“Hyung, careful,” Jimin complains, an edge of whine to his voice, when Yoongi pushes him down his studio’s couch so forcefully he lands with a bounce.
“Quick, pull your dick out,” is all that Yoongi offers, his tone leaving no argument — the rapper’s already sliding his own sweatpants and briefs down his pale legs, letting them fall onto the floor while he brings one of his large hands to his cock.
Jimin blinks up at him, mindblown and eyes bulged in utter disbelief, and stares as Yoongi strokes himself to hardness, his mouth going a little dry at the sight.
Yoongi… Yoongi’s not one for spontaneous and provocative encounters — no, he always grumbles about how there’s a time and a place for booty knocking and body rocking whenever Jimin tries to cope a feel outside the bedroom. Jimin won’t even try to deny it : he’s a bit of slut, has no sexual modesty, zero shame in the face of fucking. Asking his boyfriend to whip his junk out on a random Thursday when they have no time to waste on sex ? Totally in his books. Not so much in Yoongi’s, who’s more vanilla than Jimin could have ever anticipated prior to dating him. He’s no prude by any means, but Yoongi’s a sucker for dragged out foreplay, fond of slow, thorough sex like the closet softie he is, laid flat on his expensive memory foam mattress. And as much as Jimin would love to claim that he’s a sex god, that their rolling-on-top-of-sheets time is full of adventures, the truth is that they stick with what works best, a little ho-hum with the same positions and routine.
Long story short, getting their thrills outside the bedroom in the middle of a busy day isn’t their usual style.
“What ?” he asks, just in case he misheard, even as he drops his hands to his jeans and starts fumbling with his fly.
“I’m gonna ride you,” Yoongi declares by mean of explanation, crowding in close. He straddles a thigh and slaps Jimin’s hands away, skipping the politeness and going straight for the gold, palming insistently at his clothed crotch before he drags the zipper down his still mostly flaccid cock.
Yoongi makes a noise of displeasure at that. He huffs in vague exasperated frustration, like he expects Jimin to pop a boner at will, like his junk is a motorized hospital bed that can go from lying flat to pointing up with a flick of a switch. Yoongi really should cut him some slack — Jimin doesn’t perform well under pressure, and he still has to get on with the program : he was just coming back to the dorm from a vocal training session, when he was all but lured by text to the Genius Lab with the empty promises of finally being given the song he’s been begging for.
If Yoongi had been transparent about wanting a mid-day quickie, Jimin would have psyched himself up on the way and greeted him with a dick ready to drill for diamond.
But Yoongi hadn’t, and Jimin is still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his boyfriend is apparently set on getting dicked down in his studio, when they have to leave for a photoshoot in an hour, top.
“You’re planning on doing that now?” Jimin asks, incredulousness tainting his voice as he’s untucked from his tight boxers. "Without lube ?” he adds, just in case Yoongi forgot about technicalities.
“Who d’you take me for ?” Yoongi scoffs, like he’s the inventor of all things anal. He gets off his lap and swipes his pants from the floor, digging inside the back pocket. A packet of lube hits Jimin square in the chest, followed by a condom wrapper.
Yoongi sits back next to him, flanks against the couch’s arm, and throws a leg across Jimin’s lap, pulling the other up to his chest, his hard cock and heavy balls and winking pink asshole on shameless display, spread open and very relaxed about it.
Prime gigantic slut behavior. Jimin’s a little impressed at the wide-open greediness.
He will absolutely poke fun at him later on for it, but if anything, Jimin can get the urgency. It’s easy to let sex go by the wayside when they’re tired from the intense practices and rehearsals accompanying their imminent comeback and world tour — with their hectic schedules and long list of responsibilities, it’s challenging for them to find the energy or time for anything beside half-assed handjobs late at night, zoning out while tugging at each other’s dick, or sloppy no-finesse-to-it-at-all morning blowjobs before jumping out of bed.
It’s safe to say they both miss the intimacy of penetrative sex but, despite what Yoongi might tease him with, Jimin can survive a few weeks without getting dick. It’s funny that Yoongi himself can’t.
But Jimin’s not insane : if Yoongi wants to get down and dirty in his studio, well — he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Jimin’s nothing but obedient, after all.
He’s about to tear open the lube packet to get Yoongi ready for him when it’s pretty much snatched from his grip.
“Just get your cock nice and hard for me,” Yoongi says, impatient and gesturing dismissively to his half-chub — which is a little insulting, Jimin’s not going to lie. “I’ll open my own damn self.”
“This is so anticlimactic,” Jimin whines, but accepts the small glob of lube Yoongi shares with him and starts fisting his cock. It doesn’t take long for him to go from half mass to fully erect, blood flow rapidly moving south. Getting it up isn’t the hardest thing in the world when Yoongi’s fingering himself next to him, pushing two long fingers, easy, into the pink clutch of his obviously pre-stretched hole, not lingering like he’d usually do, just spreading his fingers, almost businesslike — yeah, Yoongi definitely fingered himself earlier when he packed the lube and condom, and the thought alone is getting Jimin a little dizzy and heat pooling low.
“Happy now ?” Jimin asks, gesturing to his dick, standing up in a promising way.
“It’ll do,” Yoongi says with a sigh, and that either means you should be harder than steel or I wish you had a ten inches dick.
Either way, that doesn’t exactly stroke Jimin’s ego. He wants to be offended, he really does, but a pout aside, he’s mostly tuned on. Whenever Yoongi acts all mighty and pissy, it mainly spurts him on : it’s now his mission to fuck Yoongi’s crankiness away, since his mood is always boosted after getting laid.
“Put the condom on,” he’s told, grounding him back from where he zoned out planning his brave contribution to society.
“Sir, yes sir,” Jimin mocks at the commanding tone, ripping open the foil and rolling the rubber down his cock.
Yoongi deems himself stretched enough and climbs back into his lap like it’s his throne, levering himself up onto his knees. I love life and being gay, Jimin thinks, and wraps a hand around his base, holding his cock still just as Yoongi reaches one hand behind him and lines Jimin with his hole, the other pressed over his navel for balance.
They’re running short on time, so Yoongi doesn’t draw things out the way he’d usually do, doesn’t rub Jimin’s head around his rim until Jimin’s all but begging and promising unlikely things to get him to sink down, like to never ever leave dirty clothes thrown on the floor again, or to stop mass texting Yoongi when Jimin knows he’s working.
“Fuck yeah,” Yoongi grunts quietly and, like a champion, lowers himself to the hilt in one smooth glide, mouth dropping open as he takes it, all the way down, until his ass is pressed intimately flush against Jimin’s pelvis.
Jimin squeaks a little, transition from tease at the tip to sudden squeeze around his root taking him by surprise. Yoongi’s amazingly hot inside, muscles clutched tight around him.
“Hyun—” he starts, but he’s cut off when Yoongi starts hopping and bouncing without further preamble, proceeding to ride him with such gusto he looks like he’s trying to beat the clock to an O : Yoongi goes from zero to sixty, not even giving himself the time to properly adjust to the stretch, as if he doesn’t regularly shit on Jimin’s tendency of sticking it in and jackhammering straight away.
That’s the hottest thing he’s seen all week — all month. Jimin loves it when Yoongi sets aside his notorious laziness in bed and shows unadulterated enthusiasm.
“That — what you wanted ?” Jimin asks around a moan, thunking his head back on the couch’s cushion.
“Damn right, that’s I wanted,” he says, bouncing away and touching Jimin’s hipbones like he hasn’t seen him in a year, raking his fingers underneath his shirt, from his hips, up abs to ribs and down again, blunt nails scraping a little, no softness to it at all.
Arousal is flushing Yoongi’s cheekbones and the column of his throat and the top of his thighs, milky skin now tinted rosy pink, Jimin can’t quite tear his eyes away, it’s like staring at a scenic sunset, but sexier.
“What’s gotten into you ?” Jimin pants, arching into the touch and running his fingers over Yoongi’s clothed spine.
“You got into me,” he replies, the witty smartass. “And we’re on a schedule as tight as my ass, so less talking and more fucking.”
“ohmygod,” Jimin breathes, barely articulate, at the lack of filter. He won’t argue with that, though, Yoongi is tight, vice-like, it’s absolutely maddening.
Yoongi’s palms slide from his hips to his chest where he presses them heavy against his ribcage for leverage, like he’s giving Jimin some type of sexy CPR. Which he needs, actually, Jimin’s already gasping for air like he’s dying for oxygen, it’s mildly alarming.
They’ve only ever gotten their rocks off in the privacy of Yoongi’s bedroom or a hotel suite, but this change of venue is pretty great, Jimin has to admit : the studio walls are soundproofed and he doesn’t have to worry about being too loud. For once, Yoongi doesn’t slap a hand across Jimin’s mouth when he lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine, just as he starts clenching down on him — Yoongi’s signature go-to move when he’s bottoming, and that added pressure feels amazing, all coherent thinking flying out the window.
Ah, the simple pleasures in life, he silently marvels and squeezes with a hand Yoongi’s tiny little ass, his skin soft, so soft under his touch.
His other hand curls around Yoongi’s ankle, and he lets it climb higher up his leg and thigh until it reaches his hips, then his cock, red and throbbing and wanting, bobbing against his shirt with each drawback, his balls drawn up full and tight. Jimin’s mouth waters at the sight. Yoongi has such a nice cock, he’d be jealous if he weren’t dating him and his dick wasn’t his to play with by association.
“Mmhm,” Yoongi agrees with a hum when Jimin fists it, pressing a thumb to the slit, but ultimately knocks his hand aside to take himself into his own wider palm.
Yoongi’s all efficiency and precision, rubbing at his head with a hand and pumping at the base with the other, almost clinical, he’s obviously trying to get off fast. If the way his chest is heaving with heavy, rushed breath is any type of indication, it must be working.
“Fuck, fuck,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, no longer bouncing, just grinding down back and forth on his lap, probably rubbing the head of Jimin’s dick where it counts. It doesn’t do much for Jimin, but it’s hot as hell watching Yoongi get lost in his pleasure, and he’s fine with being nothing more than a prostate massager. Yeah, he’s totally accepting his fate as a sex toy.
“Fuck me — shit, don’t just lay there like a dead fish, make me take it,” Yoongi demands, and it’s then Jimin realizes he’s been sitting here for the last half-minute, slack-jawed and thinking about being an inanimate object, when his focus should totally be on his man riding his cock like a pogo-stick.
“I was charging my batteries,” he defends himself weakly, and starts thrusting up, messing with Yoongi’s rhythm until they coordinate and start meeting each other halfway.
“Yeah — like that, just like that,” Yoongi’s saying, voice slurry. The Daegu accent comes out in his voice double-time when he’s worked up. Jimin loves it, it’s so hot.
Yoongi’s never vocal, not really, but he’s still responsive, thighs flushing and twitching and lips parting : he’s letting out low, almost inaudible grunts at each snaps of his hips, all hot and damp against Jimin’s neck.
They’re half-clothed still, and Jimin’s movements are constricted by the jeans sitting halfway down his thighs, but it adds an extra layer of excitement and urgency to the whole ordeal. Although additional excitement isn’t really required when Yoongi’s back to bouncing up and down Jimin’s shaft like he’s trying to break it in half. Jimin’s so far gone the prospect of a fractured penis doesn’t even sound scary anymore.
He squeezes his glutes and elevates his ass off the couch a bit to take some strain out off Yoongi’s muscles, who apparently decides he has contributed enough to their coupling and gives up on moving all together. It’s now up to Jimin to do all the fucking, which he figures is fair, shared workload and all, so he lifts Yoongi up and down with both hands underneath his ass, and soon enough Jimin’s arms start aching — Yoongi had gravity on his side, Jimin doesn’t, this is a total workout.
“Harder,” Yoongi demands, his hands big and greedy on his chest, as if Jimin’s not already panting away and fighting a cramp in his core.
“Urngh,” is his sexy reply.
Thrusting up with Yoongi’s full weight beared down on him is no easy feat. His thighs and ass are burning, cardio style, the way they do after a long afternoon of dance practice or six reps of squats. But Jimin’s going to soldier on to the finish line — by the look of Yoongi’s drooling cock, fat drops of precum welling at the tip, the next thirty seconds might be it for him.
Jimin’s right. A couple thrusts later, Yoongi makes a sharp sound, and then his spine arches as he comes, seizing up tight around Jimin. He spills hot into his own fist because he’s preventive enough to have covered his cockhead with a hand and thus avoids spurting his spunk all over their shirts. It’s quite the sight, Yoongi cursing and panting through it, his knees digging into the couch’s leather and his fingers scraping against Jimin’s scalp, hard enough that it concerns him a bit — at 23, Jimin’s already worried about the likelihood of a receding hairline caused by all the bleaching his hair go through, he doesn’t need any more abuse.
Jimin keeps fucking into him until he’s done regardless of the sharp tugging at his hair, until Yoongi’s twisting away from the feeling of it, too overstimulated to keep taking it. It’s followed by a big satisfied sigh and an awkward dismount, Yoongi pulling off Jimin’s dick carefully as to not spill his jizz on the leather couch. He pretty much collapses sideways, and Jimin’s left with his hard dick still covered by a condom and lube, so close he’s either going to pass out or die or both. He takes himself into his hands and pulls out all the mental stops to finish himself quicker, thinking about all the amazing sex they've ever had, digging deep into his wank bank in hope of reaching the end of his 100 meter dash.
Yoongi, once he wipes his palm clean, graces him with a helping hand, curling his fingers at the root of his cock and fondling at his sensitive, full balls, and that does it, Jimin’s about to spill inside the condom.
“Come for me,” Yoongi says, or demands really, tugging lightly at his balls and, well — his wish is Jimin’s command. His come-mand, even, ha.
Jimin’s vaguely aware that his mind is being sex stupid and that he hangs out way too much with Seokjin. He also probably shouldn’t be thinking about another man when he’s coming. Which he is, whining high in his throat and bucking into Yoongi’s palm.
“Good boy,” Yoongi says in his low voice, and Jimin doubles down, eyes closed for a moment in fuzzy bliss. “Such a good boy.”
Jimin hums in agreement, slouching back against the couch, and basks in the aftershocks, letting himself feel his tightly wound muscles, the good ache of his calves.
As far as boning sessions go, this one barely lasted six minutes. Lame, but in accord with the whole quickie thing.
He’s still catching his breath when Yoongi tells him, “Fuck, I’d kill for a nap right now,” with a smile on his face, loosened up and scratching idly at his stomach.
Yoongi’s usually all soft and cuddly and sleepy post-orgasm and Jimin would love to snuggle against his side and nod off, but a nap is so not going to happen, Jimin gives them 20 minutes before Namjoon or their manager barges in and demand they get their asses inside the car.
“Hyung, we’re in desperate need of a shower,” Jimin rises from the couch on heavy legs before he can actually doze off— they’re both sweaty like they’ve run a mile under the summer heat and there’s lube in Jimin’s pubes and in Yoongi’s ass, gaped open in the funny way buttholes look like after a vigorous pounding, and they need to clean up before their next schedule.
Jimin’s tying the condom shut when Yoongi curls a palm around his jaw and turns his head to the side to plant one on him, kissing Jimin all soft and sweet and poles apart from his previous forcefulness.
“Sorry for pouncing on you, baby, I — needed it,” he trails off, a little sheepish when they part, rubbing a thumb on Jimin’s bottom lip.
Jimin smiles, smoothing his hand down Yoongi’s mussed hair. “Yes, it was very terrible of you to do that, I absolutely hated it.”
“Everyday I deeply regret ever wanting to date you,” Yoongi retorts, full of bullshit as always, and guides him to the door with a warm hand on his back.
“No one to blame but yourself for falling for my charms, hyung,” Jimin grins, and yelps when Yoongi pinches his ass in retaliation.