#pglp

Ducking your head to your chest, fingers fussing with silverware, refusing to meet his eyes for more than a second. Like you might combust if you hold it too long.

Sickening isn’t even the word for it. The dish clatters—too hard, almost cracks. He tightens his grip. Wonders if the muscles in his jaw will snap before the ceramic does.

How many birthdays is this now? Three? Four? 

He’s lost count; all these parties blur together. Same sticky heat leaking through the shutters, same goddamn scent—lemon rind, sweet wine, something synthetic you wear on your wrists just to get through the crowd. 

He can taste it, even from here. Bitter almond. 

Makes his molars ache.

The worst part is the pretending. The way you look away on purpose, telegraphing distance like you actually believe you have any left to give. You think if you just blink, just hold your breath, your desire won’t drip out onto the kitchen tiles for him to notice. 

You think you’re some patron saint of loyalty. 

Hah. 

Saints don’t fidget every time he walks behind them. Saints don’t swallow so hard when their girlfriend puts a hand on the small of their back. Saints don’t keep checking to see if he’s looking.

Here’s a secret: he always is.

Soap squeaks between his knuckles. He stacks the plate a little too rough, doesn’t care if it chips. 

What if it did? Would you flinch? Would your perfect little world splinter, just for a moment? 

He imagines the sound—porcelain on tile, gasps from the other room, your head snapping up, eyes blown wide with something that’s not fear. Not quite. 

He wonders how it would feel to ruin something that actually mattered tonight.

In the dining room, someone starts singing off-key, and Yoongi scrubs harder until his hands burn. He doesn’t need to see you to know exactly how your face looks right now: pinched, guilty.

Avoiding him even from thirty feet away.

Yeah, run along. Pretend you don’t want him to follow. Pretend a little harder.

He drops the next dish in the sink with a sharp clatter—just to see if you’ll finally fucking look.

Then, a sound, a voice, a permission.

He hears it—your girl’s voice, syrup slick, cutting through the party racket: “Babe, could you grab that bottle from the kitchen?” 

Ridiculous how she manages to sound grateful and controlling at the same time. 

Maybe she knows. Maybe she fucking knows.

Chair legs screech. Footsteps, soft but pointed, crossing tile—he knows the sound of your tread, timid and dubious. 

You linger by the door like you’re still deciding if you’ll breathe in here. He doesn’t bother looking. 

Why indulge you?

Door whispers shut. Exile. 

Now it’s just the two of you. Your shallow, nervous breaths fill the cracks between his knuckles and the faucet’s hiss. 

It gets hotter. Air growing thick with something moldy, unspoken.

He keeps washing. Doesn’t spare you a glance, because if he does, he fears something beside the silverware will shatter. 

But he does speak. “Aren’t you tired?”

You blink, unsure, thumb tracing the seam of your top. 

That stupid, white tank top that clings to your chest like a promise he knows he can’t keep, you can’t keep.

“Sorry?”

“Deaf now?” He raises a brow—not even for you, mostly for himself. “I asked if you aren’t tired.”

That little panic-glitch you do—eyebrows up, smile flickering. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He sets a plate down harder than necessary. Water slaps the counter. 

“No? Funny, that. Hard to believe, with how you eye-fuck me every two seconds.” 

He wipes his fingers on a dish rag, stares at the back of your neck, the red where your collar pulls tight. His tongue prods at the cold weight of metal behind his teeth, a habit when he's bored or pissed or thinking about you.

You stare at the counter, clutching that bottle of wine you’ve retrieved from the fridge like it might split open and save you. 

Your silence is loud. Worse than excuses.

He lets it hang. Not even mercy; just wants to see how long you’ll squirm. 

“Don’t start playing innocent now. Not when you’re so damn obvious.”

You shake your head, quick—automatic, honest in a way words aren’t. “What? I’m not—”

He cuts you off. “Sure you’re not.” He spits the words, not even angry. Bored, if anything. “Should try not looking so hungry, sweetheart. Gets embarrassing.”

You hover near the doorway, torn between fight and flight, but you do neither. 

You stay. 

Of course you do. 

That’s the root of it, isn’t it? You want him to rip the decency out of your chest, just so you can blame someone else.

The bottle trembles in your grip. Cork stuck, label peeling where your thumb keeps rubbing nervous circles. You’re going to drop it—he can see it in the way your wrist shakes, the way you’re gripping too tight, knuckles bone-white.

“C’mere.” He sighs. “Let me open the fucking bottle for you before you break it.”

You hesitate. Of course you do. Always three steps behind your own impulses, aren’t you? 

But you move anyway, shuffling closer until you’re within arm’s reach, wine bottle extended to him like you’re offering something besides the container.

He doesn’t take it immediately. Just stares at your fingers wrapped around the neck, the way they tremble when he doesn’t move fast enough. Your pulse hammers in your throat—he can see it jumping, frantic and guilty.

“Relax,” he says, finally taking the bottle. “Not gonna bite.”

Liar. 

He wants to sink his teeth into that soft spot where your shoulder meets your neck, wants to make you whimper his name while your girlfriend laughs in the next room.

The cork pops with a wet sound. Wine sloshes, bright and bitter. He sets it on the counter harder than necessary, glass ringing against marble.

You lean against the counter now, arms crossed over your chest. 

It’s pathetic, really. The distance you’re trying to create when you’re already this close, when you came to him instead of asking literally anyone else to open a simple bottle.

“You should break up with your girl for the night.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but he sees you flinch in his peripheral vision, sees the way your breathing stops.

“What?”

“You heard me.” He looks up then, studies your face—the way your eyes go wide, the way your lips part around nothing. “Tell her you’re sick. Tell her you need air. Tell her whatever lie comes easiest.”

You shake your head, automatic. “I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” He steps closer, just enough to make you press back against the counter. “Can’t lie? You’ve been doing it for months. Can’t disappoint her? You disappoint her every time you look at me.”

Your mouth opens, closes. Fish gasping on dry land.

“She knows,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “You think she doesn’t, but she does. The way you go quiet when I walk in a room. The way you find excuses to stay late when I’m around. She’s not stupid.”

“Stop.”

“Stop what? Stop saying what you’re thinking? Stop noticing how wet you get when I’m mean to you?” He’s close enough now to notice the way your eyes darken when he talks.

It makes him sick. It makes him so fucking sick he needs to kiss them away from you, let them die like your heart does when you glance at him when he doesn’t. 

“You want me to stop pretending I don’t see how you fall apart every time I’m within ten feet of you?”

Your chest rises and falls too fast. Panic or arousal—probably both. “This isn’t—we can’t—”

“We can’t what?” He leans in, smell of cigarettes on his breath, soap on his skin. “Can’t want each other? Too late for that. Can’t act on it? That’s just cowardice.”

You press yourself further back against the counter, but there’s nowhere to go. He’s got you pinned, not with his body but with his words, with the weight of everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist.

“I love her,” you whisper, and it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“Sure you do.” He reaches past you, palm flat against the counter on either side of your hips. Caging you in. “Love her enough to eye-fuck me at her birthday party. Love her enough to think about me when she’s between your legs.”

You make a sound—half gasp, half sob. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” His voice is barely above a whisper now, eyes fixed on yours. “Tell me you don’t think about me. Tell me you don’t want me to bend you over this counter and fuck you until you forget her name.”

Your hands fly to his chest, but you don’t push him away. Just rest them there, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt.

“I don’t like you,” you breathe.

“Sure.” His eyes flick to the tears gathering in your eyes, the way your lips are swollen from biting them. “And pigs fly.”

A tear falls.

But you’re not saying no. You’re not moving away.

“One night,” he says, and it’s not a question. “One night to get this poison out of our systems. Then you can go back to being the good girlfriend, and I can go back to pretending I don’t want to destroy you.”

Your voice cracks when you speak. “And if I say no?”

“You can say no.” He thumbs away a tear, the gesture almost tender. “But you won’t. Because you’re tired of being good. Because you want someone to make the choice for you so you don’t have to live with the guilt of making it yourself.”

You close your eyes, lean into his touch despite yourself.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you do. “Tell me no. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away. Go back to washing dishes like nothing happened.”

But you can’t. He knows, you know. You can’t say no because you don’t want to, and you can’t say yes because you’re too scared of what it makes you.

“I—”

“Don’t think.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, and you shiver. The tip of his tongue flicks out, silver ball gliding over his own lip, slow and taunting. “Just feel. Just for once in your pathetic, repressed life, let yourself feel something real.”

The party continues in the next room—voices and laughter and the clink of glasses. Your girlfriend’s voice rises above the rest, calling your name.

“She’s looking for you,” he says, but he doesn’t step back.

“I know.”

“You can go back to her. Pretend this didn’t happen. Pretend you don’t want me so bad it’s eating you alive.”

You stare at him, torn between duty and desire, between the life you’ve built and the hunger that’s been growing inside you for months.

Then you grab the bottle and move away, back towards the door like a fucking leashed animal going back to its cage.

“Or,” he continues, like a throwaway comment, “you can let me fucking rock your world, for tonight.”

You stop, reach for the door but don’t open it—just turn around to watch him, check his reaction. He smiles, knows that look. You wear it like it’s your default setting—guilt.

You’re considering it. 

So he moves until he’s in front of you—you against the door, him checking you out.

He notices the strand of hair that’s fallen across your shoulder—always the same piece, always escaping that way you pin it back. 

He brushes it aside with the back of his knuckles, barely touching, but you shiver anyway. Your skin pebbles under his attention.

“I’ve been thinking about this spot for so long,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. 

The place where a necklace would sit if you were the type to wear one. If she so much as asked, you would. He knows. 

His thumb finds that exact spot, drags across it with laziness. Pulse jumps under his touch—frantic, guilty, alive. 

Even when trying to remain composed, your body betrays you around him. 

It’s funny, really. 

“So fucking long,” he continues, thumb tracing circles that get smaller, more focused. “Watching you cover it up with high necklines and scarves. Like you knew I was looking. Like you knew what I wanted to do to you.”

Your girlfriend’s voice again—“Babe, where did you go?”—but neither of you move. 

Instead he leans closer, closer now that his breath ghosts over your skin. 

“You’re so full of shit,” he whispers against your throat. “Standing there like some martyr, like you’re not dripping wet from three words and a thumb on your neck.”

You make a sound—half protest, half moan. Your free hand flutters uselessly at your side, searching for something to hold onto that isn’t him.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, but his mouth is already brushing against your shoulder, lips barely grazing the skin he’s been obsessing over. “Tell me to fuck off and I will.”

But you can’t. You won’t. Your head tilts back despite yourself, giving him better access, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He starts with the softest brush of his lips, testing, stud dragging a cold line across your skin. Your skin tastes like salt and that fucking perfume you wear—fig and almond, bitter and sweet and it matches the feeling he swallows down his throat every time he sees you.

He trails lower, following the curve of your shoulder, marking a path with his mouth.

Then he bites.

Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make you gasp, to make your knees buckle. His teeth sink into that tender spot where your shoulder slopes down, and you arch into him instead of away.

“There you fucking are,” he mumbles against your skin, soothing the bite with his tongue. 

His hand settles on your waist, fingers splaying wide, claiming the space between your hipbone and ribs. You’re trembling now, full-body shaking, and he feels sick for how much he enjoys that.

“Babe?” Your girlfriend’s voice is closer now, probably checking the hallway. “Did you find the wine?”

Yoongi nips at your shoulder again, teeth scraping, and your hand flies to his shoulder—gripping, desperate. 

Not pushing him away, not anchoring yourself. 

Just holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Answer her,” he murmurs against your skin, mouth moving lower to taste the hollow of your collarbone. “Tell her you’re coming.”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. He bites down again, harder this time, and you bite back a moan.

“Can’t even lie anymore,” he says, and he sounds pleased. Victorious. “Look at you, falling apart from a few bites. What’s she gonna think when she sees the marks?”

Your grip on his shoulder tightens, nails digging through his shirt. 

Still not pushing him away.

“That’s right,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Hold onto me. Let me give you something to really feel guilty about.”

He works his way back up your shoulder, each kiss hungrier than the last, each bite a little deeper. Your breathing is ragged now, desperate little gasps that make his cock twitch in his jeans.

“I’m—” you start, but he cuts you off with another bite, this one right at the base of your neck. The sound you make is pure sin.

“You’re what?” he asks, pulling back just enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy. “You’re sorry? You’re a good person? You’re not enjoying this?”

Your girlfriend calls your name again, impatient now.

He moves to your neck again, mouth hot and demanding against the tender skin just below your ear. 

And the kicker of all this is—you keep making fucking sounds—small, desperate whimpers that are going to get you caught if you don’t shut up.

Maybe that’s exactly what you want. Maybe he’s not the only monster, after all. 

His hand slides up from your waist, fingers spreading across your ribs before moving higher—up until he clamps his palm over your mouth, not gentle, thumb pressing against your lips.

“Bite down,” he commands, voice rough against your throat. “Before you get us both in trouble.”

You do—teeth sinking into the pad of his thumb, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to muffle the moan that tries to escape. He groans at the sensation, hips pressing forward until you can feel exactly how much he wants you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mouth working against your neck. “I should fuck you in front of her. Let her watch while I make you cum on my cock. Let her see how good you truly are. How pliant, how kind.”

Your teeth tighten around his thumb, eyes rolling back—and he knows then the fantasy is bursting behind your eyelids—brutal and wrong and so fucking appealing it makes your knees weak.

Nasty, you’re so fucking nasty. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he continues, barely containing his own satisfaction. “Want her to see how desperate you get when someone you crave touches you. How you turn into a whore the second someone pays attention to all that’s rotting beneath your lil’ nice act.”

You shake your head, but it’s no use, really. 

Your body tells the truth—the way you arch into him, the way your breathing goes ragged against his palm.

“Liar,” he growls, nipping at your pulse point. “Your cunt’s probably soaked just thinking about it. About being bent over while she watches, about her seeing exactly what kind of slut she’s been dating.”

“Babe? Are you okay in there?”

Yoongi’s hand tightens over your mouth, thumb pressing deeper between your teeth.

“One night,” he whispers urgently against your ear. “Tonight. After they all leave and she’s busy washing dishes in the kitchen.”

Your eyes go wide, pupils blown with arousal and terror.

“The dining room,” he continues, voice low and filthy. “Right on that table where we all just ate. Where she served you her birthday cake and all you could do is keep stealing glances at me. I’ll bend you over it and fuck you until you forget her name.”

You shudder at that, he feels it, he knows you do too. His thumb is wet with your saliva, and you’re still biting down like your life depends on it.

Maybe it does. He knows your girlfriend is seconds away from finding out. 

And the most twisted of it all? He’s getting off on that. 

“Picture it,” he breathes, mouth moving to the other side of your neck. “Her humming in the kitchen, twenty feet away, while I split you open on the table. While I make you beg for my cock in the same room where she sang happy birthday an hour ago.”

You whimper at that—the words, the motion, he doesn’t know, but he wants to swallow the sound down his throat anyways. 

“She’ll be so focused on cleaning,” he continues, painting the scene for your nightmares. “Won’t even notice how long you’ve been gone. Won’t hear you whimpering my name or the sound of the table legs scraping against the floor.”

Your girlfriend’s footsteps grow louder in the hallway—really fucking close now, and your breath comes in short bursts against his palm. 

But he can see you thinking, weighing the cost, imagining it. Considering it. 

“Nod if you understand,” he says.

You stare at him for a long moment, like you’re not sure if it’s worth the risk, if your guilt is worth the reward. 

But then—then you fucking nod.

Just once. Barely a movement. 

But he’s seen it, telegraphed it and now he fucking knows for certain. 

He drops his hand from your mouth, steps back like nothing happened. 

You slump against the door, legs shaking, lipstick smeared and hair mussed. His tongue darts out, runs over his lower lip, the stud catching on chapped skin.

“Fix yourself,” he says, walking back to the sink. “You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked, and we haven’t even started yet.”

You push off on unsteady legs, smoothing your hair with trembling fingers, covering the blooming red marks with your free hand. 

“Tonight,” he says without turning around, hands already back in the soapy water like this is just another conversation. “Don’t make me come find you.”

The kitchen door swings open then. 

“There you are,” your girlfriend says, smiling as she steps into the kitchen. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

“Just helping with the wine,” he says easily, voice betraying nothing. “Cork was stuck.”

Your girlfriend looks between you both, taking in your flushed cheeks and the way you’re gripping your neck like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks, moving closer to press the back of her hand against your forehead. “You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you manage, voice barely steady. “Just warm in here.”

She nods, accepting the lie, and takes the wine bottle from you with a grateful smile. 

Then, she looks at Yoongi. “Thanks for helping. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No problem,” he says, still focused on the dishes. But his eyes find yours over her shoulder, and the look he gives you is all malice. “Happy to help.”

She grabs your hand, and you let yourself be guided out of the kitchen.

Not without hearing a last: 

“See you in a bit.” 

And goddamn if he doesn’t mean it. 

Your mouth ruins him.

Not in the way people mean when they talk about lips, or smiles, or whatever bullshit poets write. No—your mouth ruins him because you don’t even know what it does. 

Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the worst part.

He watches you swipe a thumb through whipped cream, tongue flicking out to catch the mess. Innocent. Stupid. You don’t even taste the cake, just the sugar on your skin. 

The plate is untouched. Waste of flour, waste of time. The real dessert’s right there, sitting across from him, legs tucked under the table like you’re not hiding bruises under that kerchief and those shorts that barely count as clothing.

You laugh at something your girlfriend says—soft, feeble, the kind of sound that makes people think you’re gentle. You nod when she asks about the wine. 

“It was fine,” you say, voice steady—but you’re a fucking liar.  You haven’t tasted a thing since you walked back in here, since you let him mark you up in the kitchen like you were begging for it.

He counts the glances. Five in two minutes. He’s not guessing. He’s keeping track, tallying every time your eyes dart his way, wide and pleading, like you want him to call you out in front of everyone. Like you want to get caught. Like you want to be ruined.

You don’t even try to hide it. That’s what pisses him off. 

You sit there, pretty as a picture, tank top clinging to your chest, shorts riding up your thighs, kerchief tied tight around your neck like it’s a fucking leash. 

You think that’s enough? You think a strip of fabric can erase the way you let him bite you, the way you whimpered into his hand, the way you nodded when he told you exactly what he’d do to you later?

Pathetic.

He digs his fork into the cake, doesn’t taste it. Sugar, cream, nothing. He wants to throw the plate. Wants to watch it shatter, see if you’d flinch, see if you’d finally stop pretending. But you wouldn’t. You’d just look at him, big-eyed and guilty, and he’d want to crawl across the table and fuck you until you sobbed.

Your girlfriend leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder. You smile, soft and grateful, like you’re not thinking about someone else’s hands. Like you’re not dripping onto the seat every time Yoongi shifts in his chair. He can see it—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch against your fork. 

You’re not even eating. You’re just waiting.

He hates you for it. Hates how easy you make it. Hates how you don’t even have to try and he’s already hard, already angry, already picturing what you’d look like bent over this table, shorts around your ankles, everyone watching while he ruins you for good.

Someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t care. He’s too busy watching the way you lick your lips, too busy cataloguing every nervous glance, every movement you fucking make in your seat. 

You’re not subtle. You’re not innocent. You’re just good at pretending.

He wonders if anyone else notices. Wonders if your girlfriend sees the way you keep touching your neck, fingers ghosting over the kerchief like you’re checking to make sure the marks are still hidden. Like you’re proud of them. Like you want someone to ask.

He wants to ask. Wants to rip the fabric off, show everyone what you let him do to you. Wants to see you cry when they realize you’re not the good person you pretend to be.

You catch his eye again. Six. Your mouth parts, just a little, like you’re about to say something. 

You don’t. 

You just look at him, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, and he knows you’re thinking about the kitchen, about his hand on your mouth, about the promise he made.

He wants to make you beg for it. Wants to make you crawl under the table, suck him off while your girlfriend laughs at some stupid joke. Wants to see if you’d do it. 

He bets you would. He bets you’d thank him for it.

He digs his nails into his palm, forces himself to look away. 

The room is too bright, too loud. Laughter bounces off the walls, forks scrape against plates, someone pours more wine. He watches the red spill, thinks about how easy it would be to tip the glass, stain your perfect white tank top, give you something else to hide.

You’re talking now, voice low, answering some question about work. He doesn’t care. He only hears the tremor, the way your words catch when you glance his way. You’re scared. You’re excited. 

You’re fucking sick, and he loves it.

Your girlfriend squeezes your hand under the table. You squeeze back, smile at her, lean in like you’re grateful. Like you’re not dying for Yoongi to drag you out of here and fuck you raw. Or maybe not even drag you. Maybe you want it right here, in front of everyone. Maybe you want to see how far you can push before someone calls you out.

He wants to call you out. Wants to see you break. Wants to see you sob and beg and thank him for making you feel something real.

You laugh at something, head thrown back, throat exposed for half a second. He sees the edge of a bruise, purple and red, peeking out from under the kerchief. You see him see it. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open, and he feels his cock twitch.

You’re disgusting. He’s worse.

The conversation moves on. Someone toasts to your girlfriend, to another year, to happiness. You smile, raise your glass, clink it against hers. Your hand shakes. He sees it. No one else does.

He wonders if you’re wet. Wonders if you’d let him check, right here, under the table. Wonders if you’d spread your legs for him, let him finger you while your girlfriend thanks everyone for coming. He bets you would. He bets you’d cum so hard you’d cry.

He wants to see you cry.

You look at him again. Seven. Your mouth is a fucking sin.

He wants to ruin it. Wants to ruin you.

He takes another bite of cake, doesn’t taste it. All he tastes is you. All he wants is to see you fall apart.

You’re going to. He can feel it. You’re already halfway there.

He hopes you choke on your own sweetness. He hopes you beg for more.

Finally—someone suggests wrapping up.

His foot's been vibrating under the table for God knows how long, bouncing against the floor like a fucking jackhammer. 

When did that start? When you licked cream off your thumb? When you adjusted that ridiculous kerchief for the tenth time? When you looked at him like you wanted him to drag you over the table and fuck you in front of your girlfriend?

Doesn't matter. His blood's singing now, electric and vicious, and he's never been more grateful for small mercies.

People start moving. Chairs scrape. Plates clink. 

The birthday girl—your girlfriend—starts collecting glasses with that insufferable smile, thanking everyone for coming like this wasn't the most torturous three hours of his life.

And you. 

Of course you're helping. Of course you're stacking plates like the perfect little housewife, like you weren't begging for his cock with your eyes twenty minutes ago. 

Miss fucking saint. Miss patron of purity. 

He watches you lean across the table, those shorts riding up just enough to make him want to rip them off with his teeth. 

They're long—stupidly long, covering way too much thigh for something that's supposed to be summer wear. What's the point of shorts if they cover most of your thighs? 

They're practically pants. Completely unreasonable. How is he supposed to see anything when you're covered from waist to shin like some prude?

He fucking hates them.

And that tank top—white cotton, innocent as Sunday, except he can see the outline of your bra underneath. 

Why are you wearing a bra? It's hot, it's summer, it's Napoli for fuck's sake. The logical thing would be to let your tits breathe. But no, you've got them locked up tight, probably some modest little thing with full coverage because God forbid anyone see a nipple.

It's completely impractical. Uncomfortable, even. 

He slams his plate down on the pile.

You flinch. Hard. The whole stack wobbles, and for a second he thinks you might drop everything, watch it all shatter on the floor like he wants to.

But you don't. You just swallow, throat working, and look up at him with those wide, terrified eyes that make his cock twitch.

Fear and arousal. The combination that's been driving him up the fucking wall all night.

He wants to shove a dish down his own throat, see if that stops the bile from rising, stops the sick satisfaction from spreading through his chest like poison.

"Stop it," he mutters, voice low enough that no one else hears.

Your throat bobs again. Pupils blown wide, lips parted around nothing. "Stop what?"

He wants to bite his knuckles. Wants to bite yours. Wants to bite that soft spot on your neck until you cry.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says, leaning closer, "or I swear to God I won't be able to contain myself anymore."

You shudder. Full-body tremor that he feels in his bones, and he hates how it reels through him, makes his hands shake with the need to touch.

"My cock's been aching since the fucking kitchen," he continues, voice barely above a whisper, "and you haven't been helping your case."

The blush spreads down your neck, disappears under that stupid kerchief. 

You look away, skittering your gaze to the side like you can escape this, escape him.

God damn it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Around you, people are laughing, cleaning, saying their goodbyes. People filter out. Hugs and air kisses and promises to do this again soon. Your girlfriend's in the kitchen now—he can hear water running, dishes clinking, the domestic symphony of someone who doesn't know her world's about to implode.

And here you are, blushing like a virgin at dirty words, looking like you want to crawl away, or maybe crawl under him.

He stacks another plate, harder than necessary. The sound makes you jump.

"Scared?" he asks.

You shake your head, but your hands are trembling as you reach for another dish. "No."

"Liar." He moves closer, close enough to smell that fucking perfume again. Fig and almond. Sweet and bitter. "You're terrified. Turned on and terrified."

You look at him again, and the expression on your face makes him want to flip this entire table.

Soft. Pleading. Like you're asking him to make the choice for you.

Like you want him to drag you out of here right now, consequences be damned.

He wants to. Jesus Christ, he wants to throw you over his shoulder, carry you to the nearest flat surface, and fuck you until you forget your own name. Forget her name. Forget everything except the way he feels inside you.

But he doesn't. He just stacks another plate, watches you flinch at the sound, watches the way your chest rises and falls too fast under that modest tank top.

"You know what's about to happen," he says, not a question.

You nod. Barely a movement, but he sees it.

"Good,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. "Go give those to her.”

You don't move. Just stare at him with those big, stupid eyes.

"I want you back here in three minutes."

Your tongue darts out, wets your bottom lip. "Why?"

He almost laughs. Almost. "You know why."

But you don't move. You just stand there, plates trembling in your hands, looking at him like you're waiting for permission to breathe.

"Three minutes," he repeats. 

You swallow hard, nod once, and finally—finally—walk toward the kitchen. He watches you go, watches the way your shoulders hunch like you're trying to disappear.

He hears your voice in the kitchen, bright and helpful: "Let me help with those." 

Your girlfriend laughs, says something about how sweet you are, how lucky she is.

If only she knew.

He counts. One minute. Two.

He glances around the dining room—eyes locking on the table where you all just ate, where your girlfriend blew out candles and made wishes. 

Where he's going to bend you over and fuck you until you forget her name.

His hands curl into fists. His cock throbs against his zipper.

Two and a half minutes.

He can hear you in there, voice getting higher, more nervous. 

You're stalling. Of course you are. Probably hoping he'll change his mind, hoping this is all some sick joke.

It's not.

Three minutes.

Footsteps. Slow, reluctant. You appear in the doorway like you're walking to your execution.

Good. You should be scared.

You should be excited.

You are both, and he can see it in every line of your body—the way you hover by the door, the way your hands shake, the way you can't quite meet his eyes.

"Close the door."

You hesitate. "She's right there—"

"Close. The fucking. Door."

You do, soft click that might as well be a gunshot. Now it's just you and him and the weight of what's about to happen.

He doesn't move from where he's standing. Doesn't need to. 

"Come here."

You do.

God help him, you fucking do. Walk toward him like you're programmed to obey, like every instinct you have has been rewired to follow his voice. 

That shouldn't make his dick stand at attention, but it does. Makes him sick how much it does.

He stays where he is, hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching you cross the room with careful steps. You're trying to look composed, but he sees the tremor in your legs, the way you keep glancing toward the kitchen door like you might bolt.

You won't. You both know it.

You reach the table, rest your ass against the edge. Safe distance. Or what you think is safe distance.

There's no such thing. Not anymore.

He moves then, slow and intentional, pulling his hands free. You tense when he gets close, but you don't move away. Don't even breathe, from what he can tell.

His fingers find the strip of skin between your waistband and tank top. Just a sliver, maybe an inch of exposed flesh, but it's enough. Your skin burns under his touch, soft and warm and real.

He trails upward. Slow. Watching his own fingers map the path along your ribs, feeling the way your breathing stutters when he reaches the curve under your breast.

Higher. Over the cotton of your shirt, feeling the rapid beat of your heart, the way your chest rises and falls too fast.

His hand reaches your neck. Settles there, fingers spanning your throat, thumb brushing against the fabric tied around it.

"The kerchief is cute," he says, eyes still fixed on where his hand rests.

He grabs the end of it. Tugs. Not hard enough to untie it, just enough to make you feel the pressure, make you remember what's underneath.

Now he looks at you. Really looks. Takes in the way your pupils have swallowed the color of your eyes, the way your lips part around nothing.

"Won't help for covering all the fucking marks I'm gonna leave on you tonight, though."

Your breath catches. Audible little gasp that goes straight to his cock.

He can hear your girlfriend in the kitchen—humming something off-key, water still running. Completely oblivious to what's happening twenty feet away.

His thumb presses against the fabric, finding the spot where he bit you earlier. You wince, just slightly, but you don't pull away.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

You nod.

"Good." His grip tightens, just enough to make you feel it. "It should hurt. Should remind you what you agreed to."

Your hands flutter at your sides, searching for something to hold onto. The table edge. Your own clothes. Anything but him.

"You can still change your mind.”

You shake your head. Quick, desperate.

"No?" He tilts his head, studying your face. "You want this? Want me to ruin you while she's right there?"

Another nod. Smaller this time, like you're ashamed of how much you want it.

You should be ashamed. It's fucking sick, what you're about to do. What you both want.

His free hand finds your waist, settles there like he owns it. Like he owns you.

Maybe he does. Maybe he has since the moment you walked into that kitchen, since you let him corner you, mark you, make you promises you're too weak to refuse.

"Look at me," he commands.

You do. Eyes glassy, lips swollen from biting them.

"Tell me you want this," he says. "Tell me you want me to bend you over this table and fuck you until you forget her name."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"I—"

"Say it."

The kerchief falls completely now, pooling on the floor like surrender. The marks on your neck are fully visible—his teeth marks, his proof that you're not the saint everyone thinks you are.

"I want—" you start, then stop, eyes darting toward the kitchen.

"She can't hear you," he says, hand tightening around your throat. "But I can. So say it."

You look at him then, really look at him, and he sees the exact moment you break.

"I want you to fuck me," you whisper.

His cock throbs against his zipper. Finally. Finally.

"Good girl," he says, and the praise makes you shudder. "Now sit on the table."

You do what he says, as expected. 

He steps between your legs, the space too narrow now, too charged. 

His thighs press against yours, and you’re already tilting your head back, looking up at him like you’re waiting for what comes next.

Like you’re ready to let him do whatever the fuck he wants.  

His hand finds your stomach, palm flat against the soft cotton of your tank top. He presses—not hard, just enough to guide you, to show you where he wants you.  

You go easily. Of course you do.  

Your back meets the table, hair spilling out around you like some kind of halo.  

Fucking ironic.  

He keeps his hand there, splayed across your stomach, feeling the way it rises and falls too fast under his touch. Your breathing’s uneven, shallow, like you’re trying to keep it together and failing miserably.  

His middle and index fingers twitch, then start to move, tracing a line down the center of your stomach, following the curve of your body like it’s something he’s memorizing.  

You shiver, he feels it under his fingertips, the way your muscles jump, the way your body reacts without permission.  

His fingers reach your navel. Pause there for a second, circling the dip, the fabric of your tank top bunching slightly under the pressure.  

He doesn’t look at your face. Doesn’t need to. He knows what he’d see—knows how your lips would part, how your eyes would flutter shut, how your chest would heave like you’re trying to breathe through the tension.  

Instead, he watches his hand. Watches the way his fingers move lower, past your navel, toward the hem of your tank top.  

It’s not cropped. Not short. It covers you all the way down, modest and practical and completely fucking infuriating.  

His fingers slip under the edge of the fabric, finding the strip of skin just below. He presses a little harder, feels the way your abdomen tenses under his touch.  

You’re so fucking responsive. It’s disgusting.  

He drags his fingers lower, tracing the line of your body, following the path down to the waistband of your shorts.  

The shorts.  

God, the fucking shorts.  

They’re normal. Mid-thigh. Nothing out of the ordinary. But to him, they might as well be a full-length gown.  

His fingers pause at the button, resting there for a moment. He undoes it with one hand, the pop of the metal louder than he’d like.

He’s about to drag the zipper down when you shift slightly, your thighs brushing against his.  

His eyes flick to the hem of your shorts, to the sliver of skin where they end.  

His other hand moves there, fingers skimming the edge, tracing the line where fabric meets flesh.  

“These are so fucking long,” he mutters, voice low and rough.  

You don’t respond. Just look at him, wide-eyed and trembling, like you don’t know what to say.  

“What’s your point?” he asks, fingers still caressing the hem. “You trying to piss me off?”  

You swallow hard, throat bobbing, but you don’t answer.  

“Because you’ve been doing a hell of a good job for quite a while, I should say.”  

Your head tilts slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “What?”

“These shorts,” he says, voice low and sharp, “they cover everything. How is anyone supposed to see anything when you’re wrapped like a fucking nun?”

His hand rests on your outer thigh now, thumb still tracing the edge of the shorts. You blink, lips parting like you’re about to say something, but he cuts you off.

“They’re… normal length?” you say, hesitant, like you’re not sure if it’s the right answer.

“Normal for what? A convent?” His thumb presses harder against the fabric. “They go past your fucking knees.”

“They don’t—”

“They might as well.” He pulls at the hem, just slightly, just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. “Completely impractical. It’s summer. It’s hot. Why would you want to cover this much skin?”

You don’t answer. Just stare at him, lips pressed together, cheeks flushed.

“Makes no sense,” he continues, pulling the fabric higher, exposing more of your thigh. “Shorts should be short. Should show something. Should make people want to see more.”

You still don’t say anything, and it pisses him off. He pulls more aggressively now, bunching the fabric in his hand, dragging it up until it’s gathered near your groin.

“But no,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. “You wear these things that cover everything, hide everything, like you’re trying to torture me specifically.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Weren’t what?” His hand grips your exposed thigh now, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Weren’t thinking about me when you got dressed? Weren’t wondering what I’d think when I saw you in these fucking things?”

You don’t answer. Can’t, probably. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and he feels your thigh tremble under his hand.

“Because I think about it,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping lower. “Think about how much I hate these shorts. How much I want to rip them off you. How much I want to see what you’re hiding underneath all this fucking fabric.”

His grip tightens, and you whimper—soft, barely audible, but enough to make his cock throb against his zipper.

“Sorry,” you whisper, voice shaky.

“Sorry what?” 

“Just… sorry.”

“Next time,” he says, voice sharp, “wear something shorter.”

The zipper goes down in one harsh pull, almost violent, and he doesn’t bother hiding his frustration. 

Stupid fucking shorts. Stupid mid-thigh monstrosities.

They slide down your hips, peeling away from your skin like an insult, and then they’re gone, bunched around your ankles, leaving you bare.

And fuck.  

Red hearts. Little red hearts on white cotton, snug over your hips, wrapping you up in a way that makes his teeth ache.  

His cock jumps, a harsh throb against his zipper, and he hates it. Hates you. Hates those fucking panties and how they make his balls fucking hurt. 

A shaky exhale rattles out of him before he can stop it.  

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice is sharp, bitter.  

You look at him then—wide-eyed, soft, devastated—and it’s like pouring kerosene on a fire that’s already out of control.  

You’re not even trying. That’s what makes it so fucking infuriating. You’re not doing anything, and yet here he is, rock hard and pissed off, because apparently little red hearts on you are enough to have his cock doing backflips. 

He leans in, hand sliding up your thigh, thumb hooking under the elastic. “You wear these for her, or for me?”

Your breath stutters. “I—I just—”

He laughs, sharp and mean. “Don’t bullshit me. You know what this does to me? You know how fucking hard I am right now? You like that? You think it’s funny?”

You shake your head, but your hips lift, chasing his touch. Pathetic.

“Because I’ll tell you what I think,” he says, voice sharp, bitter. “I think you’re a fucking tease. I think you’re a liar. I think you wear shit like this because you want me to lose it.”

You flinch, but you don’t pull away. He can see it—the way your chest heaves, the way your fists clench like you need something to hold onto.

“You like it, don’t you? You like knowing how much you piss me off. Like knowing how much I hate you for making me want you.”

“I don’t—” You try, but your voice is weak, useless.

“Don’t lie to me.” His hand moves higher, fingers skimming the thin cotton, pressing just enough to make you gasp. “You’re soaked through these stupid fucking things, and you’re gonna tell me you don’t like it?”

You turn your face away, cheeks burning, eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You don’t.  

His hand shoots up, gripping your jaw tight, forcing your face toward him. His fingers press into your cheeks just enough to hurt.  

“I said, look at me.”

Your eyes meet his again, reluctant and glassy, and it’s all there—guilt, shame, that fucking arousal you can’t hide no matter how much you squirm.  

His cock twitches again. Harder this time. 

You swallow, throat working, and he watches the guilt flicker across your face, chased by something darker.

“Say it,” he says, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “Say you like it. Say you like knowing how much you fuck me up.”

“I…” You falter, eyes shifting to the side like you’re looking for an out. His grip on your jaw tightens.  

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, voice low and dangerous. “Say it. Or I’ll make you say it.”  

Your throat bobs as you swallow hard, and for a second, he thinks you might cry. But then, barely audible, you whisper, “I like it.”  

“Louder,” he demands. His thumb presses against your lip, tugging it down slightly. “Say it like you mean it.”  

“I like it,” you repeat, voice louder this time but no steadier.  

He lets go of your jaw, and your head drops back against the table like you’ve just been let off the chopping block. His hand slides back to your thigh, the pads of his fingers brushing against the soft skin, and he squeezes—hard.  

“Good,” he says, voice clipped. “Because I’m gonna make you fucking regret it.”  

You shiver, and it pisses him off how badly he wants to feel that same tremor under his tongue.

He straightens his spine, stepping back slightly, standing tall between your thighs. His hands rest at his sides for a beat, tension coiled in his shoulders as he looks down at the mess you’ve already made.  

The damp spot. Right there, soaked into the cotton, red hearts darkened around it.  

He clicks his tongue.  

“Of course,” he mutters, fingers twitching at his sides before moving in again. 

He skims over your hips, trailing down toward your pelvis, ignoring the way your thighs shake when you feel his touch. His thumb hovers just over the fabric, teasing the outline of what’s underneath.  

And then he finds it.  

His thumb presses down over your clit through the wet cotton.  

You yelp, jerking slightly, one leg bunching up like you’re trying to close yourself off. 

“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice sharp, unbothered as his thumb starts tracing slow, purposeful circles.  

You freeze, body going rigid under his touch. He watches your hands clench into fists beside your head, knuckles white, watches the way your lips part as you fight to keep quiet.  

Your eyes are screwed shut. A rookie move. He sees it for what it is—an attempt to escape, to shut out just how far gone you already are.  

“Open your eyes,” he says.  

You don’t.  

He presses harder, thumb grinding into the fabric, slow but firm, and you bite back a moan. It comes out as a strangled gasp instead, barely audible but loud enough to make him smirk.  

Your head turns sharply toward the door, panic flashing across your face.  

Ah, right. You’re scared she might hear.  

His eyes flick to the door briefly, listening for anything—footsteps, voices, the sound of the faucet shutting off. 

Nothing. She’s still in the kitchen. Oblivious.  

When his gaze lands on you again, you’re trembling, face flushed, chest rising and falling like you can’t catch your breath.  

“Up,” he says, voice steady. He waits for you to look at him, but you don’t. “On your elbows. Eyes on me.”  

You hesitate, lips trembling, body frozen against the table like you’re weighing the risk.  

He tilts his head, thumb still circling, and says, “You really want to test me, doll? Because I swear I’ll give you a reason to be worried.”  

Your hesitation breaks. 

Slowly, painfully, you prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes darting everywhere but him at first.  

"Eyes. On me."  

When they finally meet his, it's like setting fire to the gasoline pooling in his chest.  

Wide. Glassy. Pleading. 

Fuck, you're a sight.  

His thumb doesn't stop moving, relentless against the fabric. He watches your lips part again, trembling as you try to suppress another sound.  

"That's better," he mutters, almost to himself, thumb circling slower now. "Much better.

He doesn't break eye contact.  

Not as he shifts his weight, not as he lowers himself down until his knees meet the floor. His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every ripple of emotion that crosses your face.  

The way your breathing stutters. 

The way your lips part, trembling like you're not sure whether to beg or cry. 

The way your pupils swallow up the color of your eyes, wide and glassy and full of guilt you can't even try to hide.  

His hands move to your thighs, gripping just above your knees, and he spreads them wider. Your body resists for half a second, tension clinging to your muscles like you think you want to stop this, but then you give in. Of course you do.  

His gaze drops reluctantly, dragging down your body, over the curve of your stomach, past the waistband of your panties, until it lands on your core.  

Pretty. Wet. Fucking ruined already.  

His jaw tightens as he breathes through his nose, forcing himself to stay composed, even as his cock throbs so hard it's almost painful. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, feels the ruby stud click against his teeth—a habit when he's wound up, when he's trying not to lose control.

He hooks the thumb of his left hand under the right hem of your panties, tugging them aside with a firm push. The fabric shifts, bunching against your left groin, leaving you bare and exposed to his gaze.  

"Would you look at that," he mutters, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes in the mess you've made of yourself.  

You whimper—an actual fucking whimper—and his lips twitch in something that might have been a smirk if he weren't so goddamn wound up.  

"You're a fucking mess," he says, voice low and rough, like he's spitting out the words. "So fucking messy, huh? All that because what—because I mocked you? Because I was mean to you?"  

You puff out a shaky sigh, and the sound pushes something hot through his chest.  

Your cheeks are burning, completely flushed, and you look like you're about two seconds away from breaking. Tears are already pooling in the corners of your eyes.  

"You gonna cry?" he asks, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over your skin.  

You don't answer. Just bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark, and he doesn't know whether it's guilt or shame or arousal that's making your hands curl into fists at your sides.  

Probably all three.  

He lets his other hand move now, middle finger dragging up your slit, slow and unhurried, gathering slick on the pads of his fingers. Your whole body jolts at the contact, thighs twitching against his palms. He rubs his thumb and middle finger together, obscene.  

"You're drenched," he says, voice even, but there's a sharp edge to it that wasn't there before.  

Your lip trembles, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill, but you don't break. Not yet. You're still looking at him, still caught in whatever fucked-up spell he's woven around you.  

Good. You've come this far. He's not letting you off easy now.  

His eyes drag back up to yours, and he leans in just enough for you to feel his breath against your skin.  

"If you look away for a single second," he says, voice low and dangerous, "I'll make sure you moan so fucking loud even your neighbors know."  

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you look like you might protest, but then his tongue presses against you.  

One long stripe, unhurried, from your entrance to your clit, letting the ruby stud drag along your slit as an extra point of pressure that makes your hips jerk—unexpected and different, he bets.

Your girlfriend doesn’t have one. 

Your lower lip trembles as you try to hold back a sound, eyes wide and glassy, locked on his like you're afraid of what might happen if you look away.  

Then; he allows his tongue to drag up one side of your pussy, slow as sin, tracing the outer fold obscenely whilst the piercing follows, a firm line of sensation that's neither rough nor gentle—just there, present in every inch he covers. But he doesn't touch your clit—not yet. 

He wants you desperate. Wants you twitching.

He shifts, nose pressed close enough to feel your heat, and moves to the other side, tongue flat and wet, collecting the slick that's already pooling there—and that has your thighs trying to close around his head. He hears you whimper—high, needy, pathetic—and it almost pulls a smile out of him. Almost.

And all the while, he keeps his eyes on yours, unblinking. 

The angle's awkward, but he doesn't care. He wants you to see it. Wants you to know exactly who's making you fall apart. Wants you to feel that piercing—the one you've stared at during conversations, wondering what it would feel like.

Miss perfect, spread out on her girlfriend's table, getting her cunt licked by someone who isn't supposed to touch her. 

What would your girl say if she saw you now? Would she even recognize you like this—red-faced, mouth open, eyes glassy, legs shaking every time his tongue gets close to where you want it most?

He circles your clit, never quite touching, just letting the tip of his tongue ghost around the swollen bud. 

Without looking away, he reaches up, grabs your wrist, and drags your hand into his hair. "Hold on," he mutters, voice muffled by your cunt. "Don't let go."

You do, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just a little when his tongue finally flicks your clit. Once. Sharp, fast. The stud hits the underside of the swollen nub, and that has you gasping, hips jerking up off the table.

He does it again, slower this time, deliberately angling his tongue so the piercing drags across your clit from base to tip. The ruby rolls over the sensitive flesh, firm and unyielding, followed by the soft heat of his tongue. You shudder, thighs squeezing around his head, but he just presses them wider, keeping you open for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. "This what you wanted, sweetheart? Someone to get you messy? Someone to make you forget how to be good?"

He pulls back just enough to spit, sudden and wet, right onto your pussy. Watches the saliva drip down, catching on your clit, sliding down your slit, mixing with your slick until you're shining for him. 

When he dives back in, the piercing glides easier, slick with spit, creating this obscene wet sound every time it clicks against your clit.

"Messy little thing," he mutters, using the flat of his tongue now, letting the stud press firm against your entrance before dragging up. "Bet you never let anyone see you like this, huh? Bet you act so fucking innocent. But look at you now. Dripping. Shaking. Needy."

He leans in again, this time wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, but he keeps his tongue moving—piercing rolling in circles against it, creating this maddening pressure that's both too much and not enough. 

"Keep your eyes open," he says, pulling off with an obscene pop. "I want you to remember exactly who did this to you. Want you to remember what this feels like."

Without warning, his tongue flicks your clit fast, but this time he uses the underside of his tongue where the piercing sits, letting the ruby stud do most of the work—tap, tap, tap against the bundle of nerves. 

Your grip in his hair tightens, nails digging into his scalp, and he grins against you, loving the way you squirm, the way your breath comes in short, desperate bursts.

He pushes two fingers into you—no warning, just shoves them in—and fuck, you're so wet they slide right in. Your cunt grips him immediately, hot and slick, walls fluttering around the intrusion. He pumps them once, twice, feeling how easily you take them, how your body opens for him like it's been waiting.

"Messy," he mutters against you, adding a third finger, stretching you wider. Your cunt takes it easy, greedy for it, and he scissors his fingers just to feel how you grip them. "So fucking messy for me."

He twists his wrist, fingers plunging deeper, letting his tongue do its thing against your clit. 

"Cheating little slut," he growls, and the vibration combined with the piercing makes you sob. "Getting fingered raw while she scrubs plates. This what you do? Spread your legs for anyone who calls you out?"

He curls his fingers hard, right against that spot, and flicks his tongue fast—up and down, the piercing creating this relentless double-sensation that has your whole body locking up.

He feels it when you break—walls clamping down on his fingers so hard it almost hurts, pulsing and fluttering as you cum. 

Slick gushes out around his fingers, coating his palm, dripping onto the table. He keeps working you through it, tongue still moving but slower now, letting the piercing drag lazy circles around your oversensitive clit while you shake and gasp above him.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is soaked, the lower half of his face shining with your slick. The piercing sits heavy on his tongue, warm and wet with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly, takes his time looking at what he's done to you.

You're wrecked. Legs spread, panties twisted and soaked, pussy still clenching around nothing. There's a wet spot on the table under your ass, and your thighs are trembling like you might collapse if you tried to stand.

Perfect.

He plants both hands flat on the table behind your thighs, caging you in, leaning over you until his face is inches from yours. The position puts him towering over you, and he can see the way it makes your breath catch.

His eyes drop down briefly, taking in the mess between your legs, then back up to your face. Without breaking eye contact, he palms himself through his jeans, the outline of his cock obvious, straining against the denim.

"Time for the main event, don't you think?" he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You blush furiously, the color spreading from your cheeks down your neck, and you look away, suddenly shy. Like a fucking lamb being led to slaughter.

He tilts his head, studying you. "What?" he asks, thumb still rubbing over his cock through the fabric. "You didn't think you'd get to cum and I wouldn't, right?"

Your eyes dart back to his, wide and uncertain.

"Don't be naive, doll," he continues, leaning closer until his breath ghosts over your lips. "This isn't charity work. You think I'm gonna eat your pussy like that and just... walk away? Leave you satisfied while I go home with blue balls?"

He presses his hips forward slightly, letting you feel the hard length of him against your thigh.

"I'm not that generous," he says, voice dropping to a whisper. "And you're not that lucky."

He glances down, eyes dropping to where his hand is still moving, because fuck, he's hard as a bitch. 

His cock strains against the denim, throbbing under his palm, the outline thick and insistent, begging for more than just this lazy friction—so he presses his own hand against it, imagining how it'd feel without the barrier, how your mouth or your cunt would wrap around him instead.

But then he blinks, shaking off the haze, and looks up because you haven't said a word in too long. Haven't even made a sound. 

And there you are—staring at him with those half-lidded, glassy eyes, like you're drunk on the sight of him. 

Your teeth nibble at your bottom lip, worrying the plump flesh, turning it red and swollen, and it hits him how fucking turned on you look just watching him touch himself.

Pathetic. Hot. Infuriating.

He doesn't think twice. Grabs your hand—the one still trembling at your side—and yanks it forward, pressing it flat against his crotch. Your palm molds to the hard length of him, fingers splaying instinctively over the denim, and he holds you there, grinding into your touch just once, letting you feel every inch.

"If you like it so much," he mutters, voice rough and edged with annoyance, "do it yourself."

Your fingers hesitate for a second, like you're not sure if this is real, if you're actually touching him like this. 

But then they move—slow, tentative strokes over the denim, tracing the rigid length of his cock from base to tip. He feels every inch of it, the pressure building under your palm, the way your hand molds to him, warm and uncertain.

He doesn't let go of your wrist. Not yet. He guides you, pressing your hand harder against him, making you feel the full thickness, the way it pulses under your touch. 

"That's it," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. "Feel how fucking hard you made me? All that staring, all those little looks—like you weren't begging for this the whole night."

You bite down harder on your lip, eyes still half-lidded, glassy and unfocused, but you don't stop. Your strokes get a little bolder, fingers curling to grip him through the fabric, rubbing in slow, deliberate passes that make his hips twitch forward involuntarily. 

He hisses again, sharper this time, because fuck, it's good but not enough. 

“Look at you," he says, eyes narrowing as he watches your face, the way your cheeks flush even deeper, like you're embarrassed by how much you want this. "Acting all shy now. But your hand's not stopping, is it? Bet you'd wrap those fingers around my cock if I let you. Bet you'd stroke it like the desperate little thing you are."

Your breath comes out shaky, a soft whimper slipping past your teeth, and it goes straight to his dick, making it throb harder under your palm. 

He finally releases your wrist, letting you take over, and you do—rubbing him with more confidence now, fingers exploring the shape, pressing down on the underside where he's most sensitive. 

He grinds into your hand once, twice, chasing the pressure, his own hands gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Harder," he demands, voice rough, almost a growl. "Don't fucking tease. You've been doing that all night—those puppy eyes, that guilty stare. Now make it worth it."

You obey, gripping him tighter, stroking faster, your palm sliding up and down the length with a rhythm that's starting to unravel him. 

He can feel the zipper digging into his skin, the confinement making every movement ache, but he doesn't unzip yet. Not yet. He wants you to work for it, wants to see how far you'll go just from this.

His eyes flick back to your face, taking in the way you're watching him now—lips parted, breath coming in quick pants, like touching him is turning you on all over again. 

Slick from before is still drying on your thighs, but he bets if he checked, you'd be wetter now, your pussy clenching just from feeling him throb under your hand.

"Fucking pathetic," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it—more like satisfaction, low and heated. "Look at you, getting off on this. Hand on my cock while your girl's probably stacking plates in there, wondering where you went. Does that make you wet? Knowing you're cheating right under her nose?"

You don't answer, but your strokes falter for a second, like his words hit too close, and he smirks, leaning in closer, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, tilting your face up to force you to meet his eyes. 

“Answer me," he says, thumb pressing into your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. "Does it? Knowing I'm gonna fuck you stupid on her table—does that make your cunt ache?"

Your nod is small, reluctant, but it's there, and your hand squeezes him harder in response, like the admission fuels you. He groans low in his throat, hips bucking into your touch.

"Good. Keep going. Stroke it like you mean it. Pretend it's inside you already, filling that greedy little hole."

Your fingers fumble at his zipper then, hesitant but curious, and he doesn't stop you. Lets you tug it down halfway, the sound of metal teeth parting loud in the quiet. His cock pushes against the opening, still trapped in his boxers, but the relief is immediate, the pressure easing just enough to make him exhale sharply.

"Go on," he says, voice strained. "Touch it properly. Wrap your hand around my cock and show me how bad you want it."

You do, slipping your fingers inside, past the waistband of his boxers, and finally—finally—skin on skin. 

Your hand wraps around him, warm and soft, stroking the bare length, thumb swiping over the head where precum beads at the tip. He thrusts into your fist, slow and controlled, feeling the vein along the underside pulse under your grip.

"Fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to yours. "Just like that. Squeeze it. Yeah—harder. Make me feel how sorry you are for being such a tease."

Your rhythm picks up, hand pumping him steadily, and he watches the way your arm flexes, the way your breaths sync with each stroke. 

It's messy, hurried, your fingers slick and sliding, but it's perfect—just like everything else about this.

He leans down, mouth hovering near your ear, voice a whisper. 

"You're gonna make me cum in your hand if you keep that up. Is that what you want? Or do you want it inside you—fucking you raw until you're leaking me?"

Your hand pauses mid-stroke, fingers still wrapped tight around his cock. Without a word, you bring your palm up to your mouth, lips parting as you spit into it—wet, saliva pooling in the center before you lower it back down.  

He watches, breath catching, as you wrap your hand around him again, the fresh spit mixing with the mess already there, lubing him up in one smooth glide.

Your fingers slide easier now, warmer, coating every inch from the swollen head down to the base, thumb circling the tip where more precum beads out, making the whole thing shiny and slippery.  

"Fuck," he mutters, hips jerking forward into your touch, feeling the lube spread, making everything glide without resistance. "That's it. Get it nice and wet. Like you're prepping it for that greedy cunt of yours."

You don't respond, just keep stroking, eyes locked on his cock like you're mesmerized by the way it swells under your hand, the head flushing darker, slick dripping down over your knuckles.  

He leans back slightly, giving you room, but his voice comes out rough, commanding. "Guide it to where you want it most."

Your breath hitches, a small sound escaping your throat, and you spread your legs wider, thighs parting on the table, exposing your soaked pussy even more. 

Your free hand steadies yourself as you line him up, the spit-slick head of his cock brushing against your entrance, hot and insistent. You push him in—just the tip—sliding it past your folds with a whine, high and needy, your walls clenching around the intrusion immediately, sucking him in like you can't help it.  

The heat of you grips him, wet and tight, and he feels your slick coat him further, the spit mixing with your arousal as you try to take more.  

But he stops you. Grabs your wrist hard, pulling your hand away, and yanks his cock back out with a wet pop, leaving you empty and whining again, hips twitching up in protest.  

"Turn around," he says, voice low and edged with control. "I'm gonna fuck you stupid. But we'll do it my way."

You hesitate for half a second, eyes wide and pleading, but then you move—scrambling to flip over on the table, your tank top twisting around your torso, breasts pressing against the wood as you rest your front down. 

You push your ass up toward him, thighs spread, back arched, the curve of your cheeks on full display, pussy glistening and exposed from behind. He can see your entrance puffy and ready, clenching as you look back over your shoulder at him, eyes wide and desperate, silently begging for it. 

Your ass sways just slightly, hips tilting higher, like you're offering yourself up completely, the red hearts on your twisted panties still bunched to the side.  

He steps closer, cock bobbing heavy between his legs, and he lines himself up again, the head nudging against your entrance, teasing without pushing in yet.

And then, he does. Pushes in slow, one thick inch at a time, feeling the way your walls part for him, gripping every ridge as he sinks deeper. He lets himself go deep—so fucking deep—until his hips press flush against your ass, cock buried to the hilt, balls resting heavy against your clit.

You whine at the depth, your pussy fluttering like it’s trying to adjust to the intrusion. He feels it, and it takes everything in him not to slam back and forth, not to make the table rattle and give you both away.

"Fuck," he hisses through his teeth, the word barely audible as he presses his chest against your back, the heat of his body covering yours completely. 

His hand comes up, gripping your chin hard, fingers digging into your jaw as he covers your mouth, muffling the next whine before it can escape.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls against your ear, lips brushing the shell. "Shut. Up."

You try to nod, but his grip is too tight, holding your head in place as he pulls out halfway—slow, controlled—then pushes back in just as deep, the drag of his cock against your walls making you shudder beneath him. He can feel how wet you are, slick coating him completely, dripping down where you're joined, but he can't move like he wants to. Not yet.

The table would creak. Would bang against the wall. Would announce to your girlfriend exactly what her sweet, faithful partner is doing while she scrubs dishes twenty feet away.

So he holds back, jaw clenched, muscles taut with restraint as he grinds into you instead—deep, circular motions that press his cock against every sensitive spot inside without the telltale slap of skin on skin. 

His free hand grips your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you steady as he rocks forward again, feeling your pussy grip him tighter with each slow thrust.

"Can't even stay quiet, can you?" he mutters against your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin before he bites down—not hard enough to leave a mark she'd see, but enough to make you jolt, your muffled moan vibrating against his palm. "Desperate little thing. Getting your pussy stuffed while she's right there."

He pulls out again, torturously slow, until just the tip remains inside, then slides back in, watching the way your ass pushes back to meet him, trying to take him faster. But he won't let you. Not until—

"The moment that faucet goes on," he whispers, "I'm pounding into you so hard your asscheeks are gonna look redder than those stupid hearts on your panties."

You whimper against his hand, and he feels your walls clench around him, like the threat alone is enough to push you closer to the edge. 

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, using the pain to ground himself, to keep from losing control and fucking you the way he wants to—hard, fast, brutal.

Instead, he keeps the pace maddeningly slow. All so the table doesn't move, doesn't creak—but shit, he can feel the tension in your body, the way you're fighting not to wiggle back against him, not to beg for more through his fingers.

"Look at you," he continues. "Bent over her table like a whore. Pussy dripping all over the wood she'll eat breakfast on tomorrow. Think she'll know her girl got fucked raw right here?"

You shake your head frantically, but your cunt tells a different story—pulsing, sucking him in deeper with every word. 

He grinds against you again, pelvis pressed tight to your ass, cock throbbing inside you, and he can feel his own control slipping, the need to move—really move—burning through his veins.

"Bet you'd cum if I let you," he says, teeth scraping along your shoulder, leaving red marks that'll fade before morning. "Bet you'd cream all over my cock while she's washing your wine glass. But you don't get to. Not until I say."

He pulls out almost completely again, then pushes back in with a maddening thrust that makes your whole body jerk forward, breasts pressing harder against the table. 

Still no sound from the kitchen except the soft clink of dishes.

Come on. Turn the fucking water on.

His hand on your hip slides around to your front, fingers finding your clit, still swollen and sensitive from earlier. He doesn't rub—just presses down, holds it there, feeling the way it throbs under his touch, the way your hips try to grind against his hand for friction.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, cock pulsing inside you, stretching you full. "Feel how deep I am? How your pussy's molding to my cock? This is what you wanted, isn't it? What you've been thinking about every time you kissed her goodnight?"

The shame must hit you because you squeeze your eyes shut, but your cunt clenches harder, wetter, practically begging for him to move faster. He rocks forward again, just enough to drag against your g-spot, and your muffled cry vibrates against his palm.

"Pathetic," he breathes, but his voice cracks on the word. "Can't even lie to yourself anymore. Your body just knows.”

Finally—fucking finally—the faucet turns on. 

The rush of water fills the kitchen, loud enough to mask any sound.

"There we go," he growls, pulling his cock out to the tip. "Now I can fuck you properly."

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. 

He slams back in, hard enough to jostle the table, enough that your hips skid an inch across the sticky wood. His palm stays over your mouth, smothering the long, broken whine that tries to claw its way out of your throat.

His hips snap into yours, each thrust deep and punishing, cock driving into the softest, hottest part of you with wet, obscene sounds that finally don’t have to be swallowed. 

You whimper and buck against his hold, breath coming sharp and frantic against his palm, saliva seeping between your lips and his skin. He grinds forward, leans in, teeth scraping along your shoulder, voice cracking with effort.

“Fucking—ngh—so tight. You hear yourself? Wet little mess, all for me. Knew you’d split open for it. Knew you wanted it this deep.”

You keen, muffled, hips meeting his thrusts now, desperate for every inch, every brutal slam. He hisses, the sound sharp and animal—“fuck—ah—shit,”—little grunts ripped out of him as he pounds into you, pace brutal, control gone.

He lifts his hand from your mouth, just for a second, grabbing your cheeks and squeezing until your lips pucker. He yanks your face back, forces your neck to arch, mouth open and gasping for air. He slides his hips back, never letting his cock slip all the way out, then pushes in again, hard, until your ass bounces against his stomach.

“Open. Wider.” 

You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. He hovers over you, mouth right above yours, and spits—quick, hot, a sharp flick of his tongue and lips, not slow but filthy, needy. His spit lands on your tongue with a wet slap, stringy and slick, pooling in your mouth.

Your eyes go wide, breath stuttering, pink tongue twitching in surprise before you swallow on instinct, cheeks burning. He leans in, presses his forehead to yours, and drags his hips up into you, deep and relentless.

“Good girl,” he croons, filthy and sharp, voice honeyed with cruelty. “Swallow it all. God, you love it, don’t you? Spit in your mouth, cock in your cunt, ass up for me.”

You do, eyes rolling back, mouth open and shining. He lets go, palm slaps back over your mouth to muffle the sound as he hammers into you, using the cover of the faucet to rail you as hard as he wants.

Your cries are so wild behind his hand—whimpering, eager, so fucking earnest it tightens his balls, makes his cock twitch inside you.

“Shit—fuck—you’re gonna make me cum already,” he hisses, hips pistoning faster, so fast the table rattles, the legs skipping half an inch across the floor with every pounce.

He feels it—the way your whole body goes tense, the frantic clench of your pussy around his cock, the desperate, muffled whimper spilling against his palm. Your thighs start to shake, hips stuttering, trying to fuck yourself back onto him, chasing the high that’s about to roll through you.

He knows the signs. He loves them.

Instead of giving you what you want, he slows. Deep, dragging thrusts, grinding against your cunt instead of pounding, holding you right on the edge.

Not enough friction. Nowhere near enough. 

You squeal, high and panicked, fighting his grip, but his hand clamps down harder over your mouth, the other pinning your hips to the table so you can’t wiggle him deeper. 

He tuts, feigning pity. “Uh-uh,” he chuckles, the sound dark and satisfied against your ear. “Not like that. You don’t get to cum a second time. Not after making me wait all night. Not after all those dirty looks. All that pretending.”

He keeps his cock buried in you, hips barely rolling, just enough to tease that swollen spot inside, but no more. Refusing to give you any more speed, any more pressure.

Your orgasm fizzles out, pulses into nothing—waves that almost crest and then die back, heat leaking away to humiliation. 

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Cumming but not really. Bet that hurt, didn't it? All that build-up, all those needy little noises, all for absolutely nothing at all."

Your whole body sags, whining into his skin, hips twitching helplessly and he laughs, low and mean, right against your ear. Not a nice sound. 

“What’s wrong? Thought you were about to cum. You wanted to finish on my cock?” He grinds in one more time, slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch he’s denied you. “Too fucking bad.”

He pulls out, cock wet and shining, and taps the head against your pussy, dragging it up through your puffy folds, gathering every bit of your slick and ruined orgasm on his tip. 

He groans, the sight almost enough to finish him right there.

"Turn your head," he commands, one hand gripping your hair and yanking your face over your shoulder. Your gaze finds him, raw and dazed, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy from the frustration and the need. "Watch me cum all over this pretty ass."

He fists his cock, pumping himself fast, hand twisting at the head, mixing your slick with his own precum. His hips jerk, abs tightening, every muscle tensed with need. He lines the head up with the curve of your ass, stroking faster, wet sounds lewd and sticky in the warm air.

Your lower lip quivers, shame and want fighting for space on your face. 

"Red," he mutters, almost laughing, the sound low and mean. "Your ass looks redder than those fucking panties now. Should thank me for it."

You whimper, trembling, but you can’t look away—not even when he starts slapping the heavy head of his cock against your asscheeks, painting you with precum, making sticky little smacking noises with every tap.

What you do actually is arch to meet every slap, every filthy mark he leaves on your skin.

And that makes him groan, deep and guttural, jerk himself hard and fast, and then—there, finally—he cums, hot and thick, striping across your ass in messy, white spurts. 

It drips down the curve of your cheeks, thick and obscene, while he makes sure to milk every last drop, head thrown back, free hand digging into your flesh to keep you still while he finishes on you.

"Look at the mess you made me make," he rasps, voice barely more than a growl. "Maybe your girl will see that too, if you’re not careful."

The faucet stops, barely covering the last few breathless moans that slip out of both your throats. 

He doesn’t move for a second after—just stands there, breathing hard, watching the mess streak down the curve of your ass. His cum, cooling on your skin, a secret so loud it makes his teeth ache. 

Without water running; the house is too quiet. If you listen close, you can hear your own shame dripping onto the table.

Yoongi drags a hand over his face. He should feel triumphant. He doesn’t. He feels raw. Exposed. Like he’s the one who just got fucked.

You’re still bent over, legs shaking, hair falling in your face. 

You don’t look at him. Smart. He wouldn’t know what to do with your eyes right now.

He exhales, sharp. Zips up with a jerk. 

“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

He grabs a napkin from the table—one of those cheap, floral ones your girlfriend buys, the kind that falls apart if you look at it wrong. He spits on it, wipes his hand, then leans in, brisk and businesslike, to clean you up. He’s not gentle, but he’s not cruel either. Just thorough. Like he’s erasing evidence.

“Lift your hips,” he says, and you do, still obedient, still trembling. 

He wipes the streaks from your skin, careful not to leave any trace. He’s methodical about it, almost bored, but his hands linger a second too long on the soft curve of your ass. 

He hates himself for that.

The napkin’s ruined—smeared, damp, useless. He balls it up, shoves it into his pocket. No evidence. No witnesses.

He glances at your panties, still bunched to the side, and tugs them back into place with a snap. 

“There. Like nothing happened.” His tone is dry, almost mocking. “You can go back to playing house now.”

But before you can move, before you can even catch your breath, he leans down—just once, quick—and presses a kiss to your asscheek. 

Not sweet. Not apologetic. Just a stamp.

He pulls back, face unreadable. “Don’t get cocky,” he mutters, voice low. “That’s not a reward. Just—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Don’t make a habit of this.”

He helps you off the table, hands steady at your waist, then steps away like he can’t stand to be close anymore. 

His eyes flick to the door, calculating. “You’ve got two minutes before someone comes looking. Fix your hair. Wipe your mouth.”

He tosses you a clean napkin, doesn’t wait to see if you catch it. He’s already moving, already back in his own skin, already building the wall back up.

He pauses at the door, glances over his shoulder. 

“Go be good,” he says, and there’s something almost soft in it, but not enough to matter. “Or at least pretend.”

Then he’s gone, slipping out into the hallway, leaving you to gather yourself—alone, aching, ruined, but clean enough that no one will ever know.

Except him. And you. 

And the kiss he left, hidden under cotton and guilt.

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