donnievt

BTS [namgi], scritta per il cowt11 sotto il prompt "monologo di achille lauro a sanremo 2021".
Rating: nsfw
Warnings: /

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It’s only bound to happen. Like it had so many times before.

Yoongi knows that the very moment he sees Namjoon storming in his room, the one he calls studio even though it’s just a cramped closet, door almost slamming to the wall and hands clasping the doorknob so tight he sees his knuckles turn white. And then, just as Yoongi swings his chair to face him, Namjoon instantly regrets the force he used to barge in and tries to make it up by gently closing the door, still too self-conscious of the stiffness of his limbs.

“What happened, Namjoon-a?”

These months there’s always something bad peeking at the corner: even one year after debut they’re working twice, thrice as much as when they were trainees, all for the scene to make fun of them and throw shit at their style that’s not really idol nor hip-hop – and so Namjoon has to sit through hours long meetings about how they have to sing better, dance better, do better, about how they need to step up their game or they’re never gonna make it, the sacrifices they’ve done until now completely useless, all those scars and gritted teeth thrown away in the trash. And sure, that’s his duty, he’s the leader after all, but Yoongi can’t bear to see him folded in two like origami, head sunk in his shoulders, shielding all of them from the thought of disbanding because Bangtan’s not good enough. They’re still just kids, despite them trying to act like men, and this is so unfair, this heavy weight on his nape only for him to wear.

Yoongi just wants him to share whatever is holding him down so much. He’s not alone. There’s seven of them.

But alas, Yoongi knows Namjoon likes to be the one to carry this burden, pester his sleepless mind with harmful thoughts until he’s too tired, too angry to even exist. Namjoon has always been eager and nervous, wanting to prove something, full of ideas. A lot of ideas. It was one of the reasons he and Yoongi got along so well, Namjoon was always whacking into everything but Yoongi would sit back and watch the flailing and listen. He trusts Yoongi.

And so, he comes to him.

“I- I just need”, Namjoon’s lips stutter and all of a sudden he seems younger than he really is, “I need to stop thinking, hyung. Please.”

That Yoongi can do. That’s how he can be of help. He has already heard that phrase, when Namjoon starts overthinking, trapped in his head a little too long, and has used it himself many times before, if he can’t feel the ground beneath his feet nor the bones under his skin anymore. And that’s when they seek each other out for an easy orgasm. Or maybe for something more, he really doesn’t know.

He sighs, stands up to get closer to Namjoon: he’s absurdly tall, his figure lanky, bleached hair with that stupid haircut and faint dimples at each side of his face, sign that he’s half smirking at how close they are, at the scent of Yoongi suddenly filling his nostrils – and it’s just the cheap detergent they all use these days, but it’s mixed with something he can’t quite put, something extremely familiar.

Yoongi barely brushes his lips to Namjoon’s, aggressively grabbing his arm to ground them both, because they’ve done this a lot before but somehow it still makes them lose themselves in anticipation. Yoongi can hear Namjoon’s heart beat so fast he almost loses the thread of what he wants to say – that this is not a solution they can come back to every single time, that this doesn’t help nobody save for their bodies and their overwhelming hunger for pleasure, but what if the other members find out, what then – except, he finds he’s tangled in this mess too, doesn’t know where he begins and where he ends amidst all the knots. He’s already hard at the thought of making Namjoon forget what’s troubling him until he screams his name between groans.

“Let’s unravel then.”

It’s the spark in Namjoon’s eyes that gives him in, makes their mouths clash together, a heavy, languid kiss, Namjoon’s lips insistent against Yoongi’s, aching and ecstatic and bold, only now their breaths are quicker, and the air they’re swapping is perfumed with sweat and something else salty and tart and it’s fucking hot.

It’s some sort of release, all the frustration about their work and months of pent up sickness, a powerful burnout neither of them has had the courage to bring up, now washing over them like water, leaving their bodies tense but not from exhaustion, just from excitement. Only it doesn’t really feel like release because it’s all replaced with the heaviness that always settles between them, that guilt of needing each other’s skin to function properly, this need for closeness, for their bodies to join and meld together growing more urgent every day it almost consumes him – needing this hard and fast, even though they shouldn’t, even though this is more dangerous than any wrong choreography, any off-key high note. But that’s exactly what makes it so fucking exciting, and so fucking painful at the same time.

It's when Namjoon tries backing up to breathe, Yoongi pulls him down again, not finished with their kiss. He sinks his teeth into Namjoon’s bottom lip, eliciting a low growl from the youngest, one that makes his cock twitch in his jogger pants, and it’s almost ridiculous how much he wants to make Namjoon feel good, like it’s his ultimate goal in life.

“How do you want this?” he huffs all at once, hand gripping tighter at the short hair at the base of Namjoon’s neck, mouth parting just to sink again at the sharp angle of his jawline, biting hard but careful not to leave marks for the next day, because they cannot risk it, no matter how strong the primal need to claim, to possess.

Namjoon loves every second of it, it’s clear from the way he locks both his arms behind Yoongi’s waist, without kindness, bringing their bodies flush and grinding slowly.

“I don’t know, hyung, just- let’s be quick” and strains his neck to show more, a feeling of sharp pain that’s soothed almost instantly by Yoongi’s tongue, but for a moment he just seems to get back to his conscious self and says, voice suddenly firm and commanding, “I want you on your knees, sucking on my dick.”

Yoongi feels his brain tilting hazy as he nods, a shudder running through his spine. Says “alright, let me put something on first.”

They part and Namjoon sits comfortably on the small couch, legs spread open, watching as Yoongi is searching for something on his computer screen – a playlist, always a playlist, Yoongi has a playlist for everything: a couple of clicks and then loud enough music starts to flood the room. Namjoon can’t quite recognize it but the rhythm is steady, bass pumping, electric guitar strumming now and then. He’s sure it’s something like The Killers or shit like that because Yoongi’s obsessed with old rock n roll, and he honestly doesn’t mind. He likes the feeling of those raw vocals, and he hopes it’s noisy enough to muffle the sound of their voices, all the gagging and pleas.

Yoongi settles between his legs, bending down to leave a sloppy, wet kiss on Namjoon’s lips before falling on his knees, hands hovering over his belt. Namjoon knows that kind of kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that a lover gives when they want you to think about fucking their mouth: it’s hard, open mouthed and slick, and his body kicks right into gear. Yoongi unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down a little, just the right amount for the shape of Namjoon’s hard cock to reveal itself through the fabric of his underwear.

Namjoon has his head down, to watch as Yoongi moves between his legs, rubbing his mouth right where the bulge of his cock is pushing against the cloth. The touch is feather-like, and Yoongi’s surely having so much fun, making him squirm and wait, Namjoon can see it from the mischievous glint in his eyes. But then he pulls down his underwear too, all at once, and Namjoon feels Yoongi’s hands travel all the way along his shaft, fingers tracing lightly, and he would like nothing more than to be encased in Yoongi’s delicious mouth, but for now his hand is good.

After fumbled hand jobs in airport bathrooms, seeing how quickly they can get each other off in between dance practices over the past year, Yoongi knows all the right buttons to push, all the ways to draw out the grittiest noises that makes his head spin. He knows how much Namjoon likes the extra attention on the underside of the head, digging his thumb into the slit while bringing up a second hand to trace faint touches along the pulsing veins.

Fingertips begin to draw irregular ellipses on his sensitive skin, his breathing quickening the higher the circles go.

“You’re so hard already.”

Namjoon smiles. There’s no point in hiding how aroused Yoongi gets him, just the sight of him playing around with his cock, head now impossibly red only thanks to him. He really likes the way it looks to have someone on their knees in front of him, especially Yoongi, the most prideful between all seven of them, now with flushed cheeks and not an ounce of shame in his eyes.

Yoongi takes a single finger – the index – and places it flat right under the crown of his cock and begins to drag it ever so infuriatingly up and down his aching length. He keeps this tortuous tracing up, his hand coated in a sticky mess despite him only using a single finger to touch him, Namjoon’s cock wet and drooling precum throughout all of it. Namjoon’s legs twitch pitifully: all this teasing is positively dizzying, but he wants more.

That’s why he lays his hand on Yoongi’s head, grabbing chocolate brown locks without force, just to silently tell him his intentions. Yoongi reacts instantly, so perfectly attuned to Namjoon: makes a point of keeping eye contact with him as he sticks his tongue out and lowers his head to Namjoon’s crotch, bracing his hands on Namjoon’s still clothed inner thighs.

In a hot second he’s spitting on his cock and sucking down half his length in one go, moaning around his stuffed mouth, disgruntled at the feeling of Namjoon’s chest arching so suddenly. He has a palm creeping on his stomach, pearlescent white over the tan of Namjoon’s skin, pinning him down. With his other hand, he steadily grips the base of Namjoon’s cock, sinking down another inch, laving his tongue over every bit of skin.

“Fuck,” Namjoon shudders, tipping his head back on his shoulders and trying to get a better grip on Yoongi’s hair, instantly returning to watch down his legs, this show too precious to lose even a single moment of it, “you feel so good around me, hyung.”

There’s no lack of honorifics between them, even in situations like these, because it makes it easier to pretend there’s nothing between them, this is nothing romantic and they’re just satisfying this red hot urge that burns so vibrantly in their bodies, like most people their age do. Usually, Namjoon would be able to keep himself together a little more, but at the moment he is a rubber band stretched past its limits, ready to snap.

Yoongi pops off, licking up his spit like the drips of an ice-cream, and smirks. He’s beautiful like this, heart-shaped lips swollen and glistening with saliva, the one who controls the pace and the contact, leaving his body thrumming in want. Yoongi’s needy and dirty, sick and filthy like the beat they’re listening to, raw like rock n roll, and Namjoon’s so fond of him.

As Yoongi goes back to where he was, Namjoon keens and pants, struggling not to move, but keeps his hand tangled in those sweet curls as Yoongi swallows around him. The noises coming from the oldest now make his head spin: he’s taking him entirely, cock deep in his mouth and staring at Namjoon like he wants to say a million things at once. He can feel every touch, every time Yoongi moves. Finally, he pushes the hand he had rested on Yoongi’s head a bit towards himself, and Yoongi slides down easy, whimpering small with pretty lips wrapped around him. Namjoon’s fingers find their way into his hair in a manner that is entirely too tender for the way Yoongi is working on relaxing his throat around his cock so he can take him even deeper.

Namjoon eyes fall closed as Yoongi sucks him, overwhelmed, cheeks hollowing out now and then, pulling himself up only to sink back down again. Yoongi, musical genius, plays Namjoon better than any instrument, and Namjoon still wonders how he’s capable of doing that, of making him come apart so seamlessly. He brushes Yoongi’s tangled bangs out of his face, and Yoongi preens, sending low vibrations straight to Namjoon’s dick.

There’s no time for a praise but Namjoon whines anyway. “Too good”, a moan escaping from his lips. When Namjoon moans a little louder, Yoongi pulls off, taking him back in his hand, eyes fluttering up. He holds the eye contact, so much desire swirling between them, but the tighter grip in his hair makes his mouth part wider, once again, suddenly groaning as he wraps his mouth back around his length, hot and wet and dripping. Feels Namjoon pulse in his mouth, legs twitching open slightly more, and watches as the fingers of his free hand dig into the fabric of the couch, his other hand pushing him down on his shaft mercilessly.

Yoongi lets his jaw go slack, and blinks up at Namjoon, urging him to go for it, to use his mouth to make himself come. It’s a strangely rewarding feeling – being held in place as Namjoon’s shallow thrusts gain momentum, his dick sliding down, his eyes hooded and glazed over. Having been able to reduce the youngest to the point where he’s only focused on taking what he needs.

“That’s it,” Namjoon groans, “I’m almost there”. Breathy and raspy and deep.

So Yoongi swallows around Namjoon’s cock to make the fit tighter for him, sounds embarrassingly obscene even through the veil of haze over his mind. Namjoon feels himself grazing the edge, slipping dangerously close, his toes curling, so close to a rough release that he can nearly taste it on the roof of his mouth. Then the pleasure ceases just as he’s about to tip over, Yoongi parting with a beginning of a smug, menacing sneer painted on his lips. Just to say, “come on me then”.

And Namjoon is done for.

The pressure builds too quickly again and he rocks his hips up, head thrown back, feeling the orgasm flood his skin, overwhelming, like lighting as he pulses out all at once, warmth washing everywhere as the feeling overflows, aching deep in his stomach and pulsing cock. His mind is hazy and he’s trembling all over but the first thing he does is searching for Yoongi’s eyes, dark and wild, lust pooled there like tar.

Yoongi is covered in the spurts of his cum, the ropes of white suiting his milky skin. He has cum on his mouth, his chin, his neck. Namjoon doesn’t know what to say – because it’s mesmerizing, his hyung looking like that only because of him. It’s so erotic Namjoon is paralyzed. Yoongi pulls back and wipes at his chin, then darts his tongue out to taste the come on his lips. Before Namjoon can recover, Yoongi clambers up and straddles him.

“Stay still.”

He pulls his pants and underwear down in one stroke, and Namjoon can linger his gaze on his flushed cock without an ounce of shame. It’s heavy between them, just the perfect size, and pink. It stands hard, desperate for some kind of touch. And then Yoongi swipes some of the cum off his neck and uses it as lubrication as he starts stroking himself.

Namjoon watches as Yoongi rubs his cum into his own cock to make the slide of his fingers wetter, easier. The image that will keep him up at night: watching his bandmate, his friend, use his cum as lube without thinking twice, as if led by this unbearable craving that’s leaving him a mess, hair sticking up everywhere and skin blotched – it puts him over the edge. All Namjoon can do is breathe hard and watch as Yoongi works himself up, fitting his damp fist around his cock, jerking himself off with long, erratic strokes, chasing after that pleasure that makes him so ravaged, plush bottom lip trapped between his teeth, eyes fixated between their bodies.

“You’re killing me” is the only thing Namjoon manages to say, with the way Yoongi is clinging to him, that hungry need for release in every stroke – he smells like come, like anger, like desperation. One of Namjoon’s hands slides down to the base of Yoongi’s throat, no force behind the touch, just resting there, making his own presence known. As if Yoongi wasn’t already aware of him.

He hooks a thumb between Yoongi’s lips and pries his mouth open, pressing down on his bottom front teeth, the edge of his index finger resting under his chin. And Yoongi bites down, hard, eyes fluttering. Squeezes his length, adding extra pressure and a twist when he gets to the reddening tip Namjoon’s gaze is fixated on, and cums in his fist with a low moan – one Namjoon muffles over his own lips, in a kiss that’s bitter and sweet and has a devastating finality to it.

And there they are, cocks bare and flush, hands combing each other’s hair, exchanging warm breaths, rough songs still pounding in their ears. Namjoon swallows and tries to locate his voice, the image of a come-smeared Yoongi masturbating over him still stuck in his head.

“Are you okay, hyung?”

Yoongi simply hums, still coming down from wherever his mind went.

“That was fucking good.”

Yoongi hums again, all the way from the back of his throat, and smiles. It’s a shy one, small, barely stretches his abused lips. One he tries to hide by lowering his head, but Namjoon catches it anyway.

And it’s unfair. Because that smile sounds like it’s easy to do all this. Like it’s easy to be intimate and casual.

But it isn’t.

And they both know it.