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“All you have to do is say please.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, if you really beg, I might actually do that as well.”
“Fuck you! Go to hell.”
“Well, I’m stuck here with you. That might be a personal hell, if you ask me.”
Yoongi’s voice was smug as he leaned back in the armchair, laptop perched on his lap, not even looking at the man bound to the bed in the corner of the room.
Frankly, he had no idea how they always ended up here. They didn’t like each other. In truth, if it wasn’t for the fact they were civilised human beings, they might have actually fought it out. But since punching your rival in his stupid fucking mouth was something neither of their agencies would approve of, this was what happened instead.
Sex.
Dirty, sweaty sex.
Red marks, cruel words, and bruises that took days to heal.
Sex between them was never pretty. It was never something either of them would admit to, but it was something that just never stopped happening.
They were going on ten years now, and Yoongi was beginning to question his life choices. Both had crossed the threshold of thirty, yet they were still doing this as though they were young adults barely out of their teens.
The worst part? It wasn’t as though Yoongi was sleeping with anybody else. He hadn’t for years. It was only... Namjoon. And God, Yoongi hated himself for it.
The man was so damn mouthy.
When they had first met back in their teens—both all limbs and wide eyes, certain they’d make it big in the underground scene—they had, of course, been wrong. Both ended up settling into more mainstream solo careers, the kind their teenage selves would have hated.
They’d instantly been at each other’s throats, both carrying chips on their shoulders and something to prove, convinced the other was a fraud. Turns out, in the end, both of them kind of were.
They hadn’t started sleeping together right away, which was just as well. There was only a year and a half between them, but the difference between seventeen and fifteen is the difference between legal and very much not, so... yeah. Back then, it was just mean looks and mutual avoidance, each convinced they were the superior rapper.
It was pathetic, really. But that wasn’t where the real shitstorm started.
That came four years later: Namjoon, nineteen, and Yoongi, twenty-one. Both adults, but still very much not fully developed in the brain department.
It was one of the few times they’d been signed to the same label, and the big thing they were fighting over? Who got to use the studio during the witching hour.
Were there other studios with the exact same equipment? Yes.
Were there other time slots that weren’t fucking midnight? Also yes.
Did that matter to either of them? Not in the slightest.
Both were night owls. Both found the dark inspired their creative flow in ways nothing else could. And the studio they were fighting over? It had a perfect view of the moon.
They were rookies at the label—Namjoon freshly signed, Yoongi transferred over after his previous company went bankrupt. Neither had the clout to get much attention from the higher-ups, so naturally, they blamed each other.
The scheduling software had glitched that day, leading to both of them showing up convinced they had the next four-hour block.
Yoongi knew, objectively, that as the older one, he should have let Namjoon have it. But there was just something about Namjoon’s smug, stupidly attractive face that made him unwilling to leave.
Frankly, he still had no idea how things escalated the way they did. One moment they were arguing; the next, Yoongi was shoving Namjoon against the door and aggressively kissing him.
Ten years later, he still couldn’t explain it. Whenever he tried to think back, his mind went blank, save for the memory of pushing Namjoon against that cheap plaster wall, yanking at the neck of his hoodie to drag him down to his level. Yoongi refused to stand on tiptoes—that would’ve been too humiliating, giving Namjoon way too much power in this... whatever it was.
Their making out had been full aggression—angry bites and muttered curses. Yoongi had come from Namjoon’s hand jerking him off, Namjoon climaxing just from the friction of Yoongi rubbing him through his trousers.
Afterwards, they’d agreed to pretend it never happened. Both were happy to ignore each other. Yoongi privately counted it as a victory—after all, Namjoon had come in his trousers. That had to count as Yoongi winning.
It wasn’t supposed to happen again.
It was stupid. They were young, hormones running rampant.
There was no reason for it to happen again.
So, of course, it did—because there was no accounting for taste. And let’s be honest, it wasn’t as if Namjoon and Yoongi were seeing much action outside of whatever hate-fucking this was.
Every time they had an argument, they ended up against the nearest flat surface—be it the wall, the table, the floor, or, God forbid, the counter in the label’s small makeshift kitchen. That last one did make Yoongi feel at least a bit of shame and regret, especially when he saw their label president eating at that counter the next day. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d been thorough enough when cleaning it after their... disagreement about how one should take their coffee.
They were only at the same label for a year, which was probably for the best. While they would play nice when a camera was pointed at them, everyone in the industry knew they fought like cats and dogs.
Of course, no one knew about the other stuff they did—and frankly, that was for the best.
Logically, you’d think that no longer working out of the same building would mean they were done fucking around. You’d be wrong, though.
It didn’t matter where they were in life. It didn’t matter how much success they had, which company or label they were signed to, or what else was going on. Somehow, they always managed to collide and have disgusting, rough sex.
Of course, it wasn’t always like this—Yoongi being the one in control, setting the tempo. Neither of them was particularly fixated on who ‘topped.’ They were toxic to each other, but they weren’t homophobic. Both knew full well that who took a cock didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. Control, though—that mattered. At least in Yoongi’s mind, it was all about who was winning this little war they had going.
Most of the time, it was Yoongi who took control, which was good for his ego. Often, Namjoon would yield to his eager hands and rough touch, seemingly more than willing to relinquish power. But instead of satisfying Yoongi, it only pissed him off. How dared Namjoon yield so easily, as if giving up control meant nothing? As if it were just another day?
It felt as though Namjoon still believed he could win, even when he wasn’t in control. It drove Yoongi up the fucking wall. How dared he?
Sometimes, though, it was Namjoon in control. Sometimes, he actually decided to use that massive body of his, effortlessly lifting Yoongi and fucking him against the wall. Always with those teasing words about how small and delicate Yoongi was, how easy it would be for Namjoon to do whatever he wanted—though, of course, he didn’t have to. After all, Yoongi was such a slut for his cock that all Namjoon had to do was exist.
Yoongi fucking hated how it made his cock ache. Hated how, once, it had even made him whine when Namjoon sank his teeth into his neck, doing his best impression of a goddamned vampire.
Time passed.
They fucked.
They argued.
They left marks on each other that no one else could ever get close to.
Nobody else ever lit a fire in Yoongi the way Namjoon did. At first, he thought it was because he’d only been dating women, and they simply didn’t do it for him the way men did.
So, he tried dating men.
That didn’t fucking help either.
No one else ever looked at him the way Namjoon did. No one else ever made him feel the way Namjoon did.
He’d heard of people having a kink for hate sex, but this? This was just his reality. Because he did hate Namjoon—of that, he had no doubt.
There wasn’t a single thing about Namjoon he didn’t hate: his deep voice, his long, endless legs, his dark eyes and tanned skin, his strong shoulders and thick thighs. The way he was always so respectful to everyone else but Yoongi. The way he’d turn his gaze to other producers and rappers, praise them on TV, and act like such a fucking fanboy—but never towards Yoongi. Even though Yoongi was just as skilled and successful—if not more so—than those other bastards.
He hated him.
Every goddamned part of him.
And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from going back.
It didn’t matter who he was dating—man or woman. The moment he was alone with Namjoon, it always ended the same. In the end, Yoongi just stopped dating other people. It wasn’t fair to them, not when the second he saw Namjoon, his fucking cock decided it was time to get some action.
Fuck Namjoon.
Fuck this entire industry.
And honestly? Fuck himself as well—for being unable to stop, for craving the crescent moon-shaped marks of Namjoon’s blunt nails on his shoulders, leaving behind blood and wounds he was certain had already begun to scar. Marks that would stay with him forever.
He craved Namjoon as much as he hated him.
It was like being a starving man, unable to look away or move forward.
Fuck Namjoon and his stupid fucking face.
That’s how they’d ended up where they were now. They were no longer young adults and actually had their own flats, so their angry hookups and sessions of hate sex no longer happened at music shows, award ceremonies, or studios. Not anymore, at least.
Yoongi couldn’t quite remember what Namjoon had been so angry about when he showed up at Yoongi’s door, locking himself in with the spare key Yoongi had only given him because he got so fucking annoyed at having to buzz him in all the time.
No other reason.
Namjoon had been mad about something—probably, most likely. Okay, maybe Yoongi wasn’t actually sure, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that none of Yoongi’s recent work had been landing. Everything had fallen flat, and Namjoon showing up at his door only made Yoongi feel worse. Of course, Namjoon would be there to rub salt in the wound. If Yoongi let him speak, he’d surely mock him, point out why Namjoon was better than him, and why everyone loved Namjoon more.
Before Namjoon could get a single word out, Yoongi had him almost violently pressed against the table in his living room, taking his mouth in a rough kiss, not letting him breathe or second-guess anything.
As always, Namjoon went easily—not fighting, not questioning. He just let Yoongi do what he wanted, even letting out a soft moan when Yoongi bit his lower lip a little too harshly. Then Namjoon wrapped those long, never-ending legs around Yoongi’s waist, pulling him closer.
Yoongi had been having a bad day, and it felt like everything Namjoon did was designed to tease him, to make fun of him, to prove that Namjoon could win.
There was a blank space in Yoongi’s mind—he had no real idea how they ended up in the bedroom. But they did. Namjoon followed him easily and eagerly, as though there was nothing to argue about or defend.
He didn’t say no, didn’t hesitate when Yoongi brought out the silk ties they’d only used once before. Instead, Namjoon simply held his hands up so Yoongi could tie them to the bedframe. He didn’t even falter when Yoongi pulled out a vibrator they’d never tried before.
And that’s how they ended up here. Namjoon was being a damn brat as always, thinking he had the upper hand, while Yoongi sat in a chair, pretending he wasn’t interested in what was happening on the bed as he read a book.
Of course, no words from that book had passed through his brain for a long time—not with the sounds Namjoon was making. Soft little moans, breathy whines, the rustling of bedding as he writhed in the sheets. It was sensory overload in the best possible way, something Yoongi couldn’t even begin to explain.
Still, Yoongi couldn’t let Namjoon win. He was certain the other man was laughing at him in his head, turning this into yet another of their unspoken, complicated games.
With a light tap on the remote in his hand, the vibrator’s intensity increased. Yoongi couldn’t look away this time, not as Namjoon arched his back as much as he could against the restraints, head thrown back, a moan spilling from his lips with no attempt to hold it back.
Yoongi saw it as a victory—as Namjoon giving in, finally accepting that Yoongi had the upper hand here.
“Yoongi!” The way Namjoon moaned his name made certain parts of Yoongi ache. Nobody else ever said his name like that—in the throes of passion, Namjoon’s voice sounded like something Yoongi could get drunk on. It had never been that way with anyone else. Only Namjoon.
As much as Yoongi wanted to give in, to give Namjoon what he wanted—a proper fucking—he couldn’t. Not yet.
Namjoon had already come once without either of them even touching his cock. Not that Namjoon could touch it even if he wanted to.
Cum cooled on his abs, and Yoongi saw it as a personal slight, as if Namjoon’s body was showing off what Yoongi couldn’t have and proving why Namjoon was better than him.
Yoongi would never look like Namjoon. He’d never be tall like that, broad like that, have those dimples that made time stand still around him, or be built like that. Yoongi would always be the way he was—short, slim, with a build often compared to a bird with hollow bones. And it wasn’t his fault that he just didn’t enjoy the gym!
Stupid Namjoon. It was his fault for actually liking the gym.
This was all Namjoon’s fault.
Yoongi was just another fly caught in his web, goddamn it.
The combination of the vibrator against Namjoon’s cock and the one inside him seemed to finally be too much. Namjoon crumbled, giving in in the most delicious way.
“Please...” The word was soft, hesitant, as if Namjoon were tasting it for the first time. As if it was pushing him further than he’d ever been willing to go. He couldn’t stop himself. “Yoongi, please... I can’t do this anymore. Please! It’s too much!”
The cries were sweet to Yoongi’s ears, but deep down, he thought he could get more. He wasn’t satisfied yet.
With a soft thud, Yoongi let the book fall shut, placing it on the wooden side table next to him.
Not that Yoongi heard it—just as he hadn’t seen the words on those well-worn pages. Instead, his entire focus was on Namjoon. Now that he no longer forced himself to look away, his eyes were feasting, drinking in the sight before him.
Namjoon looked gorgeous like this. The red silk bonds Yoongi had purchased specifically for how they’d look against Namjoon’s skin were perfect. The silk was soft enough that, even from where Yoongi was sitting, he could see the delicate skin around Namjoon’s wrists was unhurt and unmarked.
Not that he cared, of course. Why would he care if Namjoon was hurt? The man had a safe word. It wasn’t like Yoongi actually cared about him.
“I think you can do better than that,” he said, his voice calm. He managed not to betray how all of this was getting to him—how looking at Namjoon like this made his breath catch in his throat, his heart race, and his cock ache.
From his vantage point, he had the perfect view of Namjoon’s arse. With his ankles tied to the sides of the bed, the younger man couldn’t close his legs at all, which meant Yoongi had an unimpeded view of his cute little hole, stuffed with the vibrator.
Yoongi had tried it himself, of course—just to see how it felt. Not because he wanted to make sure it wasn’t too much for Namjoon. Why would he care if it was too much? That wasn’t what their sex was about. Caring about each other? No way.
He didn’t give a shit about Namjoon. He had no reason to.
Their relationship wasn’t like that—caring and all. He’d just been curious. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Yoongi, please, for the love of everything, please! I can’t take more of this. I need... Fuuuuck.” Namjoon writhed on the sheets, a sight only Yoongi got to see. He knew Namjoon hadn’t dated anyone in years, let alone slept with someone else.
After all, with how often they ended up like this, the other rapper didn’t have much time to get dicked down.
Yoongi made sure of that.
Not that he cared.
Namjoon could sleep with the whole damn world, and Yoongi wouldn’t care. Why would he? He hated Namjoon.
“No, no, no. That isn’t what you call me now, is it, boy?” Yoongi’s voice was steady, but his words were laced with authority. This was something they’d started recently. Yoongi had once demanded during sex that Namjoon call him something else, and Namjoon had taken to it like a fish to water.
Of course, it always took a bit of time to get Namjoon into the mood, so to speak. Yoongi always had to slowly wear down the bratty behaviour, strip it away until Namjoon was ready to submit and give Yoongi what he wanted. Yoongi would be lying if he said breaking down Namjoon’s bratty defences wasn’t deeply rewarding—and arousing.
“Sir...” The word came out as more of a moan than a title, but Yoongi would take his victories where he could get them.
“That’s good. I like you so much better when you’re good for me. It would be so much easier if you just behaved instead of acting up like a brat first.” Yoongi let the remote for the vibrators roll between his fingers. “Now ask nicely once more, and I might finally give you what you want. Such a needy whore, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir!” Namjoon writhed on the sheets, sweat dripping down his chest. Yoongi’s hungry eyes followed a single bead of sweat as it ran between Namjoon’s pecs. For a moment, he imagined licking it up, savouring the taste.
He almost physically shook his head to push the thought away. Why would he care what Namjoon tasted like? That wasn’t why they did this. It wasn’t about intimacy—it was about winning. It was always about winning.
“Please, Sir. I need you! I need your cock. Please! I can’t... Please... It’s too much! It’s not enough—I need the real thing! Please, I promise I can be good, Sir! Please, just give me the real thing.”
There was no mortal on earth strong enough to say no to a begging Namjoon. And Yoongi, no matter how much he liked to think of himself as strong, wasn’t one of them.
“Good boy. Good to see you’ve learned some manners.” Yoongi wanted to throw himself at Namjoon, to give the pleading man exactly what he was asking for—to fill him up and show him how nobody could fuck him the way Yoongi did. But it felt like giving in, like Namjoon was once again winning because Yoongi had no self-control.
No. He refused to be that weak. He refused to let Namjoon win, no matter how much his body screamed at him to give in.
“Sir...” Tears streamed down Namjoon’s cheeks, and Yoongi savoured the victory. The man looked utterly delicious like this—giving in, putting all his trust in Yoongi to give him what he wanted and needed.
“You’re so pretty when you finally accept things.” Yoongi couldn’t stop himself from teasing, but he didn’t bother to hide the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. They hung low on his hips in the exact way Namjoon once admitted drove him crazy.
In a post-orgasm haze, Namjoon had told him it made his cock seem huge and his waist tiny, and it made him crave grabbing Yoongi’s hips.
But Namjoon couldn’t do that now, still tied up and at Yoongi’s mercy. That only made Yoongi grin. “You want my cock? My stupid little brat is finally ready to give up his pride and beg for it? Plastic not enough for you anymore? Your pathetic little cock has already come twice, and yet here you are, desperate for more. You love it when I fuck you while you’re loose and sensitive, don’t you? Ready to beg for another load.”
It was worth it to see Namjoon’s cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, yet still nod eagerly, so taken by the picture Yoongi was painting for him that he seemed willing to give everything for it.
Yoongi was finally going to give it to him.
He crawled onto the bed until he was hovering over Namjoon. Even bound with the silk restraints, Namjoon could have moved if he really wanted to—but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, like a good little boy, not moving an inch. He just stared up at Yoongi, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle the moans that Yoongi knew he was desperately holding back.
Yoongi wanted to wreck him. As much as he enjoyed teasing Namjoon, there was nothing left in him that could hold back—not anymore. Not when those dark, hooded eyes stared up at him, wet with unshed tears, tear tracks glistening down his cheeks. Namjoon’s entire body was trembling beneath him, looking so pretty all tied up, not even fighting the restraints. The soft hum of the vibrators still affixed to Namjoon’s body filled the air; they were clearly driving him insane, the overstimulation pushing him to the brink of too much.
Namjoon was like catnip to Yoongi, and when he whispered one last “Please, Sir...” that was all it took to shatter Yoongi’s self-control.
Claiming Namjoon’s mouth in the dirtiest kiss he could manage, Yoongi wasted no time asserting his dominance. His tongue invaded Namjoon’s mouth, forcing him to yield, swallowing the whiny moan that escaped the younger man.
With one hand propping himself up over Namjoon’s body, Yoongi pressed his weight against him, relishing how much larger Namjoon’s frame felt while still yielding beneath him. His other hand travelled downward, teasing a nipple along the way and coaxing more desperate sounds from Namjoon’s lips.
His hand didn’t stop there. Tracking through the cum that hadn’t yet dried on Namjoon’s stomach, Yoongi smeared it downward before finally pulling away the vibrator that had been tormenting him. He tossed it aside carelessly, not bothering to see where it landed—his hand’s journey wasn’t finished yet.
The silk ribbons binding Namjoon made it easy for Yoongi to slide his hand further down, pausing at Namjoon’s entrance. Even as he continued to kiss Namjoon senseless, he couldn’t resist teasing him a little. His fingers traced over the vibrator still lodged there, circling his entrance, before pushing in three fingers when Namjoon’s whines grew loud enough to satisfy him.
Their kiss broke as Namjoon panted and whimpered. “Sir, no... not your fingers!” Tears welled up in his eyes again, his voice trembling as though Yoongi’s choice was a grave injustice—giving him fingers instead of his cock.
Namjoon looked utterly adorable with tears in his eyes, his entire body shaking from overstimulation but still so desperate for Yoongi’s cock.
“I’m just making sure you’re relaxed enough, you needy cock whore,” Yoongi drawled. “Pain isn’t what we’re going for, and we don’t have time for you to get even whinier than you already are.”
Besides, the idea of hurting Namjoon physically didn’t sit right with Yoongi. That wasn’t who he was—or who they were.
Of course, Namjoon didn’t seem to appreciate the consideration. For the first time, he strained against the silk bonds, clearly under the impression that if Yoongi wasn’t going to give him what he wanted, he’d take it himself.
Yoongi just laughed, slowly thrusting his fingers in and out of Namjoon, earning a series of whiny moans every time he hit his prostate. “I’m the one in control here. I’ll give you my cock when I damn well please—not a moment before, no matter how much of a whiny little bitch you act like.”
Their faces were mere centimetres apart. Yoongi could feel Namjoon’s warm breaths against his lips as the younger man tried to gather himself and stop falling apart. “Sir...” There was a pout on Namjoon’s lips, but Yoongi could see the desperation in his eyes, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
If Yoongi hadn’t also been at his limit, he might have teased Namjoon further, just to see how far he could push him. But seeing the younger man in this state made Yoongi’s cock throb with a desperate need to be inside him.
Pulling his fingers out—none too gracefully—Yoongi reached for the lube. He shoved his sweatpants down, not bothering to remove them entirely, and poured the lube over himself, uncaring about the mess he was making. He needed to be inside Namjoon.
A deep moan escaped his lips as he finally sheathed himself inside Namjoon. It felt like coming home—warm, wet, and everything he could ever want. Maybe this was why he’d stopped sleeping with other people. Nobody else could ever feel like this. Not after Namjoon.
As he bottomed out, Yoongi paused for a moment to breathe, to process the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. He let himself take in the sight of Namjoon—his head thrown back, the only part of himself he could move, as he chanted, “Yes, Sir!” in a soft, needy voice. He repeated the title like it was the meaning of life—not just Yoongi’s cock, but everything.
Then again, in this state, maybe the meaning of Namjoon’s life was Yoongi’s cock. And who was Yoongi to judge?
They’d had sex enough times for Yoongi to know exactly when Namjoon was ready for him to move. The moment that readiness came, Yoongi wasted no time, showing no mercy despite Namjoon’s overstimulated state.
Namjoon wanted cock—wanted to be fucked—and Yoongi was going to give him exactly that.
Starting with deep, rough thrusts of his hips, Yoongi made sure to abuse Namjoon’s prostate with every movement, grinning at the whiny moans spilling from Namjoon’s mouth. “Is this what you wanted, slut? Cock so good you’re about to cry?”
He didn’t give Namjoon time to answer—there wouldn’t be anything clever or coherent coming from him anyway. Yoongi was certain he’d already fucked the younger man’s brain completely out of his head.
It wouldn’t take long—not for either of them. Namjoon’s cock was red, the tip no longer leaking precum as it usually did. Yoongi knew this time would end with a dry orgasm, something he always loved driving Namjoon to.
But the position was wrong.
Yoongi reached towards the edge of the bed where Namjoon’s legs were tied to the bedposts, fumbling to untie them. Thankfully, he hadn’t tied them too tightly—his focus earlier had been on getting the knots around Namjoon’s wrists just right.
It didn’t take more than a few seconds on each side to free Namjoon’s legs. Once they were untied, Yoongi pushed those tanned, seemingly endless legs over his shoulders instead. Leaning forward so Namjoon was nearly bent in half like a pretzel, Yoongi grinned wickedly as he gazed down at him.
He knew exactly what this position did to Namjoon, and the loud moan of his name confirmed it had already taken effect. Yoongi didn’t even mind that Namjoon was calling his name instead of the usual title—seeing the younger man’s eyes roll back in pleasure more than made up for it.
Unable to resist, Yoongi sank his teeth into the flesh of Namjoon’s thigh, leaving behind a bite mark that would bruise but not break the skin. It was his personal way of marking his territory.
Yoongi hadn’t thought of himself as the biting type until he met Namjoon. That was when he realised marking his territory was a kink he hadn’t been prepared for. There was nothing hotter than knowing that whenever Namjoon’s thighs pressed together, he’d feel Yoongi’s claim on him.
Namjoon’s moans only grew louder as Yoongi threw himself fully into fucking him senseless. Bent almost in half, knees nearly pressed to his own shoulders, Namjoon seemed barely able to hold himself together. He tugged at the silk restraints around his wrists—not because he wanted out, but because he had no other way to express himself. He wanted to touch Yoongi but couldn’t.
Namjoon could do nothing but take it—just as he was meant to.
And take it he did.
Everything was becoming overwhelming. Yoongi had been overstimulating Namjoon for the better part of an hour, but he’d also been edging himself. He could feel the tight coil in his abdomen winding closer and closer, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. But that didn’t stop him from thrusting as hard and as deep as he could.
“Gonna cum for me, slut? Third time tonight. Is there even anything left in that cute little cock of yours? Or are you going to cum dry?”
Namjoon’s whiny noises only grew louder, and Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to care about the inevitable noise complaint. Everyone should hear the sounds Namjoon was making—should hear exactly what Yoongi was doing to him. Because it was him doing this to Namjoon, not anyone else. Him. Only he could make Namjoon sound like this.
They’d done this enough times for Yoongi to read Namjoon’s body like a book. He knew exactly when it became too much, when Namjoon hit the edge and could no longer hold back his orgasm.
The scream Namjoon let out when he came—dry, as Yoongi had predicted—was more than enough to ensure he wouldn’t be in the studio for days. His voice would be completely ruined.
Watching Namjoon’s eyes roll back in his head, combined with the overwhelming sensations, pushed Yoongi over the edge. He finally gave in to his own release.
Both of them were left breathing heavily as they came down from their orgasms. The haze was short-lived, though—Yoongi knew better than to collapse onto Namjoon.
It didn’t matter that Namjoon could easily handle his weight. He shouldn’t have to.
Slowly, Yoongi let Namjoon’s legs slide from his shoulders and rest on the bed. He began their aftercare routine because, despite their supposed hatred for each other, there was still basic respect. That included making sure Namjoon’s wrists weren’t too damaged.
Rising from the bed, Yoongi ignored his nakedness and went to the bathroom to grab a washcloth. Returning, he cleaned Namjoon gently. The younger man was still out of it, letting out soft little sounds of comfort whenever Yoongi touched him—a reassuring sign that he was still conscious.
With Namjoon freed and cleaned, Yoongi threw himself down on the bed next to him, rather than on top of him. He wasn’t about to cuddle.
Nope, Yoongi was not a cuddler.
Who cared if Namjoon gave the best cuddles with those strong arms of his? Not Yoongi, that was for sure.
For a while, they simply lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying to get their breathing and heart rates back under control.
Then Namjoon rolled onto his side, throwing a leg over Yoongi’s and an arm across his chest. “I’m not going to deny that was one hell of a greeting, but I did actually come here for a reason.”
His voice was rough and hoarse from screaming, and it distracted Yoongi for a moment. He could only respond with a soft hum.
“My parents are back in the country,” Namjoon continued. “They want to know when they can meet you.”
That snapped Yoongi out of his haze. “Wait, what?”
Namjoon giggled, hiding his face in Yoongi’s shoulder. “We’ve been dating long enough that it’s about time you meet them.”
Oh, shit.
Were they dating?