smoothed out slappy hours (teddyescher) wrote in oberyns,
smoothed out slappy hours


j-hope/suga | nc-17 | 4145 words
yoongi's always liked taking risks, anyway.

warnings for crossdressing, genderplay, barebacking.

written for a request on tumblr. for the prompt, 'yoonseok, and crossdressing.' it kind of outgrew drabble status. oops.

He doesn’t mistake the look in Hoseok’s eyes.

Yoongi catches it as he’s being told what the punishment is. He doesn’t miss it, the way Hoseok’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, the way his fingers surreptitiously skim along the hem of his shirt the way they do when he’s thinking too hard. Yoongi forgets about it for a moment, though, when he’s pulling on the outfit, and trying not to let the irk show on his too-pale skin.

“Hip hop is dead,” he says, absently smoothing his palms over the front of the frilly white apron, over the soft black fabric of the dress that hangs off his hips, falling around his knees. “So dead.”

So fucking dead. Yoongi silently grieves the unwritten industry manual that states in some unwritten section that all idols are subject to the mortifying practice of wearing clothes of the opposite gender’s at some point in their career. They say it’s just for the ratings. Sure. Show ratings. As if he believes that.

“Rite of passage,” says Taehyung solemnly, nodding at him. “Everyone pays their dues.”

Yoongi snorts. He’d never expected to have to dress up like a waitress out of a maid cafe manhwa to attain his dreams. But, that’s life for you. Works in unexpected ways, and all that jazz.

“It’s okay, hyung,” calls Jeongguk cheekily, from the top of the stairs, where Jimin and he are snickering into their cupped palms. “I’d totally make you my girlfriend.”

And I’m going to poison your food, thinks Yoongi, eyes narrowing, but he just smiles politely for the cameras, and ignores the embarrassment that floods his cheeks with red when one of the stylists tells him to bend down a little, so she can tie the ribbon around his head. As if the outfit wasn’t already bad enough.

It fits terribly. Free size, in case one of the taller members had gotten the punishment instead. Yoongi feels odd in it, with how loosely it’s fitting, the sleeves of the blouse being the only parts tight enough for him to not feel like it’s about to fall off his frame with each step he takes in these thigh-highs and matching shoes.

“My, my, what would your parents say?” comments Namjoon lazily from the side, and Yoongi resists the urge to dig his knuckles into Namjoon’s solar plexus while they’re recording

“Coming from Sailor Mon himself,” retorts Yoongi, mouth pursing into a tight line when a stylist reaches up to brush lightly at his cheek with pink powder. Namjoon snorts, and flits away, probably to find Seokjin, to share in this joyous, rare occasion.

Hoseok is still seated precariously on a table nearby, watching as Yoongi pats at the skirt again. “Don’t say a single word,” says Yoongi, directing his attention to Hoseok.

“Me? Of course not,” says Hoseok, but there’s a lilt to his words that doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like the voice Hoseok uses for recordings. The slightest hint of an edge slips through his teeth with his words. “Wouldn’t dare, hyung.”

Yoongi’s about to reply, when he catches the expression that shifts on Hoseok’s face, just barely, just a quick flash and it’s gone in a second.

He hasn’t mistaken it at all.

“Ah,” says Yoongi, and Hoseok starts, glancing up and gaze sharpening. “Has the day worn you out already, J-Hope?”

“Never,” says Hoseok, smiling widely, in that way he does. The flash in his eyes matches the knowing in Yoongi’s own. There it is. There it goes. The quiet little invitation that drifts between them, unknown to the milling people around them, busy with their jobs, busy with the recording equipment. It’s dangerous to initiate this game out in the open, but they’re used to it. They are Suga and J-Hope, on the stage, outside of the dorms, but when eyes meet and words trade in quick, cryptic phrases, they are, even if it’s for the briefest of moments, Yoongi and Hoseok again, ready for the bite, ready for the play.

He serves his time, hastily treading downstairs and back again in the span of five minutes, swallowing back the obnoxious grimace that spills over from the intense embarrassment that comes with being filmed on camera, dressed in a maid outfit, serving food to customers who have no idea what’s going on, who furrow their eyebrows and say nothing.

“I’m never doing that again,” says Yoongi, in the van later, amidst the chortles and the teasing from the others, when they’re on their way back to the dorms, but he glances over at Hoseok, and Hoseok looks back at him, some strange kind of will thinly veiled in his gaze. “Never,” he says again, and he watches Hoseok’s gaze hold steady. As if he’s challenging Yoongi to keep his word.

They reach the dorms, and Hoseok immediately has his fingers clamped in a vice over Yoongi’s wrist, and Jimin yells in indignance when Hoseok drags Yoongi past him into the bathroom and locks the door behind them, ignoring the whines from the other members who just want to shower.

Hoseok has other things in mind.

Hands curling into Yoongi’s shirt, he pushes Yoongi back against the door and kisses him hard, kisses him rough and messy and teeth on lips and tongue in mouth. Yoongi’s hands come up of their own accord to tug at Hoseok’s hair, pulling him closer. “Jesus,” whispers Yoongi, stealing the quick intervals in between Hoseok sucking at his lower lip, and he knows exactly what’s got Hoseok so wound up, and something warm trickles down his spine, words heavy in his mouth, “you liked it, didn’t you?”

Hoseok says nothing; he dips his head and trails his mouth up Yoongi’s neck, sucking and biting more kisses into Yoongi’s skin, leaving angry red marks that make Yoongi’s knees weak, and the distant thought that fuck, these are going to be so hard to cover up tomorrow flutters through his mind.

“What if I said I did?” murmurs Hoseok finally, when they’re both catching their breaths, when Yoongi’s hips have started to look for more friction, when Hoseok’s hands are roaming Yoongi’s back absently. “You said you’d never do it again.”

“Yeah, I did,” breathes Yoongi, but he’s remembering the look in Hoseok’s eyes, when he’d been dressing in that stupid maid costume, just an ill-fitting maid outfit that had probably been bought at a twenty-dollar costume shop last minute, and god, that had already been enough to make his mind wander. “But we could—we could see about that, I suppose.”

“Could we, now.” Hoseok kisses him again, and drops to his knees. Yoongi’s head rolls back against the door. “Let me give you some... incentive, for that, then.”

He’s probably going to regret even saying those words. But, thinks Yoongi, as Hoseok’s warm fingers press into his thighs, and Yoongi stuffs the back of his sleeve into his mouth, he’s always liked taking risks, anyway.

It occupies his mind for the rest of the week.

Yoongi doesn’t know what Hoseok’s planning, just that he is, that he’s got something in mind, but he hasn’t breathed a single word to Yoongi. Only the quick grins, the subtle lifts of his brow, and the fleeting touches along the small of Yoongi’s back that signify, be ready, hmm?

He’s ready. He is. Well. He thinks he is, at least.

Yoongi has never really done anything like this before. Sure, he’s experimented. Messed around with not just Hoseok, but a few girls, maybe a boy or two. He’s adventurous enough to know that he can push his limits comfortably. Exploring kinks is a whole different playing field.

But he trusts Hoseok, enough. He does. They’ve been doing this for a while now, this careful dance, this duet that requires caution and careful execution. Hoseok always comes through, though. Yoongi likes to think that he does, too. It’s been three years, three years of tip-toeing around, three years of pushing each other up against the mirrors in the practice rooms, three years of quietly sneaking into each other’s bunks, three years of silent kisses shrouded by pattering showers.

This is why Yoongi only makes an inquisitive sound, when Hoseok presses a plastic bag into his hands one day, and says, voice low, “Manager’s letting us off, today. The others are going out.”

“Ah,” says Yoongi, and his hands are already itching to pull the bag open and see what’s in store. “I see.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows comically, and Yoongi laughs, before shutting the door on his face, and turning around to survey the contents of the bag.

To his surprise, it’s not just clothes—it’s a whole uniform. A school girl uniform. Jesus Christ, thinks Yoongi, pulling the skirt out, pulling the blouse out, seeing the stockings that lie underneath, and—hell, is that a wig?

“You’re not fucking serious, are you,” calls Yoongi, and all he gets is a mischievous laugh, and an affirmative sound. “Where did you even get all of this?”

There’s a cough from the other side of the door, and Hoseok’s muffled voice floats through. “My sister.”

“Oh my god,” says Yoongi, “you’re seriously—god, this is your—why—”

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry!” Hoseok seems to be holding back choked laughter. Yoongi rolls his eyes at the door, hands smoothing over the fabric of the skirt. It’s simple, it’s pleated, and it seems way too short for him, but that’s probably the angle Hoseok had been going for.

“Please don’t tell me the underwear is hers too,” says Yoongi, frowning at the bottom of the bag. “If you say yes, I’m going to walk out of here so fast—”

“It’s not! I swear to god.”

Yoongi swears again. He can’t believe Hoseok had the guts to go get all of this. Just for one day.


His throat goes dry. For one day of Yoongi doing this, Hoseok went through all that trouble. Oh, thinks Yoongi again, glancing towards the door. Hoseok must really—he must really be looking forward to this.

Clothes come off, clothes go on. Yoongi slips into the skirt, and pulls it up to his hips. The skirt sways just above mid-thigh. Fucking hell. It’s short. It’s really short. There’s no way this is school regulation. It makes Yoongi feel so exposed, even though he’s wearing stockings that come up to below his knees, but there’s so much skin on show, and it makes something warm pool in his gut, just thinking of it. Imagining walking out there, skirt barely covering his ass, Hoseok’s eyes trailing up his legs.

Yoongi bites his lip, and fumbles with the buttons on the blouse.

The wig comes on last, long and curling near the ends, falling around his shoulders. And that’s where everything comes together, when he looks in the mirror. When he sees what’s done.

He looks—he looks pretty. Softer. The eyeliner he’d put on with shaky, unlearned hands only serves to make his lashes stand out more under the bangs that fall over his forehead lightly. He looks like a girl.

It feels awkward, though. He’s still a man, though, with too firm hands, and too-square a jaw, and his voice doesn’t match his current reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t feel completely there.

But then Hoseok is asking through the door, “Are you done?”

And Yoongi bites his lip, smooths down the front of the blouse again, and says, “Yeah.” He’s done.

The door opens quietly, and Hoseok’s breath catches audibly in his throat when he takes in the sight of Yoongi, sitting on the edge of the bed, one finger curled into a lock of hair nervously. “God,” says Hoseok, shutting the door behind him, eyes wide and still fixed on the sight before him. “Yoongi.”

“Yeah,” says Yoongi, and he licks his dry lips momentarily. Hoseok’s eyes follow the motion. “Is—is this okay?”

“More than okay, Christ.” Hoseok sits beside him, and suddenly, Yoongi feels even smaller than he already is, even smaller compared to Hoseok, who’s dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans, who isn’t wearing a school girl uniform. “You look really,” says Hoseok, one hand reaching out to thumb over Yoongi’s cheek, almost fondly, “really, really fucking good.” His finger tucks a strand of hair behind Yoongi’s ear. It’s such an intimate motion. Yoongi’s heart is thundering behind his ribs. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so turned on by just the soft way Hoseok is looking at him.

“That’s good,” says Yoongi, and he doesn’t know why his voice is wavering. Maybe it’s the way Hoseok’s hand is resting on his thigh. Maybe it’s the way Hoseok still has one hand on his cheek. Maybe it’s the way Yoongi feels, right now; he feels like he’s a girl being propositioned by her boyfriend. “Come on,” he says, a little bolder, “what are you waiting for?”

Hoseok leans in, and kisses him, and it almost feels different, almost, compared to the hundreds, the thousands, the millions of other times they have kissed, they have touched. Now, everything feels a hundred times more sensitive, a thousand times softer, a million times newer. Hoseok’s hand is traveling up the soft skin of Yoongi’s thigh, slipping up just under his skirt, and Yoongi shivers when Hoseok’s other hand curls into his hair, into the wig, and Yoongi is so fucking turned on.

Hoseok shifts them around, shifts them where there’s more space, and he pushes Yoongi back against the sheets, straddling his waist as he kisses along the line of Yoongi’s jaw, and Yoongi’s breathing, “Hoseok, come on.”

“Yoongi,” comes the exhaled reply, and Hoseok kisses under Yoongi’s ear, hand still fisted in his hair, “what if I called you noona?”

Yoongi pauses, and he’s not sure whether that flicker of interest beneath his skin is a direct result of that, so he says quietly, “Say that again.”

“Noona,” whispers Hoseok, moving down, hooking two fingers into Yoongi’s collar and pulling it aside to suck a bruise into the curve of his shoulder, “Yoongi-noona.”

And, oh, thinks Yoongi, trembling as Hoseok’s fingers deftly flick open the first button on his blouse, revealing just a bit more skin, he likes that, he likes that a lot, and it only adds to the pretense even more, Hoseok acknowledging him as a girl, acknowledging his age along with it, and Yoongi’s never been this turned on in his life. “Shit,” breathes Yoongi, and Hoseok kisses downwards, scrapes his teeth lightly over Yoongi’s clavicle, “this is probably the best fucking idea you’ve ever had.”

“Of course, noona.” Hoseok shifts lower, and his hands skim up Yoongi’s thighs, fingertips barely brushing the line of the soft, white cotton panties that Yoongi had shimmied into earlier, barely holding back his already hard-dick. The heel of Hoseok’s palm presses against his erection, and Yoongi’s head tips back, a tiny sound escaping his throat. “Fuck. You’re already wet.”

“God,” moans Yoongi. He wants—he wants Hoseok to touch him again, he wants Hoseok to put his fingers in him, he wants Hoseok to fuck him. Yoongi—he usually tops, he’s usually the one sticking his cock up Hoseok’s ass, he’s usually the one leading this dance, but today? Tonight? Hoseok is in charge. Hoseok is calling the shots. And it makes Yoongi’s skin burn with anticipation. “Hoseok, please.”

“Don’t worry,” murmurs Hoseok, and he’s already tugging the panties down, already reaching for the lube in his pocket. He dips his head for a second, and the skirt almost blocks Yoongi’s view of what Hoseok’s doing, but he sure as hell can feel it when Hoseok’s tongue runs up the underside of his cock, pressing hot into the slit, and Yoongi’s fingers are curling into the bedsheets beneath him, curling and unfurling and tightening again with each teasing lick, with each light suck of the head. Hoseok has the best fucking mouth. “I’ll take care of you, noona.”

Fucking hell, thinks Yoongi desperately, he had to go and say that, he had to go and up the ante like that. Yoongi didn’t think that he’d get much out of this, considering that Hoseok had been the one to initiate the idea, but even now, as he’s watching Hoseok slick up his fingers behind heavy-lidded eyes, he’s never felt the searing heat in his gut like this before.

The first press in is easy. Yoongi’s done this before, he’s had his own fingers in himself, he’s had Hoseok’s fingers in him too, so it’s nothing new when Hoseok has three fingers in him, working them in at an angle that makes the sweat roll down Yoongi’s face and his bangs stick to his forehead. He’s getting impatient, and the friction is good, so fucking good and easy to get off on, and so delicious, but he wants more, he wants Hoseok to give him more, he wants Hoseok to give him everything. The fabric of his skirt rubs against his cock, and it only makes him roll his hips up more, wanting more.

“Noona,” says Hoseok, and his tone is already so low, and so needy, and so craving, “noona, can I fuck you?”

“Yeah,” exhales Yoongi, “yeah, Hoseok.”

To his surprise, Hoseok doesn’t ask him to get on his knees, nor does Hoseok push his legs apart further. Hoseok sits back, and tugs Yoongi up with an arm around his waist, and murmurs, “Ride me, then.”

Yoongi doesn’t even bite back the moan that slips from his lips. God. Hoseok is holding him so close and speaking to him with that kind of tone and Yoongi would do anything for him, right now.

There’s some shifting about again, and Hoseok sits up straighter, slicks up his cock with soft sounds escaping his throat, even as Yoongi gets on his knees, moving closer, breathing heavily just thinking about sitting on Hoseok’s lap, just thinking about that fucking delicious feeling of being filled to the brim. Topping is fun, it’s fucking amazing, but the slide of someone’s dick inside his ass is one of the best things ever, sometimes. Yoongi will never admit it aloud, though.

Here, right here and now, that’s good enough. Yoongi carefully positions himself over Hoseok’s lap, one hand steady on his shoulders, the other hand guiding Hoseok’s cock to his entrance, and he sinks down slow, watching the expression on Hoseok’s face flicker several times, watching his mouth fall open with each inch that Yoongi goes.

“Oh god,” breathes Hoseok, “tight as hell.”

“Shut up,” hisses Yoongi, biting his lip, eyes shut as he pulls back up, and he can’t even begin to imagine the look on his own face, as he slowly gets into the rhythm of fucking himself onto Hoseok’s cock, as he slowly gets used to the fill and the stretch, and the tight grip of Hoseok’s hands on his hips. He wonders what he looks like now, as he’s panting into Hoseok’s shoulder, ass grinding down onto his cock, as Hoseok meets his thrusts upwards, his own moans slipping from his lips. “Fuck,” he says breathlessly, “fuck, oh fuck.”

Is his skin smothered with red, is his hair sticking to his face with sweat? Is the blouse disheveled across his front, is the skirt riding up even as fingers slip under the fabric to cup his ass? Are his eyes fluttering and his lips swollen and his breath making his chest hitch?

Yoongi wonders if he looks even hotter like this, bouncing in Hoseok’s lap, each thrust landing so solidly and sending him closer to the edge. He—he could come just like this, without being touched, even, he could, he might.

“Noona,” breathes Hoseok, against his neck, and he clenches his fingers in Yoongi’s wig again, tugging him into a messy kiss, more tongue than anything, the spit catching between their teeth and trailing down their chins, even messier. Yoongi licks into Hoseok’s mouth, moans mingling with their shared breaths, even as their hips jerk erratically, so close, so fucking close, and Yoongi can feel it, he can fucking feel it rushing up on him.

Hoseok comes first, hips stuttering as he lets out a loud moan into Yoongi’s mouth, fingers tightening on Yoongi’s skin to the point there’ll be bruises in just hours time, to the point he’ll have trouble sitting down later, but that, and the feeling of Hoseok’s come spurting up against his prostate, and the syllables of his own name falling off Hoseok’s lips, all of those things sending Yoongi off the edge, and he’s coming across the front of the skirt, riding it out with jerky little thrusts, and little hiccupy moans that echo the breath that’s slowly coming back to his lungs.

It’s the most intense wave of pleasure that’s hit Yoongi in a long time. Yoongi feels satisfied as fuck, even as he’s lifting himself off Hoseok with a slight wince, and falling back against the sheets, no more strength to hold himself up. God. That had been—that had been different.

Hoseok slumps beside him, tucking his nose against Yoongi’s neck when he asks, still catching his breath, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” replies Yoongi, and he’s more than alright. “Yeah, god, that was really—”

“Yeah,” says Hoseok, and he pulls Yoongi’s chin towards him, to kiss him, soft and light, on the lips. Yoongi kisses back, and there it is again, oh, that soft, intimate feeling, that comes with Hoseok threading his fingers through Yoongi’s hair, kissing him in this skirt, in this outfit, and some part of Yoongi wants this to last outside of the bedroom, this strange, soft moment.

He thinks, it probably won’t. It’s just roleplaying. Just fulfilling a kink. They wouldn’t—there wouldn’t be this kind of thing, if Yoongi hadn’t been wearing all of this. Would there?

Hoseok murmurs, “So, Yoongi-noona.”

“I can’t believe I let you call me that,” mutters Yoongi, cheeks tinged red once more. He blushes too easily. He’s way too pale for his own good. It’s too easy to see his emotions, when he does have any.

But Hoseok never makes fun of him for it. Instead, Hoseok laughs, and it’s not the teasing kind, not the bright, sunny laugh that echoes through the room and hurts his ears, but the soft kind, the kind that’s reserved for Yoongi only, and the kind that makes Yoongi want to hear more, and store up in some part of him for rainy days and some.

“Yeah, okay,” says Hoseok in amusement, slipping an arm around Yoongi’s waist, “pretend you didn’t like it.”

“Shut up,” says Yoongi again, and there they go, and there they are, with this easy camaraderie that falls into place between them. “Just. Shut up and come here.”

And Hoseok smiles.

The next few days are spent carefully moving about, joints aching and bruises hurting like crazy, but Yoongi likes seeing them in the morning, on both him and Hoseok, when they wake up. He likes placing his fingers along the imprints, matching them up, a memory of what they’ve done.

And it’s almost a surprise when Hoseok comes up behind him in the bathroom, and rests his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder, nose nuzzling against his ear. It’s one of those moments, those intimate moments, that they don’t share often, that Yoongi thought they’d leave behind with them in the bedroom.

But Hoseok murmurs, “I kind of like this, don’t you?”

And Yoongi?

“Yeah,” says Yoongi, and he leans back into Hoseok’s warmth. “Me too.”

Yoongi’s perfectly fine with it.
Tags: f: bts, p: fanfiction, r: nc-17, s: yoongi/hoseok, w: bb, w: cd, w: gdpy
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