“Ah!” Sicheng gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth as Yuta’s fingernail caught his rim working a second finger in. He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving, desperately listening for the sounds of shock and disgust from the adjacent room as the other members realized what they were doing. He swore he heard Mark’s muffled voice from the other side of the wall and held his breath, listening for a second voice, until Yuta jabbed both fingers directly into his prostate and his entire body jerked half a foot up the bed. “Ghh!” he grunted into his hand, turning desperate eyes on the other boy. Yuta smiled.
“So sensitive,” he murmured, sliding the fingers in and out, eyes flicking down almost demurely to look at where they disappeared inside Sicheng’s ass. “You’re so cute, Winwin-ah.”
It had started with them watching a movie on Yuta’s laptop. Or maybe it was a tv show; Sicheng could never really follow the plot. It was anime, and it was in Japanese, and the Chinese subtitles Yuta graciously enabled moved too fast and skipped every other sentence—
Sicheng couldn’t really be bothered to put the effort in to piece it together.
And he figured Yuta wasn’t really watching either. He had an arm draped around Sicheng’s shoulder, and Sicheng was pressed against him nearly spooning him from the side. They were almost lying down, heads propped up on the pillows from both his and Yuta’s bed, and the mattress itself was so small that in order to fit, Sicheng had to be just about on top of the older boy.
He noticed, every time the scene changed in the movie, that Yuta’s eyes would flicker down to where his right leg was sandwiched between Sicheng’s. They would slowly move their way up to where Sicheng’s ass was angled out in what he knew was probably a very flattering position. His neck flushed every time he caught him looking, and if he stuck his ass out just a little more each time, well, that was just to separate his crotch from the other boy’s hip. He hates cuddling, he was just embarrassed. Obviously.
Eventually, as tended to happen when they were in this position, Yuta’s hands started to wander. At first it was just the arm draped around his shoulders sliding down so he could work his fingers under the sleeve of Sicheng’s t-shirt, rubbing up and down his bicep and pushing the sleeve up past his shoulder. Then it was Yuta’s left hand snaking across to fish Sicheng’s arm out from between their bodies, pulling his hand across to rest on his chest and intertwining their fingers. Sicheng could feel Yuta’s heartbeat start to race under the palm of his hand.
Then, the fingers rubbing his bicep ghosted down his arm, then back up again, repeating the motion back and forth in time with their breathing. Sicheng had already given up on what little of the plot he had been picking up when, on the downstroke, the hand slide past his elbow to abruptly reach down and grab his ass. He clenched his jaw, swallowed, and said, “What are you doing?”
“Just getting comfortable,” Yuta said softly, eyes not moving from the screen. He shifted his hips under the laptop as if to emphasize his point. His right hand still had a vice grip on Sicheng’s ass cheek.
“I’m not very comfortable,” he mumbled, shifting his hips forward and away from the other boy’s hand. This turned out to not be his best move, he realized, as his crotch made contact with Yuta’s hip and he became very aware of how distracted from the movie he had been.
Yuta’s eyes snapped to where their bodies met, gaze suddenly very intense. “Oh,” he breathed, “would you be more comfortable if you were lying on your back instead?”
“What?” Sicheng said, confused by the sincerity of the question. And the Korean.
In one fairly smooth but still very dramatic motion, Yuta snapped the laptop shut, shoved it to the floor and yanked Sicheng by the arm until he was lying fully underneath him. His breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and mouth open. “I said,” Yuta whispered, lowering himself until his lips brushed the shell of Sicheng’s ear. “Would you rather be on your back?”
“Get off me,” he said quickly, arms pulled in tight to his chest. He could push the older boy off him, realistically, if he wanted to. He looked over at where Yuta’s arm extended from his sleeveless shirt, bicep flexing inches from his face. Okay, maybe it would take more than a push. He could get out of this, was the point.
But this was their game. It wasn’t Sicheng’s design, it wasn’t even his idea. One day, Yuta was introducing himself as a fellow foreigner, all sincere smiles and awkward bro handshakes. At the time Sicheng had thought he was just a touchy guy, and his Korean was for shit, and Yuta knew some broken Chinese. Then a week later, Yuta explained how fanservice worked in Japan. A month later he had him pressed against the wall of the dorm shower, three fingers in his ass, telling him to beg in Japanese if he wanted to come.
Sicheng definitely did not orchestrate any of this shit.
He was about to explain this to Yuta, as concisely as possible in his limited Korean, when the door opened. Taeil walked in, head craned and eyes almost crossed looking at the popsicle he was sucking on. He glanced up, noticing the other two. Sicheng tried to communicate without words that he did not end up in his present situation by choice, and a grandiose display of horror would not go amiss in this moment. Taeil stared at them for a beat, mouth still attached to the popsicle, then he turned on his heel and walked back out, door closing behind him.
“Oh, baby,” Yuta said, voice getting low. “I think we’re gonna have all night to get comfortable, now.”
Sicheng rolled his eyes. “I was watching the movie, hyung,” he said, pressing his pinned arms up against his chest pathetically.
“Name one part of the plot and I’ll get off you right now,” Yuta deadpanned, dropping the act. Sicheng sighed, realizing not only could he not name a single thing that had happened in the movie, but that even if he could, Yuta wasn’t getting off him. He met the older boy’s eyes, giving up, and opened his legs so Yuta’s hips dropped hard into his. They both gasped at the contact.
Yuta’s lips met his in a crushing kiss, hips rolling down. He could feel the half hard cock rubbing into his pelvis, just to the left of where he wanted it to be, but Yuta’s kiss was so urgent he was too distracted to adjust his angle. And they were both still wearing jeans, so not much was happening there, in any case.
Eventually, somehow, they ended up with Sicheng’s pants on the floor, his t-shirt and socks still on, hips lifted up onto Yuta’s legs as he knelt over him, and a lubed finger working into his ass. Where they always ended up, of course, because once again Sicheng had completely lost control of the situation.
Sicheng was doing fairly well keeping the noises in check, bottom lip firmly between his teeth and both hands beside his head, clenching the pillows. Everyone in the dorms had a pretty good idea, generally, of what they were getting up to, but nobody except Taeil knew what Sicheng was regularly reduced to. And he would really love to keep it that way, really, but it was when Yuta started working his middle finger in that it became somewhat of a challenge.
Yuta had his left hand wrapped around his thigh, squeezing so hard the flesh was smushed between his fingers, and he used that grip to pull Sicheng farther up into his lap. With the new leverage, he was able to hit his prostate on almost every pass, causing Sicheng’s chest to jerk and his back to bow every time. He let out a high pitched grunt with each thrust, which quickly devolved into one continuous whine as Yuta picked up the pace. The way Yuta looked so calm, as if he was dealing cards and not fucking his friend into a humiliating mess with just two fingers, was absolutely infuriating. Sicheng had never seen anything so fucking hot in his life.
His eyes rolled back into his head and he hollowed out his stomach, hot pleasure pooling in his abdomen. Yuta was getting him at just the right angle, he was so close he could see stars in the corners of his vision. He let go of the pillow with his right hand and reached down to stroke himself, only to have it knocked away with a chuckle. “What’s wrong, baby?” Yuta said, voice low and only just slightly breathless. “You can’t come like this?”
Sicheng was way fucking past Korean, head shaking back and forth desperately. “Please, please, please,” he whined in Mandarin, twitching his hips down to meet each thrust. “I can’t, please, I can’t.”
Yuta yanked his fingers out abruptly, adjusting his position so Sicheng was sat more comfortably in his lap. “Fuck,” Sicheng said, glaring down at him. “What the—”
“In Japanese,” Yuta said, eyes dark, both hands now on his thighs just under his hips, holding him in place. “You know the rules, baby.”
Sicheng shook his head, cheeks hot. He hated this, hated admitting what he wanted.
Hated how much he got off on begging.
“Or do you want me to jack off on you?” Yuta said, tilting his head sideways, way too fucking casual for the energy he’d created. “You want me to come all over you and then go to bed, just leave you like this until morning?”
Sicheng kept his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. He shook his head quickly, eyes fixed on Yuta’s collarbone. “We have a schedule tomorrow morning, Winwin-ah,” he said, voice almost all breath now. “You’d have to wait until we got home tomorrow night to get off, wouldn’t you?” His eyes were almost glowing with lust, the frenzied look being the only indicator of how affected he was. He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and blinked, eyes hooded, raking over Sicheng’s stomach where the t-shirt had lifted, down to his almost purple cock leaking precome into his belly button. “And that’s only if you can be good tomorrow, right? If you can remember your Japanese…”
“Please, let me come,” Sicheng gasped in probably barely sufficient Japanese, Yuta’s words finally getting to him. He imagined spending the whole day waiting until they got home, hiding his arousal while they sang or danced or modeled for handbags or whatever the fuck. Getting home, getting into the shower, and Yuta fucking him open and STILL playing his games, not letting him come until he was sobbing and shaking and probably certifiable. Just imagining it was almost enough to get him there, he just needed Yuta’s hands on him. “Please touch me, hyung,” he almost sobbed, looking anywhere but the other boy’s face.
“So polite, baby,” he mumbled. “Always so good, doing everything I say…” As he talked he worked his middle and ring finger on his left hand into Sicheng’s ass, angling them up and pulling them forward and borderline abusing his prostate on every thrust. Sicheng genuinely felt as if he might cry, jerking his hips up and down to meet his hand, when Yuta wrapped his lube-covered right hand around his leaking cock and started to jerk him off in time with the thrusts.
Sicheng lasted about 30 seconds, vocalizing little exclamations of pleasure every time his body was wrenched down the bed. He closed his eyes, jamming the heel of his palm into his mouth, his entire body quivering with tension. He felt something on the tip of his cock and glanced down just in time to see Yuta press a gentle, almost reverent kiss to the head. And then he was coming, both hands slapped to the wall behind him and his head thrown back, mouth hanging open in a silent gasp. Yuta continued to work him through it, brushing his fingers under the head just enough to make his body twitch each time.
He wasn’t sure if it was seconds or minutes, but eventually Yuta’s strokes slowed down, and the fingers in his ass stilled. He was panting, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks flushed. He glanced down and he swore he almost came again when he saw a streak of white across Yuta’s cheek, that urgent look still in his eyes. “Did you make a mess, baby?”