomgyu decides promptly. He's already made his peace with the fact that none of his actions tonight are condemnable in the morning. I'm presenting, or whatever the hell is happening, he muses, I'm allowed to be weird. So he sneaks a hand out, pulling Yeonjun closer to him. Working out throughout the previous months has helped him tremendously in that area, especially because Yeonjun hadn't. At least not to the level Beomgyu and Kai have.

"We're going to the hospital tomorrow," Yeonjun tells him, though it lacks any bite. His hand presses to Beomgyu's forehead anyway, cooling his burning skin down. "The protocol team will try to sacrifice me," he sighs.

Beomgyu manages a half shrug. The more he spends doused in Yeonjun's scent, the softer his bones feel inside his body. "It'll be fine," he mutters.

He doesn't know if it will be fine. The protocol team is lovely, but they're particular about things, and if Beomgyu forces himself to, he remembers every single one of their presentations. They've always called a manager.

It's why they have them on speed dial, anyway.

Emergencies.

Even if that emergency turns out to be a bug on the wall of their shower, or a pot boiling over and becoming a momentary makeshift fire hazard.

Beomgyu can't find it in himself to care, though. Yeonjun feels good with his body pressed tightly against his, their legs somewhat intertwined under his sheets. His hand is still pressed to Beomgyu's forehead, and even though it has gotten clammy over the minutes, it still feels relieving in a way few things are. For now, Beomgyu's body isn't trying to burn itself from the inside out; not while he's cocooned in a cloud of Yeonjun's scent, with his touch cold on his skin like a lifeline.

"It'll be fine," he repeats.

He can barely keep himself awake anymore. Beomgyu shuffles even closer. His heart pounds in his chest, though it's soft enough not to hurt him anymore, and when he presses his nose against Yeonjun's collarbones, the boy lets him.

He inhales.

Once, twice, again and again, until he's dizzy with rain and thunder and lightning, all smoked out in his lungs.

—

A few hours later — definitely not long enough for his head to stop hurting — Beomgyu wakes up with his blood scalding hot in his veins. It burns away at him like incense, molten hot and unbearable. His mouth is dry, and he can barely swallow, but it doesn't matter. What matters is the liquid fire pooling in his stomach.

He whimpers.

Yeonjun's scent is everywhere around him, heavy with smoke. He's still pressed flush against Beomgyu's body, heavy weight made to ground him, but even like this, Beomgyu doesn't feel like it's enough.

Distantly, he thinks he should have really just gone to their managers, because just as distantly, Beomgyu feels like he's dying.

He scoots even closer to Yeonjun, nosing at his skin. Even his scent is not enough anymore. No matter how much it oozes out of Yeonjun, no matter how heavy it is in the air, Beomgyu burns.

Beomgyu whimpers again.

"Hyung," he croaks.

Tears pool in his eyes. It won't stop burning. Even when he inhales deeply enough to feel his temples pulse, it only seems to burn faster, like a match to gasoline. He scoots closer and closer, until he's hovering over Yeonjun's sleeping form. In the dead of the night, with moonlight barely streaking through the curtains, Yeonjun is beautiful. Asleep, he looks younger. The blueish shadows don't blend under his eyes anymore, and his mouth is parted open, red and plump, unlike how it usually is. Asleep, Yeonjun doesn't hold that same air of exhaustion anymore, like he's just trying to get by.

Beomgyu lets out a stuttered breath. His heart pounds in his chest as he raises a hand. Then, it's even faster when he lowers it as gently as he can, brushing away Yeonjun's soft, dark hair. His skin tingles with the contact.

"Hyung," he whispers again.

Yeonjun stirs, but it isn't enough to wake him up.

More of that same heat ignites in his body. It courses through him violently, head to toe, like wildfire. He swallows even if it's futile. Still as gently, Beomgyu drags the back of his hand down Yeonjun's face. He's still as a statue, soft breaths puffing up his chest, though his eyelashes flutter whenever Beomgyu's fingers graze over his skin.

Saliva pools in his mouth. Beomgyu has never felt this foggy. Is this what it means to be an omega? He thinks of all the times he'd lain down in bed, late at night, wishing for it. How desperate he'd been then, how much he'd mourned something he'd never had. Even more so, how foolish he'd been to think that it'd be easier, had he just been anything other than a beta. How easy it would have been then to look at Yeonjun and not feel that sickening dread coiling in his stomach at the grim reminder that he'd failed to present, even when Yeonjun had emerged from his room a week later, flushed red and proud, like an alpha.

If this is what it means to be an omega, Beomgyu doesn't think he can handle it. Soobin and Taehyun — they'd had years to get used to it. Soobin and Taehyun had presented almost at the same time, as if they'd triggered it in each other. They had learned together what it means.

But Beomgyu is twenty-four years old, nine thousand and six hundred kilometers away from home, and there's fire pooling in his veins like a radioactive rain, melting him from the inside out.

The first tear is scorching hot. It burns his eyes and his skin as it rolls down, and when it lands on Yeonjun's collarbone, brighter than anything in the room, all he can do is whimper again, uselessly, like it will change anything.

Beomgyu lies down, pressing his ear against Yeonjun's chest. He inhales sharply, though it does little to keep his tears at bay. It seems as if now that he's started, he can't stop. Tears roll down his cheeks unabashedly, just as hot and unpleasant, almost as if to mark him. Under his ear, Yeonjun's chest rises steadily. Thump-thump-thump — even the beat of his heart is soft and controlled, like how Yeonjun always is.

Beomgyu closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, again and again. Yeonjun is steady under him.

—

The third time he wakes up, he's drenched in sweat, and the inside of his thighs is sticky. That same smoldering fire burns within him, stronger than before, like it wants nothing more than to consume him whole.

Yeonjun's arms are wrapped tightly around him. In the moments he'd managed to fall asleep, Beomgyu hadn't moved, still perched on top of him, with his ear pressed against his heart. He inhales. Yeonjun's scent is even heavier now, thicker and cloying.

"Hyung," he says, this time louder than ever. His mouth waters. He feels himself leak. He'd forgotten about it — the fact that there'd be slick running down his legs, pooling in the fabric of his clothes. "Fuck," he whispers. He hoists himself up, blood quick in his temples.

Yeonjun's eyes open. Wildly, with his pupils blown, flashing dark brown in the middle of the night. "Gyu—,"

Beomgyu can see the moment it all falls into place. Yeonjun takes in a shuddered breath. His pretty mouth parts open, bloody red, and his eyes flutter shut.

"You're," he gulps. "You're in heat, Gyu-yah."

"It hurts," Beomgyu whines. "It hurts, hyung. So bad, and I —," He presses his forehead against Yeonjun's collarbones. "Make it go away, hyung."

He hears Yeonjun breathe in again; feels it under his touch, the way his chest moves with Beomgyu's scent. He wonders what he smells like, if it's anywhere near close to how good Yeonjun does, now that it's spiking in intensity, all foggy and smoky.

"Beomgyu."

"Please," he hears himself say. More slick drips out of him, wet and warm. His pants stick to his skin. " Please, hyung." Desperately, with shaky hands, he presses down on the side of Yeonjun's neck. The boy jolts under him, a soft whine on the tip of his tongue. Beomgyu has never heard him like this — all rumbled and low in his chest. 

"We — Beomgyu-yah, we shouldn't." 

"Please."

The more they sit like that, flush against each other, heartbeats synced, the more restless Beomgyu grows. Slick seems to drip out of him endlessly. Yeonjun's scent is so heavy, pressing down on Beomgyu's lungs like water at the bottom of the ocean. He can barely breathe anymore, no matter how much he wants to. Yeonjun smells divine; the thicker it gets, the more pleasure pools in Beomgyu's stomach, low and heated. 

"Please, hyung," he whispers again. Involuntarily, his hips press down onto Yeonjun's thigh. Pleasure sparks inside him. He lets out a shuddered breath, mouth opening over Yeonjun's heated skin and wet. "Please." He hears himself mutter. Like a mantra, again and again, as if Yeonjun will save him. He could. Beomgyu knows he could. With so much heavy wildfire in his body, Yeonjun feels like an oasis more than anything, and as his fingers dig painfully into Beomgyu's sides, he can't help the way he ruts into his thigh.

His cheeks flush red. It doesn't matter anymore that none of this makes sense or that up until a few hours earlier, Beomgyu had been sure that he was a beta and that he'd always be. It doesn't matter anymore that Yeonjun and Beomgyu have never been close like this, not like how he is with Soobin, or how Kai seems to stick to Taehyun like glue. It doesn't matter that Yeonjun and Beomgyu don't make sense in the grand scheme of things, because to Beomgyu, despite everything, Yeonjun has always made sense just a little bit more than anything else. 

Yeonjun's hands sneak into the hair on the back of Beomgyu's neck. He tangles them harshly, but not so it hurts, and when he pulls Beomgyu's head back, away from his reddened skin, his eyes are wide open and wild, smoldering as they stare into Beomgyu's like he's never seen him before. Beomgyu shudders. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and when he whines, high-pitched and wet, his hips giving another shallow thrust against his thigh,  Yeonjun's head falls back, a soft moan rumbles in the middle of his chest. 

Beomgyu doesn't know who moves first. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. Not when Yeonjun's lips feel as soft as Beomgyu has always thought them to be, and not when Yeonjun's scent bleeds into his mouth, too, all sweet and heavy, and intoxicating. 

His eyes flutter shut. 

Kissing Yeonjun is strange in the same way everything is. He hadn't given it much thought since he'd turned seventeen and Yeonjun had turned out to be an alpha, eighteen and a half, and so full of pride, but still so soft, like he was scared he'd jostle Beomgyu too hard were he to not be careful.

Yet at the same time, kissing Yeonjun feels good in a way few things do. With every press of their lips, it feels as if he's come alive, right then and there, in some hotel room in Barcelona, too far away from home for comfort. 

Yeonjun's fingers tangle themselves harder at the back of Beomgyu's head, right over his nape. Shivers run down his spine. He opens his mouth, a soft moan muffled at the back of his throat, and when Yeonjun's tongue touches his, Beomgyu all but combusts. Thick wildfire bursts in the middle of his chest. Another wave of slick seems to drip out of him for what feels like forever. He can feel it trickle down the inside of his thigh, and he knows Yeonjun can feel it too, if the groan he lets out is any indication. Beomgyu's hips rut into his thigh once more, this time with more purpose. It's a rushing sensation, right at his core, heated and liquid. 

He gasps.

Yeonjun pulls away. "Fuck," he groans. He lets go of Beomgyu's hair and, instead, he drags the heavy palms of his hands down his spine, all the way to his hips, steadying him. "Beomgyu," he gulps, strained.

 Beomgyu ruts into him once more, eyes slipping shut. He never thought he'd get here, let alone with Yeonjun of all people, but now that it's started, Beomgyu can't find it in himself to care. If earlier every single time Yeonjun had touched him, his skin had stopped burning and aching, now it's almost the opposite. The more Yeonjun's hands grasp at him, sturdy, fingers digging into the meat of his body, the more Beomgyu seems to burn. Brighter than ever, stronger than ever, incessantly, like acrid gasoline. 

"Yeonjun-hyung," he finds himself muttering, mindlessly. "Please," though Beomgyu doesn't know what he's asking for. It's overwhelming. Yeonjun has been giving him more than Beomgyu could have ever asked for, from opening the door for him even if it had been the dead of the night, to holding him tightly against the heat of his own body, letting him take and take, even if Beomgyu was not sure he'd be able to stop. 

He presses his lips to Yeonjun's again, desperately. He tastes good. As good as he smells, at least, and whenever their lips brush, Beomgyu's chest tightens more and more. He hadn't realized just how much he'd want Yeonjun, now that his body burns with heat. 

Yeonjun pulls away first. He heaves a breath, bringing his hand back up to Beomgyu's nape. He ghosts over the sensitive skin, not quite touching, but close enough for every fleeting second to have Beomgyu's blood rushing in his veins. 

Blinking slowly, Beomgyu drags in more of Yeonjun's scent. He looks at him; the slick red of his mouth, puffy around the corners of his mouth, the wild dart of his eyes as he searches Beomgyu's face for something he can't quite seem to find. Beomgyu swallows, thick and unpleasant. "Make it stop, hyung," he whispers. He ruts into Yeonjun's body again, only softly this time, not like before. "It burns. My whole body burns." 

Yeonjun groans. "Beomgyu-yah," he starts, but Beomgyu kisses him again before he has a chance to put an end to it. 

He's never felt himself this desperate; this useless with want, dripping everywhere.

I'm in heat, he thinks, distantly, at the back of his head. It's a funny thing to think about, because hours ago, Beomgyu had never even thought of the possibility. The day before, when he'd been last-minute packing for their trip to Europe, for their tour, he'd heard Soobin whine about suppressants and scent patches and how they take too much space in his luggage. Beomgyu had laughed because it was funny, and he's heard it over and over again over the last six years and some. But now it's real, and Beomgyu is like that too, and he can't even bring himself to think about it. If he does, he's not sure he'll ever come up for air again. 

So he presses his mouth to Yeonjun's again and again, until he can barely hear himself think anymore. He opens his mouth wider and presses his hand down into the mattress right by Yeonjun's head. And when the older man digs his fingers into the meat of his thigh, right under where his ass curves, he gives in and ruts into Yeonjun's thigh until he's blinded with pleasure. 

His first orgasm takes him by surprise. It's dry, and messy, and it reminds him entirely too much of years ago when he'd get himself off in an empty dorm, too cautious and stressed about anyone possibly coming in. It does nothing to take off the edge. If anything, the fire only builds at the base of his spine even more, spreading everywhere in his body. He moans, high and airily, into Yeonjun's open mouth, fingers curling into the bedsheets by Yeonjun's head, and when the older man digs his fingers into the meat of his thigh, right under where his ass curves, he gives in and ruts into Yeonjun's thigh until he's blinded with pleasure. 

Yeonjun's name is a whisper on the tip of his tongue. He can barely hear himself over the white noise ringing in his ears. Beomgyu can't find it in himself to care. It doesn't matter, he reminds himself. 

"Hyung," he gasps, after a while. He can feel himself shake with it. 

Yeonjun is quick to cradle him close to his chest. He doesn't remember a time they'd been this close. Beomgyu cherishes it. Yeonjun's chest is sturdy under his heated cheeks, and his heartbeat, although unsteady, is nice enough to listen to. Yeonjun threads his fingers through his hair. He knows he's sweaty by the way the strands stick to the back of his neck, but Yeonjun doesn't seem to mind it at all. His scent pours out of him just the same, if not even more. 

"Do you feel better?" Yeonjun asks him, after a while. 

In truth, Beomgyu doesn't. Even when he'd thought he would, it consumes him all the same, head to toe. The only thing that seems to help is Yeonjun's close proximity, though even that is starting to fade. 

"No," he mumbles, with a scowl. "No, I don't. It feels like I'm going to melt." 

Yeonjun laughs. It's a quiet little sound, a little out of breath. "It's how it usually feels, yeah." 

"Does it go away? Like, ever? I feel like I'm halfway to dying. " 

"Don't be dramatic." 

Beomgyu scoffs. Another wave of heat passes through him. He can feel himself sweating even more. It drips down his temples, by his ears. He's never liked the feel of it. "Make it stop, hyung," he asks again, though this time it's more out of habit than anything else. 

Yeonjun's hand stutters in his hair. "I'd have to knot you, Gyu-yah," he says. "And I don't —"

Beomgyu doesn't hear him anymore. The word knot hangs heavy in the air between them. The heat crawls down Beomgyu's spine again. It pools inside him even stronger. Yeonjun could knot him. He doesn't think he's ever wanted something more in his life. Brief images flash before his eyes. Things he hasn't let himself indulge in since he was much younger and still festered that hope inside him that he'll present and Yeonjun will at least look at him with that instinctive want, even if it'd mean nothing at the end of the day. Things like having him above himself, pressing him down, his fingers digging into the space right next to his hipbones hard enough for him to feel it, but not so much so it actually hurts. Things like Yeonjun's mouth pressed tightly against his, bare hips flush against Beomgyu's, his legs tight around Yeonjun's middle. Heavy weight on top of him, his cock deep inside him, reaching places Beomgyu could never think possible. His heart skips a beat. 

"Please," he whimpers. He rolls himself off of Yeonjun, tugging at the boy's arm until Yeonjun is willing enough to roll over, too. "Please, hyung, please."  

It's a stupid thing to ask, really. Yeonjun won't do it in a million years. He shouldn't. It's irrational and petulant, and Beomgyu knows more than anything that it's that impossible, unbearable heat in his veins talking more than anything else. Yet it sounds like everything he could possibly want; Yeonjun inside him, thick and heavy, his knot tying Beomgyu to him, filling him up. 

"Gyu—"

Tears well up in his eyes. "No," he says, sharply. "You have to, hyung." 

Yeonjun sighs. "I'm not going to knot you, Beomgyu, but—"

"But I want you to!" 

"I can't knot you, Beomgyu. Do you even know what that means? I can't just—," 

Beomgyu's cheeks burn. On a different day, he'd be mortified. He knows he's being unfair, but everything inside him screams for it and, for the first time in his life, Beomgyu doesn't exactly know how to make it stop. "No, I don't hyung. Because in case you haven't noticed, I learned that I could possibly be an omega around the same time you did, so I'm sorry, that to me it makes sense for you to—," 

Yeonjun kisses him before he even gets to finish his words. Hard and messy, open-mouthed. Beomgyu moans. He wraps his arms around Yeonjun's neck, pulling him closer, and when he parts his legs to make space for him, Yeonjun slots in perfectly, like there's no other place for him to be. He's hard, too, heavy against Beomgyu's body, pressed flush to his core. 

"You just never shut up, do you?" he mumbles, in between kisses. He presses his mouth harder against Beomgyu's, teeth clashing, and when he licks into Beomgyu's mouth, he can't help but arch into his touch. "Always whining, always demanding—," He thrusts his hips once against Beomgyu's. The heat of his body pulses through Beomgyu. "You just can't take no, even when you know it's a stupid idea." 

"It's not my, ah, fault," he says, though he lacks bite. 

Yeonjun thrusts into him again. Beomgyu's eyes flutter shut, another moan echoing loudly into the room. Then again, clothed and hard, fingers digging into the meat of Beomgyu's thigh as he moves him around until Beomgyu's leg is tight around his waist. 

Tears spill past his lash line. Salted and heated, down his cheeks. "Hyung, please."  

Yeonjun kisses him again. It's softer this time, with less fervour. His hips drag languidly against Beomgyu's, though pleasure still drips down his spine. By now, he knows he's soaked. He can feel it — the way his pants stick to his skin, wet and uncomfortable. "Don't worry, Beomgyu-yah," he mutters, "hyung will give it to you." 

Beomgyu mewls. His fingers dig into the planes of Yeonjun's back. "Please." It's like he'd forgotten every other word. 

His mind is foggy. He can't think of anything other than the way Yeonjun feels on top of him, closer than they'd ever been, a couple of measly layers separating them. Yeonjun ruts into him again. He presses his mouth to Beomgyu's briefly before pulling away. His gaze feels heavier now, his pupils blown, and his mouth is red. He breathes unsteadily, all wild, a stutter in his chest. 

"Please," Beomgyu whispers, for what feels like the hundredth time. 

It's all it takes for Yeonjun to listen to him. 

In an instant, his mouth is back on Beomgyu's skin, trailing kisses down from the corner of his mouth to his jawline, and then underneath. Beomgyu shudders with every wet press of Yeonjun's lips, and when Yeonjun finally reaches the side of his neck, all Beomgyu can do is tilt his head to the side, baring it. Just like an omega. It's still so strange to him, to feel like this: all terribly heated, burning like a furnace under Yeonjun's fingers. 

Yeonjun presses a soft kiss to his skin. It's right over his scent gland, and though Beomgyu has always been sensitive around his neck, now it feels entirely too different. It blooms inside him, more slick trickling down his leg, soaking his underwear. If only Yeonjun would get him out of it already, Beomgyu would be more than happy. It's been sticking to his skin for what feels like forever, dry and wet, all at the same time.

Unpleasant. 

He mouths at Beomgyu's skin again. Softly, like they have all the time in the world. Beomgyu mewls, his body tight like a bow string, ready to burst. Pleasure coils inside him again, slowly, then faster and faster, and when Yeonjun's mouth parts open, one of his teeth grazing his skin, almost catching, Beomgyu cums. Hard, harder than before — with white, hot pleasure zapping through his body rapidly, like it will never stop. He shakes under Yeonjun and digs his fingers into the meat of his back until he feels Yeonjun whimper above him. His hips rut into Beomgyu's again.  

"You taste good," Yeonjun mutters into his skin, 

Beomgyu flushes, pleased. It spreads languidly through him — that sole embarrassment, that Yeonjun had made him cum twice in the same night, when hours early, they hadn't ever thought they'd end up there. He wants to ask Yeonjun what he smells like; if he smells warm like Yeonjun does, or too sweet, like he'd heard omegas in heat smell like. 

"I want you to knot me, hyung.  It will make it stop, right?" 

Beomgyu watches Yeonjun swallow and blush, high on his cheeks. It'd be cute, had Yeonjun not wrangled two orgasms out of him, without even taking his clothes off. "It should," he says. "Usually, it's what it takes. Makes an omega think they're, uh, well-bred."

The red flush on Beomgyu's cheeks deepens. His heart skips a beat in his chest as he lets out a long whine, turning his head to the side. He can barely handle the idea that he's an omega now, let alone the possibility of being bred within an inch.

Pups — Beomgyu has never even thought about it. He figured he'd never have to, because there hadn't been any reason for him to think otherwise. 

"Okay," he says. 

Yeonjun chuckles. It's huffed, and he's obviously meant to cover it up, but Beomgyu scowls anyway. 

"Don't make fun of me. I don't know any of this, hyung," he whines. "It's not like it was told to me, you know? I told you before, I found out I'm an omega around the same time you did, if not later, so obviously I am going to —"

Yeonjun kisses him again. If it's to shut him up, Beomgyu doesn't complain. Every moment he spends without Yeonjun's mouth on him feels like it stretches endlessly. It itches under his skin — the desperation, the need to have Yeonjun flush against him continuously, like he's keeping him alive. In a way, sappy and so unlike Beomgyu, he thinks Yeonjun might just be keeping him alive. He doesn't know what he would have done, had he gone to the protocol team first. Had he gone to Soobin, even, because Soobin would have forced him into a new set of clothes and sprayed him with that scent suppressant spray he always talked proudly about — maybe too proudly, even — and dragged him to the Emergency Room himself, with the protocol team on tail. 

With Yeonjun, it is different because Yeonjun has always indulged him. Even if it's wrong.

 Beomgyu knows this is wrong. 

They're friends. 

They have always been friends. Co-workers, comrades, even, whatever it is, that fits the platonic thing they have going on for themselves, 

Friends don't do this. Friends don't show up smelling too sweet like heat and confusion, asking to be knotted. Hell, with the amount of suppressants everyone is on, outside those carefully orchestrated times when they're allowed to run their cycles, their subgenders are mostly equal to none. They have traits — Beomgyu has seen them at their worst and at their best, and as a beta, he's always been there to de-escalate whatever it was that was bothering them enough to act out — but never as strong. 

And he knows he should stop it. He knows, more than anything, that he should have listened to Yeonjun when he'd told him to go get the protocol team, that there are systems in place for this. He knows he should have gone there directly himself, then to the hospital to get a shot of suppressants and call it a day. They could have figured it out when they landed back in Seoul, a month from then. It could have been avoidable. 

Yet he can't seem to be able to refrain from it. Instinct or not, with a brain so foggy he can barely think, Beomgyu still knows it shouldn't happen. Not because he doesn't want it; god, he doesn't think he's wanted anything more in his life, but because tomorrow, when the sun will be bright in the sky and they'll have to face the day, Yeonjun will have knotted him into compliance and soothed him through his first heat. 

Beomgyu would do anything for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. It's embarrassing; everything about that night is embarrassing. From the unbearable heat of his skin to the way he'd knocked on Yeonjun's door dripping with slick and smelling like heat, to the way he whines now, pliant under Yeonjun's body, the words well-bred and pupped blaring in his brain. 

But he doesn't stop Yeonjun when he kisses him again. He doesn't do anything except kiss him back. So when Yeonjun's mouth dips down the curve of Beomgyu's neck, he lets him, because it soothes the burn within his bones like nothing has before. When he grazes his teeth over Beomgyu's skin again, right over his scent gland, he does nothing but arch into his touch some more, open-mouthed and dripping endlessly, breathing Yeonjun's thick scent until he's dizzy with it. 

Yeonjun, Yeonjun, Yeonjun —

Even when Yeonjun asks him if he's okay and waits patiently for his answer, a wild glint in his eyes, like he can barely wrap his head around it, either. 

— Yeonjun, Yeonjun, Yeonjun. 

"I'll take care of you," he murmurs into Beomgyu's skin, right above his collarbone. It's the most tender thing he'd told him all night. "Hyung will take care of you."

And Beomgyu trusts that he will. He trusts him. Always has. Even when he'd just joined the company, all those years ago, with a thick accent and so painfully unsure of himself, Yeonjun made it easy to trust him. One pack of face masks in his hands and a lopsided grin on his face like nothing will hurt you. 

Beomgyu hasn't stopped trusting him since. 

He figures that's why he's in his room now, and not with the protocol team in some emergency room in Barcelona, smelling like antiseptic and disinfectant. 

With one last kiss, Yeonjun slips his fingers under Beomgyu's waistband. He's hot to the touch, but it does nothing except cool him down. Beomgyu feels the flush creep up his neck, all over his ears. He lifts his hips up the best he can, and when Yeonjun pulls his pants down along with his underwear, he tries not to think about the fact that now Yeonjun has seen all of him more intimately than Beomgyu had ever thought possible. 

"Kiss me," he says, breathlessly. If Yeonjun is up with him, then he cannot stare. Beomgyu has never been ashamed of himself like that, but the fact that it's Yeonjun, his friend, out of all people, makes it all the more mortifying. "Please, hyung, I want a kiss," he pouts. 

He hears Yeonjun stifle another chuckle, just as breathless as Beomgyu feels. He comes up again and when he presses his mouth to Beomgyu's, relief floods him entirely. Head to toe, languid and overwhelming. 

Yeonjun's touch is scorching hot on Beomgyu's bare skin. He shivers and brings his arms around Yeonjun's neck again, pulling him in closer and closer, until they're a breath away. 

"It's okay," Yeonjun whispers to him. He's gone all soft and gooey, the same way he's always been. Like he cares for Beomgyu. Beomgyu knows he does. Yeonjun cares for all of them in that equal way of his, because he's the eldest and he's been tasked with handling all of them at some point in his life. "I'll take care of you. I'll make it stop," he adds. 

"Okay," Beomgyu whispers back. 

If he speaks any louder, he thinks whatever spell they're under will break. He can't afford that; not when he's still itching with that same burning feeling in his bones and dripping everywhere on Yeonjun's sheets. Not when Yeonjun's scent is bleeding down the walls of the room and sinking into Beomgyu's skin like a claim. 

Yeonjun kisses him again. Then again and again, until Beomgyu’s lungs feel funny in his chest, deflated and not his anymore. His mouth tastes of rain and thunder, and when he breathes in, there is lightning in his veins, stuttered with every press of their lips. 

Impatiently, he tugs at Yeonjun’s shirt, a whiny off garbled in between kisses. Yeonjun pulls away, just for a second, hands hoisting the fabric by the back of the collar. When it’s finally off, Beomgyu’s mouth waters. It’s endless tan skin, soft under the touch. He kisses Yeonjun again, fever in his blood, and lets his hands wander aimlessly, squeezing everywhere he can find. Like this, Yeonjun feels more real than ever. Solid in between Beomgyu’s parted legs, panting above him, with one hand dipping between the fold of Beomgyu’s thigh, right at the very top, where he’s most sensitive. 

Yeonjun’s hand curls around Beomgyu’s cock. In an instant, Beomgyu’s back arches, a moan heavy on his lips. Heat courses through him endlessly, from the top of his head down his spine. His toes curl. Slowly, Yeonjun drags his hand down, then up, sending sparks down Beomgyu’s legs. When Yeonjun twists his hand, Beomgyu gasps. It’s been entirely too long since he’s been with someone. Even then, it hadn’t felt like this; all sticky with warmth and his own slick and that impossible fever burning away at his body. 

Yeonjun coos at him. Normally, Beomgyu would hit him over the shoulder. He’d whine hyung at him, long and annoying, knowing it gets Yeonjun’s lips to purse displeased. But now Beomgyu relishes in it — the way Yeonjun whispers soft nothings in his ear, the way he dips his hand down, gathering Beomgyu’s slick on his fingers, before wrapping his hand around his cock once more. And when Yeonjun finally lets go of him, dipping his hand once more, only to push a finger inside Beomgyu, his blood sings heavy with that bursting, overwhelming pleasure he hasn’t been able to feel ever since he’d been on the flight to Barcelona. 

“Hyung,” he rasps. His chest heaves with every breath he takes. Yeonjun’s scent is everywhere. It pools on the tip of Beomgyu’s tongue, warm and rich, and earthy. Thunderous in his veins, like a storm. 

Yeonjun shushes him again. It’s soothing — the way his voice lowers more and more, until it’s barely above a murmur. “You’re alright,” he says, “Hyung will take care of you.” Like a promise rather than anything else. 

Beomgyu should have gone to the protocol team. 

Now, more than ever, with Yeonjun’s fingers moving inside him at a languid place, Beomgyu is grateful he’d stumbled pitifully to Yeonjun’s door instead. No one else could have burned him alive the way Yeonjun does, all steady despite the wild glint in his eyes and the bulging veins on his neck. 

“Please,” Beomgyu finds himself saying. He doesn’t know what he wants. Yeonjun is giving him everything and nothing at the same time. 

“Have you ever taken an alpha before?” Yeonjun asks him. If it had been anyone else, it would have been cocky and unbearable. Some sort of a gotcha moment. But Yeonjun sounds concerned, almost. 

“What?” 

“A knot,” he mumbles, bright red in the cheeks. “Have you ever taken a knot before, Gyu-yah?” 

Beomgyu feels the color drain out of his face. He swallows, averting his eyes. He can’t look at Yeonjun when he’s talking about knots. “No,” he says, after a beat. “I haven’t.” 

Yeonjun groans. He hangs his head low, forehead against Beomgyu’s stomach. “ Fuck,”  he mutters, though it’s more to himself than anything else. 

“Is that bad?” 

Yeonjun jolts as if burnt. He looks up, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. “No,” he hurries, “no, no. No. Not at all, Gyu-yah, it’s just—,” he stops, breathing in. “That’s kind of hot,” he mumbles. It’s so quiet, Beomgyu has to strain himself to hear it. When he does, blood rushes to his face again, hot under his skin. 

“What?”

If anything, Yeonjun only gets redder. He shakes his head, pulling himself up on his elbows above Beomgyu. He leans in again, pressing another languid kiss to Beomgyu’s open mouth. Then again, until Beomgyu is dizzy again and even more slick drips out of him, soaking the sheets under him. Beomgyu doesn’t have it in him to think about the cleaning services tomorrow. They have special hotels for heats, special rooms in normal ones, too, he thinks, and I’m in a normal one. The protocol team will kill us both. 

“Are you sure?” 

Beomgyu groans. “Hyung, please,” he says. Again and again, for the thousandth time that night. “ I want this. I want you. ” 

It doesn’t matter what will happen when they wake up. It doesn’t matter that they’re friends, that management will skin them alive. Frankly, Beomgyu has never cared less. 

And when Yeonjun takes a deep breath, pulling away just enough to push his own pants halfway down his legs,  Beomgyu finds that he really doesn’t care. Even if the next morning will be mortifying. Even if he knows that he’ll want to disappear into thin air, rather than face Yeonjun ever again. 

With his eyebrows furrowed, Yeonjun dips his hand between Beomgyu’s legs again. His fingers are warm when he gathers more of Beomgyu’s slick, and when he wraps a hand around himself, slick with Beomgyu and smelling so much of smoke and rain, Yeonjun moans low in his throat. Wordlessly, he hoists one of Beomgyu’s legs higher and lowers himself above him again. 

“Gyu—,” 

“Please.” 

Yeonjun bites his lip, eyebrows furrowed, and pushes in slowly. 

All Beomgyu can think is fuck. It’s all he’s wanted. Desperately, at the back of his head, without him even knowing. The stretch that comes with it, the slight burn inside him, the heaviness of someone’s body over him. Yeonjun’s fingers dig into his waist, rough, his thighs pressed flush against the back of Beomgyu’s, heated skin against heated skin, sticky. 

Beomgyu’s back arches. He throws his head back, a moan on the tip of his tongue. Fuck, fuck – 

He hates that for the first time since he’s left Seoul, too many hours ago, his body calms down. 

Yeonjun draws his hips out languidly, until he’s barely inside Beomgyu anymore. After a beat, he pushes all the way back in roughly, jostling Beomgyu higher up the bed. Beomgyu keens. Loud and unabashed, despite the angry flush creeping down his neck and spreading over his chest. 

It doesn’t hurt. Nothing seems to hurt at all anymore. Almost as if he’d been drugged all at once; none of that heat, that ache in his limbs and in his lower back, or in his temples. It doesn’t hurt at all, and Beomgyu tears up at the relief flooding through him. Not even when Yeonjun jostles him again, his fingers digging into his skin hard enough that Beomgyu knows for sure he’ll bruise. 

He’s been dripping everywhere for hours now, and Yeonjun had pushed three fingers inside him over and over again, a worried line wedged deep between his brows. Loudly, from the very center of his chest. Beomgyu hadn’t known it could feel like this — all the heat in his body cools down, the tremble of his limbs no longer so apparent. His heart races in his chest all unsteady. 

Like this, caged between Yeonjun’s arms, he feels smaller than ever. With Yeonjun’s fingers digging into his skin and his cock deep inside him, Beomgyu feels whole. In some fucked-up, instinctual way, like he was meant for this. 

To take a knot. 

Everything else pales in comparison. The heat that had seemed to overcome him whole, like wildfire, the blooming headache, the uncertainty of what would happen once he’d come up for air again, when the morning came and all of this was over. 

“Kiss me,” he says, desperately. It builds inside him slowly, a bubbling, under-pressure thing gnawing at his chest. Yeonjun is too far away, even if he’s inside Beomgyu.  

Yeonjun does. Pliant, like he can’t bear not doing whatever Beomgyu asks him to. It shouldn’t ignite inside him like this. This need to push Yeonjun around, to see how far he’d go; how much he’ll let Beomgyu get away with. He’s allowed him into his room already, into his bed, too, even if he knew it wouldn’t be good. He’s kissed him and wrung two orgasms out of him, dry and nowhere near taking the edge off. He’s about to knot him, even if he shouldn’t.

He buries his fingers into Yeonjun’s hair, tight around the roots, his mouth parted in a moan. “Harder,” he breathes into his mouth. 

Yeonjun complies. With a grunt, he grabs Beomgyu’s thigh, digging into his skin there instead, “you need it harder?” 

Beomgyu throws his head back. “Fuck, yes,” he gasps. The pillow smells like Yeonjun. Everything does; it drips with his scent, cloying and tethering on the edge between pleasant and unbearable. Beomgyu exhales, long and hard, until his lungs are void of any of it and his ears ring loudly, blood thumping madly in his temples.

Yeonjun slams into him again. Harder, like Beomgyu had asked him. He bends him, crowds Beomgyu against the bed, folded in half in a way that has his spine stretching awkwardly. He doesn’t care. Not when he feels so full and fuzzy around the edges.

“Good?” Yeonjun asks him. 

Beomgyu’s tongue is too heavy in his mouth to answer. Instead, he moans again, louder than before. 

Yeonjun thrusts into him again, just as hard. Beomgyu’s eyes roll back. Full. He’s so full. When was the last time he felt like this? He can’t remember. Yeonjun feels good inside him. Heavy, like he shouldn’t be anywhere else. He builds his rhythm steadily, his mouth latched onto the side of Beomgyu’s neck. He presses warm, open-mouthed kisses to his scent gland. Over and over again, until Beomgyu can’t think of anything else other than the fact that if Yeonjun were to sink his teeth in, he’d be his forever. 

He feels Yeonjun’s knot before he realizes what it is. A swell at the base of his cock, catching onto his rim every time he draws his hips out slowly, only to push himself inside Beomgyu again with a whine stuck at the back of his throat. 

“Alpha,” Beomgyu whimpers. His fingers curl tighter around Yeonjun’s hair, right at the roots. He arches, spreading his legs wide as they can go. Nothing about his behaviour makes sense. Up until hours ago, Beomgyu had never thought of Yeonjun like that. He’d never felt the weight of the word on his tongue. It hadn’t been his to say. But now it’s almost natural, the way it rolls off his tongue. “Alpha,” he says, again, just because he can. It lodges somewhere in his chest, suspended in between his lungs. Alpha, alpha, alpha — he’s here to soothe Beomgyu, to knot him until he can’t think straight anymore. Only then, Beomgyu knows it will go away.

Alpha had promised, he thinks, he said it will stop. Beomgyu trusts him. Now, more than ever. 

“Gyu-yah,” Yeonjun mutters. His hips stutter against Beomgyu’s, and his head falls forward, buried in the crook of Beomgyu’s neck. “Don’t,” he swallows, “don’t say that.” 

Beomgyu pays him no mind. He digs his nails into his scalp, right above his nape. “Alpha, please.”

Yeonjun shakes above him. He begins moving again, harder than before. It should hurt. Normally, Beomgyu wouldn’t like it. Not like this — fast and heavy and rough. Yet Yeonjun’s mouth is latched to the side of his neck, sucking bruises into his skin, and with every thrust his knot seems to grow heavier, until he can barely pull out of Beomgyu anymore. Every time it catches, the pain is almost unbearable, but still so soothing, like Beomgyu was made for it; it expands within him harshly, and with a whine, Beomgyu cums all over himself, too, sticky, a pool of his slick under himself, soaking the sheets. 

It takes one more whimpered alpha, for Yeonjun to tie him fully. It burns inside him and Beomgyu’s eyes water, yet before he can say anything, he feels a sting on the side of his neck. Immediately, Beomgyu’s chest fills with warmth. He breathes out, long and shuddered, patting down Yeonjun’s back. It feels good, warm almost, right in the middle of his chest. 

Yeonjun’s body moves under Beomgyu’s palms with every breath he takes. 

For a second, neither of them moves. 

Then, Yeonjun jumps as if burnt. He pulls away, his eyes wide and his mouth bloody.

Pale as a ghost, he trembles above him. “Beomgyu—,” 

Beomgyu’s eyes screw shut. Fuck. 

Yeonjun reaches out, but he stops midway, almost as if he’s scared to touch him anymore. His cock pulses inside Beomgyu, still, cum dribbling steadily, filling him up. It’d be nice, comforting even, were he not to feel the nauseating ache on the side of his neck. 

Yeonjun had bit him. 

Mated him, as if he were worth keeping. As if he wanted to keep him. 

For the first time that night, Beomgyu knows there is no going back. He touches the side of his neck with a wince, and when he pulls his fingers away, they’re bloodied just like Yeonjun’s mouth. His heart speeds up in his chest. Nauseatingly, like it won’t ever stop, ready to jump out. 

Fuckfuckfuck— 

Yeonjun won’t meet his eyes, though he can smell the distress on him, all tangy and bitter. 

Beomgyu stares at the blood again. 

He’s fucked.