J ୨ৎ

You met on your first day of preschool. At three years old, you were understandably terrified at the thought of being separated from your mother. Up until that point, she was all you knew. Her and Mrs. Han across the hall, who would watch you when your mom was at work. You liked Mrs. Han. She gave you shrimp chips and banana milk and didn't make you nap unless you wanted to.

But that was it. No living grandparents to dote on you, no father to speak of. Just your mom and Mrs. Han and a routine your three-year-old mind had grown accustomed to. It was easy to feel safe in that tiny, predictable world of home and hallway.

Preschool was unfamiliar. Disruptive to your routine. Preschool meant sitting at a tiny plastic table surrounded by unfamiliar faces and not a single hand you trusted to hold.

So, as you crossed the threshold into what would become your classroom for the coming months, you did what any reasonable toddler would do: you clung to your mother’s leg with a death grip and let loose an eardrum-shattering wail the second she tried to unpeel you.

You screamed so hard your face turned blotchy and red, tears and snot dripping from your chin as you kicked your tiny sneakers against the linoleum. Your teacher tried to coax you with crayons and toys and cheery words, but you weren’t interested. Your mother, guilt painted across her tired face, tried her best to soothe you.

"I’ll be back soon, baby," she said. "You're going to have so much fun, I promise. You won't even notice I'm gone!"

Yeah right, mom! You were inconsolable.

And then, barely audible over the noise of your tantrum, came a quiet voice.

“Your eyeballs are gonna pop out if you keep crying like that, you know.”

Uh, hello?

You blinked, confused and startled into a hiccupy quiet. Slowly, you looked over your shoulder to find a boy a few feet away, holding half of an easy-peel orange in his tiny hand. Unbothered, the boy popped an orange slice into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, studying you.

“Do you like oranges?” he asked.

You nodded, because yeah, you did like oranges.

“Okay,” he said. “You can have the rest of mine if you quit being a baby.”

You sniffled, considered your options, and loosened your grip on your mother’s leg.

“Promise?” you croaked.

He held out the orange like a solemn contract. “Promise.”

You waddled over, still sniffling, and accepted the sticky slices with trembling hands. You didn’t even notice when your mother quietly slipped out the door.

The boy led you to a huge bean bag chair in the reading corner, where he proceeded to show you how to build a tower out of alphabet blocks. He was quiet, and he didn’t smile very often, but sometimes made funny faces just for you when he caught you watching him.

When your mom returned hours later to pick you up, you were still sitting beside Min Yoongi, scribbling on coloring sheets and talking about the skateboard he wanted for his birthday.

When she asked you how your day was, you shrugged.

“Mama, can I have a skateboard for my birthday?” you asked instead.

Suddenly, you weren’t worried about doing preschool alone anymore, because you had a friend.

You and Yoongi shared snacks and crayons, shared a mat during nap time, made up entire universes with your action figures on the playground mulch. When another kid tried to snatch your glitter pen, Yoongi stood in front of you like a tiny, scowling bodyguard.

By elementary school, it was simply understood that if there was a field trip, you would sit next to Yoongi on the bus. If there was a group project, you were partners. You learned how to skateboard together, both of you wobbling down the sidewalk, shrieking when you nearly lost your balance. The first time you fell and busted your knee, Yoongi didn’t laugh. He crouched beside you, frowning, and tore a piece of tissue from his pocket to press against the blood like he’d seen adults do.

You walked into every new year side by side, every classroom, every milestone.

Middle school was brutal, but you survived it together. The awkward phases—your braces, his questionable haircuts. Growth spurts that left your limbs feeling too long and unfamiliar.

When you got your first period in sixth grade and panicked in the bathroom, it was Yoongi you texted in hysterics because your mom wasn’t answering. He didn’t know what to say, but he ditched his class and waited outside the nurse’s office anyway. When you finally emerged, pale and mortified, he wordlessly handed you his hoodie to tie around your waist.

When kids teased him for being quiet or for caring too much about music, you were the one who stood up for him. When someone made a snide comment about your thrift-store clothes, he stared them down until they looked away first.

In high school, you discovered, around the same time, that the flutter in your stomach wasn’t limited to just boys or just girls. It was terrifying to say it out loud. You both ended up sitting in the grass in his backyard one night, staring at the stars because neither of you could look directly at the other.

“I think I might be… not straight,” you said suddenly.

After a too-long silence that made your stomach turn, he finally spoke.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too."

You both laughed in shaky relief, shoulders bumping together.

“Cool,” you said.

“Cool.”

The first Pride parade you ever went to was the summer after sophomore year. Neither of you told anyone you were going. Yoongi borrowed his dad’s car and drove the whole way with the windows down, music blasting so loud the bass rattled the doors.

You both ended up dancing in the middle of the street with strangers, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, sweat and glitter and joy sticking to your skin. You’d never seen Yoongi look so open. His usual guardedness melted in the noise and color, the innate acceptance in the air.

When a cute boy with glitter on his cheeks later leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth, you shrieked so loudly you nearly lost your voice.

Sophomore year turned into junior. Junior into senior.

Yoongi dated girls and boys, short-lived relationships that fizzled out within a few weeks but burned bright and hot while they lasted. You listened to every story and pretended not to feel impatient about your own late-blooming heart.

You went to his open mic gigs. He edited your essays. You fought sometimes—stupid, stubborn arguments—but you always found your way back to each other.

By the time college applications rolled around, it wasn’t even a question.

Of course you applied to the same schools. Of course you toured campuses together. When acceptance letters came in and you both got into the same university, you grinned at each other like it was fate and not years of carefully aligning your choices.

And you were going to be roommates, obviously. Who else would you live with?

Preschool to adulthood. Cradle to grave. You honestly can't remember a time in your life where he wasn't there for you when you needed him.

Fucking all of that up for the sake of an orgasm, an orgasm that may not even happen… That would be stupid, right?

So why the fuck are you considering it?

When you woke up this morning, you were so sure that the right thing to do would be to turn him down. You even thought through exactly what you were going to say while you brushed your teeth—no, Yoongi, I really appreciate you wanting to protect me and everything, but I think it would be a bad idea. Our friendship means too much to me. Blah blah blah.

Because yes, you want answers. Yes, you want clarity. Yes, you want your confusing body to finally stop sabotaging you whenever sex is involved. But wanting Yoongi involved? Wanting your lifelong best friend to be… that for you?

You don’t know how to feel about it.

But you didn't even get a chance to say any of it out loud. As you left your bedroom and turned the corner into the living room, your speech already on the tip of your tongue, Yoongi beat you to the punch.

“Lunch later?” he asked. “So we can talk?”

He looked so normal, like nothing had changed. Like the prospect of fucking you to orgasm wasn't messing him up in the head at all. And, as confused as you were—are—about… pretty much everything that's transpired in the past forty-eight hours, something about that comforted you enough to say, “sure.”

So. Lunch.

You’ve been coming to this restaurant together for years, to the point where you both know the menu by heart. You always sit at the booth by the window, and he always orders the same thing: kimchi-jjigae, extra rice on the side. He doesn’t even have to ask anymore; the staff knows him. Same for you.

The familiarity is comforting, especially with something so unfamiliar hanging between you.

You're picking at the banchan laid out between you with your chopsticks when you decide to break the silence.

“So…” you start, aimlessly pushing a piece of cucumber around in one of the dishes. “You're into BDSM, huh?”

You cringe because you sound like a fucking idiot, but at least Yoongi has the decency to laugh, albeit uncomfortably.

“Yup.”

“Since college?” you clarify, like you don't remember.

Yoongi hums. "Since college."

“So while I was, like… sitting home and watching Grey's Anatomy like a loser, you were…?”

“Probably watching Grey's Anatomy with you,” he reminds you gently. “But, yeah. I was also doing… other stuff, in my free time.”

You stare at him. “How?”

“How what?”

“How does one even… get into something like that?”

Yoongi snorts. “Didn't you just get into it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, even though he isn't really looking at you. Touché, Min Yoongi.

“You know what I mean,” you say flatly, waving a hand. “How does one become a practicing BDSMer, or whatever?”

“What, you want the details?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don't know! I mean, was it always that? Did you ever have normal, non-kinky sex?”

“Of course I did,” he mutters. His knee bounces under the table. “Look, is it really that shocking to you? That I'm into it?”

“Uh, yes.”

His knee stills and he sits back in his seat with a huff, finally meeting your eyes.

“I've been bossing you around our entire lives,” he says matter-of-factly. “Why is it so surprising that I could just enjoy doing that?”

Oh.

Well. When he puts it like that…

“It's just weird,” you mumble, pointedly looking away to stuff a cucumber slice into your mouth.

“Why is it so weird?” he asks, exasperated. “Would it surprise you if Jimin or Taehyung told you they like tying each other up or some shit like that?”

“No, but Jimin and Taehyung are Jimin and Taehyung. They're weird people. I don't think anything they do could surprise me anymore.”

“…Are you mad that I didn't tell you?”

You glance at him.

He looks genuinely guilty, and that makes you feel bad. You don't want him to feel guilty over this. You just don't know how to cope with the idea of your best friend gallivanting around in, like, sex dungeons or something while you were up late studying for exams, none the wiser.

“I don't know,” you say, setting your chopsticks down to rub your temples. “No? We don't really talk about our sex lives like that.”

“No, we don't.”

You sigh. “I'm just surprised, okay? And confused.”

Yoongi's lips flatten into a line. You can tell that he really doesn't want to give you the details, which is a little funny considering he's literally offering to have sex with you. You don't understand how this is any more intimate.

“It just kind of happened,” he says stiffly. “Someone I was seeing back then was into some stuff, and I liked it, so I kept seeking it out. I learned more. I kept doing it, and I got really good at it. It's not like I was kidnapped and initiated by seven guys in cloaks.”

Really good at it, he says. God.

“Uh-huh,” you say, because you're unable to think up an appropriate response to that.

He’s still tense, but he softens just the slightest bit.

“I get that it sounds weird, but it really isn't. I'm still me,” he says. “And I'll still be me, even if you decide to agree to what we talked about last night.”

Oop. There it is.

Right then, your waiter decides it's the perfect time to bring out your food. Part of you is thankful, because this is the part of the conversation you've been dreading since you sat down.

He sets down Yoongi's bubbling stew first, then your galbi. Steam curls up between you, warm and fragrant, but neither of you reaches for your food. Your chopsticks sit untouched.

“Can I get either of you anything else?” he asks. Yoongi is still looking at you.

“No, we're good,” you answer meekly, hoping the waiter doesn't catch on to how flustered you look. You and Yoongi come here a lot. “Thanks.”

And then he's gone.

You pick up your chopsticks purely so you have something to hold, something to look at that isn’t Yoongi’s eyes tracking your every move. The galbi smells incredible, but your stomach feels like a stone.

“I’m not…” You take a deep breath. “I’m not totally shutting it down, okay?”

Yoongi's shoulders ease the tiniest bit. “But?”

“But… I don’t want to ruin us.” You gesture helplessly between you, as if the air itself might explain what you can’t find words for. “You’re my person, Yoongi. My whole life, pretty much. And the idea of… doing something wrong and losing that? It makes me feel sick.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“And I don’t even know what it would be,” you continue. “You being… my… dom.” The word instantly makes heat rush to your cheeks. “What does that even look like? Is it this whole secret personality of yours I’ve never seen before? Do you wear leather pants? Like—what is it?”

Yoongi coughs a laugh into his fist. “No leather pants,” he says. “I promise.”

“What, then?”

“It would look like whatever we agree it looks like,” he says gently. “I don’t have a one-size-fits-all mode. It's different for everyone.”

You swallow. “Yeah, but you and me…”

“We would still be us,” he interrupts, like it's simple. “Just… with a different set of boundaries when we choose to be in that space.”

“And outside of that space?”

“Outside of it?” He leans back slightly. “I’m still your best friend. Nothing has to change unless you want it to.”

The certainty in his voice baffles you. Like he’s already built a version of this in his head where you’re safe, and steady, and he’s not losing you in the process. Like he’s not scared at all, even though your nerves are chewing you alive.

“Let me ask you something,” he says, “and don’t overthink it.”

“Yoongi, I overthink my own pulse.”

“I know. Are you attracted to me?”

Your heart stutters.

“Look,” he continues, as if sensing your hesitance to answer. “If this is even on the table, I need to know you’re not picturing some… blank, faceless dude. It would be me.” He gestures at himself. “I would be the one talking to you, touching you, all of that. So if the idea makes your skin crawl, we can end the conversation right now.”

Fuuuuuuuck.

You could lie. It would be easier, cleaner, safer.

But you think about the deftness in his hands you’ve watched for years—fixing things, cooking, holding you when you cried, guiding you through crowds. The care. The danger simmering beneath that you never knew existed. You picture him half-drunk at Pride, kissing that guy. You picture him in the kitchen last night.

You have eyes. So you tell the truth.

“…Yes,” you finally say.

His face doesn’t change, but you feel the energy shift between you anyway.

You exhale shakily. “I think I am. I mean—you're objectively hot, okay? You got bitches in college for a reason.”

Yoongi laughs at that.

“Okay,” he says softly, lips still upturned. “Good.”

“Good?” you echo.

“Good to know we’re not running into some fundamental incompatibility.” He pauses. “Next question?”

“Oh my god, is this a questionnaire?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Welcome to BDSM. I thought you did your research, silly. We're all about questionnaires over here.”

You groan. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“Does the idea of having sex with me make you uncomfortable?”

Hoo, boy. That is a loaded question.

Your first instinct is to panic, but not for the reason he probably thinks. What you're feeling is decidedly not discomfort. It’s not revulsion, either. It’s something that you don’t know how to categorize yet.

You’re… startled, sure. Curious, maybe. Nervous, definitely. Intrigued. Overheated. A little nauseous in a way that feels more like being tipped over the crest of a roller coaster. You're lots of things, but uncomfortable isn't one of them.

“I don't think uncomfortable isn’t the right word,” you admit quietly. “It’s just… new.”

He nods. “New is okay, you know.”

You huff out a breath, rubbing your palms on your thighs. “The idea just… takes a second to rearrange in my head. But I don't think I'm, like… against it.”

“I can work with that.”

There’s more to say. More questions. More fears. But Yoongi glances meaningfully at the untouched food between you.

“Eat,” he says, reaching to nudge your plate closer to you. “Your food’s getting cold.”

Despite your nonexistent appetite, you don't argue. Eating delays deciding, and deciding terrifies you.

You both chew in silence for a few minutes, the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of the restaurant giving you something to anchor yourself to while your thoughts try not to spill over the rim. Yoongi, on the other hand, is somehow the picture of calm. He just eats beside you like you’re having any other lunch.

You busy yourself with building a perfect ssam, loading meat and rice onto a perilla leaf with probably more focus than necessary.

When you get to your second one, the leaves get stuck together. Yoongi notices immediately, trading his spoon for chopsticks without a second thought to hold the bottom one so you can peel them apart.

It’s stupid. In your lifetime, Yoongi has probably unstuck a million perilla leaves for you. It’s nothing. It’s just something he does. But something about him doing it now, in this context, while you’re having this conversation, makes you feel…

Hm.

“Thanks,” you mumble, face warm.

“No worries.”

Right. Because again, he’s done that for you a million times. It’s normal.

You stuff your second ssam into your mouth with an audible ‘aaahm,’ a habit you picked up from Yoongi over the years, and will yourself to chill the fuck out.

After a few more minutes of quiet, between bites of kimchi and rice, he asks, “what exactly happens, when it doesn’t work?”

You freeze. You knew this was coming—this part. The specifics. And yet, somehow, it still feels humiliating, the idea of airing out all of your sexual shortcomings.

You swallow your bite of galbi like it's been poisoned. “I hate this,” you mumble.

“I know,” he says softly, nudging your foot under the table with his. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but the more I understand, the more I can help. Hypothetically.”

You know he’s right.

Still, it’s hard. Hard to dig this up and hand it over, piece by piece.

“It’s not like… a total shutdown,” you start, voice quiet. “It’s not like I’ve never felt anything. But it’s always better when I’m, uh… by myself.”

Yoongi nods, listening.

“Like, I know my own body,” you continue. “I know what works, I can…” You glance around to make sure no one is listening. “Uh, get myself there. Not always, if I’m stressed or exhausted or… But more often than not, it’s fine. I’ve got a decent solo success rate.”

“And with partners?” Yoongi prompts gently.

You take a deep breath. “That’s when everything goes to shit. I just… freeze. I get so in my head about it—about how much I want it to go right, about how I have to make it work this time—that I stop feeling anything at all. I’ll be into it at first, or at least trying to be, but then something happens, or nothing happens, and then I start panicking, like, fuck, it’s happening again, it’s not working again.”

Yoongi doesn’t react with pity—thank god. He’s quiet, yes, but that's normal for him. You've known him long enough to know when he's paying attention.

“It’s like… the harder I try to want it, the more I don’t,” you say, mouth twisting into a frown.

“Do you tell them when it’s not working?” he asks.

“Sometimes. Or I just fake it.”

Yoongi frowns. “You shouldn't have to fake it.”

You scoff. “Yeah, well. It’s easier than seeing their face when they realize they can’t get you there.”

You clench your jaw and stare down at your lap.

“It makes me feel defective,” you continue. “Like I missed some kind of memo. Like everyone else got handed a manual on how to enjoy sex and I didn’t.”

“Defective,” he repeats, and when you look up at him you're surprised to see that he looks a little pissed. Not at you, you don't think, but it still makes your gut twist.

“I don't know how else to say it.”

Yoongi sits with that for a second, and you keep picking at your food to give yourself something to do. You've never said any of this out loud before, and you know how it sounds. You wouldn't blame Yoongi for agreeing with you after hearing it, for thinking you're probably broken, too.

“What about your research?” he asks suddenly.

You blink, then furrow your brow. “What about it?”

“Obviously something about what you found made you feel something,” he says. “I'm interested in what it was that did it for you.”

Ah.

You chew your lip, embarrassed. “You mean, like… what turned me on?”

Yoongi hums.

“Um…” You shift in your seat. “It wasn’t just… one thing.”

“Even better,” he says. “What caught your attention first, then?”

Hoo. Fuck. Okay, here goes nothing.

“I think I liked how everything was spelled out,” you say. “Who does what. Who decides what. Where the line is. There's no guessing, no trying to read someone’s mind, no worrying about disappointing anybody because the expectations are right there.”

Yoongi nods slowly, encouraging you to keep going.

“It seemed… safe, I guess?” you continue, fumbling for the right words. “Like I wouldn’t have to pretend to know what I’m doing, or pretend I’m feeling something I’m not. And I… I liked that someone was actually in charge. Not in a creepy way, but in a… fuck, I don’t know.”

“I get what you're saying,” he says softly. “What else did you like?”

Your mind immediately drifts to the porn you watched, how wet it made you, which makes your cheeks even warmer than they already were. God. You bet you're flushed all the way down to the neckline of your sweater.

“Um… I don't know if I know the actual, like… term for it.”

“It's okay,” Yoongi assures you. “Try your best.”

You're squirming, what the hell. It's like you can't sit still all of a sudden, and you don't know if it's the subject or if it's the way Yoongi is talking to you now. It's similar to the way he talked to you last night, but… more.

“Being, uh…” You suck in a breath, hesitating. “Being talked down to…?”

“Yeah?” he asks, and oh fuck, the look on his face. Nobody else would look twice, but you're fluent in his microexpressions. His pupils are blown.

“Yeah,” you breathe, fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater. “Is that… bad?”

“Not at all,” Yoongi says, licking his lips. Shit shit shit. “What else?”

The thought crosses your mind to tell him about the woman in the video being slapped, what that did to you. Your thighs even squeeze together under the table at the memory. But that seems like a lot right now, so you file through all the other things that caught your attention the other night.

“Praise?” you try shyly. “Like, after…”

“After you cum,” Yoongi finishes, eyes still impossibly dark. “You like the idea of being told how good you are?”

You nod, embarrassed.

Yoongi tilts his head, studying you. “You okay?” he asks, but there's a touch of amusement there, like he's enjoying how much you're suffering.

“Sooooo good,” you say, trying for breezy. Like you're not panicking about being a little turned on by the way your best friend is looking at you and speaking to you and FUCK!!!

“Uh-huh,” he says. “I’m gonna try something.”

“Uh,” you say, sitting up a little straighter. “Right now?”

“Right now,” he confirms, before adding, “if that's okay.”

“Don't we have, like, a trillion more things to talk about?”

He nods. “Yeah, and I know you haven't even agreed to anything, but…” His jaw ticks. “Defective? Fuck. I don't want you to think that about yourself. I know you're not, and I also know I can show you that you're not if you'd just…”

Shit, your heart is pounding. What the fuck is he suggesting?

“Just…?”

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair, meeting your eyes. “Do you trust me?”

You don't even have to think about it. “Of course.”

“If you say stop, I’ll stop,” he reassures you. “No questions. No pushing. You say the word, and I back off. Understood?”

You swallow hard. What the hell are you about to agree to?

“Okay. I understand.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “We’re not doing anything intense, I promise. I won't even touch you there. We haven't talked enough for…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I just want to see how you react.”

His words calm you enough for your posture to relax, but still, you can't help but wonder what he is going to do instead. You're suddenly keenly aware of your body and your surroundings.

“Here? In public?”

“That’s part of the point.”

God, what in the world could that mean?

You’re about to ask when you feel it—his hand brushing your knee under the table. Just a knuckle at first, grazing the exposed skin where your skirt rides up. The touch is light, a test. A question.

Your own question gets lodged in your throat, your whole body tensing. Yoongi watches you like he’s reading a book he’s already memorized down to the letter, amused and fond.

“Relax,” he says softly. “We’re just playing.”

You nod jerkily, and his hand moves again, knuckles dragging up your thigh in a slow, unhurried path.

“You’re already squirming, baby.”

Baby???????

That… that is… well that's something, isn't it?

Your voice shakes when you speak. “You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“I said I wouldn’t touch your pussy. I never said anything about keeping my hands to myself.” He raises a brow, hand stilling. “You want me to stop?”

You shake your head, because no, you really don't want him to stop. It makes no sense to you, why your body is responding the way it is, but you're sure as hell not about to take it for granted. It bodes well, right? It means this might be worth the risk?

Yoongi tsks. “Use your words,” he says sharply.

Fucking shit.

“No,” you say, no louder than a whisper. “Don't stop.”

Seemingly satisfied, Yoongi fingers resume stroking your thigh. They skirt higher, teasingly close but not inappropriate—at least not yet. The touch is careful, but deliberate. Controlled.

And you are not.

Your brain screams at you to act normal, look normal, but your body’s not listening. Every inch of you is tuned to the heat of his hand, the low hum of his voice.

You flush, eyes darting around the restaurant. No one’s watching. Your waiter is chatting with a couple by the counter, the booth behind you is empty, and the music overhead provides just enough cover to make this feel like a secret. Still, there's no tablecloth hiding what's happening under the table. Anyone could turn their head and see at any moment.

He leans in a little, dropping his voice. “For someone who claims to be bored by sex, you sure are having a hard time staying still.”

You press your thighs together on instinct, trying to regain control of yourself, but that only makes it worse. He hasn’t even touched you properly, and still your pulse is loud in your ears, your panties already dampening. You wonder if he knows. As promised, he isn't touching you there, but it would take so little for him to change that.

“I haven’t even done anything,” he adds. “I'm just touching your leg, baby. That’s all.”

You squirm again, but his fingers don’t move. They just rest there at mid-thigh, warm and suggestive, a promise of everything he could do if you let him.

Yoongi’s voice drops to a whisper. “Is it because anyone could see?”

Your eyes widen. “What?” you ask, finding your voice.

“Does that turn you on?” he asks. “Knowing we’re out in the open? That someone could look over and see my hand between your thighs?”

Shit, is that an option? Are you allowed to find that hot?

You swallow hard, mouth going dry as his knuckles skate higher to graze the softness of your inner thigh, a breath away from where you’re getting wet.

“Yoongi…”

"I could finger you right now," he muses, carefully watching your reaction. "Right here. Stretch you open while you try not to make a sound."

“O-oh,” you breathe, and the word feels as if it was punched out of you. Your lashes flutter.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Look at how your legs are opening.”

Wait, what?

You didn't even realize, but oh shit, he's right. Eyes widening, you look down past the table to find your thighs spread for him. It's mortifying, but you can’t bring yourself to close them again. Your body wants it. The sight of his hand up your skirt is dizzying.

“God, you’re sweet,” he coos. “Are you really that easy for me? All that talk about how worried you are. You don't seem that worried, baby.”

“I…”

Your voice fails you entirely, breaking into a helpless exhale that gives away everything you’re trying and failing to hide. Your hips tilt forward a fraction of an inch, seeking more of a touch he still hasn’t given, and the realization makes your entire body go hot.

Suddenly, Yoongi pulls his hand away, letting the absence of touch feel just as loud as the touch itself. You’re left aching, wide-eyed, pulse fluttering like a trapped thing.

“Good to know.”

Right. He said he wouldn’t touch you. You remember.

The air between you and Yoongi feels thick and charged. You sit frozen in the booth, skin flushed, thighs pressed together too late, pulse thudding like you just ran ten flights of stairs, even though that was… basically nothing.

But your body is humming. Your pulse hasn’t come down. Your panties are damp, and the inside of your thighs ache with need. All of that, and he never even went near your pussy.

What the fuck.

You gape at him from across the table, bewildered. He’s sipping his water like nothing happened, but you can read the smug expression on his face clear as day.

He glances at you, and his smirk is instant.

“Don’t,” you croak. It comes out humiliatingly thin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Yoongi arches a brow. “Like what?” he asks, all mock-innocence.

“Like you…” You gesture vaguely, helpless. “Like you know something I don’t.”

“I do,” he says simply.

“Yoongi,” you hiss.

“Alright, alright,” he says, laughing a little, leaning back in the booth with his arms spread over the backrest like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. “You want me to break it down for you?”

You nod. “Yes. Please. What just happened?”

“You anticipated.”

Uh, that's fucking vague.

“I… anticipated,” you repeat.

Yoongi shrugs. “From what you told me earlier? That’s not something you're used to,” he says. “You don’t anticipate, you dread. You’re always waiting for something to go wrong. You're used to bracing for disappointment before anything even starts.”

Ouch.

The critique hurts a little, but you can't deny it either. He's not telling you anything you don't already know. It just sounds different, coming out of someone else's mouth. Especially someone whose opinion you value so much.

“So I did something you weren't expecting,” he continues, voice softer now. “That’s what made it work. You weren’t in your usual loop. You weren’t over-analyzing every second of it, wondering if it was going to be another disappointment. You were just reacting to me.”

You glance down at your lap, your skirt still rumpled where you’d squirmed against the booth cushion. Your skin’s still tingling.

“And for the record,” he adds, “I didn’t touch you because I didn’t need to. Half the fun is in the build-up." He huffs a laugh. “Another thing we're all about over here.”

Yoongi’s words settle over you, startling in how much sense they make.

He really isn't all talk, is he? Maybe it's a testament to how well he knows you, or maybe it's a testament to how experienced he is with this kind of thing. Maybe it's a combination of both. Either way, you come to the jarring realization that you've changed your tune.

You're still terrified, of course. Still worried about losing your best friend when all is said and done. But you also know that you really, really, really want to prove to yourself that you're not broken. It's debilitating, how badly you want that.

And the evidence that Yoongi could be the one to get you there is hard to ignore.

Now you just have to tell him, which is somehow the scariest thing you've done today.

“So…” you start carefully. “This might actually work.”

The second the words are out, Yoongi visibly stills.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You bite your bottom lip. “Yeah. I mean… fuck, Yoongi. I haven’t reacted like that to someone in a long time. Maybe ever? And you barely even did anything.”

A pleased hum vibrates in his throat. You can tell he's proud of himself.

You take a breath and power through. “So maybe… maybe I should just… try. With you. Like you said.”

There. Now it's all out there.

Yoongi looks surprised, and it dawns on you that despite all of his smugness in the past few minutes, maybe he wasn't actually expecting you to agree. But he shakes it off quickly, expression shifting into something calmer.

“Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll try.”

“Tonight?” you ask hopefully.

Yoongi laughs and shakes his head. “No, baby.” Your thighs clench under the table at the pet name again. “This isn’t porn. We’re not jumping into anything blind.”

“Oh,” you say, a little disappointed. You know you had your reservations, but you also really want to cum. Now that it feels like a real possibility, you're impatient.

“I told you,” he says gently. “BDSM is a lot of talking shit to death. Before anything happens, I have something for you to look over.”

“What is it?” you ask.

“A list.”

“A list,” you repeat incredulously.

“A very thorough list,” he corrects, “of kinks, preferences, curiosities, hard limits. What you know you like. What you think you might like. What you absolutely do not want.”

Your face goes up in flames. “Yoongi—“

“Last night you told me you signed up for one of those BDSM sites and had to fill that stuff out anyway, right?” he asks.

You nod.

“Then it should be easy,” he says. “But this time, I want you to fill it out and think about doing those things with me.”

Your breath catches.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” he says, watching you a little too closely. “Oh.”

You try to play it cool, but the idea of scrolling through a list of sexual acts with Yoongi's face in mind—his voice, his hands—makes heat skitter down your spine.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I… can do that.”

“Then I’ll send it to you tomorrow,” he says. “Not tonight. I want you to relax tonight. Take your time with it. Days, if you need them. I’m not in a rush.”

“Okay,” you repeat, the word leaving your lips in a whoosh of air.

Yoongi leans forward, elbows on the table. “I need you to hear this next part clearly.”

You straighten your posture, waiting.

“Just because you said yes doesn't mean you can't change your mind. You can back out at any point,” he says seriously. “Before we start, during, after—any moment you’re unsure or uncomfortable, you say stop, and we stop. You will never embarrass me, and I’ll never push you into something you don't want. Okay?”

Your chest tightens. A good tight. A safe tight.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Satisfied, he leans back in his seat and lifts his spoon, scooping up a bit of rice.

“Now finish your lunch,” he says, taking a bite.

You stare at him.

He arches a brow as he chews. “What?”

“You just… You want me to pretend everything is normal and eat my galbi? Are you serious?”

Yoongi snorts and swallows his rice. “Yes.”

“But—“

“Eat,” he says softly, using his free hand to nudge your plate towards you again.

Annoying. He's so annoying, making you wait. You can tell he's enjoying it, too. That he's having fun watching you squirm.

You pick up your chopsticks anyway.

୨ৎ

Your phone buzzes against the stack of deposition folders you’re supposed to be reorganizing, pulling a sigh from you. It's been a busy fucking Monday, and you assume it’s yet another Outlook notification. Probably your boss asking for a draft, another partner requesting a last-minute filing.

It is none of those things.

It’s a text from Yoongi.

Yoongi: Hey, check your email

Shit. He's sending it now? While you're at work?

You look up from your phone. The office is quiet. Namjoon, the paralegal three cubicles over, is on lunch. Your supervising attorney is in court. Despite how exposed you are at your corner desk between the copier and the window, you are, for the first time all day, disastrously, stupidly alone.

At least he has good timing, you think. And he had the decency to send it to your personal email and not your work one—you know I.T. loves to snoop through shit.

You're hyperaware of the fact that you shouldn't open it now, that you should wait until you've clocked out. Yoongi wouldn't press you on it once you got home. He wouldn't even bring it up until you approached him first.

But you're impatient, so you unlock your phone and bring up your inbox.

From: [email protected]

Subject: :-)

Here's the list we talked about. Look over it when you can, no rush. Remember to take your time.

checklist.pdf

God, he's so…

You hesitate for all of two seconds before opening it.

The document loads slowly, but when it finally appears, your breath catches. It’s… long. Not a cute little questionnaire, but instead a fucking beast organized into tidy sections with clean headers, dropdowns, and lines for notes.

It's so him.

You scroll through it, eyes widening with each swipe of your thumb.

Jesus. It's alphabetized. Color-coded. Split into sections that cover every possible scenario, every kink under the sun. There are sections for toys, restraints, positions, roles, aftercare preferences, all kinds of shit that absolutely wasn't covered in the stupid profile you set up.

It's so thorough that your cheeks burn.

You cross your legs instinctively under your desk, pulse fluttering.

Strangely, this feels like foreplay. Filthy foreplay disguised as homework. He sent it to you while you’re at the office, and you're willing to bet he knew you'd open it here, too. He knows how impatient you are, and he also knows that you're (apparently!!!) not above doing things like this in public settings.

'Look over it when you can' your ass. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You start slowly, clicking into the first section, doing your best to look like a professional in a professional environment. No one is around, but that can change at literally any moment. You may be horny, but that doesn't mean you're willing to get fired over it.

You skip around a bit, blushing as you mark your maybe's and no's. Those feel a bit easier to start with. Like, yes, you might hypothetically be interested in being gagged or tied up, but no, you're not really into foot stuff.

This list is comprehensive as fuck, and you doubt he's done everything on here, but you make a mental note to ask Yoongi about that one.

The bodily fluids section is by far the worst. You end up marking maybe on pretty much everything (except for bathroom-related fluids), because the thought of Yoongi cumming on or in you… Ha. You don't really know. Maybe feels like the right choice for now.

Some of them, like degradation and praise, are embarrassingly easy. He already knows it's a yes, and you know that, but clicking the little box makes it humiliatingly real. Speaking of humiliation, you mark yes on that one, too.

A warmth pools between your thighs and you shift, trying to subtly reposition yourself in your ergonomic chair so the pressure isn’t so direct.

God. You're going to combust.

Exhibitionism.

Yep. That much is clear.

Impact play.

There’s honestly a lot more under that umbrella than you were expecting. Spanking and slapping you knew, obviously. And of course, your unfortunate Fifty Shades-informed background knowledge covered some things. Still, some of the, uh, tools listed go right over your head, so you switch tabs and discreetly look things up on an incognito tab.

Ah. Hah. Some of these are… a lot.

Your mind flashes back, unbidden, to the woman in the video. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin.

You switch back to the list. Your thumb wavers… wavers… then clicks the box under the 'yes' column for… almost all of it.

More categories. More questions. More prompts that feel less like a form and more like a hand under your skirt. Again.

Your heartbeat is ridiculous. You’re lightheaded. Every tick of the form feels like revealing skin. And through all of it, through the humiliation and the hunger and the ridiculousness of doing this with corporate office lighting reflecting off your monitor—

You are undeniably, dangerously excited.

You don’t know how you’re going to look Yoongi in the eye after you send this back, filled out and devastatingly revealing.

But you also can’t wait.

୨ৎ

By Friday night, you’re wound so tight you could probably shatter if someone breathed on you wrong.

It’s been days.

Days since you emailed Yoongi your filled-out checklist, and you have not been chill. Not even remotely.

By mid-week, your anticipation had mutated into a kind of irritably horny tantrum. You were restless, jumpy, quick to snap at coworkers. Sweet, sweet Namjoon asked if you were coming down with something. Yeah, actually, you thought. A chronic condition called My Best Friend Is An Evil Fucking Tease Disease.

You’re past restless now. Past irritated. You’re going to combust.

And of course tonight is movie night.

The normal, platonic, nothing-to-see-here movie night that you always have with Yoongi, like, every other Friday night, on the couch you’ve shared a thousand times. A bowl of popcorn between you. A blanket tossed over your legs. Yoongi sitting close enough that his thigh brushes yours every now and then, and of course instead of watching fucking Tazza for the millionth time, the old man obsessed with routine has picked something new to watch tonight.

He better not quiz you, because you barely absorb the movie. You couldn’t repeat a single plot point back to him if your life depended on it. You don’t even know what genre it was supposed to be. Yoongi laughs at something once; you jump because you were too busy watching him instead of the screen.

And he’s so normal about it. So ridiculously himself.

Meanwhile, you're sitting there vibrating like a tuning fork. Apparently that's going to be a common theme now. Great. You used to love movie nights.

When the credits finally roll, Yoongi's eyes are fluttering like he's about to fall asleep, and that pisses you off enough for you to snap.

“Did you even look at it?”

Your voice is way too sharp. It slices through the room like a thrown knife, and Yoongi jolts so hard the popcorn almost gets turned over. Good. Bastard.

“Look at what?” he asks, staring at you quizzically.

Oh, fuck that. You’re going to throw hands.

“The list,” you hiss, setting the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table a little too hard. “The list I spent three days agonizing over? Where I had to fill out every single one of my sexual desires for you, Min Yoongi, my best friend in the world, to review? That list?”

His expression remains maddeningly calm.

“Yeah,” he says. “I read it.”

Your heart drops, thuds, ricochets off your ribs with all the grace of a brick.

So he did read it.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Cool. Great. Okay.”

Yoongi hums, giving you absolutely nothing.

“And?” you ask expectantly.

“And?”

You sputter, incredulous. “Are you ever going to—” you gesture helplessly, “—do anything about it?”

Yoongi shrugs.

Like you didn't spend half the week at work re-reading and overthinking and wondering. Like you haven’t been going slowly insane waiting for him to acknowledge the fact that you told him—explicitly—everything you want him to do to you.

He scratches his jaw lazily. “I mean… I can do something about it right now,” he says, a smirk twitching at his lips suddenly. “If that’s what you want."

Your mouth goes dry.

Oh.

OH!!!!!!!

“You mad?” he asks smugly. “That I made you wait?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“No,” you repeat.

Yoongi chuckles. “I told you,” he says, amused. “The build-up is part of it.”

So that's what that was? You could strangle him, if you weren't so suddenly nervous that he's… Fuck, he's offering to do this now. You weren't expecting him to give in so easily.

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, even though your palms are sweating. “Yeah. I’m just… a little nervous.”

“I can tell,” he says softly, and then he shifts slightly so he’s angled more toward you, one arm draped along the back of the couch. “You don’t have to be, you know.”

You try to smile, but your nerves won’t quite let it settle.

“Hey. This isn’t a test.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it,” he says. “I'm not keeping score. Tonight doesn't have to be about whether or not you cum. If it happens, great. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too.”

“But… I mean, the whole point is for me to cum, isn't it?”

“I'm pretty confident in our chances,” he offers with a wry little smile, and you snort despite yourself.

“Uh-huh,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your shoulder with his hand resting on the back of the couch. “But… if you go into this thinking the only success is an orgasm, you’re gonna get stuck in your head again. I don’t want that for you. I want you to enjoy it while it’s happening.”

You swallow hard, emotions knotting up in your throat. You want that, too.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

He gives you a small smile. “Good. That’s all I want.”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he continues, shifting just slightly closer. “I’m gonna try a few things. Nothing you haven’t already approved on the list. I won’t warn you before I do them, though. We’re gonna let your body respond without you anticipating what’s next. That’s what worked last time, remember?”

You nod, already feeling a little warmer at the reminder of what happened under the table at the restaurant. “You're gonna surprise me?”

“Exactly. But before we do anything, we need a safety net.”

Your brows pinch. “What do you mean?”

“Safewords,” he says. “You learned about those when you were looking stuff up, right?” You hum. “Remember seeing anything about the stoplight system?”

You nod, recognizing the phrase from your research. “Green, yellow, red?” you clarify.

“Right,” Yoongi confirms. “Green means you’re good. You like what’s happening and you want more. Yellow means pause or slow down. Use it if something’s off, or you’re not sure, or if you just need a minute to breathe. It gives me a heads-up to check in with you. And red means stop immediately. Everything ends for the night.”

He says it all so calmly, like he’s said it a hundred times before. Maybe he has. It probably should be intimidating, that knowledge. That experience.

But all you feel is reassurance.

He’s not making this up as he goes. He knows what he’s doing. And he wants you to feel safe.

“Okay,” you say. “Got it.”

“Say it back to me,” he says gently, but there’s command underneath it.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“You heard me.”

You lick your lips and take a breath. “Green means yes, more. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop completely.”

“Good.”

It seems like he's said everything he needs to say, but he must’ve anticipated that you’d have more questions, based on the way he’s watching you patiently.

“Yoongi?”

“Mm?”

“Is it, uh…” You trail off, suddenly self-conscious. “Would it fuck up your plan if I want to leave my clothes on this time?”

Yoongi immediately shakes his head. “No. I want you to feel comfortable. If that means leaving your clothes on, then leave them on.”

“Okay.”

“Are you still cool with me, uh, touching you?”

You instantly know he means your pussy, and it's more than a little endearing that he's censoring himself. Yoongi doesn't often mince words, but he's also never spoken to you about your body like this before. Well, apart from yesterday.

“I mean… yeah? How else are you supposed to make me cum?”

Yoongi's mouth twitches like he's holding back a laugh. “You'd be surprised.”

Ohhhhhhh. You don't know what to do with that.

“You can touch me,” you say, simultaneously waving the thought away and fanning your warming cheeks. “Just, uh… Maybe keep things over the underwear for now. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Okay.”

He studies your face. “Are you ready?”

You laugh weakly. “As I’ll ever be.”

He must be satisfied with that, because he shifts on the couch and pats his thigh.

“Come sit.”

You glance down at his lap. His legs are spread wide on the cushion now, and the realization that he’s asking you—no, telling you—to straddle him, in that way, makes your face flush, your hands clammy again.

Your joints creak as you move, your body suddenly too heavy, too self-conscious. You slide into his lap carefully, awkwardly, straddling him with more hesitation than grace.

Your knees sink into the couch on either side of his thighs, and your hands hover, unsure of where to land. His hoodie is soft under your palms. His hands settle gently on your hips, fingers warm.

And then it hits you. The reality of this. What you’re about to do. What you’ve asked for.

This is Yoongi. Your Yoongi. The same guy who holds your hair back while you puke, who texts you to remind you to eat on stressful workdays, who dances with you in your kitchen at midnight. The same guy who once got so high he cried during a Pixar movie and then passed out next to you on this very couch.

And now you’re sitting in his lap, about to let him do… whatever he wants, really.

It's absurd.

“Oh my god,” you blurt, cheeks heating. “Actually, this is insane. This is fucking ridiculous.”

Yoongi doesn't say anything, and the silence feels unbearable.

“I mean, look at us, Yoongi!” you continue, voice rising. “What are we doing? We’re best friends! And I’m sitting in your lap like I'm—god, this is so—“

“Are you done?” he cuts in.

Your mouth snaps shut instantly.

When you meet his eyes, the unreadable calm you find there sets off alarms in your brain.

Mayday, mayday! You've just fucked yourself over big time!

“I was gonna go easy on you, you know,” he says, voice cool. “First time and all. But if taking me seriously is gonna be a problem, I can think of plenty of ways to show you I’m not playing. And all of them hurt like a bitch.”

Oh, fuck.

Yoongi hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t even moved. But the casual authority in his tone… It makes every single nerve in your body light up.

You’re stock still, heart hammering in your chest.

He tilts his head. “You wanna go there?”

You shake your head immediately.

“No,” you whisper. “I—I’m good.”

“No?” he echoes. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and grabs your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks just enough to squish them a little. “This mouth isn’t gonna be a problem, then?”

You shake your head again, wide-eyed. Oh, holy fucking shit.

“Words, baby. I won't tell you again.”

“No,” you gasp.

“You gonna shut the fuck up,” he asks, almost conversational, “and let me make you cum?”

You nod. “Mhm!”

Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh and watches you for a second, his gaze dragging over your face like he’s memorizing it.

Then his thumb drags your bottom lip down just a little, playing with it, watching it bounce back.

“God, you’re cute,” he murmurs. “What’s your color?”

“Green.” It flies out of your mouth before the question finishes leaving his.

Still buzzing, you're half-expecting Yoongi to just dive straight into it, to move quickly now that the foundation's laid. You've talked through everything, right? You’ve calmed down. He knows what you want, and you know what he's offering. He has every right to push you down and take.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he settles in. He releases your jaw, moving to smooth his palms slow and steady over your hips.

“Y'know, maybe it isn't all that surprising that we ended up here,” he says flippantly, as if he's merely commenting on the weather.

Uh, what?

“Huh?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a smug expression forming on his face. “I've had to teach you how to do everything else.”

Your brows pull together, and at your confused look, Yoongi snickers.

“C'mon,” he teases, thumbs rubbing absent circles at your hipbones. “Who taught you how to parallel park, huh?”

“Uh. You,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“How to roll a joint?”

“You.”

His eyes flick down to your lips, and in an instant the air around you thickens.

“How to kiss?”

Oh.

Fuck. He’s really bringing that up, huh?

“…You did.”

The silence stretches, thick and charged. His eyes stay trained on your mouth, the way your breath catches, the nervous flick of your tongue across your bottom lip.

“Been a while, though, hasn't it?” he murmurs. “Years.”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry.

“How many people do you think you've kissed since then?”

You're not ashamed of the amount of people you've been with. Annoyed, maybe, but not ashamed. Something about the way he asks, though—knowing and amused—makes you feel like you've been caught doing something dirty.

You don't know why you like it.

You squirm slightly. “I… I don’t know.”

“Can you guess for me?”

You try to think, to recount all the names and faces over the years, but the way he’s looking at you is making your brain foggy.

“I don't know,” you repeat. “A lot. More than I can count.”

“Bet you've learned some new tricks, haven't you?”

Your face heats. You look away on instinct, chewing on your bottom lip, because… yeah. You have. You're not the girl who asked him to teach you how to tilt her head right. Not anymore.

But you're not entirely sure you aren't still her, either. Not when he looks at you like that.

“…Maybe?”

“Yeah?” His thumb teases beneath the hem of your shirt now, slowly dragging across bare skin. “Do you wanna show me?”

You hesitate, but only for a second.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Your fingers tremble a little when you reach for him. There's a new nervous energy crawling beneath your skin, part anticipation, part guilty nostalgia. You scoot in closer, slowly, until your nose almost brushes his.

You lean in and shyly press your lips to his. Just a taste.

It's a whisper of a kiss, barely there, more breath than contact. Maybe it's the memory of the last time you did this with him, your first kiss. It makes you feel so… virginal.

But it’s been years since then. Lifetimes. You're different now. You've had plenty of experience in the interim, but still, something about this makes you feel like that shy eighteen year old all over again.

You wonder if he can hear how loudly your heart thuds in your chest.

Yoongi is warm and solid beneath you, hands gently squeezing your hips like he’s anchoring you with touch alone. He doesn’t rush you. He lets you lean in first, lets you fumble a little with the angle.

A nervous, airy laugh bubbles up as your teeth bump his, clumsy. You try to pull back, but Yoongi’s already there, chasing your mouth with his own, kissing that breathy sound right off your lips.

It's deeper now. Yoongi tilts his head, infinitely more sure of himself than you are, his hand rising to cradle the back of your neck. His thumb brushes softly over the hinge of your jaw as his tongue sweeps into your mouth. The moan that escapes you is quiet and surprised, and Yoongi swallows it like he was waiting for that too.

The kiss goes molten fast. His lips drag over yours with more force now, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth with a practiced tug that makes you squirm. Your hands slide up his chest on instinct, clutching at the collar of his hoodie, pulling yourself closer like you can’t get enough.

You lose track of time like that—lost in the press and drag of lips, in the wet glide of tongue against tongue, in the dizzying rhythm of inhale, exhale, moan. He kisses you until your head spins and your lips feel raw, until all you can do is lean into him and hope he doesn’t stop.

And he doesn’t. Not once.

Not until your body finally starts to relax fully into his—until you’re pliant in his lap, pliant under his hands. Only then does Yoongi let his touch begin to explore.

His palms coast up your back, warm and steady, mapping the curve of your spine through your shirt. Then back down again, pausing at your waist to squeeze softly, his thumbs pressing just hard enough to make you shiver.

“C'mere,” he rasps, and you go without thought.

You scoot further into his lap until you feel the firm press of him beneath you—thick, half-hard beneath layers of fabric. You whimper softly, overwhelmed by the realization that he's just as turned on as you are.

Then his hands rise, smoothing over your ribs, up, up, up, until they cup your breasts through your shirt. You aren’t wearing a bra, a fact you’re keenly aware of now. His thumbs brush over your nipples, light and exploratory at first, and it shocks a gasp out of you. You arch instinctively into the touch, a whimper slipping from your lips.

Yoongi hums low in his throat, pleased. His thumbs stroke again, then circle, finding the peaks with more intention now. His fingers catch the buds through fabric and pinch, just enough to make you cry out.

The pain lances through the haze of pleasure, clean and bright and shockingly good. You can’t help the way your body responds, arching slightly, pushing into his touch for more. You feel his cock twitch beneath you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs against your lips, his grin audible in his voice. “Fuck. Look at you.”

His lips drag across your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing the curve of it.

“You want me to touch you?” he rasps.

“Yeah,” you say, airy and high. God, you don't even sound like yourself anymore.

“Yeah?” He noses along the column of your throat. “Want me to touch this cunt?”

The vulgarity of it makes your stomach swoop. Your insides clench in response, and you suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut.

You nod jerkily, unable to manage more than a quiet “mhm.”

But nothing happens.

You blink your eyes open. His hands haven’t moved. He hasn’t gone lower. Hasn’t slipped them between your thighs like you’re aching for.

“Yoongi…?”

“Show me how bad you want it,” he says, tilting his head at you. “Go on.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

Yoongi leans further back into the cushions, spreading his legs a little wider. The motion draws your gaze down, your breath hitching when you get an eyeful of… well. Your best friend's raging boner.

Holy shit.

“You’re a smart girl,” he says, cool and casual. Holy shit. His hand comes up to nudge your chin, forcing you to tear your eyes away from his dick. “Figure it out.”

Does he want you to…? You should ask, right?

“Should I—“

“Figure. It. Out.”

You take a shaky breath, overwhelmed. With the state you're in now, your brain feels like it's been reduced to mush, and the mental math that he's asking of you seems impossible. He wants you to grind on him, right? To rub yourself against his dick to show him how desperate you are to cum? That’s the only possibility, you think.

You're impossibly turned on, you are, but you don’t know if you’re ready to cross that line.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, as if sensing your inner turmoil. “What's your color, baby?”

Of course he can sense it, you think. That's literally his job, isn’t it?

“Green,” you breathe, shaking yourself out of it. “Yellow…? No, green, I think. It's just… You're so hard.”

“Well, yeah,” he huffs, gently tucking a fallen strand of hair behind your ear. “That'll happen.” He pauses. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

You shake your head. "No!” Nooooope. “No, it's not that. I just don't know… I don't know if I wanna touch you yet.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says easily. “I'm not asking you to, baby. You don't have to do anything you don't wanna do.”

“Then how do I…?”

He sighs. “I told you, you're a smart girl. All you have to do is show me how bad you want to cum. I don't care how you do it.”

You bite your lip, rolling the thought around in your mind.

“You wanna keep going?” he asks, smoothing his hands over your thighs again.

“Mhm. Good. Green. Just… thinking.”

“Take your time.”

You do take your time.

You sit still in his lap, trembling just enough that he probably feels it, and try to sort through the static in your brain. His hands stroke along your skin, slow and patient, grounding you without rushing.

You inhale deeply through your nose. Exhale slowly through parted lips.

You’re okay. He’s right there. He’s not asking for anything you’re not ready for. You trust him. You’re okay.

And you want this. You want to feel good. You want to let go and stop fucking thinking so hard.

You finally lift your hips—just a little—and shift, adjusting your weight until one leg is between his and you’re fully straddling one of his denim-clad thighs. You feel the way he tenses slightly beneath you in response.

Then you settle again, your cunt pressed directly to flexed muscle. His body heat seeps into you through the fabric, and your body pulses with anticipation.

Yoongi doesn’t say a word. He just watches. Waits.

Your face burns with embarrassment. You’ve never done this before—not like this. Not with someone watching, encouraging, asking you to perform your own desperation like a show.

But that’s what he wants. And fuck, you think it’s what you want, too.

You don’t move right away. Your mind’s a mess, your stomach churning with a confusing cocktail of nerves and want and shame.

But then, slowly, hesitantly, you rock down. Just once. An experimental drag of your clothed core over the muscle of his thigh. It’s barely anything, but with how worked up you've become, it feels incredible.

You press your palms against his chest for balance and rock again, a little firmer this time. Then again, and again. Your breath punches out of you when the seam of your shorts catches just right, dragging across your clit through layers of fabric that feel far too thin now.

You whimper, face burning. The friction is maddening—delicious and not nearly enough. But it’s something, and you want more.

So you keep moving.

Through the fog of your arousal, you realize that you’re soaking through your panties already. You can feel it, spreading between your thighs with every roll of your hips.

You have never, ever been this wet with another person before. Not in your life. Not from so little.

He hasn't! Even! Touched you!

Yoongi exhales through his nose, a soft, amused sound. He still hasn’t moved, but his eyes are locked on your face, watching every flicker of emotion, every twitch of pleasure. He only speaks when you start picking up speed.

“Shit,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “You’re really fucking going for it, huh?”

Shame covers you like a blanket, but you don't stop. It feels too fucking good.

“Didn’t take much, did it?” he drawls. “Don't know why you were so worried.”

He chuckles under his breath, like he's genuinely amused by how fast you're coming undone for him. His thumb rubs soothingly at the crease where your hip meets your thigh, the only touch he offers, and it makes you feel even more ridiculous—because you're coming apart at the seams. You're panting and grinding and soaking through your clothes, and all he's done is fucking watch.

“I mean, fuck,” he goes on. “Maybe I should just make you get yourself off like this. Seems to be doing the trick.”

You shake your head with a whimper, because no. No, you don't want to cum like this.

“No?” he asks in mock-surprise. “Don't like that?”

“No,” you gasp.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“Maybe if you weren't humping my leg like a bitch in heat, I'd believe you.”

Fuuuuuuuck.

You falter, your rhythm breaking.

The words burn, but they burn so good. Sharp and humiliating in a way that makes you hypersensitive. It's like your every nerve ending is suddenly tuned to his voice, to the steady flex of muscle under your core. Your clit throbs, your panties clinging uncomfortably to your soaked folds.

He must notice the way you slow, stunned into a daze, because without warning, his fingers land lightly against your cheek. It's enough to snap your attention back to him instantly.

“Focus,” he says evenly. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

Heat blooms from where he tapped you, spreading down your neck, into your chest, straight between your legs. Your cunt clenches helplessly around nothing, and all you can think of is that fucking video you watched the other night. The way the woman mewled when she got slapped.

Right now, in this moment, you understand exactly how she felt.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

Yoongi watches you carefully, head tilted.

“Liked that, huh?”

You shake your head, then nod, then shake it again. You’re not sure what you’re trying to say. The heat in your face is unbearable, and your breath is coming too fast for your words to get out.

“Color,” he says, but it comes out rough, like a growl.

“G-green,” you pant.

“Say it, then,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

You close your eyes, ashamed, but you try to focus and do what he says.

“I—” You swallow. “Can you… can you do that again?”

“Do what, baby? Be a good girl and ask me properly.”

Shit.

You inhale shakily. “Will you hit me again?” you ask, barely managing to meet his eyes. “Harder? Please.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, finally, he breathes out slowly. His fingers slide back to cup your face, deceptively gentle, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You understand what you're asking for, right?”

You nod.

“I want it,” you murmur. “I promise.”

His hand lingers there, cradling your jaw tenderly, and for a moment, you think he’s going to pump the brakes. Kiss you breathless again and tell you you're not ready. Until his fingers flex.

Smack!

The strike lands cleanly, with enough sting to jolt your head slightly to the side. It makes your eyes water and your breath catch in your throat. The sound echoes between you, loud in the quiet. It reverberates through your skin, into your chest, and down, down into your cunt, tightening every muscle there.

“Fuck,” you gasp, blinking away your tears.

Your thighs tremble with the effort of holding yourself upright, and your hands scrabble against his chest for something to hold onto.

“Shit, look at you,” Yoongi breathes, his voice thick with something between awe and lust. “You liked that. You really liked that.”

His hand strokes up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair firmly. You take the action for what it is and hold the fuck still, not daring to move a muscle.

“You want me to touch you now?” he murmurs.

You manage a jerky nod of your head, but Yoongi doesn't chastise you for not using your words this time.

“Okay, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to your open mouth. “You fucking earned it.”

His free hand slips under the leg of your shorts. The backs of his knuckles press against the soft fabric of your underwear, right over your center. Then, slow and deliberate, he drags his fingertips along the seam of your cunt, letting the soaked fabric catch against your swollen clit.

“I thought you said getting wet was a problem for you,” he teases, eyes flicking to yours. “Doesn’t seem like it to me.”

A pathetic, strangled moan breaks free from your throat.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, tears springing to your eyes from the overwhelm.

Yoongi leans forward, his breath tickling your ear as he speaks. “You wanna cum, baby?”

You nearly sob. “Yes,” you manage. It’s all you want. “F-fuck, please!”

“Oh, baby,” he coos. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll get you there, don’t worry.”

Then his fingers press more firmly against the soaked fabric of your underwear, rubbing firm circles over your clit.

You cling to his shoulders like a lifeline, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie. Your hips start moving again without you even thinking, chasing the rhythm of his touch, and the noise that leaves your mouth is shameless.

“Ohhhhhhh fuck,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh my god—“

“Fuck yeah, look at you,” Yoongi says, voice rough with awe. “You're so close, aren't you?”

"Mhmm!"

“Just let it happen, baby. Don’t fight it.”

You’ve heard that before. Just let it happen.

You’ve told yourself that before, over and over, and it usually ended with you blinking up at the ceiling, frustrated and hollow. Your body used to clamp down at the last second. Panic would creep in. Pressure. Expectation. That awful voice in your head whispering what if it doesn’t happen again? And the moment you’d think it, it was over. Gone.

But right now…

Your hips rock helplessly into his hand, grinding down to increase the pressure, to keep the friction right where you need it. You’re panting into his shoulder, face buried in the curve of his neck because you can’t even look at him anymore.

“Oh my god,” you moan, voice breaking. “Oh my god, oh my god—”

“I know,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your temple. “I know, baby. You’re doing so good. Stay with it.”

You’re right fucking there.

And it doesn’t feel like the weak, flickering kind of almost-orgasm you’re used to. Not the one that fades the second you notice it.

This one starts low in your belly—a deep, tightening coil that feels like it’s winding up from the inside out. Every circle of his fingers pulls it tighter. You claw at the fabric bunched at his shoulders.

“Yoongi,” you gasp. In response, his fingers press just a little firmer, and your body jerks hard in his lap. “Oh—!”

Your thighs clamp down around his hand, around his thigh, and your hips stutter wildly as your body tries to chase it and brace for it at the same time. You feel tears sting your eyes.

“Don’t think,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. “C’mon. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

Your orgasm hits like a dam giving way.

There’s no delicate crest, no fragile tipping point. It crashes through you in a violent, overwhelming rush that makes you gasp like you’ve been punched in the lungs. Your entire body seizes—hips jerking forward, back arching, fingers clawing so hard into his shoulders you hear his responding hiss.

A sob tears out of you.

Your cunt pulses hard under his hand, clenching and clenching and clenching around nothing, and it doesn’t stop. It just keeps rolling through you in wave after wave after wave, each one stronger than the last.

Your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely hold yourself up. Your hips buck helplessly into his fingers, chasing friction you don’t even need anymore because it’s everywhere.

Years.

It’s been years since it felt like this. Since it felt like something was being released instead of forced. Like your body wasn’t performing, wasn’t cooperating out of obligation.

You cum so hard it makes you dizzy. So hard it blots out everything else. The room around you. The couch beneath your knees. The fact that you’re sitting in your best friend’s lap.

All you feel is pure, overwhelming relief.

Your muscles finally give out, and you collapse forward against him, shaking, breath coming in ragged little gasps. Yoongi eases you through it, softening the pressure as the aftershocks ripple through you, letting you ride it all the way down instead of cutting you off too soon.

“That’s my good girl,” he coos into your hair. “So fucking good. There you go, baby.”

Your face feels wet against his neck, and you realize that you’re crying. Not big, dramatic tears, but quiet ones, leaking out because your body doesn’t know what else to do with the intensity of what just happened.

Yoongi must feel it, because his hand slides from between your legs, coming up to cradle the back of your head instead. He holds you there, chest to chest, your heartbeat hammering against his.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Color?”

You drag in a shaky breath. It takes a second to find your voice.

“Green,” you say, almost laugh-sobbing. “So fucking green.”

You feel emptied in the best way. Like the pressure that’s been weighing you down for years is just… gone. Like you can finally breathe.

Yoongi exhales against your temple, something like relief threading through the sound. "Told you I was confident in our chances."

a/n 2: so it begins… things are just gonna get freakier and freakier from here on out LOL i hope you’re all ready for it 😈

the next chapter doesn’t have an established drop date yet—i’m going to be focusing on price of fame for a bit—BUT i’ll try to have it out as soon as i can!

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