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Jimin lounged on a black leather sofa, his body reclining casually, almost slumping, as if no weight rested on his shoulders. His legs were propped up on the glass coffee table in front of him, his polished leather shoes reflecting the dim glow of the crystal chandelier above. An aura of cold, unshakable authority enveloped him, like a king who knew his throne would never falter.
At his feet, Yoongi sat on the floor, engrossed in a game on his phone. His slightly tousled blonde hair was gently caressed by Jimin’s slender fingers, stroking with a tenderness akin to petting a cherished animal. Yoongi didn’t stir, his focus fixed on the game, his breathing soft, as if surrendering entirely to the touch. There was comfort in his silence, but also an unspoken submission, a bond only the two of them understood.
In the corner of the room, Namjoon stood tall, his voice steady yet respectful as he delivered his report. “The transaction at the port went as planned, but there’s a slight issue with the shipment in the north. Nam’s people are trying to play games again.” Beside him, Jungkook nodded, hands clasped behind his back, his sharp eyes avoiding Jimin’s gaze for too long.
The room hummed with subtle tension, but Jimin seemed unfazed. His eyes occasionally fluttered shut, weary from a long day, yet his ears caught every word Namjoon spoke. His left hand never ceased stroking Yoongi’s head, its movements gentle yet commanding, a reminder that even in his exhaustion, he held everything in his grip.
“Yoongi will handle Nam,” Jimin said at last, his voice low, almost a murmur, but enough to make Namjoon and Jungkook stiffen.
His eyes opened slightly, their cold, piercing gaze cutting through the room before closing again. Yoongi shifted slightly, his head leaning closer to Jimin’s knee, as if seeking warmth in the chilly night air. Jimin’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, his fingers slipping through Yoongi’s hair, tugging gently in a wordless signal.
The dynamic between them was stark in the silence. Jimin was the center of it all—a boss who didn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed, whose mere presence commanded submission from everyone in the room. Yoongi, on the other hand, was his loyal shadow, always close, never demanding, yet utterly essential to Jimin. There was power in the way Jimin touched him, but also a tenderness reserved solely for Yoongi. Namjoon and Jungkook, though loyal, were mere cogs in the vast machine Jimin led, while Yoongi was something more—someone Jimin held tightly, not just as a subordinate, but as his.
The night wore on, and under Jimin’s touch, Yoongi remained silent, eyes closed, lost in an intimacy that needed no words. Outside, the city pulsed with chaos, but here, in this room, there was only Jimin, Yoongi, and the power binding them in a silent dance.
After Namjoon and Jungkook left the room, the door closed with a soft click, leaving only the faint hum of the city beyond the window. Yoongi lifted his head from his spot on the floor, his dark eyes catching the chandelier’s light reflected on Jimin’s face.
“What do you want me to do for you, Hyung?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, yet brimming with genuine submission.
Jimin, still reclining lazily on the sofa, slowly opened his heavy eyes. His gaze was tired but sharp, as if it could pierce anyone who dared meet it too long. “Get me some wine,” he said, his tone flat yet commanding, a directive that brooked no question.
Yoongi rose without a word, his movements fluid and calculated, as always. He crossed to the bar table in the corner, where bottles were neatly arranged. With deft hands, he selected a bottle of white wine—Jimin’s favorite Chardonnay, a detail he knew by heart from memorizing every nuance of his boss and lover. In an almost ritualistic motion, Yoongi poured the wine into a crystal glass, its contents shimmering under the dim light. He returned to the sofa, offering the glass to Jimin with both hands, a simple gesture laden with meaning.
Jimin accepted the glass without a word, his eyes briefly meeting Yoongi’s with an unreadable expression—a mix of satisfaction and something deeper, more intimate. Yoongi didn’t return to the floor. Instead, he moved behind the sofa, standing directly behind Jimin. Without needing instruction, his hands began to work, his slender yet strong fingers massaging Jimin’s forehead with gentle, purposeful motions. He knew exactly where the tension lingered—at Jimin’s temples, the crease between his brows that often furrowed during business dealings. The pressure was perfect, dedicated, each touch an act of devotion.
Jimin let out a soft sigh, his eyes closing again, his head resting back against the sofa, surrendering to Yoongi’s touch. He sipped the wine occasionally, its coolness refreshing his throat. There was peace in this moment, amidst their world of violence and intrigue. Yoongi, with all his submission, was the only one who could make Jimin feel this way—calm, controlled, yet still in command.
Yoongi’s hands continued, easing the tension in Jimin’s head, while the faint scent of wine and Yoongi’s subtle cologne mingled in the air. Jimin’s lips curved into a barely noticeable smile, savoring the service from his lover and subordinate. Between them, words weren’t always necessary. Yoongi knew what Jimin wanted, and Jimin knew Yoongi would always provide—not just because he had to, but because he chose to. In the world they ruled together, this was their dance: power, devotion, and something they never called love, yet felt so real in the touches and silence of the night.
The heaviness in Jimin’s head gradually faded, thanks to Yoongi’s skilled touch, which always knew how to soothe him. He set the wine glass on the side table, its contents still glinting in the dim light. His half-lidded eyes opened slightly, catching Yoongi’s silhouette behind him. With a gentle yet commanding motion, Jimin reached for Yoongi’s hand, pulling it softly.
“Come here, baby,” he said, his voice low, sweet, yet carrying an undeniable command.
Yoongi moved gracefully, stepping around the sofa to stand before Jimin. Their eyes met briefly, filled with unspoken understanding. Jimin reached out, pressing Yoongi’s shoulder downward with a gentle but firm touch. Yoongi understood—he lowered himself, kneeling between Jimin’s legs, a position so natural to him. Jimin cupped Yoongi’s cheeks, his cool fingers commanding, guiding Yoongi’s face upward until their eyes locked. Jimin’s gaze was deep, piercing; Yoongi’s held submission mixed with something deeper, something only they shared.
Jimin’s thumb brushed Yoongi’s lips slowly, a gesture almost tender yet full of intent. Yoongi knew the cue. His lips parted obediently, surrendering completely. Jimin leaned forward slightly and spat into Yoongi’s mouth. The liquid landed on Yoongi’s tongue, and he held it for a moment, feeling the weight of the act, before swallowing deliberately.
Jimin’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “My good whore,” he murmured, his voice a venomous caress.
Without giving Yoongi time to catch his breath, Jimin pressed Yoongi’s face into his crotch. Yoongi’s face was buried there, his nose and lips crushed against the tight fabric of Jimin’s pants, struggling for air. Jimin pressed harder, his hand gripping Yoongi’s hair, rubbing Yoongi’s face with rough yet controlled movements. He began dry humping, his hips grinding, pressing himself against Yoongi’s beautiful face—those small lips, sharp nose, and soft yet piercing eyes, now half-closed, fighting to stay conscious under the pressure. Jimin’s erection grew within his pants, and Yoongi, though gasping, remained still, yielding to Jimin’s will.
Jimin finally released Yoongi, only to swiftly unzip his pants. Holding Yoongi’s face again, he spat several times onto it, the liquid wetting Yoongi’s cheeks, lips, and pale forehead. With his hand still gripping Yoongi’s hair, Jimin rubbed his erection against Yoongi’s face, using its beauty—his lips, nose, even eyelids—as a tool for his pleasure.
Jimin’s hand gripped his shaft from above, applying delicious pressure, while Yoongi’s face served beneath. Jimin’s spit, coating Yoongi’s face, acted as lubricant, making everything messy, slick, and beautifully chaotic.
“My good whore,” Jimin repeated, his voice now hoarse, breathless, as Yoongi struggled for air beneath the weight of Jimin’s cock and balls occasionally covering his nose.
Jimin gazed down with satisfaction at Yoongi’s ruined face beneath him, breathtakingly beautiful. Yoongi’s lips parted slightly, his hazy eyes gazing up at Jimin with complete surrender, yielding to the rhythm of Jimin’s movements.
Finally, with increasingly erratic breaths, Jimin reached his climax. His orgasm erupted, white liquid spilling across Yoongi’s face, coating his cheeks, lips, and disheveled hair. Yoongi remained still, letting Jimin ride the waves of pleasure, his own breaths ragged yet obedient.
As Jimin calmed, sinking back into the sofa, his body relaxed, Yoongi wiped his face with trembling hands, clearing the semen and spit just to see and breathe better. His face was a mess, but his eyes remained sharp, filled with unwavering devotion.
Jimin opened his eyes slowly, gazing at Yoongi, who now stood obediently before him, his face still bearing traces of the chaos that had just unfolded. “Take Nam’s life for me,” Jimin said, his voice cold again, like the mafia boss who never lost control, despite his body still languid from pleasure.
“Yes, Hyung,” Yoongi replied, his voice calm, steady, as if what had just happened was merely part of their routine. He walked away, his steps confident despite his wet face and tousled hair. Jimin watched him go, then sank deeper into the sofa, his eyes closing, nearly drifting to sleep, as the lingering scent of wine, spit, and pleasure hung in the air. In their world, this was perfect balance: power, devotion, and desire binding them tighter than anything else.