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It’s morning. Grey, cold, too early to be awake after the night they had. Namjoon can still taste the too-expensive whiskey stale at the back of his throat.
Rain against the windows is a soft susurrus like a lullaby. He knows that’s not what woke him. It always rains this time of year, a soft constant shush of white noise in the background. It’s like this almost every day, around their anniversary.
They have two anniversaries, sort of.
Yoongi insists their anniversary is the first day they met, in the dog days of summer, sweat sticking Namjoon’s shirt to his back and collecting under his arms inside the humidity of his black suit jacket. Namjoon was on his bike, sunglasses on, pedaling, sweltering, and Yoongi jumped on the back, bursting out of a nearby alley like a cat out of hell, swinging a plastic bag full of tangerines and yelling at him to get a fuckin’ move on, they’re after me like Namjoon was some kind of getaway driver, and it didn’t make any sense to him at the time. All he knew was the man behind him was small, feisty, and hot, smoldering the way an animal does in a too-small cage, like a fire-breathing dragon trapped in the body of a cat.
Yoongi’s always been romantic like that, calling that day their anniversary. Namjoon counts from the day he proposed to Yoongi a few months later, stolen fireworks sharpening the air with the taste of smoke, lighting up the sky like a festival, ash in Yoongi’s hair like bits of snow in the dead of November as Namjoon knelt on the ground before him and offered him everything in his small, unlucky life, unlucky until he met Yoongi.
He’ll never forget the way Yoongi’s face glowed that night.
His husband is the most beautiful man on earth.
Technically, they’re not really married, but neither of them care about that. They’ve never cared about what the world told them they were. They wrest what they want from it, at knifepoint, with their fists, with whatever it takes. By the light of a match flicked against crumbling walls, at the edge of society where no one can stop them. Where no one else knows their real names, only the stories people tell. Stories of ferocious brutality, half-truths spun into legends of larger than life personas that keep them safe.
No one else gets to see them like this. Cozy in bed. Vulnerable. Soft. They have each other, and no one else gets that. Only them.
Long story short, they celebrate two anniversaries. One in deep summer, and the other at the end of autumn, right before it dies and fades into the true sleep of winter, as the world is washed by rain.
Outside the rain keeps going, steady, everything bathed in cool grey light, the fact that it’s daylight almost imperceptible with how cloudy and early it is. More sleep sounds pretty good right about now.
Before Namjoon can drift drowsily back into half-hungover sleep, drunk on love for his favorite person on earth, he feels something icy cold burrow beneath his side, forcing its way along his ribcage, frozen fingers pressing into the tender skin under his arm.
So that’s what woke him up.
“Mmh.” Namjoon mumbles the words into his pillow. “Happy anniversary, baby.”
His husband, pressed up against him from behind, hands and feet icy from getting up to feed the cat, makes an indistinct growling sound against his back and cuddles in close. Namjoon can feel him push his way under his limp arm, nestling between his bicep and his body, curling around him like a mischievous animal.
“Why are you so awake?” Namjoon’s words are slow, mind still sleep-dredged. It’s a question he knows the answer to, more of a plea for mercy than a real question.
His husband has never been particularly merciful.
A hand, slow and determined, slides its way down the front of Namjoon’s sleep-slack torso, burrowing into the warmth in the crease of his leg, fingers gripping the meat of his inner thigh. At the same time, Namjoon feels a prick of teeth at the edge of his chest, right along the ridge of his pectoral muscle.
“Ah!” His muscles seize, startled into brief alertness by the sensations of his besieged body.
“Awake now?” Yoongi’s voice is low, a growling purr, rumbling with recently shed sleep. In Namjoon’s humble opinion, it’s the sexiest sound on earth.
He shifts back into his husband’s solid grip, twisting into a lazy stretch, letting Yoongi’s other hand snake around him through the loose space where his side was previously pressed into the bed. This hand stays slow, petting along his low abdomen, deliberate touch smoothing him down and pressing him close.
Namjoon loves his husband’s hands. Broad, sure, capable of force and delicacy alike, but always skilled in taking what they want.
He lets his own arm fall softly along the curve of Yoongi’s body where it’s pressed up against him, feeling the tickle of Yoongi’s long hair against the tender skin of his inner arm. His muscles stay loose, not holding, just resting around Yoongi, making a welcome space for him to enter.
He takes the space given, sliding further around Namjoon’s torso, dark rumpled hair coming into view. Namjoon feels a hot puff of breath against his chest and his skin tightens, goosebumping.
“You’re not tired after last night?”
It’s not a complaint. Maybe more of a challenge. If he knows his husband at all, as much as he loves to sleep, he knows Yoongi will take it as an invitation.
“If you’re tired then don’t move. I’ve got you.”
Uncurling his form across Namjoon’s body, he slides the hand tucked around Namjoon’s thigh up, up, fingers light and relentless. They’ve grown warm in the space between his legs, bringing the heat up with them.
Body soft in a half-twist, sheet pulled low over his hips, Namjoon has a perfect view of the way he’s laid out under his husband’s commanding touch. The arm Yoongi had tucked beneath his ribs tightens around Namjoon’s waist, hugging him close and holding him in place. Closing him in.
A little breath of anticipation leaves his chest. He can’t see the way Yoongi is touching him now, with how he’s leaning over Namjoon’s body his sleep-mussed head is in the way, but he can feel the soft trail of his fingers, up from his thigh, over the thin skin-warmed surface of his boxer briefs.
Namjoon feels his spine elongate ever so slightly, stretching subtly into his husband’s touch as it ghosts further up his abdomen. Yoongi’s palm presses flat against his low stomach, boxing him in against his own body tucked up against Namjoon, fingers sliding under his waistband and stretching, stretching, like he’s savoring the view, and finally letting the elastic snap softly back against his skin.
“All mine.”
Yoongi’s voice is still low, raw with sleep and last night’s drinking. Namjoon wants to laugh but whatever sound comes out of his throat is breathless and caught, like a willing animal in a trap.
“Yeah. All yours.”
“What should I do with you?” Namjoon hears the curl of a smile in his voice now, that hint of devious amusement that means he’s ready to take what he wants.
“Take— me.” Namjoon means to say something a little more coherent, but Yoongi cuts him short, stealing the words from his brain like a plug draining all coherent thought, when he bares his mouth against the soft skin of Namjoon’s inner thigh and gently bites.
Still half-mired in sleep as he is, the sensation feels like a lightning bolt to relaxed muscles, a little brush against a live wire. He feels his lower belly tighten reflexively, the tingle from the bite sending a phantom trace up his body.
Yoongi’s long hair tickles his skin as he nuzzles deeper into the warm crook of Namjoon’s thigh, breath puffing hotly against his most sensitive parts. Namjoon wants to reach for him, but he also doesn’t, he wants to let it happen, wants to let his husband take whatever he wants.
No matter how long they’ve been together, there’s always something about being in Yoongi’s control like this, being at his mercy, that makes Namjoon want to give himself over to him completely, to go limp like prey in the jaws of a hunter.
He knows if he does, he’ll be safe.
There’s no one else on earth he’d let his guard down for like this.
Yoongi has a way of keeping him in his body, shocking his mind into the kind of quiet he can only access when he’s either deeply inebriated or sunk in sensation the way he is now, the way he can feel he’s about to be.
“That’s it. Nice and relaxed for me.” Yoongi’s voice has gone even lower, disappearing on the vowels, a bass-deep purr Namjoon can feel against his skin when his mouth comes close, close, to—
He feels the insistent tug of Yoongi’s teeth against the front of his briefs, delicately pinching the fabric away from his cock. The proximity of potential pain, and the knowledge that he can safely give himself over, rises like a slow wave, and he finds his body moving almost on its own, a state he can’t usually reach, always too aware of his own physicality, overthinking every movement.
His hips rise, pulled fluidly with his husband’s motion as Yoongi peels the briefs away from his body and swiftly pushes them down, letting them tangle taut around his thighs.
He stops then, poised low over Namjoon’s exposed body, and Namjoon hears a quiet wet sound that he thinks might be Yoongi licking his lips.
All he can see is the black sunburst of Yoongi’s messy morning hair, disheveled from the way Namjoon ran his hands through it last night, and the line of his shoulders under his loose sleep shirt, oversized because it used to be Namjoon’s. He likes to see Yoongi in his clothes. He likes—
Everything else falls out of his head, words melting like candle wax into formless feeling, as Yoongi’s lips start to tease soft and feather-light against the weeping tip of his cock.
Namjoon’s hand flexes against Yoongi’s lower back, not pushing, just wanting to touch him somehow, wanting to feel connected to him.
Yoongi lets out a huff, his silent little laugh that Namjoon loves so much, and his breath against the heat of Namjoon’s body is just another sensation winding him tight, forcing his consciousness all the way into his nerve endings.
He has no shape, he’s sure, until Yoongi brings him into being, reminds him of the boundaries of his body and how known he is, how cherished.
That’s what he’s thinking when his husband takes the head of his cock into his mouth with a practiced movement of his tongue and sucks hard.
“Oh, fuck—”
Before he can fully react to the intensity of the stimulation, a starburst of sensation after being teased for so long, Yoongi is sucking him deeper, maintaining the pressure with his tongue and mouth, hot and velvet smooth, a soft rumble in his throat that’s just the right amount of vibration to make Namjoon feel so on edge that his entire body goes taut with holding himself back.
“Hnn— Yoongi—”
He feels swallowed whole, literally consumed. He knows how good his husband is with his words, his mouth, his tongue, but knowing isn’t enough to keep Namjoon from transcending his pitiful bodily form and catapulting into the kind of ecstasy that whites out his entire brain and flatlines his consciousness into a fuzzed, half-dreaming state. Illusory visions unfurl behind his eyelids, a tableau of everything he can feel but can’t see. Yoongi’s dark hair falling in waves around his face, tendrils tickling the skin of Namjoon’s thighs and belly. The focused, almost frenzied look he gets when he’s like this, unstoppable, and how he might look up from under his brows, smug, daring Namjoon to watch him without cumming too soon.
Namjoon gasps in air, the sound loud in the quiet room, only the shush of rain outside, everything thick with that familiar marine smell as he tries to breathe in, tries to breathe in without thinking too hard about the way Yoongi’s throat feels pulsing softly around the head of his cock.
“Fuck, baby—”
It’s too much, too fast, but he knows he’ll take it, because Yoongi decided that he would. He’ll take anything his husband gives him, they both know he always will.
Yoongi’s hand comes under Namjoon’s thigh, hiking his leg up, heedless of the boxers still tangled tight around Namjoon’s legs, fingers gripping sweat-damp skin, pulling him close like there’s some way he can take him even deeper. Finally, feeling like all the life force he possesses is currently contained within his husband’s hands and jaws, Namjoon lifts his arm weakly, reverently, and trails his fingers along the back of Yoongi’s head, tangling softly into the dark strands.
With the hand that’s not holding his leg tight, Yoongi reaches back and pushes down over the back of Namjoon’s hand, using it to press himself into the very root of Namjoon.
He can feel the point of Yoongi’s chin nudging gently into the crease of his thigh, the soft puff of labored breath through his nose as he works something akin to a spell with his mouth and tongue, fully possessing the whole of him, taking control of everything that Namjoon is. Feverishly, he briefly imagines himself small, in the palm of Yoongi’s hand, tucked into his pocket, kept close and belonging to him always. That’s how he feels.
A soft sound comes out of him, barely voiced, a helpless breath almost a whimper, but Yoongi hears it. He hears it, and he makes a sound around Namjoon too, something half moan and half growl, something possessive and fierce, satisfied, claiming, and Namjoon can feel the vibration of it rumbling deep into the core of his being, shaking the tension out of him at last, swallowing him down expertly, consuming him utterly.
He stays conscious through the orgasm, but just barely, and only because he can still feel the grip of Yoongi’s hands digging into him, tight and possessive.
He keeps his eyes open, even though he feels the longing pull of sleep even stronger now. He keeps looking, so he can be blessed by the moment his husband finally releases him and rolls over to look at him.
The side of his face pressed into Namjoon’s still-heaving chest, mouth pink and wet, the skin around his eyes smooth and relaxed with recent sleep, a softness to him even with the sly grin spreading across his face, crinkling his eyes into that delighted look that brings the sun to Namjoon even on a day like today, even in the midst of a storm.
Namjoon lifts a sleep-heavy arm and traces slowly, tenderly, along the side of his husband’s face, hand coming to settle in the warmth where neck meets jaw, thumb moving fondly over silk-soft skin, fingers sweeping gently into the dark nest of his hair.
Yoongi’s smile blooms fully, teeth and gums, eyes corner-crinkled, kindling a bright spark of joy in Namjoon that he’s never felt for anything else on earth.
Yoongi turns his face a little, nose and mouth nudging briefly into Namjoon’s skin, inhaling lightly like he still can’t get enough of him, and presses a little kiss to his chest.
“Happy anniversary, baby.”