Work Text:
Although only a few people still roam the gallery, their presence is heavy in Namjoon’s consciousness. He tracks them in his mind, footprints all over his mental map, and hears them scattered throughout the space. Back by the black and white photography wall, near the front door by the earth-toned paintings, admiring the ceramic main piece displayed in the center.
They’re elsewhere right now, lingering around the art, milking the seconds despite the gallery being set to close in less than twenty minutes. It’s only a matter of time before someone wanders toward the bathroom and spots Namjoon here.
The coolness of the metal doorknob disagrees with the heat on Namjoon’s palm. He pulls his hand away, wipes the sweat onto his jeans, and then reaches out again. But still, he doesn’t turn the handle. He can’t. He can’t because his wedding band keeps staring back at him—gold and shiny and judging. It’s making his chest tight because… yeah, he knows what choice he’s about to make; it feels inevitable, but he still knows he shouldn’t.
You’re a shitty person, Namjoon thinks, and it’s a familiar thought. Doesn’t taste particularly sour because he’s gone numb to the sting of it. He’s said it to himself too many times to count throughout his life. It’s become akin to a reminder, a reason but not an excuse, for his actions. Because Namjoon knows all about himself, has explored his darkest corners, and made friends with the devil on his shoulder. Right now, it’s telling him go, do it, open the door. And Namjoon will. They both know that.
If Namjoon were to look back on his life, he’d be able to pinpoint the exact moments that led him here. Like connect-the-dots. With a pencil starting in childhood, gliding over the page to adolescence, finding its way to his teenage years, and then settling in his late twenties, Namjoon’s confident all the signs were there. The adrenaline rush when he told lies to his family, peeking over at his classmate’s answers despite knowing them, fantasizing about things he knew he shouldn’t. You do it because you’re a shitty person. It echoes in Namjoon’s mind like an old song. The very specific melody of someone making bad decisions on purpose.
Because that’s the point, there’s always intent behind his decisions. He knows the risks and reasons he shouldn’t, but he does it anyway.
Namjoon likes the contrast of his outside with his inside. How, if someone were to look at him, he knows they’d see a twenty-nine-year-old business owner. They’d see someone who supports up-and-coming artists. They’d see an intelligent man with a graduate degree in art history, a bachelor's in philosophy, and another in business administration. Pair all of that with the way he gets his haircut and the way he chooses to dress—no, pair all of that with his fucking wedding band—and the world surely sees a good man.
It excites Namjoon more than it should to know it’s not true. His thoughts are too polluted, he’s too driven by his own desires and impulses. His morals are all painted gray.
He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, more dangerous than anyone suspects.
⊷
Namjoon remembers learning about apex predators when he was young. Top of the food chain, powerful, void of any natural threats. Equipped with fangs, claws, and beaks with enough power to reduce bones to powder, to drain blood like air from a balloon.
The list is elite. Killer whales, saltwater crocodiles, snow leopards. Just hearing their names makes Namjoon shiver, a chill colder than a breeze in the Arctic dancing down his spine and leaving frostbite on his fingertips.
He was always fond of that feeling—fear and adrenaline mixing. When his imagination runs wild, he can almost replicate the spiked chemical levels in his own veins. His mouth waters at the mental image of a tiger shredding apart any foolish creature that dared to cross the border of its diligently marked territory. His heart races at the thought of a python lunging, impaling, then squeezing its prey to death.
Namjoon read once that humans used to be apex predators. Mentioned with the likes of the Tasmanian devil and grizzly bear. And when Namjoon thinks about it, it makes perfect sense. Because when a bald eagle is hungry, it descends and sinks in its deadly talons. When a Komodo dragon is hungry, it mercilessly bites through tender flesh, venom dripping from their fangs.
And when Namjoon is hungry, he opens a door and has a meal, the meat tender and ready. Sometimes the prey traps itself.
⊷
“Took you long enough.”
Namjoon’s gaze follows the ironed crease on slim-fit tan slacks to where they pinch in at the waist, and Namjoon’s fingers twitch. They’ve been twitching all night, yearning to touch, grip, and mark. The door falls into place and clicks shut as Namjoon’s eyes sweep over a black belt secured on its tightest notch. A white button-up tucked in over a coffee-colored turtleneck. Too many layers; Namjoon needs them off. His fingers twitch again.
He’s never been a patient man.
“Hm,” Namjoon hums, buying time for his brain to refocus. His voice is nonchalant when he challenges, “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure if you meant it.”
A gently popped hip propels long legs forward from leaning against the side of the shiny, porcelain toilet. A slow walk across the gray tile, the steps intense and pointed. And while Namjoon is aware of how his heart kicks in his chest and the tightness in his lungs, he doesn’t feel hunted. Because this is his trap. It’s a plan falling into place without him having to lift a finger. That’s it, he thinks, come to me, little dove.
When a fingertip makes contact with Namjoon’s chest, there’s enough electricity to power the gallery. It trails down his body, languid and tempting, and Namjoon would look if he weren’t lost in the dark eyes studying him. A beauty mark peeks through thick, pretty eyelashes on the waterline. There’s black magic in the pupils, and Namjoon willingly falls under their spell. But it’s all white noise—snowy static and the distinct purr of lust rumbling in their chests.
“Of course I meant it.”
Warm breath ghosts over Namjoon’s lips, and he breathes Taehyung in just as he has all night, his familiar scent sticking to his tongue. They’ve been stuck in this loop: invading each other’s space, flirting, and then pulling away. Mostly Namjoon for the latter, if he’s being honest, in his attempts to act like a good person. The type of person his husband deserves—the type of person his ring swears he’d be—but there’s something magnetic and captivating and wrong about Taehyung. Namjoon can’t pretend to resist him anymore.
Because Namjoon tried. He tried to keep it professional. He, the gallery owner; Taehyung, the showcased artist. Namjoon was hosting Taehyung’s art show, nothing more. But Namjoon isn’t blind, and Taehyung is the prettiest piece of art in any room he’s in. And so Namjoon admired him from afar, filtered his thoughts and kept it professional. He did that until he couldn’t anymore.
It was impossible with the way they kept finding each other through the crowd, their eyes meeting and then zigzagging away. Somehow, in a room full of chatty patrons and beautiful art, they remained in each other’s orbit, circling one another as if they smelled blood—like predators do.
And Namjoon could easily blame their close proximity on the fact that they were both working. Taehyung was selling some of his pieces, and Namjoon, as owner and host, helped take them off the walls each time a sale was made. Did it with a hand to Taehyung’s waist to move him out of the way, murmuring I got it for you, I got you, I’ll do it. Maybe they were unnecessary touches, but they felt necessary to Namjoon. It was pacifying something primal and hungry inside of him, feeding it one fatty, bloody bite at a time. And Namjoon liked how Taehyung grinned at the floor, almost shy, whenever he did it.
An hour or so later, there they were again. Figured you might be thirsty, Namjoon had said, handing Taehyung a glass of champagne. Flute half full, chilled, and still fizzing. An excuse to talk, to be close. You drink, right? They were standing by the far wall, back to everyone, and while they both should’ve been interacting with the guests, neither rushed. Taehyung took the glass, and a spark ran up Namjoon’s arm when their fingers touched. Not usually, he had admitted, an easy smile tilting his mouth, but tonight is special.
Special. That may be the perfect way to describe it. Whatever was happening between them was special. They fit together too easy to be a mistake, even if they both knew it was. And when Namjoon caught their reflection in the glass frame of Taehyung’s painting, he thought we look good together, and nothing inside his brain challenged that thought.
The rest of the night went like that, easy and undisputed, until something between them started to boil and Taehyung whispered in Namjoon’s ear, “Bathroom.” That’s all he said. Bathroom. And then walked away like he knew Namjoon would follow.
He was right.
Namjoon’s brain returns to his body when Taehyung’s tongue warms his neck. A slow lick followed by his soft lips. Then a kiss followed by a suck right under his jaw. Leaning back against the sink now, with Taehyung pressed in close and their bodies touching everywhere, Namjoon sighs. Taehyung fits in Namjoon’s arms like he was made to be there. Dark waters flood Namjoon’s brain, too strong for the weak wall he’s put up between who he pretends to be and who he actually is.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Namjoon thinks maybe it counts for something to at least acknowledge it, to say it out loud.
Taehyung makes a sound, indifferent and distracted, too focused on smearing open-mouthed kisses to Namjoon’s neck. But still, he says, “‘Cause you’re married?”
Namjoon holds his breath. Doesn’t speak, can’t.
It’s fine though, because Taehyung speaks for him. “I saw the ring,” he murmurs between kisses. But he doesn’t say it like he’s angry or disappointed. He says it like Namjoon has nothing to hide now. Like he said the dirty, forbidden thing for him, so he didn’t have to.
Says it like he doesn’t care if Namjoon doesn’t either, and that’s—dangerous.
Namjoon just nods. Slow movements of his neck with lips pressed together, unable to vocalize it. But he wraps his arm around Taehyung’s middle properly and pulls their bodies back together. Taehyung smiles as he huffs air through his nose, a cute little sound, and then returns his mouth to Namjoon’s neck. His tongue is moving in circles now, savoring Namjoon’s flavor. He hums like something inside of him is pleased.
Tipping his head to the side, Namjoon gives Taehyung more room to work. He closes his eyes and sees nothing but how pretty Taehyung would look getting fucked in the mirror behind them. Bent over, leg up, knuckles as white as the fluorescent lights above them as he braces himself for each thrust. He’d have to hold himself up on the sink, Namjoon showing no mercy, body shaking a little from the strain of the position. Namjoon’s next exhale is tight, and he pulls Taehyung closer still, wondering if Taehyung can feel how hard he’s making him and if that’s such a bad thing after all.
Taehyung’s focus shifts. He kisses down Namjoon’s body, intent and slow, making Namjoon’s muscles tense. Kisses a straight line from his chest to the top of his ribcage. Then from his navel to where his belt sits on his hips. When Namjoon looks down, jaw hinges loose and tongue pressing against his bottom teeth, Taehyung is already looking up at him.
With a hand on Namjoon’s thigh, massaging in a way that’s too close to his dick to be anything but tempting, he asks, “Should we stop?”
Somehow, Namjoon sees innocence in Taehyung’s eyes—faux innocence, it has to be—but fake or not, something about it turns Namjoon on even more. He feels his body's blood rushing downward, tightening his briefs. So he tries to look elsewhere, to find a place on Taehyung’s body that will allow him a chance to think straight. But he helplessly settles on his mouth, glistening pink, pouty and pretty, and all he can think about is how it’d feel around his dick. He wants to know how far Taehyung can take him, if he’d let him fuck his throat.
Namjoon can’t even fathom saying anything else when he tells Taehyung, hands reaching for his belt to unbuckle it, “Absolutely not.”
⊷
Taehyung sucks Namjoon off how he hoped he would—how he knew he would.
Messy and shameless, lots of tongue, heavy eye contact. Looks so filthy on his knees, all of his features glowing with a devilish hue. He’s making little noises of pleasure at the back of his throat as he bobs his head, the vibrations of it tickling Namjoon’s sensitive nerves. His eyelashes catch the ends of his hair, and while Namjoon likes that and thinks he looks pretty that way, he prefers it pulled back and tangled up in his grip, curls sprouting between his fingers.
The lip of the sink is digging into Namjoon’s ass, but he ignores the dull pain to keep watching Taehyung take his dick just a little farther each time. When he pulls back, he opens his mouth wide. With a flattened tongue, he drags it up Namjoon’s length, a spit shine, until he gets to the head. His eyes are locked with Namjoon’s in the process, unwavering.
More spit drips from Taehyung’s mouth in strings. Namjoon’s briefs are darkened with moisture, stretched like a safety net as it hangs with his jeans around his thighs. And all that drool must be oiling up Taehyung’s jaw because he just talks and talks and talks.
Keeps saying things he shouldn’t say.
“Does he not—satisfy you?”
Namjoon ignores the question. He curls a hand around the crown of Taehyung’s head and encourages him back down with maybe a little more force than he should. Tells him to shut up without speaking. Even gives a few harsh rocks of his hips in hopes it serves as a warning. Don’t start.
Taehyung’s cough is more of a gurgle, a wet sound from the back of his throat. Namjoon feels the spasm hug around his cockhead, the split-second pressure making his eyes roll back, and he groans. Taehyung recovers quickly, like he’s used to this, and pulls back with ease. He does it slowly, inch by inch, until his lips rest in a pout around the head like a lollipop.
His tongue still teases, little pointed flicks up and down the slit that catch every drop of pre-cum it dribbles out. Namjoon has to put effort into appearing unaffected by it. But a loss of restraint makes him snap his hips forward without thinking, forcing his length back down Taehyung’s throat, drowning it in its warmth. Again, Taehyung coughs, but he’s smiling through it. He pulls back, settles himself, and then takes Namjoon back down.
And although there are tears in the corners of Taehyung’s eyes now, little droplets that catch on the tips of his pretty eyelashes like balancing raindrops when he blinks, he still looks up at Namjoon like he dares him to do it again. Like it won’t stop him from saying what he wants to say.
“Do you love him?” Taehyung asks. A wicked thing to inquire while tilting his head to the side to lick up the length of Namjoon’s dick.
And it’s a reflex more than anything else, a knee-jerk response when Namjoon replies, voice fast and sharp like a whip, “He’s perfect.”
Taehyung’s quick, though. Too quick. He asks, teasing just the head again, tongue causing Namjoon’s vision to spot like he’s going to blackout, “Then why are you here?” Another slow lick. Namjoon feels his sanity begin to unravel. “Not perfect enough to keep you?”
It’s clear that Taehyung is getting off on this—on the bittersweet of reaping the rewards of someone else’s loss. He’s not asking because he wants Namjoon to check himself or his morals. Taehyung wants to hear Namjoon tell him he couldn’t have been anywhere else because he’s too irresistible. He wants to hear that Namjoon never stood a chance. And Namjoon knows that because it’s getting him off too.
So he can’t answer. Doesn’t have the mental capacity to do it. Because it’s too much to put into words that he’s drawn to beautiful, complex things. Intangible things—forbidden things. And Taehyung is just that in human form. He’s got a big sign on him that says DO NOT TOUCH but Namjoon wants to touch anyway—is touching anyway—and he doesn’t care if it paints his palms bloody red, putting on display to the world that he’s done something terrible.
Namjoon’s silence is his answer.
“Hm,” Taehyung hums, indifference returning, the slightest twitch to his eyebrows.
He pulls his attention away from Namjoon’s eyes back onto his dick. Just says hm, nothing else, but he says it like he knows something Namjoon doesn’t. And it’s sexy. Everything Taehyung does is sexy, and Namjoon’s starting to hate it. It’s scary that he can’t think of anything that would pull him out of this moment and make him want to stop.
Taehyung opens his mouth slowly after some gentle coaxing from Namjoon’s thumb. He locks their eyes again as he takes Namjoon back into his mouth. Asks tauntingly with his eyes, ‘Does my mouth feel better than his?’ and, ‘Does he still deepthroat for you? Did he ever?’ Then, when he starts twirling his tongue and Namjoon moans, ‘Does he know how to do this?’ All of these unsaid questions float from Taehyung’s dark eyes into Namjoon's brain like telepathy.
It’s smooth and gradual the way Taehyung falls into a rhythm. Soon, Namjoon’s head is thrown back against the mirror, eyes closed, and he’s enveloped in hypnotizing wet-warmth. He rolls his hips languidly, a hand still in Taehyung’s hair to control the pace.
Taehyung is the type of sin he could learn to crave, an abyss he could get lost in for a while, so that’s exactly what he does.
⊷
Namjoon has seen Taehyung’s art, and while it’s unique and impressive and thought-provoking, Namjoon thinks his mouth might be more talented than his hands. And if Namjoon were a man with more shame, he would be embarrassed by how quickly he needed to breathe himself down from the metaphorical edge, to keep from cumming too soon—from cumming just from his mouth. Instead, Namjoon took it for what it is: a challenge. Taehyung can put cracks in Namjoon’s armor, can make him bleed out and threaten to fall, but Namjoon’s confident he can make Taehyung crumble.
“On your feet,” Namjoon instructs while pulling Taehyung’s arm simultaneously, making his limbs work quicker than he’s prepared for. With a firm hand on Taehyung’s waist, Namjoon flips their positions and pins Taehyung against the sink.
Taehyung makes a huffing sound, confused and annoyed, as he stumbles to his feet. His furrowed eyebrows signal his complaint before it can pass his pout, so Namjoon kisses him. Murmurs, “Shut up, just—shut up,” into his mouth as his fingers fumble with the buttons on Taehyung’s shirt.
Too many layers. Taehyung has on too many layers, and it’s aggravating Namjoon. All his hands know how to do right now is be rough. Namjoon tries to remember finesse and skill as he undoes the buttons, but he’s already popped one and is yanking his way through the others. His husband tells him he’s never quite outgrown his childish nature of wanting something right now and getting angry when it doesn’t happen. And while Namjoon is self-aware enough never to deny that, he thinks anyone would agree Taehyung doesn’t need a turtleneck under his dress shirt. He doesn't need a belt for pants this tight. All of it is just impeding Namjoon, slowing him down, so yeah, it’s making him frustrated.
Taehyung likes it rough; Namjoon can already tell. They’re a dangerous pair—a tornado mixing with a landslide—because all they do is egg each other on, they make each other worse. Namjoon rips off the last button of Taehyung’s shirt because he wants to, and Taehyung just kisses him harder for it, moans in his ear, “Yes, yea’, that’s sexy, fuck.”
Too many layers, too many. When his top half is bare, Taehyung makes a home out of Namjoon’s neck. He buries his face there, uses his teeth more than his lips, and it hurts too good for Namjoon to remind him not to leave any marks. He should’ve told him not to bite, not to suck so hard, not to leave such undeniable evidence that he was here. But he doesn’t. Instead, Namjoon’s impatient fingers fumble with Taehyung’s belt as he murmurs to him, “Not gonna be able to fuckin’ walk when I’m done w’you, gonna fuck you so good you’ll cry, never gonna wanna fuck anyone else, never gonna need anyone else, jus’ me, jus’—” He talks and talks and talks.
Feels like years later when Taehyung’s finally kicking off his pants. And while Namjoon wants to admire his body, wants to drink him all in with his eyes, he decides using his mouth is better. So he turns Taehyung around with dictating hands on his hips, front facing the mirror now, and then slaps twice on his inner leg, encouraging it up onto the sink.
“Up,” is all Namjoon says, voice deep and hungry. And when Taehyung’s in position, Namjoon presses a hand between his shoulder blades until he’s bent over in position. Namjoon swears he growls as he drops to his knees, the seemingly never-ending expanse of Taehyung’s legs stretched out in front of him.
Namjoon dives in teeth-first. He has to. Taehyung’s ass is too tempting not to. His mouth finds the left asscheek first, and his teeth sink into the fatty flesh there, leaving Namjoon-sized imprints. Taehyung gasps and then moans, quickly finding pleasure in the pain. He sticks his ass out a little, pushing it into Namjoon’s mouth, wanting more.
“You’re so…” Namjoon starts to say, but the rest of his sentence dies on his tongue when it licks a wet stripe up Taehyung’s thigh, already twitching from balancing his body weight. “Fuck, Taehyung-ah, you’re so…” The words that manage to escape his mouth don’t hold a candle to the thoughts in his head. His half-sentences are saints in comparison. Because his mind is racing, saying fuck, pretty little hole, pretty all over and bet you taste good too, sweet like the rest of you and gonna tear you apart, rip you right open, ruin you for anyone else, only for me while his mouth spits out nothingness. His tongue curves to accommodate the swell of Taehyung’s ass again, and then he smears hungry, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses everywhere until his tongue slips between where his hands are pulling Taehyung open. The pretty moan that echoes off the walls is a reward. It shoots straight to Namjoon’s dick, making it pulse and swell.
Namjoon’s mind is ten steps ahead. He can already imagine Taehyung’s tight heat around his dick, hear his breathy moans echoing in his ear canals, and taste his orgasm on his tongue that it takes him longer than it should to realize what he’s actually tasting is—cherry? It’s faint, like an aftertaste of a candy Namjoon sucked on hours prior, but it’s there. The flavor is stronger when Namjoon experimentally pushes his tongue deeper inside. It pairs logically with the wetness that he now understands can’t just be spit. It’s lube.
Two thoughts collide at once. Tamer: Taehyung got himself off earlier today, this is the remnants of it, and it’s simply a coincidence they’re here now.
That. Or, more gratifying and selfish—
“You already—?” Namjoon exhales. Something like madness is sinking into his blood like poison when his fingers slip inside Taehyung effortlessly. They’re sucked in, he swears, and then test the boundaries of walls already stretched. Then, because he can’t resist, says, “For me, huh? Did this for me?”
“Wanted it to be you,” Taehyung exhales through a moan.
Somehow, even while slumped over a public bathroom sink with a stranger's fingers inside of him, Taehyung manages to stay ambivalent. And that fucks with Namjoon’s mind maybe more than it should, how casual Taehyung is with everything—his confidence, his incongruity. He manages to make Namjoon second-guess his intent and interest despite Namjoon being the stranger inside of him. Like it’s all just happenstance, dumb luck. If it weren’t Namjoon, it would’ve been someone else, anyone else, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Something in Namjoon wants to knock Taehyung down a peg. It’s something defensive and petty in his ego that counters as if it holds any weight: “And if I hadn’t given in?”
But Taehyung’s response is too quick, always is. It stings.
He says, head lowering as he moans and fucks himself back on Namjoon’s fingers, “Somebody would have.”
And Namjoon doesn’t have a rebuttal to that; he knows it’s true that Taehyung has his pick of anyone in the room everywhere he goes. But that doesn’t make Namjoon feel intimidated or foolish or captured. Instead, it makes him feel powerful and desired. Namjoon finds righteousness, finds a semblance of peace in his bad decision because he knows, in a way, it was the only decision. Taehyung made this choice for him. The blame has shifted.
“Somebody?” Namjoon huffs. He licks over Taehyung’s hole just to watch him quiver, just to hear him moan. He’s sliding his fingers back inside, three of them now, when he says, “Sounds like something a slut would say.”
That earns Namjoon a bigger moan, confirming all he needs to know. Taehyung begins rocking his hips again, trying to fuck himself on Namjoon’s fingers. So Namjoon gives him what he wants, calls him what he is. “Is that what you are? Hm? A little slut?”
And Taehyung must be a little lost in the feeling of Namjoon’s thick fingers, he squeezes around them stubbornly when Namjoon tries to spread them apart. But he manages a hum of, “Mmhm,” into his arm, biting at the skin there, when Namjoon swaps his fingers for his mouth, tongue pushing back inside to taste.
Namjoon decides he might as well fuck Taehyung like a slut too. If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then…
⊷
Namjoon doesn’t really have any compassion for Taehyung’s leg that’s surely beginning to ache from being in the same position for so long. Doesn’t care because it’s sexy this way—with him still bent over the sink, both of them facing the mirror, breath fogging it up, so Namjoon doesn’t see any reason to adjust. Just trades his tongue and his fingers for his cock, spits into his palm and gives it a few pumps before lining up and pushing in.
He does it all in one go, fits himself inside of Taehyung like he’s already accustomed to his shape and size. But he isn’t, so he makes a sound like he’s wounded, claws lodging into his unsuspecting stomach. He gasps, “Ah, fuck, hyung,” and white-knuckles the sides of the sink until his body releases enough endorphins to overtake pain with pleasure.
Namjoon knows he's big. Knows he could’ve given Taehyung slow, gentle thrusts until his body invited his cock inside the same way it did his fingers. But he’s impatient, never quite grew out of the habit, and he’s balls deep now. Taehyung’s making pretty little sounds and Namjoon can feel his stomach muscles tensing with each breath, so it’s a little difficult for him to conjure up anything that even mirrors hesitance or hindsight clarity.
Wrapping a hand around Taehyung’s mouth, Namjoon shushes him, says, “Shh, hey, there’s still people here, remember?” Then, as he starts to move his hips and Taehyung matches his pace, adds, “Mmm, but you’re a slut though, right? That’s what you said? Bet you want them to hear you, don’t you? Want everyone to know you’re in here taking my dick?”
And if Taehyung was nothing more but half-sentences before, he’s mostly just sounds now. Namjoon is showing him no mercy. Hands on his hips for leverage and his feet planted firmly on the tile, Namjoon fucks Taehyung like he knows he can take it—or quickly learn to if he can’t.
“That’s it, fuck, baby, that’s it,” Namjoon pants as he works his body, finds a rhythm.
He keeps trying to tuck his shirt under his chin so he can watch his body crash into Taehyung’s, but it keeps slipping out of place. And there’s a passing thought that Namjoon should just get naked too. Kick off his shoes, step out of his jeans and briefs, disregard his shirt and jacket too, but there’s something sexy about keeping them on. Something about it that reminds him that this is nothing more than a quick fuck in a bathroom with someone he’s not supposed to be with. A seized opportunity of trapping his prey and feeding until he’s satisfied. It’s sexy.
Namjoon catches Taehyung’s face in the mirror. It’s gone slack with pleasure, bottom lip bitten red and wet. And while it looks like maybe he’s nearing his breaking point, all of his pretty features twisted up like he’s going to cry, he still moans brokenly between thrusts, “Mmhm, yea’—yea’ fuck—f-fuck me. Harder, hyu—ah, ah, fuck me hard—harder—”
Somewhere in Namjoon’s hindbrain sits a concern he’s put on the back burner: his reputation. Because in the moment, right now, fuck yeah he wants everyone to hear Taehyung. Wants them to know who’s making him fall apart like this, making him shake like this. But he also doesn’t know what he would do if anyone actually hears, if it gets out that he’s the type of scumbag gallery owner that fucks his artists. If word will spread that his wedding band apparently means nothing because he’ll trade its sacredness for a sloppy half hour inside of a body he shouldn’t.
But Namjoon doesn’t care. Not right now. Can’t bring himself to because Taehyung feels too good, sounds too good. Because Taehyung’s arching his back like a whore, aiding his own death, and meeting Namjoon halfway with each stroke. Because Namjoon’s breaking a sweat and his hips are already starting to stutter and he’s going to cum soon, gonna cum first if he doesn’t slow down and that’s—that’s unacceptable. Because he’s given Taehyung his hand back now and he’s biting it hard, drool and teeth marks all over Namjoon’s thumb. He likes the pain, likes the burn.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout this since—since I met you last week, fuck.” There Namjoon’s mouth goes again. Talking, talking, talking. “Wanted to know—needed to know what you felt like. How you tasted. How tight you were. Wanted—shit, fuck, baby—needed you like this. Bent over, takin’ me, takin’ my dick… yea’ look at you, made for this aren’t you? Made to take dick like this ‘cause—‘cause that’s what sluts do, huh? My slut. My good little slut, goddamn.”
Namjoon is surely leaving bruises on Taehyung’s hips that’ll be all purple and sore by tomorrow. Surely leaving the indent of his wedding band seared into his flesh, but Namjoon is certain nothing short of a natural disaster would stop him. Not when he’s so lost in everything that Taehyung is, eyes rolling back because it all feels too fucking good, Taehyung telling him between quick breaths, “Your slut, I’m yours—yours, hyung, your slut, yours…” over and over.
And they live in that spiral for a while. They thrive and destroy in the ruins of their bodies colliding the way a wrecking ball and a brick wall do. This call and answer that brings them both to their breaking points.
When Taehyung is close, he forgets how to hold himself up, forgets to fuck back, just—forgets. So Namjoon pulls his leg down and uses his strength to hold him up with one arm around his stomach. He sucks on Taehyung’s neck, whispering his filth a little more frantically now, while he jerks him off over the sink.
“Fuck, baby, you look so fuckin’ sexy. Look. Look at you, so pretty takin’ my dick like this. Pretty… pretty slut, my pretty slut, that’s what you are, hm? My pretty slut. Gonna cum, aren’t you? No, hey, open your eyes. Look at me when you cum, okay? Want you to only see me. Look at me, look, baby,” Namjoon rambles between strokes and jerks and licks.
Taehyung listens, catches Namjoon’s gaze in the mirror and holds it for as long as he can while his body convulses and shakes and twists in his hold. Namjoon’s hand is steady and relentless, keeps going even after Taehyung’s shot white all into the sink and it’s crawling down the drain. Keeps jerking him off while he fucks him, keeps at it until Taehyung’s pushing at his hand and gasping, begging him with tears glistening in his eyes, “Please, ah, ah fu—please,” all rubbed raw and sensitive.
And Namjoon—Namjoon must be out of his fucking mind. Too far out in the murky waters to pretend to see clearly now, so he doesn’t even try. Lets the pollution in his lungs overtake him when he breathes out, “Wanna—fuck, Taehyung-ah, can I—can I cum in you? Taehyung-ah? Fuck, tell me, say—”
He doesn’t quite get it out, everything that he wants to say, everything he should’ve said. But it’s fine because Taehyung’s equally as filthy, loves the mud they’re rolling around in. He must think it’s sexy to have a married man cum in him, marking him like he owns him, teeth marks in forbidden fruit, because he’s telling him yes, begging for it actually.
When Namjoon cums, he bites hard into Taehyung’s shoulder like he wants to draw blood and thinks, this is what it’s like to hunt, to conquer.
His moral compass keeps twitching, desperately trying to find north, but Namjoon doesn’t think it exists anymore. The thought doesn’t scare him even though he knows it should.
⊷
It’s always the afterward. The afterward is awkward, stiff, and overstuffed with a silence no one knows how to fill properly.
What Namjoon hates most is the sudden clearheadedness. As he’s pulling out of Taehyung, Namjoon takes notice of the uncomfortable chill of the bathroom air, and the smudges on the mirror, and the whirring of the fan overhead. While he’s tugging up his briefs and jeans, Namjoon remembers not only did he do this at work, but that there are still people in the gallery. It must be after closing, he needs to lock the door, he needs to get out of here.
“Um,” Namjoon thinks emptily aloud. His voice sounds taboo now, forbidden, in the loud silence. Taehyung looks for his underwear, blinking slowly like he’s returning to his body for the first time in a long time. Namjoon buttons his jeans, clears his throat awkwardly. “Just… you can take your time, okay? In here. You can—I’m gonna. Yea’, I’m gonna lock up. You can leave out the back whenever you’re ready.”
Taehyung doesn’t say anything back, just offers a half-smile of acknowledgment. Namjoon isn’t really expecting much. So he nods, closing the conversation himself, and heads for the door.
When the door slides shut, Namjoon adjusts his wedding ring, exhales deeply, and walks back into the version of him that’s good.
⊷
Through the popped trunk and the haphazardly stacked paintings, Namjoon sees Taehyung walk out of the gallery’s back door like he’s weightless. Same outfit—tan pants, turtleneck, button-up—but this time with a chocolate-colored pea coat on top. A black bag hangs off his shoulder that he digs through as he walks. Namjoon’s heart races a little and he thinks pretty, thinks happy, thinks… mine.
Namjoon meets him halfway with an outstretched arm and a smile that matches his. Taehyung fits under his arm the way he always has, the perfect puzzle piece. Slowly, carefully, Namjoon kisses Taehyung’s head first, right by his temple, and then kisses his lips.
“Hi, baby,” he greets, voice soft. “You did great tonight. Looked beautiful as always.” And then, with Taehyung still tucked into him, finding comfort in his warmth, Namjoon asks with a little more uncertainty than he would’ve preferred, “Was… that okay? Was it alright?”
Taehyung has found what he was looking for in his bag. With a warm smile that reminds Namjoon of freshly brewed green tea, Taehyung slips on his wedding ring and nods. Namjoon can tell he’s sleepy, there’s fatigue behind his pupils, behind his smile. Tonight was a big night for him, a showcase of the new art he’s been working on all year. Over two hundred people came to see his work.
They both have been anticipating and agonizing over this night for months. Mixed emotions ebbed and flowed through them as they prepared to pair one of Taehyung’s biggest nights as an artist with them also stepping outside of their comfort zone as a couple. And while tonight’s roleplay was spicy and sexy and everything either of them would have hoped for, it was also exhausting.
It’s nice to just be them again. Them—Namjoon and Taehyung, gallery owner and artist, married for almost three years now.
Taehyung tells him with a little tease to his voice, “It was perfect. You’re perfect.” And then, after kissing Namjoon again, he tells him, more sincerely now, “Thank you for trying that for me.”
Understandably, Namjoon was timid about using his actual place of work for their fantasy, was worried that someone might actually hear or gossip, but it all seemed to work out. Namjoon isn’t into role play nearly as much as Taehyung is, and this whole thing took a little convincing, but he can admit now that he enjoyed it—a lot. It was even Namjoon’s idea for him to keep his wedding band on to play up the cheating angle. He thought it would help keep them in the moment, give them something to hold onto if they felt their characters slipping away.
“Trust me, baby, that wasn’t just for you,” Namjoon says, a playful wagging of his eyebrows to follow. And that makes Taehyung laugh, Namjoon’s favorite sound. He leans back into Namjoon’s space when he does, so Namjoon kisses his head again.
When Taehyung stands back up straight, newfound excitement sparks in his sleepy eyes. “So that means you’ll try something else?”
Namjoon’s starting to see why Taehyung’s so into role play. And all of the other things he brings to the bedroom that Namjoon would never think of otherwise. If his next idea is anything like this, Namjoon won’t need any convincing.
Leaning in to kiss Taehyung’s lips this time, Namjoon tells him, “Absolutely.”