It’s so easy with Jimin. Easy to stay quiet, to be loud – Jimin just absorbs it all and gives back what he wants. He doesn’t know why it’s easier with Jimin than with anyone else.
That’s what he’s thinking about, vaguely, scrolling through Twitter, when Jimin pushes the sheets back on the other side of the bed and slides in next to him.
“Why’re you wearing a t-shirt?”
Jimin snorts, pushing his hair out of his face. “Is that a problem?” His laughter always gets quieter at night. Deeper, like he’s a little worn down. Maybe it’s not that complex. “You always play with my nipples in your sleep,” he says, propping himself up on the pile of pillows behind him. “Wakes me the fuck up.”
“Huh,” Taehyung says. He didn’t know he did that.
“Now, shut your phone off and come cuddle.”
He tsks. “Needy,” as he leverages up and reaches over to plug in his phone and drop it against the side of the bed. “Should I set an alarm?”
“I set one.” Jimin stretches towards the ceiling, face tipped up and watching his own thin arms, ringed in silver and thread, wrists dancing against the ceiling.
It’s easy then, so easy, to turn over, slide closer on the sheets which are not as nice as the ones in his apartment, but still pretty good. That cool water feel. “Bony fucker,” he bitches, when his head comes down on Jimin’s too-sharp shoulder. He shoves a square of the pillow under his head and resettles, shifting, slinging his arm across Jimin’s chest. Jimin’s fingers come up to play with his wrist, the strings of his bracelets.
He can hear moths on the window screens, crickets in the distance. Jimin’s breath ruffling the curls of his hair. They slide their legs together.
“Taehyungah,” Jimin says, after a couple of quiet minutes. “You wanna put it in me?”
There’s a beat. This quiet moment. He never knows what’s happening in those beats but he always notices them. Then he’s saying, “Yeah, alright,” and shifting to properly rub his half-chub against Jimin’s ass.
After a minute of what Taehyung thinks is some pretty heavy and satisfactory grinding, what with Jimin sighing and slinging his arm back to slide his fingers against Taehyung’s throat, Jimin says, “Did you bring lube?”
Jimin props himself up. Taehyung is very, very careful not to move his hips, no matter how close he was to coming in his shorts. And especially not when Jimin is looking expectantly over his shoulder and saying, with a kind of careful pronunciation, “Did you bring lube?”
“You’re saying it like you’re already disappointed in me. Like you already know the answer, kinda.” His dick throbs.
“How was I supposed to know some mutually agreeable anal was on the table? What? How would I know that?”
“Oh, Taehyungah,” Jimin says, curling his lip. “Remember that time in Paris? With the Vaseline? Be prepared. Wasn’t that the lesson we learned?”
Taehyung sniffs. He realizes, a little belatedly, that he’s gripping the bedsheets with both of his hands to his chest, like he’s really affronted. “That,” he says, “would’ve been fine if it hadn’t been tinted,” he points out.
“Oh yeah,” Jimin says, pointedly. He’s got a little of his Busan baby coming out, which Taehyung mostly feels pleased about. “I was rosy fuckin’ fresh down there.” He shoves one palm through his hair like he’s getting a little annoyed, which Taehyung can appreciate, given his own ball-throbbing situation.
“I remember what it tasted like, don’t you worry yourself, Jiminah.” Still, he doesn’t think they need to replicate that particular experiment. He still can’t use the pink Vaseline anymore without getting a boner about it.
Jimin shoots him a look. “Well, you’re not fucking me dry.”
Taehyung rears back, pulling a face. “I wouldn’t even want to,” he says, affronted, which is a lie.
He’s thought about it, before, sweaty from practice, training room emptied out except the two of them, pushing Jimin to the floor, to his belly, pulling his pants down just to his thighs and pushing inside of him just like that, with Jimin maybe telling him he shouldn’t, they shouldn’t, that it’ll be bad, it’ll hurt. It doesn’t go much further than that though cause usually he comes right around the time he’s imagining the choked off moan Jimin would make when he got the tip inside of him.
Jimin looks at him, unfazed, knowing. He always knows all Taehyung’s dirty secrets, dirtier thoughts.
“I would never actually, Jiminah,” he says and presses his thumb right on the sweet, bare spot on the inside of Jimin’s elbow. Anyways, this is also a lie, and Jimin doesn’t stop looking unfazed about the whole matter, so he licks his lips and reminds him, “Not even if you begged and cried for my dick up your ass until Hobi came in the room and yelled at you for being a little bitch, you know? Not even then,” he says sweetly, both of them thinking about the time Jimin had pitched a monstrous tantrum in Hawaii when Taehyung wouldn’t fuck him ‘cause they didn’t have anything, not even fucking conditioner.
“God, you’re an ass.” Jimin looks around the room, like he’s under a little pressure about the whole situation.
“You’re really like – horned up,” Taehyung comments. He brushes the backs of his fingers down the length of Jimin’s forearm, rubbing his thumb against his wrist bone.
Jimin squints at him. Taehyung is going to chalk it up to the astigmatism. They can play the long game with this one, so Jimin finally looks away, rolling his eyes, and admitting, “I haven’t gotten fucked in like. Whatever.” He shrugs like he’s got something nasty crawling up his back.
Jimin’s squint edges neatly into a glare. Then his face relaxes. He rubs his ass a little against Taehyung’s cock, which takes some impressive abwork frankly given how he’s half-sitting up. “You wanna don’tcha?”
“God, Jiminah,” he says, trying to make it sound as deadpan as possible, what with his heart kinda vibrating somewhere in his dick, “you’re so romantic…”
“Right,” Jimin says, slapping vaguely in the direction of Taehyung’s thigh. “You sort out the lube situation, I’m gonna go and -,” he waves his hand to encompass his pre-anal bathroom rituals.
“Prep your asshole?” Jimin clicks his cheek. “For my dick? Just to be – specific, you know.”
A second cheek click. With this glance over his shoulder that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “You got it, baby,” he says, in English, like they’re vibing over shoulder massages and chicken on set or something.
When Jimin’s out the door, he drops back onto his pillow and looks at the ceiling. Blows out a long, slow breath through his mouth. Keeping his head empty. Keeping it cool and easy and chill. He does it again, staring at the smudges on the ceiling. He wonders how they got there. Maybe someone had some really kinky ass sex in this room before them. Maybe they’re just one in a long list of couples getting their freak on in this room with the mountain gods over their shoulders. A whole plethora of on-demand porn for them horny old ancients.
Then he gets up and roots around in his make-up bag until he finds the tiny bottle of sustainably harvested argan oil he’d stashed in there, last minute.
When Jimin comes back, he’s not wearing any clothes.
He smiles with all his teeth. Then he lifts his arms in the air and says joyfully, “Prepped and glossed, baby!”
“Oh my god.”
Jimin’s cheesing at him. His dick is half-hard against his thigh. “Would I joke about anal douching, Taehyungah?”
“I think you do like. Almost every day. Jin said he was gonna put a ban on the number of times you bring it up, actually.”
Jimin flips his hair. “How come you still have so many clothes on, huh?”
“You’re a sexual terror, you know that? Thought we were gonna take it slow. Maybe be a little romantic.” He starts to wiggle out of his shorts. “I can get that second bottle of wine out the fridge, if you want, do a little wining and dining, eh, sweet thing?” He kicks the pants off his ankle and shoves his shirt up his chest, too lazy to work his way out of it, right now. He rubs at his nipple, watches the way Jimin tracks it with his gaze. “We could go look at the moon for a bit, if you want,” he says and thinks about how sometimes he can never shut the fuck up around Jimin.
Doesn’t matter though ‘cause Jimin is rolling his eyes and advancing towards the bed and when he gets to the foot of it he’s kneeing up. “What if you fucked my mouth instead?” he asks, politely. He drops to his palms, so that he’s on all fours like some kind of -
Jimin shuts his eyes in slow hysterics, back shaking with muffled laughter. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk.”
“You like it when I talk.”
“The right kind of talk,” Jimin says, a little distractedly, ‘cause he’s moving up the bed on his palms and knees, stopping to lower his head and press his lips to Taehyung’s shin, the inside of his thigh, these kinds of open-mouthed kisses that he likes to do, flicking his tongue a little, only just barely –
“Ah, Jiminah,” he breathes out, spreading his legs, feeling himself sink down into it, that very good feeling when everything goes honey-washed and syrupy nice. He can feel Jimin’s mouth curving into a smile against his thigh. He reaches down and grips his cock, right at the base. “C’mon, then.”
“Talk right to me, Taehyungah,” Jimin says, looking up, not breaking eye contact as he inches up his thigh. Slow kisses. Honey eyes. Taehyung almost looks away. Then Jimin kisses the tip of his dick.
“Ah.” He shifts on the bed, and his cockhead smears a little against Jimin’s lips. “Put it in your mouth.”
His voice is even and low. Jimin hates to be told what to do except when they’re in bed, and now his eyes are fluttering closed as he sinks his mouth down over the length of Taehyung’s dick, fat lips parting and softening around the shape of him. He wants to fuck into it – that hot, wet mess of him - almost immediately.
Jimin’s mouth sucks him in – tongue working the shaft as he edges his lips down, getting his hands under himself properly so he can angle his head and work Taehyung’s cock right down to the base. He can feel his cockhead pressing against the back of Jimin’s throat, and Jimin swallows, once, twice, three times, groaning as he does it like it’s really good for him to have Taehyung’s dick in his throat again. Like he’s been waiting for it.
“Stay down,” he tells him, and pushes his palm against the back of Jimin’s head, holding him there. Jimin’s fingers clench against the bedsheets.
“Fuck,” he breathes, when Jimin does, swallowing wetly around the thick thrust of it in his mouth but staying down on it anyways, and Taehyung wants to -. He wants to so bad. “Can I fuck it?”
Jimin pulls off with a wet, sucking pop. “Yeah,” he says, eyes dark, mouth a wet, red circle. His breath is shaky. Racing. “Don’t come yet, though.”
“I’m a professional,” Taehyung says, but it’s lost a little in the way he has to push his fist against his teeth when Jimin unceremoniously swallows him down again, nose to his neat patch of trimmed hair.
“Ah, shit, Jiminah…,” comes out of him without thought, and then “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” when Jimin pinches him on the thigh. He puts his hand back in Jimin’s hair. “Hey Jiminah,” he says, thinking of it suddenly. “Look at me.”
Jimin does. His mouth is stretched into a wide, loose circle. There’s a little wetness on his cheek, and his hair is falling into his eyes, so Taehyung reaches out and pushes it back off his forehead. Jimin blinks at him.
“I -,” he swallows. “Let me fuck it, yeah?” He licks his lips. Looks away. Makes himself look back. On his thigh, Jimin’s fingers are drawing a shape, over and over again. He’s not sure what it is.
Jimin blinks, slow and easy. He sucks a little, hollowing his cheeks.
Rolling his hips is easy then, pushing his cock in and out of the circle of Jimin’s thick lips, getting up a rhythm and then stuttering to a halt when Jimin’s tongue gets rude. He fucks steadily then, belly swirling with it, goes too deep and brings wetness into Jimin’s eyes. He does it twice, sharp thrusts one after the other, and Jimin digs his fingernails into his thighs. Sharp.
He rolls his head back at the ceiling, “Oh shit,” dropping out of his mouth while he’s fucking it out, tight, urgent circles of his hips, shallow now to appease Jimin, hand still pressed to the top of Jimin’s head and moving him around a little to get this sweet roll on the tip of his cock. Jimin slides his tongue around the inside of his foreskin as he does it, making this little noise in the back of his throat and through his nose, like he’s breathing hard, and Taehyung has to push him away –
Jimin grabs the base of his dick. “Don’t fuckin’ try it.”
He bites hard on the inside of his cheek. Even Jimin’s too-tight grip feels good. Finally, after the feeling of it coming up on him recedes enough for him to breathe, he says, “You want my dick that bad?”
Jimin just presses his mouth to the inside of Taehyung’s thigh instead of responding, a kiss that’s all open and wet and with teeth.
“Gimme the lube,” he says, sitting back on his heels. Taehyung tosses him the little bottle of oil. He smirks. Jimin’s the only person he knows who can smirk with his eyes. “Wanna watch me?” He honest to god flips the bottle in the air.
Taehyung shoves the pillow under his back up a bit further, settling in. Sets his hand loosely on his dick. “You betcha.”
Jimin doesn’t make much of a show after that, though, maybe ‘cause his dick is leaning, red-headed and wet, against his belly. He turns though, shuffling on his knees between Taehyung’s spread thighs, and settles back on his heels. Pushes his ass out.
“Peachy,” Taehyung says, cupping his own cock a little. He pauses, licking his lips. “Spank yourself.”
Jimin looks over his shoulder, eyes curved and pleased. “So, I’m just doing all the work around here?”
He doesn’t give himself time to think about it – just leverages forward with one hand still on his dick and the other coming up to leave a bright, shiny smack on Jimin’s fair skin.
Jimin drops to his palms, moaning hard, a little choked off at the end like he wants to bite down on it. He drops his head, breathing heavy. “Fuck.” Taehyung can see his fingers crinkling the bedsheets.
He does it again – only harder this time. Jimin starts moaning before the crack of his palm has even finished reverberating around the room.
There’s a very fine tremor running up Jimin’s spine. His mouth is pressed to the bedsheets, eyes screwed shut.
Shit, Taehyung thinks, very pointedly.
“You want it again?” Jimin nods without looking up. Without changing the crouched, sunk-down position he’s folded into, like he’s trying to keep himself very, very still. Or hold on to something.
Taehyung slaps his ass again, this time on the other cheek. It pinks up almost immediately, so he does it again.
“Taehyungah.” He says it, and it’s all – wet. Breathed out. Moaned up. Wet in the middle, though, that’s for sure.
“Jiminah, if I knew how much you liked this…,” he trails off. His palm is tingling, probably would be as red as Jimin’s ass if he could bring himself to look away from the mark that’s forming on Jimin’s skin – the mark that’s clearly hand shaped. The shape of his hands, specifically.
It suddenly occurs to him, as Jimin rocks down on a moan in the wake of another sharp smack. “Fuck, what – were you just popping boners every time we did this on shows and shit?”
Jimin nods, moaning a little helplessly. He’s got his face shoved into the hinge of his elbow at this point, so it comes out muffled, cottony, thick-tongued. “Used to go to the bathroom and jerk off about it, sometimes.”
“I thought you had like – a condition.”
“I know you did,” Jimin mutters, like he’s the idiot here.
It’s followed immediately by an awful, raspy moan in the wake of another smack, one that has Jimin rearing forward as if he wants to escape it instinctively but then he’s pushing back, fucking his hips in these tiny movements like he wants to rut or get rutted.
Taehyung smacks him again, back to the other cheek. It’s warm to the touch, this time.
“Gonnna fuck you,” Taehyung mutters, pushing forward onto his knees when Jimin spreads his thighs. His shoulder blades are like knives every time he moves back for more of Taehyung’s touch.
“Probably for the best,” he mumbles, and when he drags his head up to peer around for the bottle of oil he dropped somewhere along the way, Taehyung can see that –
“Are you crying?”
Jimin shakes his head. “Shaddup,” he mumbles. He shoves the bottle backwards at Taehyung. His eyes are half-lidded. His mouth is impossibly red.
Taehyung unscrews the bottle, throws the cap somewhere, though he hears a small ping and roll that suggests it’s probably fallen off the bed, and upends a generous portion over his cock. He pauses, then shrugs and pours the rest down the crack of Jimin’s ass.
“You’re – you’re an honest to god idiot,” Jimin says, so Taehyung smacks his ass, and then he’s not speaking really anymore, just choking on breath, gripping the sheets in his fingers in this really clenchy kind of way and when Taehyung rubs his fingers between Jimin’s asscheeks –
“Clenching all over, huh?”
“Toldja you shouldn’t talk,” Jimin says, looking over his shoulder with slitted eyes. His hair is sticking up in the back, like he ran his hands through it or rubbed his skull all along the bed like a cat in heat at one point.
“Ah, Jiminah, but then I couldn’t tell you about how you have the prettiest little butt I ever did see,” he croons, and angles the tip of his index finger into the clenching heat of Jimin’s hole. “Just the finest little asshole in the country, didja know?”
“Put it – you can,” Jimin’s on his hands and knees now. He leans back for more and Taehyung takes his hand away. Smacks him instead. The oil is getting – fucking everywhere.
“Taehyungah,” Jimin breathes, elbows going out from under him. “Oh, Taehyungah, I can’t -”
“Shut up,” Jimin tells him, and it sounds like the words are melting on his tongue.
Taehyung puts his fingers back against Jimin’s crack, slides them up and down through the glide of the oil. He pauses when he gets to the tight whorl of Jimin’s hole.
Taehyung realizes he’s grinning. “Take it then,” he says, and pushes two of his fingers inside at the same time. “Oh,” he says, feeling the way Jimin eases open around him, “you did more than a little prep work, huh?”
“Told you I’m a professional, you fucker,” Jimin grunts, getting his palms back under him and loosening into the fuck of Taehyung’s fingers. The arch of his back dips. “Ah, that’s it,” he breathes. “I don’t need much.”
“Hmm?” Taehyung’s looking down at his fingers, which are disappearing neatly into the suck of Jimin’s hole. The rim is a little pink, he can see now, and he rubs at it with his thumb.
“Had three up me in the bathroom,” Jimin explains, and when Taehyung just keeps gently nudging his fingers, not really pulling them out or pushing them deeper, just touching inside at the clenching, warm, smoothness of him, Jimin makes a noise between his teeth. “That means you can fuck me now.”
“Maybe this is for me,” Taehyung says, annoyed. “Maybe I like a little acquaintancing time with your hole and my fingers. Ever think of that, Jiminah?”
“Okay,” Jimin says. “Sure.”
“Maybe I sit in bed and my fingers come walking up to tell me about how much they miss a little fingerbang action with that sweet, sweet Jiminie hole. You know we don’t even get to do it all that much.”
Jimin’s quiet. Taehyung looks at the ceiling. His hair is falling into his eyes. There’s a beat. “Okay, Taehyungah,” Jimin says.
He breathes out through his mouth. “Yeah, be a little more generous, Jiminah,” he shoots back, and it comes out – way too hearty.
“Okay,” Jimin repeats. He sounds like he’s looking away now, down at the bedsheets maybe or just the other wall. Whatever it is, his voice sounds – further away.
Come back, Taehyung thinks, once, and then – stops thinking.
“Hey,” he says, leaning over Jimin’s flank. “My fingers are telling me they good now, they’re very satisfied with this fingerbang session.”
Jimin smiles, this worn little laugh making its way out his mouth. “Hardly fingerbanging what we just did, but okay, Taehyungah.” Then he looks over his shoulder, draws his heavy bottom lip between his teeth. “You gonna put your cock in me now?”
“Yeah, Jiminah,” he says, slicking his cock, “yeah, I am, you gonna take it?”
Jimin nods, still looking over his shoulder. “Yeah, fuck,” he says, and then he’s kinda dropping the act and it’s just them. He looks and looks. “Fuck,” he breathes, “Just – get on me.”
“Okay,” Taehyung says, more to himself than because he’s communicating anything, ‘cause frankly he thinks he’s getting his message across nice and clear anyways by the way his fingers are shaking a little as he lines himself up, crouching over Jimin’s thighs and nudging his cockhead against his very oily, very sustainably lubed-up asshole, pushing past that first tight heat while Jimin’s back dips and dips to take him in, quite a loud thing for him to do now that he’s gone mouth-quiet, not even moaning, silent enough that Taehyung can hear the click in his jaw when his mouth drops open as Taehyung slides inside of him like a real neat trick, fucked up inside of each other, never shall we part.
He puts his hands on Jimin’s flanks, which is how he knows Jimin’s trembling, breathing hard, a little sweaty, too.
“Finest fucking hole in the goddamn country,” he murmurs, and slides his teeth along the parallel of Jimin’s jutting spine.
“Oh,” Jimin breathes, shoulders cutting it up, “just fucking -,” he rolls his tongue in his mouth, like the words are heavy and deep, like Taehyung’s touching him with his cock right up in the back of his throat. “Rail me.”
“Take it then,” he says and pulls out all the way only to shove in again, hips bruise-heavy against Jimin’s ass. He does it again, thwacking sound filling up the room, but not loud enough to cover the way Jimin’s moaning, high and sweet sounding, palms slipping on the mattress.
He could fuck this spot all day, this clenching, specific spot inside of Jimin, so he tells him that, how much he loves fucking it, and Jimin’s hand flails wildly behind him, grabbing his hip. Holding on. Like he wants to feel the fuck of Taehyung’s thrusts in his hips, in his ass, in the palm of his hand.
“S’perfect,” he slurs out, mouth against the sheets. “S’like – you’re fucking my brain out, Taehyungah, don’t stop.” He shudders. “Don’t fucking stop.”
“Not gonna.” He slides his hands down to the handles of Jimin’s hips, digs in there so he can speed up, so he can drag Jimin back onto his cock and give it to him all the faster, like he’s begging for it now.
His other hand, the one not hanging numbly onto Taehyung’s hip, is in his own hair, pulling.
Black strands falling through his fingers, spine like a song, everything thrumming. There’s sweat on both of them, dripping down Taehyung’s back, pooling in the divots of Jimin’s hips, the dimples above his ass. Taehyung thumbs at them, wants to lean down and lick them, can’t stop driving his cock into Jimin long enough to make that happen.
He leans back instead and brings his hand down against the side of Jimin’s ass.
“Fucking god,” Jimin growls, and it’s like something stuttering or crawling up his spine because he’s planting his hands under him and shoving himself back onto Taehyung’s cock, abs working, shoulders working, hips working it, and Taehyung slows down to watch, slows down to realize he doesn’t even have to move, ‘cause Jimin’s just –
“Fucking yourself on my dick now, huh?”
Jimin slides a glance back at him over his shoulder. “I gotta do all the work around here,” he mutters, voice funny, and Taehyung realizes he’s trying to do his ajumma voice, in the middle of fucking, and also that he can’t – not with the way he’s panting and choking and moaning through it all. He’s trying though, like it’s automatic or instinctive to try to make Taehyung laugh whatever the circumstances.
Taehyung thinks, suddenly, of the time they were in Los Angeles and everything was going kinda bad, kinda tilting towards really fucking shitty, every day like trying to walk underwater, and Jimin was losing his voice and Jungkook got that shifty look like he was thinkin’ maybe he didn’t want to do the thing where he couldn’t leave his hotel room without a six-person guard anymore, that whole thing, and Hobi was watching, watching all of them, all the time, mouth gone quiet and small, and Jimin came to his room one night, middle of the night, eyes bleary, hair on end, and said, “Oh, I had a – bad,” and hadn’t really been able to finish that thought, not with the way he was trying to hide his face in the side of his hoodie at the same time and what Taehyung remembers most was the way he’d felt so, so small in his arms.
He lowers himself along Jimin’s back. “Hey.”
His weight makes it harder for Jimin to move, but he’s still shifting his hips a little, nudging Taehyung’s cock against that deep, good spot and making these sweet noises. “Hey, Taehyungah,” he says back, all casual and cool except for the way he’s sweating it out.
He presses in deep. Jimin stills. Shudders. “Hey, Jiminah,” he says, and nudges his nose along the side of Jimin’s neck, his hairline where it’s damp with sweat.
“Hey, Taetae,” Jimin says. Taehyung slides his hand over the back of Jimin’s knuckles. Slots his fingers into the spaces between Jimin’s fingers.
Sigh it out.
When he comes, Jimin’s growling at him not to finish, not just yet, please, ‘cause he wants to come -
“On my cock,” Taehyung breathes back at him, coming, too late. Can’t think. Can’t think at all, just that feeling rolling up on him, Jimin shivering under him, back flexing. Taehyung’s fingers slip over the sweaty arches of his hips, down the ladder of his ribs. “Oh my god,” he gets out, and Jimin clenches, spitefully, underneath him. “Fuck,” cock pulsing, and Jimin shifting back so he can stay plugged up on it. “Fuck.”
Jimin whines. “You said -”
“I know,” he bites out, still sweating, still coming down, kissing the wing of Jimin’s shoulder blade, pointy fucker. “I know, baby,” he says, and Jimin makes a shorn down little noise in the back of his throat. “Gonna,” pulling out and flipping Jimin over, onto his back, crawling between his legs, mouth to his chest, teething his way to Jimin’s nipple so he can lick lick lick, and it’s three fingers, not two, fuck one, it’s three fingers that he nudges against Jimin’s aching, slick hole and then pushes inside.
“Fuck,” Jimin moans, tongue lingering on all the sharp and soft places of the word. His fingers curl around his cock.
“Yeah,” he mirrors back, exhaling against his skin, tonguing his nipple hard with the flick of his tongue and starting to work his hand. None too gently.
Jimin lifts his legs up in the air, pulling them to his chest, to give him more room.
“Yeah,” he slurs out, back like an electric arch slithering on the bed, pushing the back of his head against the mattress, pushing his ass against Taehyung’s hand, pushing his cock into the circle of his own fist. “Taehyungah, fuck my hole.”
“I am,” Taehyung murmurs, pulling the tight nub of his nipple into his mouth and sealing his lips to suck on it hard. Moving his mouth like he’s blowing him ‘cause Jimin likes it metaphorical sometimes, every time you put your mouth on me you’re swallowing my cock, and maybe he did go a little heavy on the oil, what with all them nasty noises making it very clear what’s happening in here if anyone just so happened to be listening on the other side of the door, though that’s probably besides the point when Jimin, also, is growling, guttural and dazzling, and asking Taehyung to fuck him until –
“It hurts?” Taehyung asks. “Till you like – aching all up on it?”
Jimin twists his back, planting his foot on the bed and grinding down against Taehyung’s curled palm. He’s so tight Taehyung’s hand is starting to cramp. “Already aches, Taehyungah,” he says, not looking anywhere but the ceiling. “Already aches like a bruise, I promise.”
Taehyung kisses his nipple, sore and red and a little puffy. “I b’lieve you,” he mumbles, and doesn’t stop his hand from working. Pushing gently, searching, though he’s definitely trying to make it, like, good, not so obvious that he’s looking for –
“Oh, there,” Jimin says, voice catching. “There, there, that’s it.” His voices goes all breathy when he’s about to come, like he starts to swallow his words, just letting his thoughts go on exhales instead. “Don’t stop.” The next time he says it, it’s barely a sound. Just breath. Just thought, floating up into the air.
“I like the way you touch yourself,” Taehyung says, watching how Jimin is rolling and fucking his dickhead into the tight circle of his palm.
“I like the way you touch me,” Jimin says, breathless, and then throws his arm over his face like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Taehyung brushes his mouth against his bony sternum, half a kiss, and rubs relentlessly at that spot, until he can feel it – coming up from the bottom of Jimin’s soles, riding up his thighs, making his ass tighten and suck at Taehyung’s fingers, and he doesn’t stop, fingerfucking him nice and good and steady, pushing on it, and he doesn’t know he’s gonna do it until he’s watching Jimin’s come slick up between his fingers, but then he is, leaning down, sliding his mouth over the tip and feeling the way Jimin’s cock is pulsing, all that juicy come pooling on his tongue.
Jimin hisses through his teeth. “Ah, fuck you…” He sounds wrung out.
Taehyung swallows the come in his mouth. Jimin holds his fingers out, flexing. Come webs and drips between them. Taehyung nudges further down, slides his mouth over two of those fingers, feeling them scrape the roof of his mouth. He slots his tongue between the space, licking and licking until all that come is replaced with his spit.
When he pulls off, Jimin is up on his elbows, watching him. There’s a beat. Then, Jimin grins, side of his mouth kicking up. “Tasty?”
Taehyung licks his lips. “Tasty.”
“I don’t want to put my clothes back on,” Jimin complains, some minutes into the sorta soft and very peaceful and mostly fucked out silence they’ve got between them. Jimin had shut all the lights off and opened one of the window hangings so they could sorta see a lick of the indigo sky above them, and Taehyung had watched him, peachy ass swishing, as he’d moved, nude, around the room.
Taehyung shrugs. “Don’t.”
Jimin hums. His fingers are in Taehyung’s hair. Taeyhung can hear his heartbeat under his cheek, like it’s flowing into him, filling him up with all that sweet good Jiminie.
“Wanna listen to some music?”
“Yeah,” Jimin says, and then, “Put your song on for me, how ‘bout.”
“Yeah.” He reaches for his phone. “For you for you?”
Their legs slide together, warm skin on skin. He settles back against Jimin’s chest and nudges his head against Jimin’s fingers to get him skritching again. Then it occurs to him. “Which one?” They’re all for Jimin, one way or another.
Around three AM, Jimin says, “You should go back.”
“Yeah,” he says. His eyes are sliding closed. Jimin puts his foot in his ribs. “I’m going like right now,” he mutters.
He pulls his clothes on with Jimin watching him and pretending not to, pretending he’s playing some game on his iPad. He’s not, cause when Taehyung ducks out without saying anything he makes a supremely offended noise.
When Taehyung comes back with his clothes from the bathroom, Jimin’s eyes are slitted.
“You look like a cat in water,” he comments, and throws Jimin’s clothes at him.
Jimin’s shoulders go down a bit, but he doesn’t say anything else. Taehyung’s standing on the threshold.
“You think Hobi’s looking for you?” He’s got the cotton of his t-shirt between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing.
“I think Hobi’s down by the river getting it nightly and rightly and ever so tightly from Jungkook, that’s what I think.”
Jimin snorts. He looks up then, and his smile is kinda half caught somewhere between fading and soft. “Thanks for keeping me company,” he says.
Taehyung nods. If he turns just right, the edge of the doorframe slots up neatly against the line of his spine, holding him up. He nods again. “You got it.”
In the moonlight on his way back to the main house, he can just see the edge of the lake, more shape and shadow than anything else, but still he can imagine how it might look, how it could look, all that water rippling softly at the edges of the shore, saying, come back.
Come back to me.