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Jimin’s already wrecked, lips flushed and stretched wide, when Namjoon snarls and grabs a fistful of hair, slamming in so deep his balls slap loud and wet against Jimin’s chin.
He chokes, hard, body lurching, but doesn’t pull away. Just moans around it, high and broken, like he’s trying to scream and say “more” with his mouth already stuffed full.
Namjoon groans and drives in again and again, like it’s not enough, like it’ll never be enough.
There’s no rhythm left to it. Just the slick slap of skin on skin, gagging gasps, and the desperate little snorts of air through Jimin’s nose like he’s drowning on cock.
It doesn’t make Namjoon slow down. He can’t anymore. His hand curls tighter in Jimin’s hair, anchoring him steady as he drives past every twitch, every clench, every tight pull of muscle that dares to resist.
The sounds are getting vile. Wet and ragged, like they’re feeding straight into the part of Namjoon that only knows how to fuck and take.
That only ever gets like this for Jimin.
He leans in, palms braced against the sides of Jimin’s head now, holding him steady, dragging his face closer, merciless hips grinding in. Burying that pretty little nose in his pubes, soft sniffles catching hot against his groin, where the skin’s gone damp
And Namjoon can feel every rush of it. Warm where it hits his pelvis. Raw where it burrows in, straight through to the place that only Jimin ever touches.
“Just like that,” Namjoon growls as he watches the slick drag of red, swollen lips along his shaft. Sees the flicker of lashes with every push and pull. Feels the tremor crawling up Jimin’s neck at every wet suck of spit and throat. “Breathe around it, you greedy little thing. You like gagging on it, don’t you?”
He brushes a thumb along Jimin’s cheekbone, gentler than his grip should allow. Jimin gasps, and Namjoon feels it ripple along his length.
“My good fucking boy,” he pants, voice ragged and loud in the hush that has settled between them. “You look so fucking pretty like this.”
He pulls out just enough for Jimin to breathe. Sharp and messy, like he forgot how to do it without a cock down his throat.
Namjoon fists his hair again and yanks his head up. Not to stop. Not to soothe.
Just to look.
Jimin’s face is a mess.
A trail of sweat and spit is slipping down his neck, catching in the dip of his collarbone. His blonde hair’s limp against his forehead, curling into his lashes.
Eyes glassy, fluttering. Like he hasn’t come all the way back in.
Namjoon’s cock bobs once. Spit ropes still stretch from the head to Jimin’s slack mouth. Quivering, catching the light, before snapping one by one as Namjoon shifts.
The sight of it knocks something loose in his chest. He drags his swollen tip across Jimin’s cheek, just firm enough to smear a sticky line of precum across his skin.
A wet little mark. A quiet little claim.
And Jimin just kneels there. Blinking up at him. Like he knows this is what he’s made for.
Where he belongs.
Without warning Namjoon’s hips snap forward, cock slamming back into Jimin’s throat like a battering ram.
No angle. No apology. Just force.
Jimin jolts. His fingers, still tacky with spit and precum from pumping Namjoon off earlier, claw at Namjoon’s thighs. Nails digging in as he chokes on a guttural cry, raw and loud enough to crawl up Namjoon’s spine.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let go. Just drives in harder.
Knowing Jimin wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
The rhythm goes crooked fast. His hips jacking forward, again and again, until Jimin’s face is crushed into his skin. Lips sealed tight. Mouth and throat gripping around him like he’s trying to pull Namjoon deeper.
His grip fists hard into Jimin’s hair, tugging harder. Tension spikes through his thighs as every thrust wrings a little more tears, a little more noise out of Jimin.
Strangled. Desperate. More like breakdowns than moans.
He wants this to last. He wants it to never stop.
He wants to ruin Jimin.
Wants to break him on his cock.
And Jimin keeps taking it. Barely flinches. Just keeps breathing through it, swallowing around it, shaking like he’s trying to take more than he’s built for.
Like this isn’t something Namjoon’s doing to him.
Like it’s something Jimin’s letting happen.
Knees spread. Back flexing. Hands trembling, yet steady. Throat working like he’s got something to prove.
Like this is just another Tuesday at work.
Which, it kind of is—
“All right! That’s enough.”
The director’s voice cuts through the heat like someone throwing open a window mid-snowstorm.
Namjoon flinches. So does Jimin.
Not from guilt. Not even from shame. Just the sudden snap of pressure.
Like a bubble popping.
Like they forgot the world existed until it pressed back in.
Fluorescents begin to buzz. A chair squeaks like it’s begging for attention. Someone coughs too close to the boom mic. A water bottle clatters off a crate.
“Namjoon,” Yoongi says again. “Save the nut for the fucking camera!”
Namjoon grits his teeth, then pulls out, his cock jerking in the cold air, rigid, soaked and angry.
“Fuck,” he grunts.
Jimin coughs, then huffs out a giggle, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, dragging spit and slick across his cheek like war paint.
“You’re welcome,” he says, eyes sharp, grin sharper, like Namjoon’s the one who just got used.
And maybe he is.
Because the sight of Jimin looking like a cum-drunk angel worshipping at his feet, nearly finishes Namjoon off.
“Two minutes,” Yoongi says flatly, not even looking up from his clipboard. “Someone wipe that brat’s face and aim Namjoon at the vagina, please.”
Jimin pushes to his feet, patting his shirt flat like he’s smoothing out wrinkles.
Like he hadn’t just been on his knees, throatfucked to an inch of his life, taken apart for everyone to see.
A runner brings over a box of tissues. Jimin grabs a fistful, but flinches when Namjoon grabs his wrist.
“Don’t,” he says, voice rough with want. “Keep it like this.”
Jimin blinks, then grins, slow and knowing. He hands the tissues right back and sinks to his knees again, never looking away.
Namjoon’s cock kicks hard.
“Kim Namjoon!” Yoongi snaps, clipped and authoritative. He finally looks up, those cold eyes pinning Namjoon in place. “I swear, one drop outside my frame, and I’ll mic up your bitch while he licks it off the floor. Don’t fucking test me.”
Namjoon doesn’t need to look to feel the shift. He hears it in the hush that follows. The way the air tightens like breath held too long.
This is Yoongi’s set, after all. His kingdom. One of the most notorious underground porn directors in the business, who once shot a three-person gangbang in a moving elevator and made it look like art.
The kind of old-school filmmaker who still edits on analog so every groan lands like a punch to the gut, instead of some flat digital sigh.
Every crew member knows better than to breathe wrong when Yoongi starts barking—
“You want to see me lick cum off the floor? It’s gonna cost you extra.”
Jimin says it like a joke. Like a dare dipped in honey and spit.
His voice is still raspy from choking, but is also smug as hell. Laced in shameless defiance and mischief.
The hush in the room wobbles.
Namjoon hears the stifled laugh first.
Taehyung, up on boom duty, shudders audibly. The mic dips for half a second before righting itself.
Off to the left, Hoseok, script sup for the day, clipboard always cocked like a weapon, clears his throat.
Jungkook, hunched behind the camera, is shaking outright, hand over his mouth like he’s seconds from cracking up.
Only Seokjin doesn’t bother holding it in. His laughter bursts out, sharp and screechy like wiper on dry glass.
“That better make the director’s cut!” he yells, the overhead rig casting jagged shadows stretching his grin into something a little unhinged.
Yoongi tilts his head to side-eye Jimin. Like the cocky guy’s nothing but static on a radio he’s trying not to hear.
“Cute mouth. I don’t remember paying it to talk.” His gaze cuts away just as quickly, already moving on. “Places people! We don’t want to waste this hard-on!”
Jimin just licks his lips, gaze steady and mouth already parting for Namjoon.
Teasing him. Tempting him.
Knowing this is not their moment to take anymore.
Namjoon can’t breathe. Not really. Not properly.
Heat sears up the back of his skull. Burns a path from the pit of his gut to the tip of his cock.
Still out, still dripping.
Behind him, the actress he’s supposed to fuck is already in bed, sprawled on satin sheets, tits out, pink and hard in the bright set lights. Head tilted like she’s waiting for a cue.
Still, Namjoon wants nothing more than to shove Jimin back in and fuck himself into that face.
Yoongi exhales through his nose. Doesn’t bother looking up. His voice is flat now. Bored and edged with that kind of calm that means he's one second from snapping again.
“Clock’s ticking, lover boy. I pay you to fuck the girl, not eye-fuck the fluffer.”
Namjoon’s jaw ticks. His cock’s still hard enough to knock drywall.
But he glances at the actress again. Perfect angles. Perfect symmetry. All high-gloss and airbrushed polish.
And he almost wilts.
He turns to Jimin.
So filthy. So unfiltered.
His cum-drunk angel still grovelling at his feet.
Precum drying in a glinting curve on his cheek.
The kind of mess that makes something in Namjoon’s chest go tight and feral.
That’s what a fluffer does, after all. Gets him there. Gets him ready.
Keeps him hard enough to pretend he wants someone else.
To fake it in front of the cameras.
But Jimin never fakes it. Not for him.
And that’s about to become a problem.
Namjoon reaches down, thumb brushing the mess from Jimin’s bottom lip.
The world shrinks to that one slow moment. A soft flash of vulnerability. The tiny hitch in Jimin’s breath when their gazes lock.
“We’ll pick this up later, all right?”
Jimin nods. “Of course we will.”
Namjoon smiles, mind already halfway there.
From his director’s chair, Yoongi clears his throat. “Not if you keep messing my moneyshot.”
Namjoon snorts, loud and incredulous. “You’ve got three hours of footage of my dick already. If it dies now, it’s from overwork, not shame.”
“Just try not to fall asleep on her tits this time, grandpa.” Yoongi sneers. “I’m not reshooting again because your dick’s got stage fright.”
Namjoon flips him off without looking.
Yoongi flips him right back, clipboard snapping like an added warning.
Then the lights shift. The cameras start rolling.
The set becomes a set.
Namjoon steps into the frame, foil packet clenched between his teeth.
And it’s just another Tuesday again.